Archive of Our Own

with this bullet lodged in my
chest, covered with your name, i
will turn myself into a gun,
because
it’s all i have,
because i’m hungry and hollow
and just want something to call
my own. i’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor,
your morgue and final resting,
walking around with this
bullet inside me
‘cause i couldn’t make you love
me and i’m tired of pulling your teeth.
— wishbone, richard siken

Daniel isn’t paying attention in the press conference.

Everything is distracting him. Despite it being winter in Bahrain, Daniel feels as if he’s going to melt with how hot it is. He’s fixated on his body temperature, wondering if the people taking photos of him right now are going to edit out the sweat that’s peeking out of the curly hair that sits on his forehead. He’s thankful he’s in navy, the sweat stains hidden under dark fabric that’s sticking to his skin like glue.

There’s also a rip in his jeans, his knee is pushing through the hole and his tattoo is barely showing through. He’s playing with the white stringy fabric, twirling it in his fingers, pulling at it until more threads fall out and onto his hand.

Every question so far has been directed towards Charles, still clad in bright Ferrari red and Daniel’s noticed he fiddles with the bracelet on his hand every time someone speaks to him today. Do you think this year is your year? To win a Championship? they keep asking him, changing up the semantics so they can get away with asking him the same question again for each of their individual press releases.

Even Liam, riding the high of his Super Formula Championship last year and the newest rookie on the grid, is looking like he’s about to fall asleep with how little people are talking to him.

“Question for Daniel.” The English accent pulls him from all of the distractions. “Last year you had your tremendous comeback. Do you think you have what it takes to challenge Max for the Championship this year?”

He thinks for a moment, before eventually saying, “Of course I do.” He shifts in his seat, wondering if the journalists can tell he puffs out his chest when he speaks, faking confidence as he says what he thinks to be the truth. He knows he and Max aren’t on equal status, but Christian all but insinuated a Championship is his for the taking, if he so pleases. “Last year I showed that I’ve still got what it takes to be on the grid. This year, I plan on getting a Championship. One I should have gotten years ago.”

They seem to like that, Daniel sees multiple people writing stuff in their notepads, nodding reverently. Daniel can’t help but wonder how the story will get spun, if it’ll put him and Max against each other like rivals. It excites him, to be rivals with Max again, in the only way that matters.

Teammates. Rivals. Maybe even equals.

After the press conference, Daniel goes looking for Max.

He finds him in the Red Bull garage, talking to GP. He’s waving his hands around like he usually does when he’s trying to explain something. GP is nodding, writing stuff down on the paper that’s attached to his clipboard and pointing at different parts of the car, clearly getting Max’s opinion about the set up. Daniel had a conversation similar with Martin earlier, and he feels a bit like a fly on the wall, watching Max in action. He wonders if they had the same opinions about the car, if they want the same wing set up, if they want the same floor height.

Daniel stands and watches for what feels like forever. He hasn’t seen Max since breakfast, when they got croissants together in the hotel restaurant and discreetly played footsie under the table. He’s missed Max, if he’s honest.

Max seems to have missed him too, because the second he spots Daniel, GP is forgotten. He’s walking as quickly as he can, swerving between the metal crates and important cords before slamming his body against Daniel’s, pushing him back and out of sight of any prying eyes, the Red Bull hat on top of his head almost taking Daniel’s eye out in doing so.

The angry red 1 against the navy blue catches Daniel’s eye, and his stomach churns at the sight. He can’t tell what he feels, he just knows it’s as if poison is bubbling in his stomach and rotting the lining the longer he looks at it. He’s never felt this way before: not during his years at Renault, when Max was winning while he was disintegrating outside of the points, not during 2021 when Max was fighting and winning his first championship, not last year either, when Daniel was clawing his way back up to the podium until his fingers were red raw and bloody.

There’s something different about this year. There’s a fire behind Daniel’s eyes that hasn’t been there in so many years. It scares him, it excites him, it confuses him, in a way.

“How many times did they ask you about a Championship?” Red Bull are returning after a truly dominant year, everyone has their bets on either one of them winning it this year, and the tone of Max’s voice is cheeky, his breath against Daniel’s neck sends shivers down his spine.

“Just once,” Daniel replies, not letting go of Max and instead holding him closer. They’re hidden behind a screen, there’s no cameras around either. It’s safe here, to hold Max. “Asked if I think I’m going to challenge you for the Championship.”

If Max has a reaction, it’s not a physical one. “What did you say?” he asks, and while Daniel knows it’s not sly or nosey, for a fleeting moment he considers lying. But he knows Max would see it somewhere, whether he goes looking for it himself or he sees it online.

So Daniel says, “Of course I do.” He does think he has a chance, he isn’t going to shy away from that just because his teammate is Max Vestappen, he isn’t going to shy away from that because his teammate is his boyfriend.

“I think you do too,” Max whispers, voice soft and gentle, tickling the hair at the nape of Daniel’s neck. Something changes between them with Max’s confession, like the air is thicker, denser. “It scares me. Does that make me a bad boyfriend?”

Daniel stands there confused for a moment, before pulling away from Max. He doesn’t understand what he has to be scared of. Max has championships, he has the glory, Daniel doesn’t. He can feel his jaw tensing, the way his teeth clench together in his mouth, he wonders if Max can see it too.

“Because, you should have gotten a Championship the first time you were with Red Bull,” Max mutters under his breath, his eyes refusing to meet Daniel’s. He’s clearly picked up Daniel’s body language, the tension between them. “You’re back now, and you’re even better than you were years ago. It’s a matter of when, not if, Daniel.”

“And why does that scare you?” Daniel finds himself asking, even though he’s terrified of the answer. Max is competitive, it’s something he both loves and hates about Max.

“I am afraid of the person I will become,” Max admits, voice so fragile that even a gust of wind could shatter it to pieces, “if I am losing to you.”

Daniel doesn’t know what to say. His instincts are screaming at him, I’ve been losing to you my entire life! but he can’t say that to him, he can’t rip Max apart like that and then try and stitch him back together, that’s not fair on either of them.

So Daniel pulls him closer again and this time, he presses the softest kiss to his forehead. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, but it’s forced out, the syllables slinking past his teeth, chipping them.

The sentiment is sweet. Daniel knows neither of them believe it.

But Max still says, “Good.” And then he’s pressing himself further into Daniel’s body, his lips ghosting Daniel’s. He knows what Max wants, he wants it too, but they shouldn’t be doing this—they’re hidden from everyone, sure, but there’s still a chance someone will see—but Daniel is a weak, weak man when it comes to Max.

His body is warm as he slots a leg between Daniel’s and presses a kiss to the underside of Daniel’s jaw. Daniel can feel his body going into overdrive, the way his heart beats just a little bit faster, the way his palms feel sweaty.

“Maxy,” Daniel says, voice gentle but whining, a groan being suppressed. “People might see.”

Max pulls back and pouts, the same one he gives Daniel when he loses at FIFA, or when he moves a cat from the kitchen counter. The same one Daniel can never resist, and Max knows this. So Daniel leans forward anyway, intending to give Max one, small kiss.

Max takes over, because of course he does, racing into Daniel’s space like there’s points on the line. Daniel licks into Max’s mouth, wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him even closer. He can feel the blood bubble in his veins, the same way it did the first time they kissed, every nerve ending in his body screaming at him for betraying them when he inevitably pulls away from Max.

And Max whines, tries to chase Daniel’s lips but he manages to keep Max at bay. “Daniel.” The pout is back on his lips, it’s taking every piece of restraint, and then some, for Daniel to not kiss him again.

