“Better not, Max,” she says and brushes his tousled hair, then Stan’s.

“But I hit it with my kart so I should—,” he stammers. “And papa always brings home strays.”

“Yes. But birds should be free to fly, sweetheart,” she says.

Stan always thinks of that when he comes across the feather Max let him have after the bird flew away.

🪶

The car is back in the garage before Max is back from the hospital. When GP looks at the hole in its bodywork it’s akin to the one in his chest. The broken pieces of carbon, serrated edges, like his anger; sharp and rough. Bile rises in his throat when he sees the blood red paint smeared across the halo. He sits with it until Max returns, pushes it all down and pulls Max into his arms and lets his hand rest gently below Max’s neck, where he’s read the words on the HANDS device so many times: ‘feather lite’.

🪶

Chris never cared much for poetry but he always remembered the ‘Hope is a thing with feathers’ poem because it had been taught in class the day after his barely-started race career had ended because his parents couldn’t finance it. The only thing Chris could hope for that morning was that his classmates didn’t see his red, puffy eyes. He doesn’t really get it until years later he meets Max in a lobby and its feathers start to ruffle.

When Max facetimes him with a smile to invite him to a GT3 test, its wings beat wildly against his chest.

🪶

Kelly had an ex-boyfriend who’d used a feather tickler on her once, teasing her until she felt like she could drown in the light brush of it. Max makes her feel that way. He’s gentle tonight. Knows what she needs. Always. His delicate fingers, teasing, dancing over her skin, the soft brush of his freshly shaved face and tongue that follows their path.

“Have a baby with me,” she says.

He’s been waiting for her, skittish as she was after Daniil. His head shoots up from her belly and she feels like she could drown in his beaming smile too.

🪶

Max’s pitstop was the only time this weekend Erik could focus solely on him. Tending to his needs, offering him a drink the way Max offers him one now; his smile huge, his joy infectious, tempting. But Erik needs to do his job for Max to stay that way; protect him and not have his trust and kindness betrayed by someone in this crowd.

It’s deep into the night when they’re alone again and Max’s drunken giggle fills the quiet hotel corridor when Erik hoists him over his shoulder. “Too heavy,” he protests.

He’s light as a feather to Erik.

🪶

Max lifts the saker falcon trophy high in the air when he’s handed it. It’s his sixth Abu Dhabi win and it’s going to be his last. Out of the corner of his eye he sees GP put his down carefully, knows it’s precious to GP because it’s his last one too. At least with Max. There’s beauty in it, Max thinks; they celebrated their first championship here and now the final one.