#3rdp

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 was. 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 smooths his hands at the hem of his shirt, like he's checking it's there. Kimi unwraps himself from his wings and awkwardly hovers, 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 already caused enough of a disruption on Friday, when he passed out after FP1 like a fucking idiot. He knows better than to be fucking weak in front of everybody like that, and it's not as if he had meant to collapse in the middle of the garage after climbing out of his car, but he should know how to stay on his fucking feet like a man, too, so it's really no excuse.

His father trained him better than that.

He had brushed off everybody's concerns the best he was able, convinced them to stay hush to the media about it (which Helmut had backed him up on instantly, thank fuck), and got back into the car for FP2.

And when that session finished, and the world was going dark at the edges again, he'd stayed on his feet like a fucking man until he could collapse in the safety of his own driver's room, away from all the eyes.

Everybody at Red Bull has been incredibly hardworking and supportive, but that's because Max got them a win on his first race with them, and because he's been getting them podiums, and because he gets in the fucking car and gives them points to knock them up the championship order. They're not there to coddle a kid who can't even stay on his feet.

Max isn't a kid anymore. He's nineteen now. Happy fucking birthday.

So after the race, he pulls into parc fermé in front of the P2 board, next to Daniel, and he ignores the dark shadows in the corners of his vision, and he gets to his feet. Goes to the cooldown room and, despite the name, doesn't stop sweating.

His voice cracks when he asks for a sugary drink—curse him. In front of the cameras—in front of everyone. But he asks again because, fuck, it's better than passing out on the podium.

He makes it through. The champagne does nothing to cool him, feeling instead like it's evaporating as it comes into contact with his burning skin. His father's eyes are the only thing that cools him—shivers down his spine when he sees him in the crowd, staring silent.

Max stays on his feet like a fucking man until he makes it back to the garage. His champagne isn't in his hand anymore—who knows where the fuck it went. It doesn't matter. All that matters is getting open the stupid door to his driver's room so he can collapse in peace.

(If he was more of the man his father wanted him to be, he wouldn't need to collapse at all. At the end of the day, maybe all he is is fucking weak.)

His sweaty hands can't get a grip on the knob. His knees buckle, his weakness catching up to him. Fuck him, honestly. He got a podium today, but it could have been the win—Daniel proved that—and now he can't even keep it together enough to get into his room. Red Bull took him in mid-season; they'd have no problem throwing him away. Carlos could be in his seat by next race. His father reminds him every day.

He remembers the gentle hands on him when he had blinked bleary eyes open the other day, drenched with water, finally cool. The kind eyes that swam into focus, mouths twisted with concern.

Max isn't used to expressions like that. Kindness. Concern. They must think he's so weak. Fragile, to need to be handled like that. It's a miracle they let him back into the car. It will be even more of a miracle if they do again, if they find him like this.

Groaning, breathing as deep as he can, Max tries to push himself to his feet. Braces his hands against the door to help him. Wishes it would just fall open and he could tumble to the floor in peace.

Instead, the loud voices from the main garage start moving closer. Max slams his head against the door as they round the corner, finally standing, but shaking violently, clinging onto the doorknob he still can't twist for dear life.

Back in the Toro Rosso by next week for sure. His father is going to kill him.

The raucous voices halt. "Max?"

Max should really lift his forehead from the door. He should turn and say, "Hey, guys! Great race—thank you," and then twist the doorknob and go into his room.

He doesn't do any of that. He pants heavy and tries desperately to stay standing.

"Max, mate. Are you okay?"

There's a voice next to his ear, soft—Callum's. A hand on his back, between his shoulder blades—warm, but not scalding. Gentle. God, he's so weak. They must think he's so weak.

"Okay, let's get you into your room," another voice says—Ole. The steady pressure on his back shifts—a hand envelops his over the doorknob. Gently, they twist it open.

Max starts to fall forward. The hands don't let him.

He ends up on the couch. His couch. His head is in someone's lap, and his feet are in someone else's. He should get up. Tell them he's alright, beg them not to tell anyone—no, not beg. Demand. Begging is weak. Begging gets you nowhere—gets you nothing but more pain.

He should get on his feet like a fucking man.

Greg's voice, from somewhere, says, "You did good today, kid. Real good. Get some rest."

Max isn't a kid. He's nineteen now. And besides—he hasn't been a kid in a long time.

A hand—gentle and warm, cards through his hair.

"Attaboy, Maxy."

He can't help it. At the end of the day, all he is is fucking weak.

After all, it's not the mechanics and the team bosses and the pit walls he has trouble repaying his debts to. All they ask from him is that he wins, and Max can do that in spades. Has. Will. Sure as the sunrise.

There are harder things to pay back, though, than contracted employment, a car for a victory, a team for the checkered flag.

Like a marriage destroyed, and a family torn apart. A mother and a sister abandoned. A father who dedicated his whole life to Max, and then some. Every drop of blood and sweat, his blistered fingers piecing together the engine a mirror to Max's, tight on the wheel. Every cent he owned, plus more and more and more.

Max doesn't forget it. Can't.

The list of the people he owes isn't very long, but there are three names sitting heavy at the top, etched in blood, and Max doesn't know if he'll ever be able to scrub them away.