“Max.” The tone of this voice says it all. Later. But that doesn’t mean Max doesn’t try; he pushes his body against Daniel’s again, pushes him up against the wall and runs his hands up his sides until they wrap around his neck and bats his bright-blue eyes at Daniel, begging. “We’re in public.”

Max scoffs, pulling his arms away from Daniel, retreating his leg from between Daniel’s thighs. “You are no fun,” he accuses, “I do not want to wait until later.”

Daniel laughs, loud and obnoxious, surely accidentally grabbing someone’s attention and then something comes to mind—something he should not be thinking in the middle of the garage, on a Thursday. But he leans towards Max, whispers it in his ear nonetheless and watches the tips of them turn pink as his body squirms.

“Have fun with GP,” Daniel says, pressing a final kiss to Max’s lips before running off towards his side of the garage, leaving his boyfriend dumbfounded and riled up.

Daniel walks into the paddock on Sunday alone. The ugly thing that was rearing its head on Thursday tried to wake him up this morning, rattled his bones while he ate breakfast with Michael and Daniel decidedly drowned it in the bile that was sitting in his stomach.

He left the hotel before Max did, and texted him to let him know. They don’t spend the nights before races together anymore—too much superstition after Daniel won in Vegas last year, after a night spent apart—but it still feels weird, coming to the paddock alone.

He’s used to the navy polo now, it no longer feels like it’s burning his skin when he puts it on, no longer makes him feel like he needs to peel it from his flesh because it’s weird, foreign, uncomfortable. It feels homely, now, like it’s something he never stopped wearing.

The cap though, with the Australian flag on the back and the number 3 on the front, feels heavy on his head, makes his neck stiff and sore. He wonders if it could break his neck one day if he moves too quickly with it on.

“Danny!” A voice calls, pulling Daniel from whatever sick and twisted thoughts were suffocating him. His head moves slowly in the direction, careful of any sudden movements, and Lando is springing over to him. “Good luck tonight!”

Daniel smiles, pulling Lando in for a quick hug. He hopes there’s photographers around. Despite everything they went through over the two years as teammates, the highs and the many lows, Daniel still loves Lando, like he’s an annoying little brother.

“Thanks man,” Daniel says, meaning it whole heartedly. He’s seen what people are saying about McLaren, what people are saying about Lando now that there’s no longer a washed-up driver in his thirties to blame the piece of shit car on anymore. “You too.”

Daniel pretends he doesn’t see Lando’s reaction, the scrunch of his nose, the grimace. Lando was victim to a Q1 knockout, his first one in what feels like forever. Daniel knows what it’s like, how much it hurts to wrestle a car to do something it physically can’t. Daniel hides the tiny, little bit of vindication he feels, knowing that he wasn’t the problem.

“I’ll see you on the grid, yeah?” he says when he spots Martin walking towards them, waving Daniel closer as if to hurry him up. “Gotta go through some final strategy stuff with Martin.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Lando says, “Oscar and I are rooting for you.”

For you, he says, no ‘and Max’ tacked on the end of it. It’s like a knife punctures his heart, the way he feels about that, knowing they’re rooting for him, and him alone. There’s more pressure this year, but Daniel had shrugged it off. He’d shown off in pre-season testing—despite the obvious sandbagging, it was always Max or him topping the timesheets—and it’s a Red Bull front-row lockout tonight. They’re both expected to fly away from the first lap, both expected to finish on the podium.

And they do, fly away on the first lap that is.

Max is in first, Daniel’s in second. They build the gap to the Ferrari’s so quickly that it’s almost disgusting, like taking candy from a baby. Daniel can’t help but laugh down the radio when Martin tells him the gap to Max is 0.8, but the gap to Charles is 5.4.

Daniel loves racing, it’s where he feels most alive. Under the shining lights of Bahrain, he’s flying around the track. The gap to Max is closing, he has DRS down the straight, he’s prepared to finally make a move until Martin radios through and says, “Box, Box.”

They’re overcutting Charles, Daniel realises. Which is fine, it makes sense, as long as he doesn’t get fucked over with a safety car he has no complaints. Undercutting Max? is what he realises soon after, but he doesn’t say anything.

The gap was so big that by the time Daniel’s exiting the pits, he’s only been put back into P8, but there’s a ripple on effect from Daniel pitting. Max goes in on the next lap, so does Charles, and the Mercedes, Carlos follows suit the lap after and eventually, he’s at the front again.

It’s too easy to overtake both of the Williams cars, who are still yet to pit, and then he’s running away, flying through the clean air. It’s beautiful driving in it, even better when he knows Max is back in P4. He’s buzzing with every push of the throttle, Daniel thinks he has what it takes to win this race, he could, truly—

And then Max gets back in front eventually. Daniel hadn’t even seen him coming. “Max in P2. Gap, 3.5” Martin had said a few laps ago, it’s almost terrifying how quickly he snuck up on him.

Even in equal machinery, Max is faster.

The podium is fine, Daniel thinks maybe last year maybe got him too used to them and that’s why there’s an off feeling from the steps. There’s no electricity running through his veins that comes along with standing under the lights, listening to the anthems playing while the Red Bull team watch from below.

Daniel tries to hide the bitterness that’s been growing when they’re on the steps. Max initiates the shoey, trying to goad Daniel into taking his shoe off and he holds Daniel’s boot for him as he pours rosewater into it for him.

The way Max looks at him on the podium is almost enough to wash down the bitter taste of 2nd place that comes with the shoey. Almost enough for it to stop the burning sensation as it runs down his throat.

Afterwards, they take pictures with the team, throw Red Bull all over each other and scream, and yell in the pit lane about the 1-2 until security starts to hint that it’s time for them to leave. Daniel barely had enough time to even talk to Max throughout the commotion, and before he even realises it, Martin is shoving him in a car and he’s on his way to the hotel. Alone.

The trophy sits next to him, the gold shining every time a street light hits it through the dark tinted windows. He can lift it with one hand easily, it sits comfortable on the seat too. He thinks about the trophy Max has, so big he has to lift it with both hands.

Daniel doesn’t know what’s come over him over the past two hours, what malevolent force has decided to infect his brain with harrowing and cruel thoughts, why has it began to erode his sense of self-worth, leaving behind some putrid residue of doubt. Second is good, he thinks to himself,

second is better than almost all of the races with McLaren.

He was fine last year, happy even. Why has one race decided that second is no longer enough.

Daniel doesn’t even know when he got back to his hotel room, when he fished out the keycard from his backpack and let himself in. He throws the bag on the floor, places the trophy on the coffee table that doesn’t get used, and strips all of his clothes on the way the bathroom, flinging them across the room.

The hot water feels nice on his skin, comforting him in a way. His muscles relax, he’s able to stretch his neck after how much pressure has been on it all day. He hears the hotel door open, he finds himself both hoping Max doesn’t come in, and hoping he does. Either way, his prayers are answered when the door creaks open and he hears Max ask, “Can I get in?”

“I’m about to get out,” Daniel lies. He wants to stay in here forever, melt under the hot spray of the water and dribble into the drain until he’s long gone in the pipes of Bahrain, flooding into the Persian Gulf.

Max doesn’t listen though, he opens the shower door and clambers in without asking again. He hisses when he feels the water, snatches his arm away from the spray of water. “Why is it so hot?”

Daniel hadn’t realised the water was hot, the steam pillowing in the small room not phasing him in slightest, but Max’s arm is blushing pink from the water, his eyebrows furrowed with intense concern. “Are you okay?”

