#gbbweekly26

"Daniel," Max sighs, in that annoying voice he pulls out when he thinks Daniel is being too silly around the garage, "we don't have time for th..."

Daniel slams the door closed, letting Max's wrist go to cross his arms.

"I don't give a fuck about the debrief, and you won't give a fuck either until we're done talking about this," he tells Max, voice way too level for how incensed he feels.

Max's eyebrows go up in surprise, probably because he couldn't imagine Daniel, happy, jokey, always smiling Daniel, could sound like this.

Still, he doesn't back down. He never backs down, and Daniel is tired.

"Daniel..." he tries again. Daniel cuts him off.

"No, it's my turn to speak. I know you've been the hotshot new engineer since before I came back, and I know you're good, I'm not denying that," Daniel ignores the way Max's eyes widen, mouth dropping open, "but you need to stop talking to me like I'm stupid when I'm in the car."

Max's mouth snaps closed again.

"Just drive, Danyul," Daniel says, voice going high and mocking, unable to stop now that he's started, "I know better than you do, Danyul! You're too stupid for this, Danyul!"

Max frowns, crossing his own arms, even if his stance looks more defensive than furious. "I never said that."

Daniel scoffs, slashing a hand through the air, making Max flinch minutely. "That's clearly what you mean!"

"That's not true," Max protests, "I'm just..."

Daniel doesn't let him finish again, taking one step forward and watching Max go still, breath stopping. His eyes are blue and huge, cheeks red, pink lips parted, and for the first time since he'd been introduced as Daniel's new race engineer he looks taken off guard.

"You think you're smarter than me, and maybe you are," Daniel says, voice low and steely, "but you have no right to treat me like that in front of the whole world."

Max still hasn't taken a breath, standing still in the middle of the room, looking like he's braced for impact.

"I don't think that," he finally says, quiet and strained, "I don't want to give you information you don't need, when you should focus on the car."

"Telling me I'll handle it isn't any better than telling me to shut the fuck up," Daniel snipes back, still furious and still unwilling to back down, despite Max clearly not wanting to fight. He looks younger like this, flushed and contrite, not older than his actual age like he usually does.

It almost makes it harder to stay angry. Almost.

"You either change that or I'm gonna ask to switch engineers."

He wonders if Max has ever been told no before. If he's ever had to adjust his way of doing things to adapt it for others. If he's ever had to question his belief of always being right.

There's something weird in the way Max is still looking at him, wide eyed and shocked, but Daniel ignores it, only waiting for an answer. After what feels like hours, Max nods.

"I'll...figure it out," he says. Not an apology, not a I will do better.

Daniel scoffs again, then turns around to get out of the room before he can do something stupid like starting an actual fight.

--

Daniel spends the next two weeks refusing to think about the way Max had flinched and gone quiet in the driver's room, and finding himself thinking about his red cheeks and pink lips instead, about the blue of his eyes, for once completely unguarded.

If any of it appears in his brain while he's jerking off in the shower then nobody needs to know, and he can just pretend it's leftover frustration from the first few races.

--

Daniel is sitting down in one of the chairs in the debrief room, waiting for the meeting to start and lazily rocking it back and forth, when a folder lands in front of him with a soft thump.

He startles, dropping the front legs of the chair back to the floor with a crash, head snapping up to meet Max's serious eyes.

"What the fuck, mate?"

Max sits down next to him, carefully starting to sort out his papers, pens and pencils.

"I have watched your onboards at McLaren," he says calmly, "and compiled a set of suggestions of changes in the way I tell you things based on how they were speaking to you. Read it, make the changes you want and then approve it."

"Mate," Daniel hesitates, baffled, opening the folder to find several pages inside, filled with sentences and correlated data. "This is insane, yeah?"

Max finally looks at him and his cheeks are red again, even if his eyes stay icy. "You asked me to fix it, I am creating a frame of reference on how you want me to do that. What else do you want me to do?"

