Hate to race lestappen

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TW implied eating disorder, and dumb max.

Max stepped into the hotel lobby, the cool blast of air conditioning hitting his skin like a lifeline.

The oppressive heat outside felt like it had seeped into his bones during the drive from the airport. It wasn't even noon, and it was already unbearable—sticky, suffocating, and relentless. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and wiped the back of his neck with his hand.

This race shouldn't have been happening now. The Qatar Grand Prix had been scheduled for later in the year, long after the summer break, when the worst of the heat would have passed. But for some reason, one that nobody had explained to him—not that he'd asked—it was moved. Mid-June, in the sweltering desert heat.

Max let out a sharp breath through his nose, more frustrated with himself than the situation. It wasn't like the conditions were ideal for anyone. But this race would be especially brutal, and he already felt at a disadvantage.

The hotel staff greeted him warmly, ushering him to the desk to check in. He smiled politely, keeping his responses short, though his patience was already wearing thin. His mind wasn't on pleasantries or even the race itself—it was on how hollow he felt.

By the time he reached his room, he was ready to collapse. He threw his bag on the bed and stood there for a moment, staring at the neatly folded sheets. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a gnawing ache that reminded him he hadn't eaten since breakfast—a breakfast he'd barely touched.

He walked toward the minibar and opened it, his eyes scanning the small collection of snacks and drinks. He reached for a packet of crackers but froze. His hand hovered there, fingers brushing the edge of the packaging as a sharp voice echoed in his head.

"Every kilo counts, Max. You're slowing the car down."

It hadn't been said cruelly, just matter-of-factly. But that almost made it worse. A simple observation, one the engineers thought he should be able to take in stride. And then there were the online comments, buried under congratulatory posts.

"Has he put on weight?"
"No wonder Checo's qualifying better sometimes. Look at Max."

He pulled his hand back and shut the minibar door. The hunger was still there, gnawing at him, but he ignored it. He'd been ignoring it for days now, eating just enough to keep going, drinking more coffee than water to stave off the dizziness that sometimes crept up on him.

It wasn't a big deal. He'd dealt with worse.

Max rubbed his eyes and sank onto the edge of the bed. He tried to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the race prep ahead. But his body felt heavy, like his limbs didn't belong to him, and his mind buzzed with exhaustion that no amount of rest seemed to fix.

He leaned back, letting his head hit the pillows, and stared at the ceiling. His heart thudded dully in his chest, the sound almost rhythmic. Qatar was going to be hell for everyone, but he already knew it would be worse for him.

For now, though, he had a few hours before his first meeting with the team. He let his eyes drift closed, hoping the weight in his chest would ease by the time he had to face the world again.

---

Max's Thursday started like every other day that week: with an overwhelming weight of exhaustion pressing on his chest before he'd even opened his eyes.

He had slept—but it didn't feel like it. His body ached from workouts he shouldn't have pushed so hard on, from runs he hated but forced himself to do, and from the sheer mental strain of keeping himself together.