Daniel fiddles with the taps, turns them so the water switches from scalding to lukewarm. “I’m fine,” he says, “It was a tough race, my body’s sore.”

And then he gets out, leaves Max in the shower without so much as a kiss to the forehead. He doesn’t want to take his mood out on Max, but he’s here, and he can’t help it. So he gets changed into pyjamas, tries not to eye the almost identical trophies on the table and climbs into bed.

Max is soon to follow, climbing into his side of the bed after the rosewater and Red Bull are rinsed from his pores. Daniel pretends to be asleep, eyes closed as he feels Max shift closer, and closer, until Max’s arms wrap around Daniel and a kiss is pressed to his head.

“I hope you feel better in the morning,” he whispers, so softly Daniel wonders if Max knows he’s faking and not saying anything. Still, his eyes are closed and he hopes he is too.

After Bahrain was Malaysia, and Malaysia was such a fucking nightmare that Daniel doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s just thankful he gets to fly straight to Australia after this, and that this weekend wasn’t a complete waste of his time.

The ticket on his phone is for the first flight out of Sepang and Max has been tetchy, upset that he’s not staying longer, Daniel knows that. “But Malaysia is special for us,” Max pouts when Daniel’s dragging him to a quiet corner to say goodbye.

“We get double podiums every week,” Daniel says gently, his hand running up Max’s arm. It’s sticky, the mixture of champagne and Red Bull soaking into his skin. “Malaysia is no longer special.”

Daniel can tell Max doesn’t like that. He frowns at his feet, the alcohol he’s consumed clearly going to his head, making his cheeks pink and his head fuzzy. Daniel holds his hand, squeezes it so Max knows he isn’t going anywhere and pushes him closer towards the wall. “Maxy. You know I always go home to see my parents before Melbourne.”

He can be such a child sometimes. “What if I wanted to go with you?” Max asks stubbornly, and in a weird, fucked up kind of way, it warms Daniel’s heart of the ice that was caving in on it.

“You could come,” Daniel offers, “I know you’ve got some stuff to do, but, come to Perth.”

Max spent most of the winter break in Australia with Daniel so it wouldn’t be weird if he were to come home with him. He already has plans to go to Perth soon after the race for Isabella’s birthday, anyway. He wouldn’t be out of place. Daniel lets himself think of early mornings on the farm, Max asleep in his bed while Daniel gets up to feed the chickens and—

“I have no clothes.” Max’s blunt words cut through Daniel’s thoughts like a razor. “I packed for a double header, not five races.” Max has a point, Australia is the start of a triple header but of course Max would be thinking about the logistics. It makes Daniel laugh and shake his head.

So, Daniel leans closer, cages Max up against the wall and shoves a knee between Max’s legs. A squeal escapes Max’s mouth and Daniel has to laugh and shush him so no one comes looking. And then he gets impossibly closer and whispers, in his best deep, husky, sexy voice, “I’ve got a washing machine at the farm, Maxy.”

It makes Max burst out in laughter, he pushes Daniel away with brute strength and then they’re both losing it, doubled over in some weird alleyway between hospitalities somewhere in Singapore. Moments like these are Daniel’s favourites, the moments where he can look at Max and see nothing but joy on his face.

“I would love to come,” Max says after a while, “but I have RedLine stuff.”

Daniel frowns then, it’s his turn to pout. But then he hears Martin calling his name, and he only has enough time to press a quick kiss to Max’s lips before whispering, “I’ll see you next week.”

“Next week,” Max repeats, holding onto Daniel a little longer than he should. He pulls him back, kisses him quickly but forcefully, and then whispers, “I get to Melbourne on the 9th.”

Daniel holds out his pinky, it’s childish, he knows this, but Max still wraps his pinky in Daniel’s and they hold it so tight for a moment that Daniel fears that they might break their fingers.

Though, on the plane, Daniel finds himself glad Max didn’t come. It was pre-season testing, and then Bahrain, and then Malaysia all packed together like sardines to the point Daniel hasn’t had a moment to just breathe. It’s been such a whirlwind three weeks, that Daniel thinks he needs some time away from racing.

From Max, his brain says.

He shakes the thought out of his head. No, never. That can’t be right.

Daniel spends his week in Perth doing nothing.

His mum fusses over him constantly, as if she’s a chicken with her head cut off running around the house. She makes sure his plates for dinner are filled to the brim with so much food that Daniel feels bad when he has to tell her to stop. “It’s too much, mum,” he tries his hardest to say, but she just shakes her head.

“Are you eating?” she questions, eyeing the way Daniel pushes the past around his bowl. “Michael’s not making you eat chicken and rice again, is he?”

He thinks back to the time he witnessed the lecture Michael got firsthand, and shakes his head as he shoves another ravioli in his mouth. “No, mum, I promise.”

She doesn’t look happy, but at least Daniel isn’t getting the stink eye anymore. “How’s Max?” his dad asks to break the silence, “how come he didn’t come with you?”

“He had RedLine stuff. It’s easier to do it in Europe. Timezones, and all that stuff…” He trails off.

He eyes his dad’s reaction to what he says, but he’s focused on the small television in front of him playing whatever news shows is on. Max has grown on his dad, exponentially so. It’s kind of gross, Daniel finds, because his dad warmed up to Max faster than any other girlfriend he’s ever had. He could tell that, while excited Daniel was home, he was a little bit disappointed Max didn’t come with him.

“He’s coming to Bella’s birthday, though,” Daniel quickly says when he notices the disappointment on both of his parents’ faces, “if that’s still okay?”

His mum beams at that and she wraps an arm around Daniel’s shoulders before saying, “Of course it is, sweetie.”

They eat in silence after that. Daniel feels his phone vibrating, shaking the fabric of his pocket. He knows it’s Max, he looks at the clock on the wall and does the maths. It’s 12 in Monaco, he thinks, Max’s RedLine stuff is at 2. He has some time.

His dad goes out later, proclaims he has parts for a dirtbike on hold that he needs to pick up. His mum rolls her eyes, but she looks towards him fondly as Daniel’s dad kisses her on the forehead. “Always looking for something to fix,” his mum says when the lock on the door latches, “the dirtbikes are fine.”

It makes Daniel laugh. He’s always loved his parents’ relationship, how picture perfect it seemed even when you know all the nitty-gritty details. Daniel wants that one day, with Max. Sometimes he wonders if that’s even an option for them.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Daniel finds himself asking as he gets up, picking up the plate in front of his mum and walking over to the sink. He hears her tut at him, and she’s probably going to try and take over the dishes but Daniel won’t let her.

“Of course, my darling.” Instead of fighting Daniel on the dishes, she fishes her bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours two glasses; one for her, one for Daniel. He guesses it’s one of those nights.

She places the glass on the counter to the left of Daniel, and then sits at the kitchen bench, waiting for him to continue. He wonders how to word what he wants to talk to her about, how to say it without it sounding like he wants to break up with Max.

“Have you ever found yourself glad you’re spending time away from Dad?” It’s soft when the words eventually leave his mouth, the fear clinging to every syllable that leaves his mouth. Daniel’s never felt this way before, not with Max, not with anyone. It scares him, to be so glad he’s away from Max.

“No,” his mum says, but there’s more to the sentence; she’s clearly picked up on what exactly Daniel is asking. “But I don’t work with your dad. I don’t spend every waking moment with him. We see each other in the mornings, and the evenings, and we go on holidays together.”

