Untitled

So can these new regs. The car's only been on the circuit twice, but GP can already tell. Can see that what Max has been saying for years is coming true.

2026 is gonna be a shitshow.

GP sighs, shoulders slumping. Presses the pads of his fingers into his eyelids, hard, his pen bumping into his nose. Somewhere in all this telemetry, there has to be the answer to a good setup. Surely. Surely.

By his side, Max scribbles something down onto the datasheet he's looking over. Slides it over the desktop until it's in front of GP.

GP looks down to see his note, curious. In Max's sprawled handwriting is written, "Shit."

GP snorts a laugh.

"Yeah. Pretty much sums it up, mate."

Max smiles at GP's response, lips quirking up. He tosses his pen onto the table, where it clatters into some nebulous corner, and he leans back in his chair, arms stretching high.

"I did not want to think it would be so bad," he says. And GP knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. Max, in his immediate reactions to things, will often point out the worst. But he's an optimist at heart. He truly does believe that things will go well. That the team will pull together; that he will wrangle his car to the line.

GP would call him too optimistic, but he'd be a hypocrite, then. Because Max makes him believe, too.

"We don't know it's that bad yet," GP tries to argue. "It's still early days. We have time to figure it out."

Max, still leant back, stares, unamused, from the side of his eye.

"Don't give me that. We had a rough start last year, didn't we? And we brought it back around."

"Yeah. And I lost."

Max leans forward; puts his elbows on the desk. Puts his head into his hands with a sigh.

GP bites his tongue—doesn't get into an argument about I and we. (Because Max didn't lose. Max would never.)

"GP," Max says with a hum. His face is still in his hands, tilted down. Looking at him makes GP tired. "Can you promise me something?"

"Of course, Max." GP doesn't even hesitate. Doesn't even think to ask what he's agreeing to. Just trusts. And promises.

Max rubs his hands down his face. The light catches on the dark smudges under his eyes.

"If the car does not get better..." Max starts, and GP wants to cut him off there—wants to say, no, it will, it will, because he wants so badly for it to be true. Needs it to be.

But he doesn't say anything. Max takes a deep breath and keeps talking.

"If the car does not get better, then I need you to leave."

The silence hangs heavy. The air is still. GP wonders if, for the first time ever, he misheard Max.

"What?"

Max's hand twitches. Like he wants to fidget with his hair, with his nonexistent cap. Smooth a hand over his face. Grip the wheel.

He keeps it in his lap.

"Too many times, you have been turning down good offers. And maybe before, it was a good idea, because here, it was home, and we were winning. But now—"

Max's eyes search around the garage. It's empty. A couple of years ago, it would still be full to bursting, everybody jumping at the chance to stick it to the curfew, to put their heads together, and to figure the car the fuck out. Pitlane pirates; Red Bull family. Music thumping as they all work.

"Everything is gone, GP. There is no one. And even the car is not there."

"But you are."

Max smiles, sad. "It is not enough for it to be only me. GP, you are not done yet. And you are much too good to be engineering for the midfield."

Max is too good to be driving in the midfield.

Max is too good for anything less than nineteen wins; thirty seconds ahead; name emblazoned on the trophy again and again.

Max is too good to have anyone other than him.

"Max, I—"

"Just—" Max cuts him off. He rubs his fingers between his eyes. "Just, the next time you get a good offer from another team. Do not say no straight away. Okay? Promise. You promised."

GP once said that he'd leave the sport if Max did. That he'd never work with anyone else.

But he hadn't promised.

He barely makes it a step into the room before he stops in his tracks, stunned. He stares open-mouthed at Max, whose back is turned to where Kimi's stuck standing in the doorway... Max, who's pulling a shirt over his head—dark blue, red bull team kit... Max, whose turned back shows... Who's pulling a shirt over his...

"Dio mio!"

Max whirls around at Kimi's voice, and Kimi sees the flash of terror in his eyes for just a split second.

Max finishes tugging down his shirt, harshly pulling at the hem. "You did not see that," he says. Words clipped short.

Kimi can't even play along. Can't find himself able to do anything but continue to gape. "Tu— Hai— Hai le ali!"

Max sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a breath.

"Close the door, please."

Kimi, somehow, manages to kick his brain into enough gear to blindly reach out a hand behind him. The door clicks shut.

"Do you think you are able to calm down enough to speak English? I do not know enough Italian to be talking about this."

Kimi hadn't even noticed he'd spoken in Italian. He furrows his brow and thinks the words through in English before saying them.

"You have wings."

Max sighs again. "Yes. You said."