Daniel laughs, mocking and incredulous, rifling through the papers.

"I don't know, Max, talk to me? Ask questions like a normal human being? This is absurd."

Max flushes harder, jaw tightening. "I am trying to..."

"I'm not reading this," Daniel interrupts him, sliding the folder back to him. "I'm sure you can figure out how to be a prodigy race engineer and not an ass on your own, but if you need any pointers...."

He pauses, then reaches forward to grab one of Max's pens and one of his post-it notes, the ones Max uses to add tiny, tidy notes in the corners of his printed data.

"Here," he says, starting to write, "point one: don't treat your driver like he's stupid; point two: ask questions like a big boy; point three: take normal human interactions 101."

By the time he looks up, Max's face is red and blotchy, burning shame in his eyes.

"Now who's treating who like he's stupid?" he snipes, snagging his pen out of Daniel's grip. "I know I fucked up, but you don't have the right to treat me like this either."

Someone clears their throat, and Daniel suddenly realizes that the room has slowly filled, the meeting about to start, and he has run out of time to apologize for being a complete asshole to his race engineer.

Shit, well done Daniel.

Max doesn't look at him for the rest of the debrief, his cheeks staying pink for the whole time. His notes aren't as neat as usual. Daniel feels like the worst dickhead in the world.

--

"Listen, Max, can we..."

Daniel reaches for Max's wrist again, but Max pulls it away, taking a half step back, standing straight and solid in front of Daniel. He's collected himself, every stray feeling carefully tucked away under his usual blank expression, and he looks older than he is again.

"I know we haven't been working together for long," he says, sounding like he's been rehearsing the speech in his head, "but I am a professional, even if you don't seem to think so. I am of course young, like you have said, but I know my job, and I know how to do my job. I will try to do it better so it suits you, but of course it won't work if you keep thinking I am trying to sabotage you, or something."

"I don't think you are," Daniel interjects weakly, feeling thoroughly chastised.

"I will of course be professional," Max continues, as if he hadn't spoken at all, "I ask you to do the same, and at the end of the season I can be reassigned."

He doesn't give Daniel the time to reply before he's turning around and walking away, taking his folder with him, clutched tight to his chest.

--

Daniel can't sleep.

He can't stop thinking about Max's red face in the debrief room, feeling like the worst person on earth. The worst part is that he can't even talk about it with anyone, because he's sure everyone would just confirm that yes, he is a horrible human being, and that probably wouldn't help.

First he didn't communicate properly with his race engineer, whose job is quite literally to communicate with him, then he blew up at him with no warning, and finally he made fun of him in a room full of their coworkers, telling him to be a normal human being. He had gotten so caught up on all the shit going on in his head that he had forgotten how to be a decent person.

Daniel groans, burying his face in the pillow. He is horrible. Absolutely despicable. He should go grovel at Max's feet, or maybe throw himself out of a window, or maybe leave the sport and never come back.

At least one of those things is doable without having life-ending consequences though, and that's how he finds himself with his phone in his hand, scrolling through his contacts.

Are u still up? he sends, like an idiot.

The answer comes a moment later, despite the late hour. Yes.

Can I come over?

There's a longer pause this time, dots appearing and disappearing for a minute, then again yes.

Great. Now for the grovelling part.

Max opens the door wearing what Daniel is pretty sure is a football shirt and soft looking gym shorts, and it's weird to see him out of the team kit, but also somehow endearing to notice that he had just swapped out one sport for another. His hair is also softer looking than usual, no trace of gel in it, and once again Daniel is hit by how young he looks when he's not focused on his job.

"Hello Daniel," he says, polite and a bit stilted, moving aside to let him in. "What do you need?"

What Daniel needs is to stop being an asshole. And also to stop looking at Max's exposed legs.

"I need to apologize," he says instead, because despite the recent signs he still has a somewhat working brain.

Max frowns, tilting his head at him, lips slightly parted.

"Apologize?"