Daniel thinks on what she’s saying, putting it into perspective of just how much time he and Max spend together. Maybe it’s normal, to want time apart when day in, day out you’re together. Still, Daniel thinks about the season, how much time he’s going to spend with Max. He isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to handle it if all of it is spent in Max’s shadow.

“Do you think I’ve still got it?” he asks, and then when his mum gives him a strange look he says, “To win a Championship.”

“Oh, Danny,” she says, climbing down from the stool and crossing the room. She pulls him into a hug, wet hands from doing the dishes and all. “Of course I still do.”

He can’t stop himself from thinking she’s only saying it because she’s his mum, his number one supporter. But it means the world nonetheless. He wraps his arms around her back, careful to not get any suds on the pack of her shirt as he digs his head into her neck. He feels like a kid again, the way just a hug from his mum quells any anxieties.

“I know every single year you get in that car with the intention of winning the Championship,” she says, the hot air from her breath sending a shiver down his spine, it raises the hair on the back of his neck. “You just have the car to do it now.”

“Even with Max as my teammate?”

People have been calling it the cursed second seat for years, and, in a weird, fucked up kind of way, the seat is cursed. Mark, Daniel, Daniil, Pierre, Alex, Checo, Daniel again. It’s been so long, the curse has grown so much power that it’s sharp, it has teeth, it’s next to impossible to break. Daniel wonders if that’s something he can do.

“Especially with Max as your teammate.” He doesn’t understand at first, but then his mum says, “He pushes you to be the best driver you can be.”

Things have been better since the talk with his mum, and by the time Daniel lands in Melbourne, everything has seemed to have settled. This is Daniel’s home, and he would be damned if anyone took the win from him this weekend.

Daniel gets to the Melbourne Walk first on Saturday, alongside Oscar. It’s unplanned between them, but they share a small smile and a wave before they make their way down the pathway. Daniel stops for everyone he can, take photos with as many phones that are shoved in his face as possible before his PR manager has to whisper to him that, despite getting here so early, he’s somehow running late.

He pouts and apologises, hi-fiving as many people as he possibly can before he really starts to get in trouble.

He’s stopped near the end though, someone’s waving a Red Bull hat so aggressively in his direction that he fears their arm is going to fall off. He hears Laura sigh from behind him as he hops over, a smile on his face so wide it almost breaks his face. The girl—she can’t be more than 15, Daniel thinks—immediately bursts into tears when Daniel comes over and he has to hold in his absolute panic.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he says gently, signing the Red Bull hat she’s holding without a single thought. He almost drops the hat when he notices that it’s not one of his, that the red 1 is haunting him even here. Fucking Max.

“You’re just- just my fav- favourite driver,” she says between sobs, and feels as if his heart might explode with her sincerity. Daniel makes a comment—a cheeky one at that—about being her favourite driver but having a Max hat, and she starts shaking her head furiously. “It’s mani- manifestation.”

Daniel cocks his head, not completely understanding what she’s meaning.

“You’ll be in car number 1, one day,” she explains quickly, like she’s terrified Daniel is going to walk off at any second, “And I’ll be the first person with a signed number 1 Daniel Ricciardo hat because I’ve believed in you from the start.”

His mum’s words bounce off the walls, echo in his ears so loudly that he almost can’t hear the girl speak. Of course you do. Especially with Max as your teammate. He pushes you to be your best.

Daniel almost tears up in response but instead he says, “Thank you.” And then he takes her phone, and takes a photo with her before he gets in even more trouble. “This year is the year,” he whispers when he gives it back, a promise to not just her, but to himself.

And then he’s ushered off quickly towards where he was meant to be ten minutes ago. “I don’t know why they scheduled for stuff like this,” Laura says when she looks at him apologising to everyone for not being able to stop, “They know you’re the most popular person when we’re in Australia. They should just let you hang out here for hours.”

Daniel just shrugs and he’s about to say something in response when he stops dead in his tracks.

He’s not facing him, but Daniel knows it’s Max wearing the Australian flag again, his broad shoulders covered in blue fabric and white stars, the Union Jack scrapping across the floor because it’s that big. All the tension, all the stress from the past few weeks leaves Daniel’s body as he walks faster towards Max before slamming his body into his.

“Hi,” he whispers in Max’s ears and he feels a shiver run down Max’s back. “What’s that you got on?” His voice is light and teasing, a change from the harsh, grating tone he’s had these past few weeks. Something about Max in the stupid, fucking Australian flag stirs something inside of Daniel’s stomach.

‘I’m being a good teammate,’ he said last year, Daniel told him he was being the best teammate.

Max pulls away, and Daniel has to resist the urge to whine, to pull him back and hold him close forever. He’s been a terrible boyfriend the past two weeks, wallowing in self pity and pushing him away at every chance he has and still, Max turns up to Australia with a sign of support in Daniel’s home.

It makes Daniel’s heart ache.

“I’m your number one fan.” Max always speaks with such confidence, as if it’s obvious why he’s wearing the flag. “I am supporting you at your home race.” Daniel thinks back to last year, how he’d done the exact same thing. Max doesn’t do this stuff just for PR, doesn’t do this stuff without meaning it.

Daniel’s filled with such an overwhelming need to just kiss Max in front of everyone, but they’re surrounded by people—people who don’t know—so instead, he pulls Max in for another hug, this one so tight he could probably break Max’s ribs if he held him any tighter.

“Thank you, Maxy,” he says, meaning every syllable. “I’ve missed you. Sorry I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately.” It’s soft, sincere, only for Max to hear. He hopes Max can tell just how sorry he is.

And Max does, saying, “You have nothing to say sorry about. You’re always the best boyfriend.” Daniel can’t help but think he’s lying, even though he knows Max hates pleasantries, he hates lying even more. “I love you.”

It’s quiet, Daniel almost misses him saying it. It just makes him feel more guilty for the way he’s been acting. Max is winning races, Daniel isn’t. That shouldn’t come between them but Daniel feels like no matter how hard he tries, a force of evil is making its way between them.

“I love you too,” he whispers, squeezing Max even tighter.

On Sunday, Daniel wins.

He starts on pole, he leads every lap, and the he crosses the chequered flag in first fucking place.

It’s electrifying, even more so after the horrific first-lap incident in Malaysia, after the foul-tasting second place in Bahrain. There’s something so addictive about hearing Advance Australia Fair play over Albert Park and watching all the Red Bull team watch the podium knowing they’re watching him, and not Max.

For a moment, he feels selfish for relishing in the victory, in basking in the eternal glory that comes along with winning your home race.

But Australia is his, no one will come between him and Albert Park. Last year wasn’t a fluke, he made sure of that. It’s a dream come true.

When Daniel wakes up, he’s in a dark hotel room. He can hear the cars driving past the hotel room, he can hear the cockatoos singing outside of his balcony, he can see the clock next to the bed reads 5 AM.

When he looks at his phone, SUNDAY, 14 APRIL 2023 stares back at him.

It’s not a dream come true, Daniel thinks. It’s a sick, twisted, gut-wrenching dream. It’s a nightmare, really, to wake up and realise none of that was real.

When the chequered flag is waved, it’s Max that’s crossing the line first.

The Dutch anthem plays over Albert Park. Daniel stands on the 2nd place step and tries his best to not let the sour look on his face distract anybody. The Red Bull team watching the podium are watching Max, not him.

Australia is Max’s. Last year seems more like a fluke the longer the Dutch anthem plays for.