"How do you have wings?"

Max levels an unimpressed look at him. "How do you have wings? I was, of course, born with them."

Kimi's own wings ruffle where they're pinned beneath his fireproofs.

"But you do not— For years have you been in Formula Uno, but nobody has been seeing them. Com'è possibile?"

Max runs a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply. He does it again, breathing out.

"Okay. Okay. Here is what we are going to do. You came here for some reason that was not to be talking about this. We are going to sit down—" he gestures, without looking, to the small sofa—" and you will tell me what it is you were thinking about. And then we will go from there. I am, of course, not going to be promising you that we will talk about this..." Max waves vaguely, gesturing at the space between them, when the real issue sits behind him. "This. But we will talk together and see. Okay?"

Kimi has finally gotten over his initial shock just enough to recognize how terrible a situation this is for Max, and how kind he's being to Kimi despite it. He could have yelled at Kimi; thrown him out. He probably should have—or, at least, Kimi wouldn't have blamed him if he had.

Kimi nods and vows to be as calm as possible. Make things as easy as he can for Max.

He moves towards the sofa, as Max had instructed, and sits down. Max takes a few moments to pace the small width of the room, breathing deeply (Kimi counts: In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, repeat) before sitting down next to him.

Before Kimi can start to make way on his apology to Max for crashing him out of the race—his whole reason for coming in the first place—Max frowns. Kimi's heart lurches, afraid that Max, now that he's calmed down some, has also remembered why Kimi must be here, and is pissed off at him for ruining his race. But Max only says, "Why are you still in your racing suit? It cannot be comfortable for your wings."

Kimi's wings twitch at their mention, unconscious on Kimi's part.

It's not hugely comfortable to keep them pinned back, especially as tightly as he needs to do inside his fireproofs to drive. But, well. He'd come straight here after apologizing to his team on the pit wall. No detour to shower and change—he's barely sweaty. His wings haven't even begun to steadily ache the way they do as the laps tick by. (He's getting used to the feeling, anyway.)

Kimi shrugs. "They are fine. I would have been racing right now anyway, and it is not so uncomfortable as it is in the car."

Max's frown doesn't lift. Kimi shifts uncomfortably. "I did not bring any other shirts," he says. He can feel his face warming slightly. It's not like the drivers don't strip around each other, but doing it here, alone with Max in his driver's room, Max's intense eyes trained onto him, feels wildly different than shucking off a sweaty fireproof top after a long race.

Max blinks, and his eyebrows soften, pulling up. "You, of course, do not have to take off your suit if you do not want to," he says. "I only want to make sure you are comfortable. I—" He looks as if he's trying to swallow a lemon. "I know how... Umm... I know that having your wings pinned in such a way can be... Not so nice, let's say it like that."

Kimi finds himself frowning at Max's words, and can't help himself from flitting his eyes to the way Max's shirt hugs his shoulders, trapping his wings to his back.

Max has been keeping tabs on Kimi from the beginning of the year, asking how the team is working to accommodate his wings, asking his own trainer to work with Kimi's to develop a training regimen that better suits them (and only now does Kimi consider why Max's trainer knows so much about that). Kimi even knows that Max has been texting George persistently, trying to involve the GPDA in an attempt to implement more feature accommodation regulations, even though Kimi is pretty sure Max would be quite happy if he never had to speak to George again in his life.

Max has been fighting to keep an eye out for Kimi and to make sure his wings are being taken care of all year. But he's kept his pinned beneath his shirt the whole time.

Kimi remembers one of their first conversations about the topic, back in Winter Testing. How Max had said, with deadly seriousness, how Kimi could break the bones in his wings if he kept them pinned for so long improperly, or if he got into an incident while driving. How Max had warned him that, if he wasn't careful, Kimi could end up crippling himself for life. Could end up never being able to fly again.

Kimi had walked away from that conversation shaken. He feels equally shaken now, thinking about the certainty Max had spoken with.

"Kimi?" Max asks, brows furrowed in concern. Kimi shakes himself, brings himself back to the real world. Right. Yes. They were talking about something.

"What?"

Max closes his eyes. Presses his fingers to his forehead, rubbing hard. He says something in Dutch that Kimi can't even begin to understand, muttered to himself, like a reminder.

"Why did you come to my room? What is it you were wanting to talk about?"

"Oh, si. Right. Umm..." Kmi has to look away from Max, down to his hands fiddling with the seam of his suit. Then he curses himself for not having the courage to even look Max in the eye when he apologizes, and looks back up.

Max's gaze is always intense, even when he doesn't mean it to be.