The car dies beneath him during the first race, but he pulls it through the second, speeding over the line, points gleaming next to his name, at last.

He'll be written in the history books for that one. Name never scrubbed out.

Max may not be paying Red Bull back quite yet, but he has time, and his paycheck still comes in, every cent accounted for. Contracts fulfilled—a car for a point for a dollar.

But Max is only seventeen, and his father has given him everything—everything—so when he says, firm and complete, that he'll handle Max's finances; that he'll divvy up the pot between them; that Max owes him, Max just clenches his fists around nothing, wheel not in hand, and nods.

Still, though. His father's name is not the only one on his list. And he made a promise.

"Can I have at least enough of the money to buy Victoria a bag? It is only for this once."

Max's father scowls, but Max hasn't done anything wrong—he's steadily repaying his debts. He's in the car, he's in the points, and his paycheck is sitting heavy in his father's bank account, scale finally tipping towards the green.

"Fine," his father snaps. "But you owe me."

It's only ever when you lose the race—speed over the line in second, or third, or below—stand beneath the top step and look upward—that the heat starts to creep in. Race suit clammy and damp with sweat; cheeks flushed red under your balaclava. Heat haze making your head swim as you look down at the pitch-black parking lot asphalt, and your father yells and yells and yells.

But sitting in the kart, you don't feel the heat. Not like you do in a Formula One car.

Of course, Max's father had known about the sweltering, unavoidable heat of the cockpit. Had found a way to train him in that, even though the karts were limited. Because karts might not have the enclosed space necessary to trap heat, but a van, sitting out in the blazing summer sun, windows shut tight, sure does.

Max is used to the heat of a cockpit before he ever lowers himself into one.

He's used to this, too—to the way the heat will sink into his skin so thoroughly it feels as if he himself is emanating it. As if he could walk through a field and watch the daisies melt and the grass catch fire at his feet. As if he could sink his shaking fingers into his own chest, clutch around his rapidly beating heart, and scalding blisters would bloom across his palm—race down his arms and across his chest, back to the start, a never-ending cycle of heat and pain and fire.

The track goes blurry around the edges. The wheel jerks in his grip; the bottom of the car scrapes against asphalt. There's a voice in his ear, but he can't make out the words, and can't open his mouth for fear of what will come out.

He curls his fingers tighter. Tries to stop the trembling. Clenches his jaw, squares his shoulder, and breathes.

He goes another lap.

When he pulls into the garage, there's a ringing in his ears, high-pitched and unending. People move around him, blurry, but he can't track them—they're all just colors, far away.

His fingers fumble at the seatbelts, but he feels sluggish, and they keep slipping out of his grasp. Is he underwater? Is he dreaming? Is that why there's a haze over everything, shapes out of focus, sound a distant echo underneath the ringing, ringing, ringing?

But no. It's not this hot in the water. It's not this hot in his dreams.

Other hands float into view. Close over his own, gentle, and move them away. He flinches at the touch, scared that he'll burn them—scared that the hands will flip over and show blisters racing down, enveloping everything.

But they only undo the clasps that he couldn't, working steady. And when they reach for his shoulders—reach for his chest where his heart still lies burning, beating fast—he lets them pull him free.

Yet another thing he's used to—Max stumbles as he gets out of the car, fire still wrapped around him.

Somehow, he manages to lift his head up to the figure before him, above him, and he can't make out who it is, but he doesn't need to. He's used to this, too.

"I'm sorry, Papa."

(Maybe he doesn't know what he wants. Or maybe he just doesn't get what he wants. Maybe the championship slipped through his fingers because he didn't want it enough; maybe it was because he wanted it too much. The end result is the same. He's in Abu Dhabi, all chances for the title gone, lights too bright and no shaded visor to block them out.)

Nobody had thought it was a good idea. Brad and Christian and Gemma and GP had all tried to talk him out of it. His mama and Vic had called—had asked him to come home. Kelly hadn't said anything, but her eyes were sad when he left.

His father had been the only one who seemed to agree with his decision. He had huffed in approval; had said, Go ahead and show them. (Max hadn't said that he's not doing it to show them at all.)

The FIA may have suspended him from driving the car, but they can't force him to go to the hospital, and they can't force him to stay home. They can't stop his paddock pass from dinging him through at the entrance, and he walks past the garages and the reporters with his head held high.

Nobody at Red Bull had thought it was a good idea for him to come, but they still welcome him into the garage with open arms.

(Max had thought, for just the briefest of moments, when Christian had come to interrupt him and Brad on their way out of Jeddah, that it had been Red Bull to rat him out. That it had been GP or Gemma, lips pursed with concern; that it had been Christian, thinking about the team; that it had been the team, seeing him sway, and just trying to help.

Had thought, for just a moment, that it had been Brad—too close to Max's flame, and trying desperately to stop the spread.

But the raw devastation on everybody's faces had matched his own too well for that to be the case. Even through his blurry vision after failing the stupid fucking medical test, Max had been able to see that clearly.

He had remembered how Lewis had looked at him, before the podium. Head cocked, contemplative.

Max had thought, foolishly, that maybe Lewis had seen him—for the first time—as a human instead of just a car.

