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The cabin lights of AirMax were dimmed.
Outside the window, the world was nothing but black sky and a faint smattering of stars above the wing. The engines hummed steadily beneath the floor with that deep, constant vibration that eventually sank into his bones.
Max had flown this route enough times that the hours blurred together. Shanghai to Nice was long enough that even his post-race-rage adrenaline had finally burned out.
Across the aisle, Kimi was completely gone. He had crashed as soon as they reached cruising altitude, slumping sideways in the big reclining seat with the casual collapse of a child who spent every last ounce of energy. One arm was wrapped around his golden trophy like it might disappear if he let go.
George leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “He’s got a death grip on it,” he murmured.
Max glanced over again. Kimi had slid down a little in the seat, cheek pressed into the leather headrest, curls stiff with dried champagne. The trophy was wedged against his chest like a teddy bear.
Max huffed quietly. “He should have taken a shower before we took off. He is going to smell like Moet all week.”
George rolled his eyes. “He might never wash that balaclava again, mate. You know how superstitious he gets.”
Max leaned over George to get a better look. George always gave him the window seat, stretching out his own gargantuan legs into the aisle. He squinted suspiciously at the small Italian boy, curled even smaller in the seat.
“If he sucks on it, you of course must take it away.”
George chuckled softly. “Don’t think we’re at risk of that happening.”
Max raised an eyebrow at him. “How much champagne did he drink?”
George raised a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I didn’t give him any. He had that rose swill up on the podium.”
Max snorted softly, covering his mouth at the memory of the horrid taste. “You practically drowned him in it!”
“Lewis was worse than me, mate,” George scoffed. “He came by the garage, after, to give him a bottle all his own.”
Max rolled his eyes fondly, both of them too aware of how supportive Lewis was for their first wins.
They fell quiet again, both watching the sleeping Italian across the aisle. Even asleep, Kimi looked young. He looked younger than he did in the record books as the youngest F1 pole sitter, younger than he appeared when he tried to stand taller, talking strategy with the engineers.
“First win,” George said softly.
Max nodded. "Could've said his name right," he said softly.
"Don't think he'll mind too much as long as he's got the points," George said dryly. "Think Räikkönen was watching?"
"Maybe." Max shrugged. "I am sure he's laughing his ass off, though."
George’s shoulder shook slightly with laughter. It brushed his as he shifted slightly in the seat. “I wish you’d been up there too,” he added after a moment. “Would’ve been nice.”
Max shrugged. “The car is fucked,” he said gruffly. “Even I can’t drive a shitbox that has no battery.”
George didn’t argue. He just made a quiet noise that suggested he knew better than to push.
Max stared down at his hands. The DNF sat sour in his stomach. It wasn’t the kind of sour he could burn off in the gym or drown in post-race analysis. The new regulations had Red Bull chasing power unit electrical issues half the time and software ghosts the other half, and he hated it.
Seeing Lewis standing up there in Ferrari red, smiling like he had finally made a breakthrough, George opposite him and Kimi between, wide-eyed and soaked in champagne, had made something in Max’s gut twist unpleasantly. Even Bono was smiling.
One big happy Mercedes family. Fuck.
Max had watched it on the screen in the Red Bull garage, jaw tight, before heading off to his own media obligations.
He hadn’t even seen Kimi until the media pen. The champagne had already gone sticky in the kid’s hair by then. Max had clapped him on the shoulder, told him nice job, ruffled his damp curls before the journalists could shove microphones between them.
But Max hadn’t been there to wave at him after the chequered flag, or to help him with his helmet straps, all because of some stupid bug the team couldn’t even explain to him properly without getting tongue-tied and checking the printouts again. It wasn’t even that Kimi needed help. Max just liked being there.
George nudged him lightly. “Look at this.”
He turned his phone so Max could see the screen. Mercedes’ social media team had posted a photo of Kimi sitting alone in the motorhome kitchen with the lights dimmed, trophy on the table beside him. He was staring down at his phone, his young brow creased, like the whole day had finally caught up to him.
Max felt something tug in his chest. “Christ,” he murmured.
George smiled softly at the image. “He’s probably texting his mum.”
“Probably.”
Max looked back across the aisle. Kimi shifted slightly in his sleep, tightening his grip on the trophy.
George leaned closer again, whispering conspiratorially. “Did you see him dodge the mechanics outside the garage?”
Max’s mouth twitched. “He bolted.”
“They had four bottles. He absolutely panicked.”
“Understandable reaction,” Max nodded solemnly.
“Faster than he runs in workouts, that’s for certain.” George laughed quietly.
Max let the sound settle for a moment before reaching over and squeezing George’s hand where it rested on the armrest. “You are a good teammate,” he said.
George blinked at him, caught off guard. “What makes you say that?”
Max nodded toward the sleeping teen across the aisle. “Because you are happy for him.”
George looked over at Kimi again. The fondness in his expression made something in Max’s chest physically ache.
“It’s rare, honestly,” the Brit said after a moment. “Having a teammate who actually gives a shit.”
Max nodded. He had always tried to be decent with his teammates, and with the rookies too. He had practised patience and kindness with anyone new enough to still look around the paddock like it was a miracle they had been let inside.
When he had first arrived, some of the older drivers had treated him like an inconvenience, a kid who had skipped the queue, because he had. He remembered saying that when he got older he would never help anyone either, that they could figure it out themselves, like he did.
But somewhere along the way, that had changed. Maybe it was because the sport moved so fast. Careers flared and vanished before he had even gotten accustomed to seeing someone’s name on the timesheets. One weekend he was fighting someone every lap, and the next they were gone.
No one really knew how long any of them actually had under the Formula One sun.
And if someone wanted to talk racing—really talk racing—Max had never been able to resist. Setup theories, braking points, tyre tricks, weird little instincts that didn’t show up on telemetry—he loved every bit of it.
The rookies were the best for that. They had this ridiculous enthusiasm that spilled out of them, bubbly as if from a shaken bottle. They fired questions at him one after another, eyes bright, minds racing faster than the cars sometimes.
Kimi had been like that from the start, wide-eyed and hanging on to every word, sometimes even physically. Max had grown oddly fond of the teen who was already shaping up to be a championship contender this season, at the ripe age of eighteen.
George turned back towards him then, voice low. “I’m glad he has you, too.”
Max didn’t answer right away. Instead he leaned sideways, resting his head against George’s shoulder. George pressed a kiss to his hair.
Across the aisle, Kimi slept on, curled protectively around his trophy while the plane carried them slowly across the dark.
Max closed his eyes. And somewhere deep in the quiet hum of the cabin, he wished, just for a second, that someone like George had been sitting beside him after Barcelona.
