#faint-gate

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.

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."