(Or maybe the thought wasn't so foolish. Hasn't Max been taught, time and time again, that to be human is to be weak?

Lewis had seen his humanity and had seen his weakness within it. Had seen that he wasn't a car, and had wrenched him out of it, seatbelts unable to keep him locked in place. Three-week suspension, and one week left in the season.

When the medical team in Jeddah had told him he could die if he went back on track, Max had had the brief thought that he'd rather be entombed forever in his car than never sit in it again.

But in the end, what he thought didn't matter. It never has.))

The FIA may have suspended Max from the car, but they can't suspend him from the UAE. And Max may have lost the championship in a quiet medical center in Jeddah, and he may have lost it in the wall at Silverstone at 51G's, but he'll be damned if he loses it in Monaco through a TV screen.

He needs to be here, this time, when Lewis waves his flag through the air. Needs to see it with his own blurry eyes.

(And maybe, he has more of his father in him than he'd like to admit, because he needs Lewis to see him, too. See him weak, and human, and out of the car, but still here. Eyes still tracking him down the road.)

Red Bull isn't running a second car this weekend. GP had refused to engineer for anyone else, and Alex had refused to take Max's car. Had refused to stage another dance, acting out Max and Lewis' battle. Had refused to sit in the seat Max had been wrenched out of, wheel still warm from his tight grip.

GP had refused, and Alex had refused, and Christian hadn't fought back as hard as he should have. 28 points behind in the Constructor's going into Abu Dhabi means the title belongs to Mercedes.

Again.

Max thinks Red Bull are being insanely stupid. Just because he's out of the running doesn't mean they have to be—they could still cinch the Constructor's if they're lucky. If Alex slid into the car, if GP coached him through it, if Christian made them. If they got lucky.

But they won't. They'll sit in the back of an empty garage, beside an empty car, and throw the potential of millions of dollars down the drain. All because Max can't drive.

Max doesn't quite get it. Doesn't quite understand why. And yet, something in his chest goes warm for a reason other than fiery rage. He may have failed his team, but they still love him despite it. They're still trying hard not to fail him back.

Fuck, Max wishes he could be in the car. Wishes almost as much for his team as he does for himself. Wishes he could have brought them to victory.

Instead, his side of the garage is empty and quiet. The car sits covered and untouched.

Max strokes a hand along it—an apology. He wonders if it would apologize back if it could.

(He almost hopes the answer would be no. He's heard enough apologies. But none of them can change what's been done. And none of them come from the only person he really wants to hear it from.

But Lewis wouldn't even give him so much as a smile when he was bright-eyed at seventeen, running clear out of Lewis' way in the middle of the pack. And Max still doesn't know quite what he did wrong to be in Lewis' bad graces back then, but now, years later, he could point to about a thousand.

He had thought, maybe, it had been because, when Lewis had looked at him, he'd only seen the car. Had thought, maybe, if he ever saw past that, he wouldn't hate Max quite so much.

But when he'd looked past it, just for a moment, Max had ended up wrenched out of the car, suspended for three weeks, championship torn from shaky fingers still clawing for the wheel. Lewis had looked past the car, and he must have seen something he hated even more, because Max would rather Lewis crash him into the wall and kill him than do what he did.

He can forgive Lewis for sending him into the barriers at 51G's, but he can't forgive this.)

Max watches every session in Abu Dhabi from the pit wall, and Lewis' car is the only one he sees on track.

And at the end of every session, he ignores every insect with a camera or a microphone, slinks back to his room (not his driver's room this weekend, because Lewis had reached his black-gloved hands down Max's throat and torn the driver right out of him), and throws up.

(He's not sure if it's due to the nausea or the rage. He's not sure he wants to know.)

Lewis tops the practice sessions. Lewis gets pole. Lewis thanks the team and signs the tyre and puts a black-gloved hand over his heart.

Max doesn't have a heart anymore. It was torn right out of him.

(Part of him was knocked loose in Silverstone—couldn't withstand the force of the impact. Another part was lost in Monza, and it was his fault, that time—his own mistake throwing up nightmares behind his eyelids.

He didn't lose a part of himself in Jeddah. He knows exactly where it is. It's in Lewis' black-gloved hands, trapped against his heart.)

Max sits on the pit wall during the race, in the spot GP refuses to occupy. Watches as Lewis starts, perfect. Watches as Lewis pulls away, perfect. Watches as Lewis pits, perfect. Watches as Lewis wins, and wins, and wins—perfect, perfect, perfect.

Checo doesn't even finish the race. Problem with the gearbox. It's not like it mattered anyway—even with two cars running, Red Bull would have needed a miracle, and those seem hard to come by these days—at least for them. But it still feels like a nail in the coffin, even with their hopes all already dead and buried.

Mercedes already had both championships won as soon as the FIA doctor had come back with the tests. As soon as Lewis had opened his mouth. As soon as Max's tyre had been clipped and the wheel had jerked in his grip, already past the edge of control.

Max sits on the pit wall, unmoving, feeling blank as people pat him on the back and offer him words of condolence. As smoke from donuts plumes over the track, as the cheers ring out, as the anthem plays (the wrong anthem, the wrong goddamn anthem). As Lewis presses his black-gloved hand over his heart, tears in his eyes, and thanks his team for everything.