Daniel fidgets, wanting to sit down but not really knowing where. Max's room is much smaller than his, doesn't have the couch Daniel got, only his bed and a small chair at a narrow desk, both covered in Max's things. He doesn't want to occupy Max's bed though, not when the sheets are still pulled to the side, mattress showing a slight indentation where Max had been sitting, probably still warm...

He stays standing. It's a better starting position for groveling anyway.

"I have been an ass," he finally says, rubbing a hand on his cheek, feeling the stubble there. "I haven't..." he shakes his head at himself, and Max blinks at him, apparently shocked by the sudden development of his night.

"It's been hard, coming back to the team," Daniel admits, unable to keep all the bitterness out of his voice. "It felt a bit like giving up, and then I came back and things weren't all magically okay. It's been stressing me out, but that doesn't mean I should have taken it out on you."

Max nods, serious and focused as if Daniel had been telling him about a problem with the car instead of bearing his soul at him or some shit.

"I understand. It is of course hard to change teams always, even when it is back to an old team. And I think..." Max hesitates, then carries on, "I think your last year at McLaren was of course not too nice, let's say it like that. It is okay to be stressed, I think."

Daniel snorts, feeling his mouth tug up at the words. Not too nice, yeah understatement of the century.

"I don't mind if you get upset at me, if it helps you. But I would also of course like to win with you, so if I can do my job better, I want to do it."

Daniel's smile disappears as he gapes. Max looks back at him, seemingly unfazed, as if he hadn't just dropped two devastating sentences one after the other.

"You want to win?" he croaks, brain stuttering.

Max shakes his head, smiling a little.

"Of course I want to win, but I want to win with you," he reiterates, like it's nothing.

Not just win. Not with the team. With Daniel.

There's something big and complicated happening in his chest, and Daniel decides the unmade bed is not such a bad choice after all, sitting down heavily. He doesn't know why the room is slightly blurry.

"I think," Max says, crouching down in front of him, because he apparently has never learned when to give a man a break, "that at McLaren they made you forget, a little, who you can be. I want you to remember, because you will win again, and I want to be there."

Daniel swallows, closing his eyes to avoid the intensity of Max's gaze.

"I just came here to apologize," he finally manages to choke out, his voice weak to his own ears, "not to get therapized."

Max laughs, hand heavy on his knee when he uses it to push back to his feet.

"Too bad," he tells him, patting his shoulder. "But I of course accept your apology. Now come here, let's talk about where to improve."

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.

Max had thanked him for the eggs, even though he could barely taste anything, then quickly dismissed the concerned look GP gave him.

He was fine.

Minutes dragged like hours, and hours flew like minutes, so by the time GP had to go to the factory, Max felt like getting back to bed.

He thought about going with GP, but the idea of interacting with people made his skin crawl. He was fine, he could stay alone in GP's house for a few hours.

Being in GP's space was new. It made Max feel like when he stayed at his mom's or sister's house — everything seemed to have its place, a fixed purpose or a history how it got there, and Max was the only one that didn't belong.

He doesn't tell any of that to GP though, just follows him to the front door, kisses him goodbye so he can't ask if he's okay again, and watches as the door closes after him.

There must be a draft somewhere — a window left open because Max got distracted by the way his hands kept shaking — because the door shuts with a sudden, loud bang that reverberates through the walls, and Max's ribcage.

It reminds him of the shout he heard in his dream.

The world stops for a second. Max freezes, curling up on himself, waiting for impact that doesn't come.

A breath gets stuck between his ribs, and Max wishes he could be in the car right now. Squeezed tight in the cockpit, hands steady on the wheel and a helmet on his head. Looking only forward, focusing on the track ahead, nothing but the roar of wind and the engine in his ears. No space for thoughts, just driving.

GP doesn't have his car, though. There's no sim either — it also helps when Max is feeling like this.

No, GP's house has nothing. Right now, it doesn't even have GP in it.