Reluctantly, Daniel goes to the after party. It’s exciting, he knows it is on a surface level. Max winning in Australia for the very first time, very much on track to win another championship already with barely any competition, but he can’t help but feel like the jealousy has made its way into his veins, thick, greasy, grimey, sticking to anything that it can.

Daniel’s third in the Championship, 37 points behind Max already with only three races done and dusted. It makes him want to rip his skin off his bones when he thinks about it for too long. Daniel, even at the height of his career, wasn’t this fixated on points. If I win in China, I still won’t be ahead, he thinks to himself, letting the vodka and Red Bull mixture burn his throat, but maybe if I win in Vietnam? Depends on Max’s finishing position too.

Even then, when Daniel thinks about it and does the maths in his head, it’s still a no, he wouldn’t be leading the Championship. Even with back-to-back wins across Asia, he wouldn’t be first. Daniel would need a longer string of wins, or series of DNFs for Max, maybe even both to get on top.

It scares him, rattles his bones until his muscles begin to hurt from just how bad he wishes for that. How he hopes, pleads, prays for himself to succeed, for Max to fail.

It’s Isabella’s birthday the weekend during the week-long break between Australia and China, and, according to Michelle, her only requests were ’Princess theme and uncle Daniel is here’ and Daniel’s never been one to deny his niece and nephew any of their wishes.

So, Daniel and Max go to Perth together after the race in Melbourne.

“You look nice,” Daniel says walking out of the bathroom. Things were tense between Malaysia and Australia, but somehow it’s gotten worse after the weekend. Daniel is tetchy, he jumps around Max, clenches his jaw whenever people ask him about the races.

Daniel’s here for family, for once in his life he doesn’t want to talk about racing, even with all the good results he had last year and this.

So, while he leaves Max to sit and talk—to boast, Daniel thinks, venom dripping from the thoughts—he sits with Isabella and her friends. He’s supervising the present opening, the giddy excitement that only comes from a five-year-old as she opens yet another Barbie related present.

Daniel’s cleaning up wrapping paper as she goes, helping her open the cards and reading them to her. “To Isabella, happy birthday, from Nonno.” It’s the final card he has to read out but she isn’t listening, too distracted from Max coming over with the cake.

“Happy birthday to you!” He sings, everyone else joining in in the chorus as he walks closer. Daniel will never get over just how happy Max looks surrounded by his family. Sometimes, when his mind is quiet, no longer fixated on the season for a brief moment, he lets his wander to the future. When there’s no more F1, no more competition, just them on a farm in Perth.

It’s so intoxicating that he thinks he’s drunk on the thought. He finds himself wondering if they’ll ever have kids, or if they will crash and burn before getting to that point.

“C’mon, angel,” Daniel mumbles when the singing ceases, pulling Isabella to sit on his lap so she can reach the sparklers. Michelle’s in front of them both, taking a video and as many photos as she possibly can. Max is beside her too, looking at Daniel in a way that makes his palms sweat and his cheeks blush.

He feels guilty. He hasn’t confided in Max about how he’s been feeling, doesn’t want to put that on him. How are you meant to tell your boyfriend that you viscerally hate your teammate on track, your biggest competitor, when he is that person.

Still, Max seems to be clueless, and that’s good enough for the present; Daniel doesn’t want to think too much about the future.

Though, later on, Daniel finds himself asking, “Do you want kids some day?” The words fall out when they’re laying in bed, Max illuminated by the yellow lights emitting from the lamps. Daniel watches him, the way the thoughts turn the cogs in his brain the longer it takes for him to reply.

“I think so,” Max says eventually. It’s soft, the way his words are said, like he’s treading carefully. It feels a bit early for this conversation—they’ve only technically been together for seven months, after all—but watching Max tonight with his family stirred something inside of him. “With you, definitely,” he adds on when Daniel doesn’t speak.

Daniel isn’t shocked by Max’s confession, except in a way, he is. He knew Max wanted kids, he saw how he was with his ex-girlfriend’s daughter and how viciously jealous it made him is something he could never forget. It’s the ’with you, definitely’ that shocks Daniel though.

“Really?” he prods, and Daniel can see how the sleep is creeping up on Max, the way his eyes droop and his head nestles on the pillow. He nods to the best of his ability, his hair ruffling in the process.

“Of course,” Max says, so easy it scares Daniel. “You say I am not getting rid of you that easily,” he continues, and Daniel’s stomach churns, “you are not getting rid of me that easily either.”

Daniel hums, his head spinning at Max’s seemingly easy confession. Instead of saying anything though, he shuffles closer and takes Max in his arms, so close you can’t tell where he ends and Max begins. “Love you,” he says.

“Are you okay?” Max asks, deviating from the usual ”I love you, too,” Daniel gets in response.

“Yeah, Maxy,” he says. He hopes that even though he doesn’t believe himself, Max does. “When we’re around my family, it just gets me thinking.”

Max moves his head, so his chin is against Daniel’s chest and he’s looking up. Daniel could look into Max’s eyes for the rest of his life, swim in the deep blue colour of them until his lungs are filled with water, burning as he drowns.

“Good thinking?” Max asks, and Daniel nods. “Good. Maybe one day, when we’re both retired.”

And when will that be? Daniel thinks. “I’m getting old, Maxy,” is what he says instead, and he feels Max shrug.

“My career is complete,” Max says, “I will probably retire in 2028. If you are still racing, I can stay home with a child. Be a WAG, or whatever they’re called.”

Daniel can’t help but laugh at first, at the idea of Max as a WAG, or whatever the equivalent would be. How would they explain it; why Max is still at the tracks every weekend, why a kid suddenly appears from what seems like thin air. It’s funny, but then Daniel thinks harder about it.

Thinks more about how Max is 26, and how his career is complete. Max got to Formula One and achieved what everyone wishes to achieve in such little time and then some little extra on top just to show off. It was 2012 when Daniel was 26, and he was stuck in the junior team. He’s been fighting for what feels like his entire life for even just a sniff at a fight for the Championship.

They’re both getting to the end of their careers, except only one of theirs is a choice. The other is inching closer, and closer to an expiry date, ready to be thrown in the bin when it’s no longer useful, like a rotten and infested apple.

In China, Daniel qualifies P10—a stupid crash in qualifying put him out of the running for a decent position before the clock even struck 5 minutes left. Max qualified 1st, because of course he does, and Daniel tries everything he can to avoid the feeling of bile rising in his throat.

It’s gotten worse, since Australia. At first he thought it was hunger, determination, pure will that was making him angry at poor results every week. He deserved better, he deserved higher finishes, better starting positions. Now, as the rain pours on the track in Shanghai, Daniel feels something ugly brewing in his chest.

“The top 10 are a Red Bull sandwich,” he says during post-qualifying interviews. They laugh, ask him about his tactics for the race, whether he thinks he still has a shot at winning it. After all, he did it once before.

So, with a P10 start and all things considered, the race isn’t terrible.

He claws his way back through the field, much like he had all those years ago. Blood, sweat, and tears go into it to the point he feels like he’s on the brink of death by the time Martin’s voice comes through the radio saying, “Last lap, mate. It’s been clinical today, only 14 turns to go.”

When he’s crossing the chequered flag, Daniel doesn’t even know what position he’s finishing it; all he knows is Max was in front of him, he’s been watching the navy rear wing for five laps now, just outside of DRS, but he’s probably been lapped, he thinks.

Except, “P10 to P2, mate! Beautiful fucking work!” comes ringing through the radio, Christian’s voice comes ringing through his radio and Daniel can’t do anything but scream down the radio in response—not a single coherent thing leaving his mouth during the cool down lap—and he drives his car straight onto the grid, almost taking out the sign in the process.