Everything.

Eventually, Brad comes to pull Max gently out of his seat (GP's seat). Guides him back to his driver's (not driver's) room. Rubs a hand over Max's back as he throws up (nothing left inside him but bile). Asks Max, "What do you want to do?"

The season is finally—finally—over. Max breathes deep and chokes out, so honest it hurts his throat, "I just want to go home."

Max doesn't know quite how Brad gets them on a plane to Belgium within the hour, but he doesn't question it. Doesn't have the energy to—not when it means taking his forehead off the cool glass.

The flight feels unendingly long. And all he wants to do is sleep, but every time he closes his eyes, he can only see the racetrack. Lap after lap after lap, Lewis chasing him down; Lewis passing; Lewis inching ahead. Max tries to block it out—tries to paint the scene over black and count sheep. But all he can count are the seconds ticking up between him and Lewis as he falls behind; all he can count are the twenty-five points between himself and the title; all he can count are the thousands of tiny ways he let the championship slip through his fingers.

Eventually, they land. Tyres to tarmac, familiar. Lights on, seatbelt signs off, predictable chaos.

Max doesn't move. He's so sick of fighting every step of the way. The season's finally over, and he's lost, and he just wants to be home so badly, with his mama, but he can't lift his head away from the shitty airplane window.

It's not even cool against his skin. It's not even glass.

Behind him, he hears Brad shuffling, collecting their things. Hears when he must turn his phone on, because the sudden torrent of pinging notifications sound like an avalanche in Max's ears.

And, really, that's the moment Max should have known, but he's so sick of fighting, and it takes Brad shaking his shoulder and practically yelling his name for him to turn around and see the starry-eyed look on his face.

Brad says that he's won the championship. Says that he's World Champion. But he might as well be speaking French, might as well be speaking underwater, because the words sound like they should make sense, but they don't.

Because the championship was over when Lewis crossed the line in Jeddah in first, and Max barely made it back in second. When he tried to track a stupid penlight with his blurry eyes and just couldn't do it. When he spun out into the wall and never stopped spinning.

He's not World Champion. He finished in second.

Brad shoves his phone into Max's hand, and Max can't squint through the brightness to read any of the article pulled up on the screen, so he just stares at the image below the header—Lewis Hamilton, crossing the line in Abu Dhabi, sky a blanket of fireworks behind him, exploding with light. His black-gloved fist raised high in the air.

DSQ, Max manages to hear Brad say, words still coming from far away. Underfueled. Guess we finally found our good luck, eh mate?

(Is that all luck is? The misfortune of others? Did Lewis feel lucky when his tyre clipped Max's? When he looked at Max behind the podium, head cocked, and saw the person behind the car, no longer able to keep his fingers locked on the wheel, tight and unyielding?

Maybe luck is just karma in disguise, and maybe karma is just the world's cruelness come to life. Lewis had torn Max out of the car, and maybe he had still gotten into his own car in Abu Dhabi, hands steady on the wheel, but it hadn't mattered, because the championship was ripped away from him, too.

In the end, the final race meant nothing. Both of them wrenched out of their seats by powers beyond their control. An eye for an eye—Max blurry, Lewis blindsided. Scores even once again.)

Brad carefully extracts his phone from Max's grip, fingers warm. He's trembling, Max notices. He thought he'd be trembling too when he won, but it doesn't really feel like winning, crossing the line in second, squinting at a too-bright screen, taking your head away from the lukewarm plexiglass.

It doesn't really feel like anything at all.

(Maybe, when Lewis had reached down into his throat and torn the driver out of him, he had reached a little too far; pulled out a little too much. Maybe Max's three weeks of suspension are not yet up, and he doesn't know who to be without the car.

Maybe the champion within him had clawed its way out alongside all the bile, and all that's left is an empty ache. Championship won in Jeddah, but his vision too blurry to see it.

Maybe all that's left of him is what was taken.)

"Can we go home?" he asks. His voice sounds small to his own ears. Champions are supposed to be larger than life, but maybe this is still just a dream, counting sheep, because he feels so small.

Brad blinks. Blinks again. His eyes go soft, and his mouth pulls into a familiar twist.

"Yeah, mate. Let's get you home."

Max's mama is waiting for him in the airport. He sees her the moment before she sees him, and for just a second, he sees her nervous fingers, brushing hair behind her ear. Eyes wide in the crowd.

When she sees Max, a smile lights up bright across her face, and Max feels himself melt towards her.

(When he had been sitting in the clinical medical center in Jeddah—after the doctors had left, but before he could figure out how to will himself to stand—he had pictured their reunion in is head, for just a second. Had let himself imagine flying home; had imagined saying, Mama, I lost, and watching her eyes go soft at the edges, the corner of her mouth twitching, like it always does before she says, I love you.

Had imagined her saying, I know, baby, as she pulled him in close and stroked a hand down his back, gentle.

Now he's here, and she's here, right in front of him. No longer just a fantasy. No longer waiting on a miracle.)

"Mama. I won."

Her eyes go soft at the edges. Her mouth twitches.