"I am sorry. That I ended your race. I did not mean to—I lost the rear of the car coming into the corner, and... Well, it does not matter. Either way, you are now out of the race, and it is my fault. So, I am very sorry."

Max's eyes don't lose any of their intensity, but Kimi can still see something in them shift, get softer.

Max shrugs. "You made a mistake. It happens. It is not as if you got me out of the race on purpose. I am not saying that I am completely not upset, but I am not upset with you. It is racing—these things happen."

Kimi blinks, surprised. He suddenly regrets not taking Max's offer of freeing his wings because they twitch, and he feels like he needs to beat them a couple of times to regain his balance.

He knows Max is kind; knew he wouldn't completely lose his shit on Kimi. But still, Kimi really didn't foresee this conversation going this way, with Max reacting with nothing more than a shrug and a small smile.

"But you—already, you are having to work so hard in the championship against the McLarens, and—"

Max chuckles, dry. Kimi decides he hates the sound.

"I was already barely in contention. The car is not there this season. Did you not see that I started from seventh? But it is anyway not your job to be worried about my championship. We all are just racing our best. Sometimes, you crash into people, and sometimes, that is your teammate, or it is the championship leader. It is all the same. You say sorry, and you learn from it, and you do better next time. You will do better next time."

Kimi nods, quick and determined, even though Max hadn't posed it like a question. He sounds so confident in Kimi, even though Kimi has given him no reason to.

Max gives him a smile, and Kimi can tell it's a real one because it kisses the corners of his eyes. "Thank you anyway for coming to apologize. That is something that takes a lot of balls to do. I certainly was not so mature when I was your age."

Kimi flushes, wings fluttering nervously under his race suit for an entirely new reason, now.

Their movement grounds him. Kimi looks down, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. He tries to think of the words to say; tries to think of how to ask without ending up with Max's door slammed in his face.

"Umm. Still, could I take my suit off to let my wings out? You are right—they are... uncomfortable."

Maybe he doesn't need to ask Max about it at all. Not if he plays this right.

When he looks up, Max is squinting at him, mouth pursed into a pale line, and Kimi thinks he's blown it; thinks he's been far too obvious. But Max only stands up and says, "Would you like a shirt for them? Rupert makes me keep some."

"Yes, please."

Max fetches a shirt—grey and loose, slits down the back designed to slip wings through easy—and hands it to Kimi, who thanks him.

Kimi peels himself out of his race suit, and he feels awkward and clumsy in front of Max, but when he glances over, he sees that Max is only paying attention to the wings pinned under Kimi's fireproofs on his back, gaze intense. When the top comes off and Kimi extends his wings free, bending them slightly to stretch them, he sees Max's hands twitch towards them, eyes wide.

"Would you like to touch them?" Kimi asks, speaking before he can remind himself it's a stupid idea to.

Max's face shutters, his wide eyes blinking away the wonder. "No. Probably, I would only hurt them. I do not..."

He trails off as Kimi—now with the shirt on, and once again putting action before thought—shifts a wing carefully into Max's lap, brushing his feathers purposefully across his arm.

Max slowly, slowly, lowers his hands. Touches feathers with careful fingers, stroking them so gently Kimi can barely feel it.

Max lets out a soft exhale, fingers still moving steady and light. "They're so soft," he breathes, almost like it's a thought not meant for Kimi at all. "I had forgotten...."

Once again, Max cuts himself off, but Kimi can fill in the blanks. He wonders how Max's wings feel; wonder how deep the damage—for, surely, there must be damage—runs. Wonders when the last time Max let himself preen through his feathers with careful fingers. Wonders the last time they had felt soft.

Max is looking resolutely down at Kimi's wing, caressing gently over the curve of it with his thumb when he speaks again.

"Karts are, of course, better to drive with wings, and it is possible to do very well in karts and to not damage them by so much."

Kimi knows just how possible it is. His mama had strictly forbidden him from ever pinning his wings back when he had been in karts, and it had still been possible to win with them tucked gently on the outside of a race suit.

"But my father, it was always his goal—it was always our goal—to get to F1 someday, of course, and it is not so easy here, with wings. And he—we—did not think it was such a good idea to get only experience with driving so comfortably, when, of course, it all will change when you get to single-seaters."

Kimi stays silent; stays still. Max keeps stroking along his wing, and Kimi remembers the way he had, only minutes ago, startled back, hands raised, saying that he would only hurt him.

He doesn't think Max could—not ever.

"My mother—she did not allow him to make me pin my wings when I was very small. But then she, of course, left, and I was becoming nearly old enough to be competing in the international categories..."