Max ends up cramming himself in the corner between the couch and the wall. It doesn't feel like being in the car at all. His legs are aching and he can't take a full breath from how tight he's squeezed in, but it helps to focus on his body, instead of his racing thoughts.

Sunlight slowly travels through the room, turning golden. It falls on the shelves filled with books and trinckets, pictures of GP's friends and family, the black screen of the TV. Dust floats in the air, glowing in the rays of orange light, before settling down on the furniture.

By the time Max hears the front door open, the light is completely gone. He struggles to see through the dark, but the shadowed silhouette is unmistakable, standing tall and frightening in the doorway.

Through the darkness, it looks much taller than Max knows GP is. He looks like another man, someone Max desperately wants to stop seeing every time he closes his eyes.

He curls up tighter in the corner, squeezing his eyes shut before the light has a chance to blind him.

But the room stays dark, and the only reason why Max knows GP hasn't left is the sudden warmth in front of him.

"Max," GP says, far more gentle than Max expected him to. There's also a note of genuine worry in his voice, and Max already hates himself for it. "Can you look at me?"

Realizing he still has his eyes shut, Max blinks them open, looking up at GP. His face is covered in shadows, but there's enough moonlight filtering through the curtains to see GP's expression.

It's soft, eyes focused and mouth turned down in a frown. There's no anger, no sadness — just concern.

Slowly, like Max is a scared animal, GP reaches his hand out and puts it on Max's knee. It sends a wave of needles down his legs, from how long he's been curled up in the same position.

"How long have you been sitting here like this?" GP asks.

Max shrugs, as much as the tight space allows him to. "Dunno," it comes out rough, like Max has been screaming for hours.

GP nods, carefully petting his knee. "Do you want to come out?" It sounds genuine, like if Max were to say no, GP would let him sit like this for four hours more.

Max doesn't think he wants to, though. He doesn't feel the same oppressive fear as before. Mostly he feels tired, hungry and like he really need to piss.

He nods, then lets GP pull him out if the corner, grunting as his body finally unfurls.

"Thank-"

Suddenly, GP's arms are around him, one hand squeezing his neck and the other pressing Max tighter against his body.

It feels nothing like being crammed in the corner, and nothing like the cockpit of the car either — it's better. Max pushes his face into GP's neck, taking a long, deep breath.

He wouldn't mind staying like this forever, but Max's stomach apparently doesn't think the same, growling loudly in the silence of the room.

GP lets go of him with a small laugh. "Dinner time, then," he says, going to turn on the lamp near the couch.

The room is filled with soft orange light. GP's eyes reflect it, as he looks back at Max.

"And then we'll talk," he says it like it's a question, but Max knows he won't able to avoid that conversation. And weirdly, he doesn't feel like he wants to.

“Please,” Max whines, voice reedy and about two octaves higher than he would normally go, but it’s involuntary, like his voice breaking.

“Wow, you are desperate for it,” Kelly purrs. Max gasps as her fingers move inside of him, circling.

“I need you,” he says, twisting around and making a grab for her. This won’t help his cause but something instinctive within him tells him to pull her close. It makes sense. He does want her closer to him, in a way. “Need you inside me.”

“Do you think you’re ready for it?” Kelly asks, running a hand through his hair. She scratches his scalp with her nails and he arches into it. Between the fingers of one hand in his hole and her other hand on his head, approving, he’s so overwhelmed he’s struggling even to keep his eyes open, wanting to narrow his world to only these two sensations, these two pleasures. Kelly’s words catch up to him and he nods, desperate, his cheek sliding, nearly frictionless, across the silk of the pillowcase.

“I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” she says.

“Couldn’t hurt me,” he mumbles into the pillow.

The fingers withdraw from his hole. Max hisses when the air hits the spot that had been warmed by her hand resting there, the knuckles pressing gently against the skin, as if he needed any more reminder she was there. Then, he feels the pressure from the strap, the blue one he picked out, as the tip meets his hole and, hardly needing any pressure at all since he’s gaping open, enters him.