She pulls her into her arms, presses him close. Strokes a hand down his back.

"I know, baby. I know."

Max tucks his head into the crook of her shoulder. Closes his eyes. Breathes deep—in and out.

Max figures that he's saying it to Jules, who is pressed up into his side, stealing warmth, even though it's probably the warmest it's been all weekend right now, after 3pm when the race is over but the sun is still shining bright in the sky. And it's sweet, Max thinks. That Dani and Jules are so close. That they care about each other enough to make sure they aren't alone in the wake of this loss, stuck staring at a hotel ceiling, thinking about what-ifs.

They'd all been hit hard by the loss. Losing always hurts, but it felt especially cruel for it to come as it did, a mechanical failure ripping away a forty-second lead. Victory had been in their hands. It was sweet on Max's lips, and maybe he had gotten ahead of himself, letting his tongue dart out to taste it, but it had felt so real and sure.

His mouth only tastes bitter now.

And it had hit them all hard, but Dani had been driving—had had to be the one to see their victory dissipate in the rearview mirror. And Jules had sunk down to the ground, as if pushed by the weight of his grief, and had curled up, small. And Max is glad that they have each other.

Maybe he should have been the one to look out for them. To make sure they wouldn't spend the night stuck staring at a hotel ceiling, thinking about what-ifs. Maybe he still should—Luggi is hiding out somewhere Max doesn't know, and maybe Max should make sure he's okay.

But... Gosh. Not just right now. Right now, he just needs to take another few minutes to look out at the track, unseeing, and try to regulate his breaths. Needs a couple more moments to feel just a little bit sorry for himself alongside feeling sorry for the team.

He's exhausted. He barely slept while the car was on track, even when he was supposed to, too excited to see how it was doing, too filled with anticipation for his next stint. He's exhausted, and that had been a little bit thrilling and fun at 2am when he had gotten into the car and the world was dark and cool and quiet, and it was just him and headlights and the ring. But now, he just feels heavy, and he can only think about how he probably won't get any sleep tonight, either. He'll be too busy staring at the hotel ceiling, stuck, thinking about what-ifs.

Dani bumps their shoulders together. Max lets himself sway, just a bit.

"Max. I don't think you should be alone tonight."

Max blinks. He takes his gaze away from the track. Dani is looking at him intensely, mouth twisted. Behind, Jules peers out from where he's tucked himself under Dani's arm. His eyes are wide.

"What? No. I am, of course, fine." Usually, he'd wave a hand—wave it off. He can't muster the energy to take his hands out of his pockets. It's the warmest it's been all weekend, but his fingers are still cold. "It is not my first time not winning a race, of course, and..."

His words die. He wants to say, And I'm used to it. And, if I could not handle losing this one, it must make me a pretty terrible racer. And, we will get them next time. And, and, and.

And... he wanted to win this one, though. And it hurts. The way it ended. It does.

"Okay, so you are fine," Dani says, and even though Max just brushed him off, he feels his stomach twist, just a bit. Feels himself deflate at the thought of staring up at the hotel ceiling alone.

But then Dani continues. "But do you want to be alone tonight?"

Max likes to think of himself as a pretty honest person. Still. There's a difference between speaking your mind and laying your soul bare. Max will make his opinions known about penalties and rules and regulations and stupid fucking questions any day of the week. But when a reporter shoves a microphone into his face and asks if he cried when his daughter was born, he thinks he's within his right to hold his heart a bit closer to his chest.

He thinks there are only a few people in the world who could ask him if he wanted to be alone tonight and to whom he would give an honest answer. He's not quite sure where along the line the two people standing in front of him with their wide, kind eyes joined that list.

His voice catches in his throat. He shakes his head.

"Then you will not," Dani says. Simple as that. Maybe it is that simple when the people by your side are warm, eyes wide and kind and trusting. When you choose to trust them back.

Max nods. The sun reflects off of some surface somewhere—flashes into his eyes, temporarily blinding. It's past 3pm. The race is over. The sun is still shining in the sky. Their car took the checkered flag, but it was too little too late. Max had asked Dani to be the one to finish, just as he had asked him to start, and both times, it had been because he just couldn't do it. Didn't trust himself to be strong enough.

The track is empty now. And there's a lump in Max's throat he still can't speak past. But he doesn't need to. Dani tucks him into his side, mirror image to Jules. Says, "Come on. It's been a long day. Let's get going."

They snake through the garage, and Max carefully tries to avoid the eye of all the team members, even though he feels the ice-cold wash of shame creeping down his back because of it. He doesn't have any more speeches and back-pats in him. The rest of the team got a win anyway, with the other car. The only ones stuck with the weight of the loss so heavy are him and Dani and Jules and—

Max's steps falter. Fuck. Luggi. He can't— He can't find solace in company like this, happily lead blindly, while Lucas is alone, licking his wounds. Not when he'll be staring up at a hotel ceiling tonight, thinking of what-ifs.

"Where's—"

Max barely glances around before Luggi appears, his backpack slung over one shoulder and Max's slung over the other. Max pats his own shoulder, brows furrowed. He hadn't even thought to get his stuff. What the fuck is wrong with him that he's losing his head so much over a simple loss? How many times has he lost before? If I could not handle losing this one, it must make me a pretty terrible racer.