"How old were you?" Kimi finds himself asking, voice quiet, barely a breath. "When it was the last time your wings were so soft?"

Max's eyes sqeeze shut, tight. Kimi stares at the line above his nose; between his eyebrows. Waits; hopes that it will smooth out.

"It does not matter," Max eventually says. The spell breaks. Max lifts his hand away from Kimi's wing, runs it through his hair, shoulders edged with tension. "It was, of course, better for me to train so early to not need to be so focused on them while driving, and it anyway would have distracted me if I had been able to fly—"

Kimi's wings jump in alarm, and he smacks Max right in the face.

"What do you mean, if?" Kimi asks, insistent, not even bothing to apologize to Max, make sure he's okay. His wings are still flapping agitatedly behind him, and he gets up off the couch to give them more space to flutter. Stands in the middle of Max's driver's room and stares him down where he's still sitting half-hunched on the sofa.

When Max doesn't immediately answer, shocked expression turning into something teetering on the edge of pitying and sad, Kimi keeps talking, mouth moving faster than brain. His brain, which is flashing back again to the conversation he had had with Max before, when he had said that if Kimi was not careful, he could end up crippling himself; could end up not being able to fly. His brain, which is playing on repeat the serious pinch to Max's mouth; the gravity in his voice.

"You must be just meaning that you were spending so much time in karting that you could not be taking so many breaks to go for flying. It is like how we all would have to leave school early sometimes or we were having to choose between going with friends or going to karting, and, always, we would choose karting. Right? It is just that you were choosing to not fly so much because you were very busy with being in the kart instead."

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can speak it into existence. If he just keeps plowing forward, if he doesn't let Max speak to correct him, then the words sitting heavy on Max's lips will never be true. Will never have been.

"You can still fly," Kimi insists, voice cracking on the last word, desperate. He can, he can, he must be able to. Because Kimi is a racer, through and through, just like Max is. Can't imagine a life where he has to move so slow; can't imagine living every day in his own body and never settling down into another, a beautiful extension of himself made of carbon and oil and pure speed.

But he's an avian, too. And he would rather be ripped straight from the cockpit, scrabbling hands leaving behind bloody fingerprints on the wheel, than to never soar through the sky again.

The car is freedom and speed incarnate, yes. But flight needs no body at all; needs no incarnation. Needs no vessel through which to channel adrenaline—it simply is.

Max still has that pitying-sad look on his face. Like Kimi is just a little kid, asking what happened to his pet hamster. Like he's too young to understand the tragedy of death.

"It does not matter," Max says again. Kimi feels like he's going to scream.

"No, it does! It does."

Max only shrugs. "It does not, because there is nothing I can do to change it. Anyway, it will be like this."

Kimi feels deflated. "Maybe there is," he tries, hope still lingering in his voice that even Max's sad eyes can't squash out. "There are many good doctors—have you even tried to see if they can fix it? I know that it is very bad for your wings to keep them pinned for so much, but for sure they can do something. If still you have two wings, then there always must be some way that you can fly."

Something closes off in Max's eyes. Something goes dark.

He looks down at his hands. "It does not matter," he says, voice barely a whisper. "There is nothing that anybody can do."

The certainty with which Max speaks settles in Kimi's gut, heavy. It pulls him back down to the couch, shoulders slumped. "Mi dispiace."

Max shrugs, and Kimi should be used to it by this point—Max shrugging everything off—but it still causes something deep inside of him to ache. "Do not be sorry. It is not as if it was your fault. And anyway, it is not exactly like anybody would say my life is so terrible. They should be putting me on posters, maybe, to tell children in hospitals that still you can be successful even if you have totally fucked up your body. Like, 'Anything is possible! You can even win four world championships with only one wing!'

Max laughs quick at his own joke, but it isn't the way Kimi is used to seeing him laugh, a moment after deadpan silence before his whole face lights up. It's nervous and hollow, and straight away, Kimi decides that he hates the sound.

He's so busy thinking about the bitter edges of Max's laughter that it takes him a moment to process what he's just said.

One wing.

Kimi lets out a strangled noise. He doesn't mean to, but it feels like it's ripped straight from his throat. His wings curl around him protectively; a tawny shield, hugging him close. One folded over the other, cradling him completely.

Max looks at him, startled, eyes wide. "What happened? Are you okay?"

All Kimi can do is shake his head.

Max jumps up from the sofa. His hands flutter around Kimi, unsure, nervous. Gentle fingers not quite touching.

Probably, I would only hurt them.