He hates himself for it, for comparing himself so easily, but it’s the first time he’s truly felt on par with Max all season. P2 in Bahrain and Australia don’t feel as good as this, it doesn’t feel like he’s worked for it, not like he did today. The aching feeling in his arm and the wobbly legs as he climbs out of the car prove he can do exactly what Max can do, and just as fucking easily.

His arms are hanging by his side by the time Max runs up to him and slams his body against Daniel’s. Their helmets crash, horrific noise fills Daniel’s ears, but Max is gripping him so tightly it’s as if his bones might break, and Daniel’s arms are automatic in the way they wrap around Max in return.

They hold each other for just long enough for it to look like a teammate celebratory win, and not a boyfriend one, before they pull back. Daniel can see Max’s eyes through his pushed up visor, electric blue and crinkles in the corners that prove just how hard he’s smiling and then he’s ripping his helmet off his head, and Daniel is too, and fuck, Daniel feels like he’s on top of the world.

Max is gorgeous all of the time. Whether it’s at home doing nothing, or Thursday during media day, or on Saturday before a qualifying. But nothing will beat Sunday after a race, with balaklava lines etched into his face and his hair messy, cheeks red from exhaustion.

“You had me scared for a moment there,” Max laughs, pulling Daniel back into a hug once his helmet is off too. “You could have gotten me if we had a few more laps.”

Max isn’t mad, he sounds exhilarated, if anything. “Next week,” Daniel promises, “I’ll get you in Vietnam.”

Max doesn’t take it as a threat, and Daniel isn’t even sure if he meant it as one. Max just pats him on the butt again as they walk over towards the post-race interviews and it’s all a blur as they go from there to the cool-down room, to the podium.

It’s the 4th consecutive race in a row where they’ve heard the Dutch anthem, but this ones the easiest to swallow. You could have gotten me if we had a few more laps. Yeah, he absolutely could have.

The champagne is sweeter today, sweeter than usual, and it doesn’t burn his throat as he does the shoey like it has these past few weeks. Max’s laugh as he dumps the champagne down the back of his race suit, sticky liquid has never felt so good.

Between Vietnam and Monaco, it’s spring break, and all Daniel can think about is that fucking press conference. It’s burned into Daniel’s mind, the way Max had reacted to Daniel’s comment, how cocky he had sounded. Christian told him “Good, you need to be cutthroat to be Champion,” after it, but Max was weird, avoided eye-contact, scurried off to his driver room claiming he was tired.

It’s been a week and he’s no longer being weird, but something uncomfortable sits in Daniel’s chest, something heavy that makes it difficult to breathe. It makes him think about last year, the conversation he had with Christian before the season started.

“We are taking a risk, taking you on,” Christian had told him before the season even started. It wasn’t said with malice, it wasn’t said as a threat. It was purely the facts of the situation. Daniel, at the time, had known how much of a risk it was; there was no evidence to prove he could still do what he claimed he could.

So Daniel had asked, “So why take the risk?”

Christian had shrugged in response, and Daniel remembers him struggling for words before he finally landed on, “Max convinced me it was a good idea. Reminded me of just how good you were when you were with us.”

“That was enough?” he had asked in response. It was before everything had been sorted between the two of them, before they were even on speaking terms. Daniel remembers just how shocked he was to hear it.

“Yes,” Christian replied, “I never did want you to leave, and I trust Max’s opinions. I know the drive you have. I thought, with a little reset and some extra time in the simulator, you could help win us more constructors, and even challenge Max, in the long run.”

Daniel thought Christian was insane when he had said it. The last few years he’s spent fighting for P10, fighting for one fucking point in a race. It’s a big leap, to go from that to fighting for a championship.

“That’s why we have a performance clause,” Christian had said after a while, “It’s there for a safety precaution, in a way. If you didn’t perform we would know it wasn’t the car…”

The way Christian’s words trailed off made Daniel want to tear his hair out.

He knows how cutthroat Red Bull have been in the past, even if he never fell victim to it himself. He watched Max replace Daniil Kyvat when he was barely 18 years old, watched Pierre rise to the top and then get fall from grace after half a season, hell, he even saw Nyck de Vries not even get a proper shot last year before getting kicked from AlphaTauri to be replaced by their newer, shinier prodigal son.

His performance clause is simple, but terrifying. It’s jargon, some maths, a lot of things that a normal person wouldn’t understand, but, in the end, it boils down to one thing. Checo and Max were the best driver lineup Red Bull have had since Sebastian and Mark. Be better than both of them.

“What would you do?” Daniel found himself asking, “send me back to AlphaTauri or kick me our entirely?”

Christian had shrugged. The longer Daniel looked at him, the more he noticed the way he was picking at the skin of his fingers, as if he was so deep in thought he didn’t even realise.

“Haven’t thought about it,” he admitted after a beat, “I’m hoping I don’t have to use it.”

The memory makes a home in Daniel’s brain, sticks itself to the walls and refuses to leave the entire weekend. How was he meant to know if he was living up to his performance clause, not with the way the season has started. Is second in the Championship good enough for Christian? It would have been last year, but will it still be when he’s still 48 points behind Max? With Max carrying the Red Bull points haul, it makes him feel a little sick, a twisted, evil, disgusting reminder of 2021.

“I have always said it’s a matter of when, not if, regarding his championship.” Is it though? He finds himself wondering, with every weekend that passes, with every position he finishes behind Max, is it really a when, not if? If there is a when, will it not be for years in the future, when Max has retired and Daniel is forty and for some reason, still racing?

He guesses that would be a world record Max wouldn’t get. Oldest person to win a World Drivers Championship. Get fucked, Daniel thinks.

It scares him. He knows what it’s like to be dropped midseason, the awkwardness of trying to navigate spending the last few months of 2022 with a team you know is already preparing for a newer, younger athlete to replace you. It had hurt then, when he had to spend the last few months of 2022 pretending like he wasn’t ripping himself to shreds trying to prove them wrong. It had hurt then, Daniel thinks if it happened now, with Red Bull, it would kill him.

“What are you thinking about?” Max’s voice breaks Daniel from the distracting thoughts. He’s cooking, or at least he’s claiming to be but Daniel is yet to see anything of substance happen; instead, he’s been standing in front of a boiling pot of water for what seems like forever, grasping dry pasta in one of his hands.

Mum would have a fit if she could see Max right now, he thinks, before saying, “Nothing.”

Max doesn’t buy it, cracking the spaghetti in half—Daniel visibly cringes when he does it, and he sees Max rolls his eyes—and then walking over towards Daniel. They’re separated by the kitchen island, but they’re looking face-to-face, and Daniel can tell Max is just going to poke him more until he breaks.

So he says, “I’m just–” But then he stops suddenly, cutting himself off briefly. He wonders how it’s going to come off, saying exactly what he’s thinking, but he takes a deep breath and says it anyway: “I’m just thinking about my contract.”

“Are you thinking about leaving? Because that is stupid, Daniel, if you leave it will just be a repeat–”

“I’m not thinking of leaving,” Daniel says quickly, cutting Max off and he wonders if he imagined the look of relief on Max’s face. “I have a performance clause. I was thinking about it.”

Max visibly relaxes, the tension leaves his shoulders but the look of confusion stays etched on his face through pinched eyebrows and pursed lips. “Why?”