Luggi catches Max's eye, and he doesn't smile, but he nods his head, easy, and says, "I'm right here. Let's get going."

Max holds out a hand for his bag, and Luggi ignores it. Just nudges Max to get moving—follow where Dani and Jules are continuing their path through the garage to the exit in the back.

Max, probably, should say something, he thinks. Do something. He's supposed to be the leader, he's supposed to be the motivator, he's supposed to be the one with experience in everything and a cool head and a kind word. We'll get them next time.

He's— He's supposed to be a member of this team. Supposed to trust his teammates.

He's never really had this before. With teammates. Has never fought with them as much as he's fought against them. Has never been able to just follow behind.

He follows now. He sits in the back seat of Dani's car, and he doesn't pull his backpack over intoto his lap when Luggi gets into the other side. Outside the window, the sun is shining. The leaves are swaying in the breeze, intensely green. The beautiful ring.

Max lets his head fall forward and thump against Dani's seat in front. He's so exhausted.

The drive is short. The hotel is quiet. Luggi carries Max's bag up the stairs. Max follows Dani, and Jules presses into his side, now, unobtrusive and warm.

Dani and Jules are sharing a room with two queen-sized beds and no couch to speak of. Max gnaws at his lip, trying to figure out how to arrange things so he's the only one who has to sleep on the floor, but the others are already moving around him, pulling the set of drawers out from between the beds and pushing them together.

Luggi looks at Max, standing awkward by the door still, and tilts his head. "Give me a hand?"

Max kneels down beside him and pushes with all his might. He feels a bit like a mechanic, pushing the car back into the garage. Brake issue, driveshaft failure, race over. Unplanned pit stop, push the car back into the garage. Unplanned stay, push the beds together.

At least Max isn't the one driving. He's selfish, and he's weak, and he doesn't want to be the one seeing victory dissippate in the rearview mirror. Instead, he keeps pushing.

Eventually, the beds click together. Jules clambers on and shoves sheets down the gap methodically, sealing the seam. Max kicks off his shoes, shucks off his jacket, clambers onto the bed beside him, and tries to help, hands unsure.

Jules shuffles over and watches Max with curious eyes, and Max flushes warm with embarrassment. On track, at the circuit, he knows who he is and what he's doing. At home, in Monaco, Kelly and he figure it out together, hand in hand. Everywhere else, Max is treading water, out of his depth.

He sits back on his heels and tries to look at the sheets instead of Jules. He thinks he made them messier.

"It isn't your fault," Jules says. It takes Max a split-second to figure out what he's talking about, brain still running on the stupid sheets.

The race. Of course. The thing Max is supposed to be good at, but still couldn't crack. Not his fault, Jules said. Not anybody's fault, the reasonable part of Max's brain says. Mechanical failure. Max wasn't even in the car. Certainly not Dani's fault, though he had been. Sometimes, it's just how it goes.

Your fault, the other part of Max's brain whispers, in a voice oh so similar to his own. Your fault.

After NLS 2, after the disqualification, after the stupid fucking tyres, Jules had said the same thing to Max—"It wasn't your fault." And then he had paused, right after, and had asked, voice hesitant, eyes darting, just a bit, "Do you ever hear his voice? In your head?" And maybe, if Max were someone else, he wouldn't have known right away what Jules had meant. But he had. Because he does.

"Not as much these days," he had said, honest. Because he doesn't. The most he hears of his father's voice these days is across the phone on weekends, a little bit crackly. And this time, there had been only a brief moment of angry Dutch in his head—stupid FUCKING—before he had taken a deep breath and reminded himself that he had done everything he could.

He doesn't quite believe his own voice as much as he'd like to. But he doesn't believe his father's voice very much anymore, either.

Jules had nodded like he understood. And Max has talked with him before about growing up driving—about the thrill of the speed, and the weight of the expectations, and the desperation of the money running dry. About that drive to win, and that drive to make your father proud, and that drive to get into the car and drive.

And Jules had nodded like he understood, and Max has always found it easier to be honest when it's about rules and regulations and tearing the throats out of pesky reporters, but somewhere along the line, Jules wormed his way onto Max's list of people to whom he can lay out his soul, if only a little, and he had found himself asking, "Do you?"

And Jules had nodded. And he had said, "Not as much these days," with a smile.

Max wants to ask him again now. Do you hear him now? Are you only telling me it isn't my fault because there's angry French in your head screaming that it's yours?

"It isn't yours, either," he says instead. Because it doesn't matter what Jules' answer would be—Max would say the same any which way. Needs to, suddenly, desperately. "It was not any of your faults." He casts his voice around the room. Makes sure everybody hears it. Dani and Luggi look on. What do they hear in their heads?

"And it was not yours," Jules says, again. Like he can hear Max's thoughts. Like he can hear the voice inside his head—can suddenly understand Dutch. Maybe he can just understand anger and blame. Maybe it's a language he's fluent in from hearing it alone. Max sometimes feels that way. Used to.

"Sometimes, it is how it goes."