Kimi's wings pull in closer.

"Kimi, I do not know what is happening," Max says. "Is there any way I can help? Somebody I should tell? Otherwise, I will get my trainer."

Kimi just shakes his head again.

"Okay," Max says, backing towards the door, eyes flitting only briefly away to track his movement. "I am getting someone. Kimi, it is okay. You are okay. I will be right back."

"No," Kimi says. He launches himself across the room, wings momentarily unfurling as he grabs Max's wrist tight. "No, do not leave."

It does not matter.

Kimi uses his grip on Max to pull him in close, and lets his wings close around the both of them.

Max stays stiff in his hold for one breath, two, three. But Kimi doesn't shift away; keeps his wings cradled tight. Snakes his arms around Max's back and pulls him in closer.

Until finally, Max melts into him. Kimi feels his hands hesitantly come up and brush against his waist, returning the embrace; feels his breath hot on his neck.

"I did not let them take the other one," Max says, voice cracking, choked. "But it is anyway not the same."

From how close Kimi is holding him, he feels Max's wing (dio mio—his wing) twitch just slightly at the words.

Kimi bites his tongue, not quite ready to break the fragile moment to ask what Max means. He just stays there, keeping his wings tucked in tight around them. Not quite large enough to encase them both fully; not like his mama's would when he was young and needed shielding from the world. Not quite enough to be enough.

But enough to press Max closer to him.

Hands solid on Max's back, Kimi gently traces his touch along the edges of his wing. He tries to tell himself he's imagining the way the strong arch of bone feels warped and crooked beneath his fingers.

Nothing that anybody can do.

And maybe Kimi's fingers probe just a bit too far; maybe he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Or maybe it isn't anything Kimi does at all—maybe Max has blinked open his eyes and remembered where they were. Whatever it is, the breeze of Max's touch falls away from Kimi as he starts to pull back. Still gentle, still mindful of the wings Kimi has to unfurl from behind him to let him free, but persistent nonetheless.

Possibly, Kimi should apologize. What he's done here today has probably violated Max's boundries more than even a nosecone in the side of his car could, dust hanging in the air around the scene of the crash.

Wrong place, wrong time. Again, again. Door that he thought was open, but he steamed in too quick, and now it's too late to take back, and it's Max who has to pick up the pieces.

Kimi's hand chases after him, not wanting to let go just yet. He should apologize, but he won't. He should stop pushing; should leave Max be with his thoughts and his DNF and his one wing, but he won't. He won't.

"What do you mean that you did not let them take the other one?" he says, words falling out quick, no longer able to be kept locked behind his teeth.

Max's mouth pinches. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched tight. (Kimi thinks his fingers don't look so gentle on his own skin—digging in rough.) "Kimi—"

Kimi didn't get to where he is today because he backed off. He saw the gap—felt it in the twitch of Max's wing, saw it in his downcast eyes, heard it in his barely wavering voice. He saw the gap and he'll go for it, every time.

"Will they try to take my wings too?"

It's not right, he knows, to play Max like this. But racing isn't about playing nice. Max knows that as well as anyone.

Something softens around Max's shoulders, just like Kimi knew it would. Fingers rough on his face but so gentle on Kimi's wings. His own wing tucked tight under his team kit while he offers Kimi a shirt.

Max won't talk about it for his sake. But he may for Kimi's.

"No," he says, "No. We will not let that happen. You, anyway, are already taking much better care of your wings, and we will make sure the cars are safer for you in the new regulations. Just do not be crashing very badly, and keep making sure to take care of your wings like you have been doing, and you will be okay."

Kimi imagines it—crashing badly. Tyre clipped, hurtling into the wall at full speed. Ribs cracking under seatbelts; wings snapping, pinned behind his back.

He's heard of wing breaks before—not as common as an arm or a leg, but not unusual. Not permanently debilitating.

(He wonders if maybe they are at two hundred kilometers per hour, tucked tightly under a race suit.)

"But I cannot control if I am crashed into," Kimi says, voice small. He's not afraid of crashing. Not any more than any driver is; not to any level that keeps him from going for lunges. But sometimes his thoughts will stray, and for just a second he'll see it in his mind's eye: Crumpled into a wall, dust pluming. Heartbeat loud in his ears, hands too heavy to undo the seatbelts.

He's not afraid of crashing, but he doesn't want to die. Doesn't want to never be able to drive again.

Doesn't want to never be able to fly again.

Max reaches a hand up to his head and grabs to fiddle with a hat that isn't there. Awkwardly weaves his fingers through the strands of hair instead; stays for a moment, gripping, breathing.

