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Max was born a little early, his lungs gasping for oxygen and his hands curled around nothing. His mother says he's been chasing that feeling ever since, thrillseeker by nature. He doesn't know if that's true — it seems more like the sort of armchair psychology he actively disapproves of — but if it was then it worked out well enough for his father. He'd never protested to being put in a kart. Not when karting felt like that first breath of air that he had once supposedly starved for.
For a time at least.
The thing is, Max is just too good. And he knows how that sounds, some shitty humble brag which tastes sour on his tongue. But it's the truth. When you get good enough at something, anything, then it stops being the thin line between success and loss. Max knows what it's like to take corners at bruising speeds, he feels it in his dreams; he loves it. And yet, there's a piece which he's lost somewhere along the way.
Age, Max had thought. Experience. He could go and ask Lewis and be told the same thing. The paddock is a workplace at the end of the day.
This doesn't explain why today was several shots of dopamine straight to his grey matter. He didn't even win for Christ's sake.
It felt good though, chasing after George's car with everything he possesses. Having it be so close all throughout a clean race, his muscles burning and his brain running just as fast as the car. Max could have closed his eyes and he thinks he would have still kept going all the way, his veins singing in unison. Part man, part machine.
"You good?" George asks, his hair loose and already curling in front his eyes, a consequence of the humidity. Max considers the correct response: George has just clinched a win in a season that's been utterly dismal for Red Bull. It would not be unusual to be crestfallen. But he also gave him the kind of race which has made him feel light, like he could run a marathon if his team would just let him get going. Max shakes his head, glad to be out of the cool down room where the cameras press down like a physical force.
"I'm good, mate. You've done good this week. Great racing."
At this, the curve of George's brows relax and he grins, his expression as open as anything. He's always had strangely striking eyes but they're brighter now, two distinct pools as he steps closer. Max almost forgets his train of thought.
"You too. It's always fun to race against you."
Max could point out how that isn't necessarily true but George looks painfully sincere, his attention all on Max as he claps a hand against his shoulder. Then there's a coordinator announcing the podium ceremony, directing Isack out the long shadowy tunnel first, and George's hand drops away before he can utter anything of use.
It's Max's turn next, his heartbeat steady as he makes the same walk he's done so many times before. It's muscle memory, really, to exit to a chorus of cheers. The only thing different is when he blinks, adjusting to the brightness, and notes that the sky isn't much different from George's eyes.
Shit, Max thinks, careful not to buckle as he steps up to second place.
Maybe his mother was right.