Daniel shrugs, not able to meet Max’s eyes now. How does he tell Max he was thinking about it because anxiety is festering in his chest, growing into his lungs and suffocating him. How does he tell Max that he can’t stop picking at the skin of his fingers until the tips of them are red and bloody whenever Christian calls him, terrified out of his mind for a call that might not even be coming.

“Just wondering about it,” he says instead, “Christian never specified about it, that’s all.”

“So why do you not just ask Christian?” Max questions, and Daniel scoffs. Ask Christian? Funny joke, Maxy. He can’t possibly just ask Christian, there’s only two outcomes of that: Either he’ll skirt around the edges, tell Daniel not to worry and to just focus, or he’ll tell the truth. Daniel isn’t sure which one would be worse.

So Daniel says, “I just wonder if I’m meeting it, that’s all.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough of it to get Max off his case. Max’s whole face softens, the silence between them only being interrupted by the sound of the water in the pot bubbling.

“You are, I have no doubt in my mind.” Max’s tone of voice is so earnest, but Daniel still has to stop himself from scoffing, so Max says, “You have four P2s and one DNF, Daniel. The only way you’d be not meeting a performance clause was if it was to beat me.”

It’s said so nonchalantly that Max doesn’t recognise the severity of his words, what they mean at it’s core. Daniel reads it as no one can beat me and it would be stupid for a performance clause to be that intense, and sure, maybe Daniel agrees to an extent, but it still feels like a stab in chest with the way he says it.

To keep the peace, Daniel laughs. “Yeah,” he says in agreement, “that would be ridiculous.” But it would be a dream, he finds himself thinking.

“You’re still thinking,” Max points out, moving now so he comes and stands next to Daniel. He swivels in the seat, and pulls Max closer, moves his legs out of the way so Max can stand between them, the pasta long forgotten on the stove. “What’s wrong now.”

“Nothing,” Daniel says, pulling Max by the waist until he’s closer. “I was thinking about you.”

Max blushes, the pink tint starting on his chest and then moving up to his neck. Daniel notices his ears get particularly pink when he says stuff like this, when he touches Max a certain way, when he gets overwhelmed, flustered, if anything.

“What were you really thinking about.” Max leans down now, their lips are almost brushing together. Daniel feels the adrenaline in his body ramp up, the innate need to pull Max onto his lap about to take over before he says–

“The pasta is going to be overcooked.”

Max groans and ignores him, pressing their lips together anyway. Daniel feels the noise of surprise leave his throat, but he complies, kissing Max back and his arms wrap about his waist, hands sneaking under his shirt. Max’s skin is warm, pliable, Daniel loves running his hands along it.

Daniel pulls Max even closer, until they’re awkwardly on top of each other on this stupid barstool. Max’s hands coil around Daniel’s neck, snake up into his hair and tugging on the dark curls and eliciting a breathy whine. Daniel’s hard against Max’s thigh, and he can tell that Max knows it, because Daniel can feel Max heavy on his hip. He moves back slightly and all he can see the way Max’s eyes are blown out, how his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes.

“Bedroom,” Daniel says quickly, pushing Max off him, “please. Now, Maxy. We’ll deal with it later.”

The pasta is long forgotten. Daniel comes out later, when Max is asleep and satiated, and he finds the water had boiled over, splattered across the stovetop, foam stains on the element. Too tired to do anything, he puts the lid on top of the pot, thinking to himself, I’ll deal with that later.

He tries not to think too hard about any potential metaphors here.

Daniel tries to forget about racing during spring break.

It works, for the most part.

Max spends most of his time doing Team ReadLine stuff, and Daniel flies out to LA to film stuff for Enchanté. The time difference makes it hard; Daniel is going to sleep when Max is waking up, when Max is going to sleep, Daniel’s only been awake for a few hours and he’s been out filming stuff, whether it’s for a new collection or something else.

Their text threads are more barren than a desert. Max will text him when he wakes up, Daniel replies hours later, Max is already asleep, rinse and repeat. They talk on the phone at one point, Max yawns into the microphone for twenty minutes before Daniel shoos him off to go to sleep and Max whines, much like he would if Daniel was there in person.

“I’ll be home next week,” he promises, and Max repeats the word home under his breath, like a mantra.

“Promise?” Max asks.

“Promise.” Daniel says.

“Miss you.” Max’s words are sleep soft. “The bed is too big and it’s cold. Jimmy’s started sleeping on your side of the bed.”

The image of Max curled up in his big bed, surrounded by his cats and pouting because there’s no Daniel makes him swoon. “I’ll come straight to yours when I’m back in Monaco, Maxy.”

And then they hang up, and Daniel’s staring at his lockscreen then. It’s a photo of them together, in Abu Dhabi last year. They’re both soaking wet, the sticky champagne glistening on their skin under whatever lights were beating down on them. They’re holding matching trophies, their arms are slung around each other.

To anyone, it looks like best mates, but Daniel knows the truth, and finds himself tearing up slightly looking at the photo.

The next few days fly by, filming, training, eating, and before he knows it, he’s landing back in Monaco.

Race preparations have started, the glitz and glamour that covers the sidewalks and roads in Monaco take so long to prepare but Daniel moves on autopilot, driving through the city and closer towards home.

Home, being Max’s house, which might as well be his home with how often he’s there. Their things have been mixed together for some time now, Daniel has clothes on his own side in Max’s wardrobe, there’s underwear in the dresser, he’s made a habit out of stealing Max’s socks, too.

He has a key, as well, which probably means more than he realises. It slides into the lock easily, turning it makes the familiar clicking noise and he opens the door. He can hear Max before he sees him, yelling Dutch expletives across the hall as he trips over another cat toy.

Daniel laughs loudly, and he sees Max spin almost immediately and then he’s rushing towards Daniel. “You’re home!” Max yells, swerving cats and Daniel drops the bags he has on the ground and braces for Max’s impact.

“I am home,” he says, pulling Max’s face close to kiss and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Came straight here.”

“Good,” Max says, and the tone of his voice sends a shiver down Daniel’s spine. “I want you to stay here all weekend. It’s the one chance we have.”

And it’s true. Monaco is the one race weekend a year where Daniel gets to stay at home and sleep in his soft, familiar bed as opposed to some rock hard mattress somewhere across the globe. This year, though, it seems as if he’ll be staying at Max’s.

It’s domestic, it quells the angry voice in the back of Daniel’s mind that’s seemingly been getting louder, and louder with every race weekend.

Daniel shuffles inside, dumping his bags in the doorway and pulling Max alongside him. “I’m hungry,” he says, “do you have anything edible?”

A few hours later, after Max lost the argument of something edible and the groceries have been delivered, Daniel’s standing in the kitchen cooking something his mum taught him when they were home in April. Max is sitting at the kitchen bench, watching every move Daniel makes. It makes him feel crazy, the way Max’s eyes track his every move, how he watches the way Daniel cuts up the chicken.

“Last year,” Max says after a while, “you said you wanted Charles to win in Monaco.”

That’s true, Daniel remembers saying that. Max had been, well he’d been Max about it—not completely understanding why you’d want anyone but yourself to win a race—and Daniel can tell what Max is skirting around the edges about.

Charles won in Monaco last year, had broken the curse with such ease that it wasn’t difficult to cry alongside him on the podium. The curse is the only reason Daniel wanted him to win last year.

“I want to win it again this year.” Daniel knew what Max was going to ask, so he decides to beat Max to it. And it’s true. He’s hungry, desperate. Winning a race is electrifying, sets every cell and nerve in your body alight, but nothing is like winning Monaco; nothing would be like winning Monaco twice.