"I know," he says eventually, letting his hand fall. "It is often the worst crashes that are not your fault. But it is racing. Always, we know getting into the car that we can crash. Still, we do it. And... I, of course, cannot be promising that never you will be hurt. But mostly, the cars are much safer nowadays than any other time. And I— It was not only because of a crash that I— That made me to lose a wing. Already before that, they were so bad that I could not use them properly. The crashing was only what made it... no longer salvagable, let's say it like that. It is like if you are driving all the time with a broken arm already, and then you break it even more. It is too much damage. But your arm, of course, is not broken." He gestures to Kimi's wings. "Your wings still are very healthy. So even if you are crashing, then probably there will be a way to fix them."

Kimi wants to ask why Max's wings were 'broken' in the first place. But it's not so hard to imagine why. Max has kept his wings hidden from the whole world for years. He's been in F1 for over a decade; has been in the sport for longer. And not a single person knows what sits heavy on his back.

To keep his wings tucked so tight for so long... no wonder they had been, as he said, past the point of no return.

"If they already didn't work, then why did you keep them? Wouldn't it have been easier to just..." He trails off, finding himself unable to actually say the words. Maybe the fact that he can't even finish the question is answer enough. He can hardly think of anything worse than getting rid of his wings—even if they didn't work. Even if it shaved off a couple of tenths.

Max shakes his head, scowl tight on his face. "Already, I had given up so much for Formula One. Sometimes, I thought that I would die in the car. Maybe I still will. But I, of course, do not want to. Someday, I will not be driving anymore. And then, I will have other things that are, of course, more important."

He looks at Kimi seriously. "You have to give a lot to this sport. But you cannot give them everything. You cannot let yourself die in the car. There will be things after this, and even though you are, of course, very young, you need to be making sure that you still are having a life after you are done."

And now, Kimi realizes, Max is trapped between two worlds. Still racing, but the championship slipping away; car too slow, crashed off into the gravel. One wing on his back, imbalanced. Cumbersome in the car, and useless out of it.

What kind of life will Max have when he's done racing? What kind of life does he have now?

"I will not let them take my wings," Kimi says solemnly. A warped echo of what Max said earlier: I did not let them take the other one. But they took one, and the other one was taken from him a long time ago, really. Still attached, but bone twisted under Kimi's touch.

If I had been able to fly...

"Do you know what type of bird the wings you have are?" Kimi asks. He'd only caught a glimpse. Only felt a shape, warped. Perhaps it is only cruel to picture what Max could have been—wings spread out behind him, taking to the sky. But Kimi can't help but wonder. If he had been able to fly... Would he have looked as spectacular as he does in the car?

Surely, he would have.

Max's lip quirks. His eyes look a bit less hollow. "You will laugh."

Kimi is quite sure, actually, that he won't. Max seems to think that a dry chuckle and a halfhearted shrug is the appropriate reaction to things that Kimi will be having nightmares about.

"They are of a swift."

Kimi closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. His wings ache to pull Max in again, but he settles for wrapping them back around himself.

Kimi can see why Max would think he would find that funny, of course. Swift. Rapido. Fast. Four-time world champion, dozens of race wins under his belt, motor oil in his veins, quick as lightning in the car.

But Kimi had had a girlfriend, back in school, who was an avian—a swift. Un rondone. On all their dates, she'd want to go flying.

It hadn't worked out in the end, of course, and Kimi really should have known that it wouldn't from the start, because he had looked up rondoni before asking her out, and he had learned that, along with being wicked fast, the birds spend most of their time in the air, hating to stay grounded.

Kimi loves the air. Loves to fly. Would choose the wind beneath his wings over his hands on the wheel if it really came down to it. But he spends too much time on the ground, strapped into a cockpit. And all she'd ever wanted to do was go out flying.

He wonders—if Max had been given the choice—if he knew what his future would hold, four world champions, one wing twisted on his back and the other gone in the wind—would he be here now?

He wonders—how often does Max look to the sky?

Kimi opens his eyes, and Max is looking anxious again. Unsure. Hands hovering. He opens his mouth, but Kimi cuts in before he can speak—he doesn't think he can stand to have Max ask what's wrong. As if Kimi is the one who needs comfort.

"Mine are of a sparrow. Italian sparrow." Max pauses for a moment before he smiles, like Kimi has seen him do when it means the smile is real.

"Well, then they are perfect for you."

Inside the cocoon he's still wrapped in, Kimi brushes his fingers along the underside of his wings, through the soft feathers.

"Yes," he agrees. "They are."