Yeah, but. Max didn't want it to go how it did. He wanted so badly. He should know better, but the ring was so beautiful and alluring, and he found his tongue darting out to taste the sweetness on his lips.

Maybe it isn't his fault the car broke. Maybe. But it was his fault for hoping.

"I think it's time to sleep," Dani says. It's considerably past 3pm by now, but outside the hotel room, through the curtains, the sun is still shining.

Max is exhausted. They all are. He lets himself fall into the pillows. Luggi yanks at the blankets until Max shimmies enough for him to get them free, and then he tucks them over Max before sliding under them himself.

With two queen beds, they really should all have enough of their own space, and the gap between the beds stuffed with sheets that Max fucked up should be a null factor, but Luggi just keeps scooting further in until Max is sandwiched between him and Jules. The bedframe pokes into his hip, but not uncomfortably enough for him to complain or shift away.

Max is lying on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, and his teammates are warm at his sides. He can't see the hotel ceiling, and he doesn't have the energy to turn over and look—to stare up and ponder the what-ifs.

Dani, on the other side of Jules, pressed in close, says, "I almost shit myself watching you in that first stint, Max. With the Porsche? Absolutely insane."

Max smiles. Just a bit. "Told you I'd want to fight everyone," he mumbles into the bed.

"I think next time, I should do the start again." Next to Max, Luggi hums in agreement. Max cracks an eye open to see Jule's nose scrunched in a laugh.

Next time. Next time, they'll win. Sleepy and bracketed and warm, Max's lets his tongue dart out to wet his lips.

His father throws a backpack at him. Tells him to make it quick or he'll take Victoria instead.

Max's blanket is the first thing he shoves into the bag. Worn fabric pressed close to the bottom. A bundle of clothes goes on top of that, and then that's it. Max's eyes skirt around the room as he thinks, surely, there must be more than a blanket and some shirts.

But there isn't. And all he really wants, anyway, is what he can't have: Mama and Vic, sleeping sound in the other room, breathing steady, curled up next to him.

The backpack zips, too light.

And Max disappears from his home like a shadow.

-

It's a few months before his father slurs to Max that he should get rid of that stupid fucking blanket, Max, you're not a fucking baby.

But maybe Max is a baby, because some nights (most nights), the worn fabric pressed close to his skin feels like the only thing that's getting him from one day to the next. The only source of comfort and softness and warmth. The only thing that doesn't hurt.

It doesn't look like his mama, and it doesn't smell like her anymore, and it's not quite the same when Max tucks himself into bed. But if he closes his eyes tight enough, sometimes he can imagine that his fingers are hers, wrapping him up tight, tucking the edges of the blanket below him.

And maybe Max is a baby. Because he doesn't want to lose that. Can't.

So he tells his father, yes, sir, but he tucks it into his pillowcase, where it won't be found. And he sleeps with it, still, but he always makes sure his other blanket is covering it, so if his father comes into his room in the dead of night, he won't be able to see.

And, miraculously, it works.

-

Max's father has been permanently banned from the liquor store down the street, so he drags Max to one a little farther into town, where they sell shitty little magazines and keychains and snacks.

They cut through one aisle down the center to get from the wall of booze to the checkout, and Max's eye catches on a tiny pocket of stuffed toys on one of the shelves.

In the center, there's a bunny.

Victoria had had a bunny plush. Max doesn't remember a time she didn't—it feels like she came home from the hospital, a day old, clutching its arm.

It was called, simply, Bunny.

Max remembers it being a tatty thing, despite Vic being so young when he left. She would drag it everywhere, and screamed when anybody but Max or Mama tried to touch it.

Sometimes, Max wondered if the only reason their father hadn't thrown it away was that Victoria never let him near it in the first place.

On Max's first day of school, Victoria had been near inconsolable to see him leave. And she'd given Max her bunny—pushed it into his arms. Told him that Bunny would keep him from being sad when he was alone without her and Mama.

Max is sad a lot of the time now. He's been without Vic and Mama for over a year.

The bunny on the shelf doesn't look anything like Victoria's Bunny—it's too small, too cheap. Too pristine—not loved for even a second. But still...

Still.

Max's father snaps at him to keep the fuck up, boy. And Max tears his eyes away from the toy, and he falls into step.

He doesn't stop thinking about it the whole way home.

-

The next time they go to the store, Max's steps don't falter as his eyes dart around for security cameras and staff.

The next time they go, he keeps walking steady as his hand flicks out from inside his jacket and pulls the bunny towards him.

He feels like he's on fire the whole time his father pays, the toy burning a hole into his pocket, but the cashier doesn't say anything.

And he feels sick to his stomach the whole walk home, just waiting for his father's hands pushing into him, tearing, but his father doesn't notice.

When Max shoves the bunny into his pillowcase, he's shaking—heart beating fast. But the fabric is soft beneath his fingers, and he keeps his hand there, rubbing a fluffy ear.

His next breath comes steadier. For a moment, he thinks he almost remembers how to smile.

-

It's the middle of the night when Max's father throws open his door. It hits the wall with a bang.

Max is awake before the blankets are ripped off him, and his heart pounds, just like every time, but his father doesn't notice that there's a square of ratty blue fabric tucked beneath Max's actual blanket, and it's dropped to the floor in a messy heap, safe from his hands.