He gasps as she hits his prostate. He wants to cry out, he stops himself by fitting his mouth over the edge of the pillow and biting down. Other parts of the pillowcase are darkened already–he must have drooled without realizing.

“You’re my good boy,” Kelly says, not letting go of his hair. She’s rocking into him. He must look completely undone, ass up on the bed, sweating and whiny and drooling all over the sheets. “You don’t have to be quiet,” she says. “You can let it out.”

Obedient, he releases the pillow from his mouth. Again, she prods his prostate, and his lips open to cry out–

Ah-choo!

–

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, baby?” Kelly asks as she’s shaking the duvet to even it out for bed.

Max nods, miserably. He’s actually still feeling pretty bad after the sneezing fit that effectively ruined their fun that afternoon, but he’ll live. He’s got a tissue box by the bed and fingers to rub his eyes with, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“Okay,” she agrees easily enough, sliding into her size of the bed and patting the duvet over his side in invitation. “You just seemed to still be feeling pretty sick at dinner.”

Max does not want to remember how he sneezed into his soup and did not even manage to cover his nose. At least it made P laugh. He gets into bed next to Kelly and hopes that the tickle in his nose will go away.

–

“–and he keeps me up all night with his sneezing,” says Kelly. “And if I’m waking up, he must be waking up even more often. He’s a professional driver, he needs his sleep.”

“Honestly, I am getting enough sleep,” Max interrupts.

Kelly puts a manicured finger up to him without even looking away from the doctor. “And you already know how I feel about you gaming at all hours of the night. Listen, we just really need this handled.”

The doctor, a woman with a tight bun and glasses, if Max is seeing her properly through his swollen eyes, nods. “Well, I recommend conducting a skin prick test to test for allergies.”

“What does that involve?” Max asks.

The doctor rolls her swivel chair over to a drawer and pulls out a needle. She holds it up to him. The tip glints in the light, even through the plastic package. “I would prick you several times–there are twenty common allergens I can test for here–and each time inject a bit of a potential allergen, and we would monitor for skin reactions.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, right, Max?” Kelly pets his head.

Kelly has several piercings and tattoos so maybe it doesn’t sound so bad to her, but Max has never been stabbed by a needle more than twice in a row.

“I guess not,” he agrees.

Half an hour later, Max has twenty holes in his arm and a list of twenty things he’s not allergic to. 

“We’ll figure this out, Mashy,” Kelly says later, as she’s shaking out the blanket. Max sneezes three times in response and gets into bed. He squints at her out of irritated eyes and tries not to sneeze again as she kisses him good night.

–

Max hangs around the house the next day, gaming, playing with the animals, and suffering. Kelly is out of the house as well, running some unspecified errand she doesn’t elaborate on. She comes home with an enormous shopping bag and disappears into their bedroom with it, so Max assumes she was buying clothes for some event or other. He goes to bed still troubled with congestion.

When he wakes up the next morning, though, his nose is clear and his eyes don’t itch. He takes a deep breath. The air runs easily through his nose without so much as a whistle. The bed is empty. Max can hear the sink running in the ensuite, so he jumps out of bed to tell Kelly the good news when she gets out of the bathroom.

Kelly steps out, still barefoot in her silk pajama set, like she hasn’t been up long. She smiles at him like she has a secret when she sees him up.

“I can breathe!” Max announces. “I don’t feel sick at all anymore.”

She crosses the room, plants a kiss on his lips that bumps on his teeth because he’s smiling too broadly. “I figured out what you’re allergic to,” she says into his mouth, then steps back.

“What?” Max asks.

“Down,” Kelly says. Max drops to his knees. She laughs. “No, down feathers. I replaced all the bedding yesterday.”

“Oh.” Now that Max thinks about it, the duvet did feel a little thinner and the pillows a little less plush when he got into bed last night. “Thank you, you’re a genius.” He rises to his feet.