Max sets his jaw into something very serious. His gaze, always intense, burns. "We cannot let anything happen to them," he says. "You cannot— I know, already, you are taking much better care of them than— than— but you must be careful. In the car, you must always block everything else out and go fast, of course, I would not say that you should not, because you are a very good racer, but— but, racing, it is not everything. You cannot let yourself live only for the car all the time. Because at the end of the day, you get out the car, and you go home, and one day you will not be in Formula One anymore, of course, and when you are not in the car, there needs to be something else. Your home should have a balcony that you can fly off of, and you should be able to fly off of it."

"I have a balcony," Kimi says. He's never flown off of it. He prefers to drive out to the coast and feel the sea breeze under his wings.

Even in Max's dreams of flying, is he stuck in the city? Concrete balcony, smog-filled sky?

"Good." Max looks relieved at Kimi's words, nevertheless. "That is good."

A knock at the door startles Kimi and Max both, jumping. Max stands up and smooths his hands at the hem of his shirt, like he's checking it's there. Kimi unwraps himself from his wings and awkwardly stands up, sure he's about to finally be asked to leave now that Max has things to do.

He doesn't want to leave. He has so many more questions. He hasn't even gotten to see Max's wing (wing) beyond the split-second glance he was unprepared for. Hasn't gotten to run his fingers across the feathers and line them all up into place.

Max cracks open the door and then opens it wider, revealing Rupert on the other side.

"Oh, Rupert, this is perfect. Could you please look over at Kimi's wings? The crash was, of course, not big today, but still, it is better to be safe."

Rupert blinks. "Max, I came to look over you."

Max waves a hand. "I am, of course, fine. It is useless anyway."

Kimi catches Rupert's eye. He's not sure how Max, usually so good at reading people, can miss the clear heartbreak on his face.

"If I check over Kimi first, do you promise to let me check anyway? You know there are ways to manage the pain if it is worse than normal. It is not useless to take care of you, Max."

Kimi winces.

"It is normal to have pain?" he asks, voice on a slight uptick, trying to sound young and naïve.

Max falls for it. Of course he does.

"No!" he yelps, whirling around to Kimi. "No, it is not. Yes, Rupert, you are right, you can check me after." And then he's sliding past Rupert into the doorway. "I will give you some privacy. Kimi—thank you for the apology. I will see you at the next race, yeah? Again on the podium."

Kimi's smile feels weak. "Okay."

And then just like that, Max is gone.

Kimi turns to Rupert, who is looking at him quizzically.

"He has... Is it really as bad as he says? His wings?"

Rupert sighs. He looks so tired. "Yeah. It is. I'm not sure what he told you, but—it's actually probably worse."

Kimi sits back down on the couch, hard. He wants to say that's not possible. But he knows it's probably true.

Rupert comes to sit next to him. They both stare at the door.

"How does he...?"

"I don't know," Rupert says, understanding Kimi even though he can't finish his thought. "I just don't know."

Kimi extends his wing outwards to the empty side of the couch, where Max was sitting before. Smooths a hand along it, feeling every feather in place, every bone sturdy.

He can only blink up at him. “Max, sit down.”

For once, Max obeys.

“I think you should sign with McLaren.” He says for the third time.

“We've talked about this-”

“Yes and I have thought about it in great detail and I think it is what would be the best move for you. I know we have had our problems with McLaren in the past but you do not want to be stuck at a backmarker. It is not that I do not think you can build but you would not enjoy that so I think you should sign with McLaren.”

GP waits, watching Max. Watching Max who's eyes keep darting around the room. “We've been over this,” he repeats, “I'm not leaving you.”

Max is fidgety, finally losing to his own body, he stands to pace the small confines of the room. “I do not- I cant-”

GP knows. Of course he knows. He knew the moment Max had opened his mouth. But he still needed Max to say it. “Yes?”

“ImleavingRedBull.” He says it in one breath. Like the words were hard to get out. They probably were. They were probably words he had never thought he'd say.

“Are you moving teams?” He doesn't think so, but he doesn't want to assume. They had of course talked about all of the options. In detail. But Max was processing right now wnd it was GP's job to subtly walk him through it.

“Of course not, I could not do that.”

“And you think I can?” He could. GP wasn't like Max. His loyalty had never been to Red Bull.

“I think you are stronger than me.”

That catches him off guard, “Pardon?”

“You can leave Red Bull. You can keep pushing. I- I cannot.”

“Any team would be thrilled to have you. We could find a place to move together.” And Max was almost there. He had almost pushed the right buttons to get him to actually say it out loud.