What he does notice is the tiny bunny clutched tight in Max's arms.

Max doesn't even have time to say please.

-

The last time Max sees Bunny—Vic's Bunny—the side of its nose is still stained pink with strawberry jam.

The last time Max sees his bunny, its face is streaked red with blood. It almost looks like it's crying.

--

GP drags Max out to the shops to get some new clothes, telling him that he doesn't have to get anything if he doesn't want to, but, honestly, you dress like a cartoon character, mate.

Max gets overwhelmed with the options pretty much immediately, so GP takes him for a lap around the store. Says they'll try again in a minute if he wants.

Max is still getting used to the way GP reacts so calmly to everything. He's still trying to work out what the catch is. But for now, he follows him in a meandering loop around the store, breathing steady.

His breath hitches in one of the aisles when he catches sight of a stuffed bunny. His steps falter.

It's been years. His memory is hazy. But he had a bunny once. Streaked in red, but... not always.

And before him... Vic. Victoria had had a bunny. Pink jam nose. Tattered with love. Tucked into Max's backpack on the first day of school. Arm clutched tight in Victoria's chubby fingers.

He doesn't think this one looks quite the same. Too floppy. Too brown.

But... still. It looks soft.

GP appears at Max's side, and he jumps, tries to fall back into step, but GP's not walking anymore, and he doesn't snap at Max to keep up.

He looks at the bunny thoughtfully. Says, what a nice bunny. Asks Max if he would like it.

He doesn't touch the toy. His hands don't close tight around its neck. He doesn't shove it harsh into Max's chest or throw it onto the floor. He just looks at it, eyes calm and kind.

Max should really shake his head and move on. He's done this dance before; knows the steps. Knows that sometimes it's more painful to have something ripped away than to never have it at all.

But... But GP doesn't touch the bunny. And he's never touched Max's blanket, even when Max pulls it free from his pillowcase in the evening and brings it into the living room to wrap it around himself when they watch the telly. He's never told Max to get rid of it or to put it away, and he's never ever touched it.

And GP takes Max out to get new clothes, and GP doesn't get angry when Max doesn't finish his dinner, though he always reminds Max that there are tins of tomato soup in the cupboard if he gets hungry again later. And GP doesn't crash into his room, tearing his blankets off his body in the middle of the night, screaming in the early morning, hands rough, breath sour.

His hands are never rough. His breath is never sour.

Max's hand darts out. He hugs the bunny close to his chest.

GP just nods. Tells Max it's a lovely bunny.

Max tucks his face into the top of its head. Its fur is soft against his lips.

Max is used to not being liked—to being too young and too serious. (And too privileged, in everybody else's eyes, to have a former Formula One driver as a father—no matter how hard Max had to work to get to where he is.)

He'd like to think that people would like him more if they actually got to know him (and maybe it's true, at least in part, because he always gets along well with his mechanics, but Max wouldn't mind having a friend who isn't contractually obligated to like him). But nobody ever tries to know him, and so nobody ever likes him, and Max doesn't really care as much as he maybe should, because as long as he ends up on the top step, nothing else matters.

He's gone through worse anyway.

Max is used to not being liked, and he doesn't mind it, really, but he still finds himself looking to Carlos after every stupid animal impression to see if he's laughing too. Can't help the way his own smile grows wider in response.

Max already knows how the rest of the grid feels about him. They've made it abundantly clear with their comments in the media (which he's tried to ignore, but which reporters won't let him get away from) and from the way they'd staunchly ignored him during Winter Testing (Max had seen Carlos get pat on the back and congratulated, and had looked away, hat brim pulled down, walking alone).

And Max doesn't care. He doesn't. He gets it—really, he does. Too young, too serious. And none of them know him.

None of them want to.

But Carlos... Carlos is his teammate. They'll be together every weekend—sharing data, talking strategy, filming more silly videos for the media team. Carlos will have no choice but to know him. And maybe everybody else has already decided that they hate him, but just one friend on the grid would be one more than last year, and maybe Max doesn't have to be so alone.

New racing series; new season. Maybe he can find someone other than his crew who likes him.

--

A year later, Max gets a call. Helmut Marko's voice over the line tells him he's been promoted to the main team. And his phone lights up again and again and again, with messages from his father, his manager, his new team principal, his mama, his sister, his friends back home...

But never from Carlos.

Max is hurt, but maybe not as much as he should be. (Probably more than his father would like.) He gets it, is the thing. He's too young and too serious, and it's what always happens—he does his job, and he wins, and he turns around to see everybody's backs towards him.

Max would be more upset about it, maybe, if he weren't in the Red Bull seat. If he weren't standing on the top step, sticky with champagne, his anthem in his ears.

Things with Carlos may have started okay, but when it came to choosing between being a person or a racer, Max had chosen the latter—always has and always will. And when it had come time for Carlos to see him as a friend or a competitor, he had chosen the latter.

Max is used to not being liked, and he tells himself it's because people don't really know him, but maybe they do, because maybe all he is at the end of the day is feet on the pedals and champagne on the top step.

Maybe some people just see it quicker than others.