“I am retiring.” There it was.

“It's been decided then?”

“The car is bad.”

That's not an answer. “I know.”

“These regulations are even worse."

“I know.”

“It is not... it is not any fun anymore.”

“I know, Max. I'm not disagreeing with your decision, just asking how final it is.” Up until now it had seemed unsure, seeming just an intrusive thought Max couldn't shake. But they looked things over just in case. Looked at Max's offers. Looked at GP’s. See where things landed. But it hasn't been serious. Not really. Or maybe it had been. What did it matter? Max seemed fairly serious now.

“I am leaving at the end of this season. Raymond is working on the paperwork right now.”

“And Laurent?”

There was a slight shift of discomfort. “Suspects. I have not hidden my feelings from him.”

No. But it will still be a blindside. Just by nature. Laurent had been so sure he could goad max into staying. GP had had his doubts.

“The end of the season?”

“It will make things easier for your move to another team. Gardening and all.”

“Max,” he tries not to sigh, he doesn't want Max to think he's disappointed in him. He could never be disappointed in him. “You don't have to worry about me. I can work out my own contracts.”

“Yes, but this makes sense, no?”

“Retirement.” GP shakes his head, “Shouldn't I be the one retiring before you?”

“It was always going to happen this way. F1 does not want me here. It never has. This is for the best.”

And GP wants to yell and scream and shake him and tell him it's not true. That Max is loved. That Max is wanted. And that was true for Red Bull, but for everyone else…

“You should warn Hannah.” The last of them. The final three from the golden days.

“I will. But I wanted to speak with you first.” A beat. “Will you sign with McLaren?’

Because if GP says no, if GP says he's staying with Red Bull, Max will too. Miserable and aching, he'd stay too. So GP can't. Not that he really wants to. Not without Max. And yet- “I'm not sure if they're the right fit for me.”

“They are.”

“In the past-”

“But you could change things. As team principal. You could fix it.”

Fix it. Like it was a minor flaw in the front wing and not an entire Formula 1 team.

“I couldn't fix Red Bull.” He says it matter of fact, but tries to be gentle. He knows how hard this has been for him.

Max lets out a breath, finally sinking back into the seat across from GP. “No one can fix Red Bull. At least not the Red Bull it was. It is only us left and-” he drops his head, “and I no longer think that is enough.”

GP hums. Max is right. All that is left of Red Bull is the heart. Each piece chipped away one by one until it's a raw bleeding heart trying to pump to an organism that died long ago. Running on pure adrenaline and love. But when that dies? When the adrenaline runs dry and the love is hanging by a thread?

“I'll review the McLaren contract.” He promises.

“You will sign it?”

“After you sign yours.”

Max squints at him. They're at a stalemate. Max doesn't want to leave without the promise that GP will leave too, and GP will not leave without knowing for certain that Max is done. “Do you promise?”

“I haven't lied to you before and I'm not going to start now. I said I would never race engineer for another driver and I meant it. And there's nothing left for me here.”

Another pause. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He repeats.

Max relaxes a fraction. “I did not think it would end like this.”

“There are worse ways to go out.”

“But we still have this season, yes? The car is no good but maybe…”

“I still think we can squeeze a podium out of it.”

“Yeah?”

It's the first time Max hasn't shot that sentiment down. GP feels ever so slightly lighter. “It may require sabotage, but I think we can find a way to swing it.”

Max laughs. It's a beautiful sound.

“We will be okay.” It's a statement not a question. A reassurance to himself and GP.

“It won't change anything between us if that's what you're worried about. If anything it will improve our relationship. You won't have to listen to me anymore.”

Max grins, “Perhaps when you are done with F1 you can come work for Vertsrappn Racing. Then you would have to listen to me.”

“Nah mate you already think you're my boss. I don't know if I could handle it for real.” It's a joke and Max's eyes crinkle, looking brighter than they have in weeks. “We will of course work something out.”

“I have no doubt of that, mate.’

“It is Red Bull we are leaving behind.” Again max sounds like he's speaking more to himself than GP. “Not each other, right?”

“Of course. I've never cared much for Red Bull, Max. I've stuck around for you.”

There's a shy smile at the honesty. “Okay then. We leave Red Bull. Together.”

“We leave, but it's not Red Bull. Not really. Not your Red Bull. You know that right?”

Max gives a sad smile. “My Red Bull has been gone a long time.”

It was sad but true.

It wouldn't be easy. Not for either of them after so long a time. But it would be good. It would be healing. And it was best. For max and least, and that meant it was best for GP too.