They’re on even playing field going into Monaco. 2018 and 2021. Same amount of Monaco wins between them, driving the same car. Daniel’s positive he’s got what it takes to win it. He’s been driving longer than Max has, has done Monaco more times than he can count. He’s hungry, desperate, he tells Max so.

“I want to win it too,” Max mumbles, “six wins in a row. I could set a new record.”

It takes everything in Daniel to not snap at Max. How many records does Max want? How many does he need despite thinking his career is finished. He doesn’t like how angry he gets these days, how even the smallest, insignificant think Max says sets him off.

Instead of snapping, Daniel says, “May the better driver win.”

And then the conversation is over, and Daniel is serving dinner for the pair of them and they eat in silence. Daniel wonders if he said something wrong, but later when Max is tired and he curls up in bed next to Daniel, he thinks everything is fine.

Max’s family are all in Monaco for the race, so it turns out that Daniel barely sees him.

It’s not that they disapprove of Max dating a man, let alone his teammate, it’s more so the fact they don’t know, and Max says what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

It’s okay though; Daniel spends a lot of time with Scotty, who’s here with Chloe but she spends most of her time with Lawrence and Lance, and they all get dinner together one evening too. Daniel feels out of place at first, between the Strolls and Scotty, he keeps checking his phone to see texts from Max.

Scotty steals his phone at one point, snatches it right out of his hand and says, “Not very nice to sit on your phone at dinner, Ricciardo.” A laugh erupts from his chest as he says it, clicking the home button on the side of the phone to get a look at the lock screen

“Is that Max?” Lance asks from besides Scotty, sneaking a glance at the photo. “I didn’t realise you guys were that close.”

Daniel feels his skin crawl at the question. He hates lying, was brought up that there was never a situation where it’s a valid option, but he guesses he’s been doing a lot of it to his boyfriend lately, so what’s a little lie to Lance.

“Yeah,” Daniel says, snatching the phone back out of Scotty’s hand, “we’ve been mates for years.”

The mood shifts, and no one questions anything further than that. Their meals come, they eat and discuss what they think will happen at the race this weekend. Chloe puts money on Fernando, much to Lance’s chagrin but Scotty, as always, backs Daniel.

“First win of the season is happening this weekend,” he says, holding his wine glass up like he’s trying to get everyone to participate in a toast, “I’d bet everything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daniel says, but he clinks their glasses together anyway, the red wine in the glass sloshing around and threatening to spill. “I’ll try, but Max is Max.”

“You’ve beat him before,” Scotty says, shrugging his shoulders. “I can’t see why Monaco of all places would be any different.”

Yeah, Daniel thinks, I have. It feels weird, there’s something ugly and cruel brewing in Daniel’s stomach, he can’t handle the idea of losing anymore, but he fears Max’s reaction if he does win. Perhaps that’s not a good sign, if you fear for how your boyfriend would react to you winning a race. But Daniel thinks, fuck it, there’s 17 more races this season; Max can get his record later.

Later, when they’re leaving, Daniel’s phone vibrates in his pocket once, then twice, thrice. He pulls it out, sees the texts from Max. Victoria is staying at Max’s, so is his dad, there’s no room for Daniel to stay without it being weird.

He hugs Scotty and Chloe goodbye, and Daniel hides his disappointment as he gets into an Uber to go home, alone.

Despite meaning it like a joke, when Max’s read receipts say he’s read the message, and there’s no typing bubbles immediately, there’s a sinking feeling that maybe he said the wrong thing. Daniel watches the screen the entire drive home, waits for any signs of life from Max but it never comes.

“Merci,” he mutters to the driver as he clambers out of the car. Before going inside, he stares up at the building, counts the floors until he spots his own apartment, and then some more before he finds Max’s. The lights are on, the light spilling out onto the balcony.

Daniel, drunk-dazed and looking for adventure, has half a mind to go up there; use his key to let himself in and crawl into Max’s bed and wait for him because that was their plan all along. Monaco week. You’ll stay here the entire week, right?

Daniel can’t be mad, he knows Max loves his family so much to the point he wouldn’t be able to turn them away right now. But, with everything going on, Daniel wishes just for one night of normalcy, one night where he isn’t fixated on numbers, and the car, and thinking of set ups to tell Martin tomorrow.

So Daniel goes inside, presses the elevator button for level twelve, not the penthouse despite everything in his being screaming at him too, and he goes back to his apartment.

It doesn’t feel like home anymore, too much of his clothing is missing, there’s only a handful of underwear in his drawers and he mutters to himself about being a dickhead and leaving it at Max’s. When he showers, he gets changed into pyjamas, and it’s then when he realises just how badly he may have fucked up.

All his Red Bull kit is at Max’s. He doesn’t beat himself up over it, but he does roll his eyes at how stupid he thinks he is. To make himself feel better remembers the original plan, how he was supposed to stay at Max’s.

In the morning, Daniel knocked on Max’s front door and pretended that they had plans to meet before heading to the paddock, clad in a spare Red Bull windbreaker he found shoved within his drawers. If Max’s mum and sister thought the way he slid into Max’s room so easily and returned without the jacket on was weird, neither of them said anything.

They spend all day filming. It’s hectic; if there’s not a Red Bull owned camera in front of them, there’s one from Netflix. It’s a nightmare, in a way, how they have little downtime on a Thursday of all days in the week.

They race motorised boats in the canals and Max threatens to push Daniel into the water a solid three times whenever he beats Max, and it just motivates Daniel to beat Max more, even if it is only a stupid game for YouTube.

It’s the most fun Daniel’s had filming all year, the most fun he’s had in general. For what feels like to be the first time in weeks, the voices inside Daniel’s mind are drowned out by the noise of Monaco. There’s no sinister feeling in his stomach going into a weekend.

On Friday, it’s still silent. Practice goes fine, Daniel feels as if he could drive Monaco at top speed with his eyes closed with how many times he’s done it. He and Max top the time sheets, the Ferraris and the Mercedes not far behind him. Lewis bins it at one point, ends the second session early and the Mercedes hangs high above them in the sky.

“Do you think I’ll get in trouble if I took photos of Lewis’s floor?” Lando asks Daniel later, when they’re at dinner together. There’s a whole bunch of drivers in the restaurant—Lando, Carlos, Logan, Oscar, Pierre and Charles, just to name a few—and while Daniel’s having fun, he kind of regrets saying yes just because he wants to hang out with Max. “It’s just a completely hypothetical question.” It makes Daniel cackle out loud, throw his head back so harshly he thinks he hears it crack.

“Maybe, mate,” Daniel comments, snatching Lando’s phone right out of his hand. Lando tries to grab it back, but Daniel’s reach is just a little bit taller, so he’s free to swipe through the photos on his phone. “Why the fuck did you take so many?”

“Not all of us drive a Red Bull,” Lando snides when he eventually gets the phone back, “I’d kill to see the floor of your car.”

“I’ll sneak you a photo,” Daniel says jokingly, “I’m sure Christian won’t get mad at me for it.”

Lando pulls a face, one that perfectly resembles a fuck you before digging into his food.

It’s nice, being there with everyone. It’s not so much a tradition, but more of a “there’s only so many restaurants people can go to in Monaco.” But still, Daniel’s always enjoyed seeing his friends outside of race weekends. They don’t talk racing tonight, Lando’s comment about the floor of the cars the last mention of racing. Instead, they talk about football, and rugby, their plans for summer break already. Not a single mention of the Championship, Daniel wonders if it’s on purpose, if they already think Max has won.

“Who’s texting you so much?” Lando asks after a moment. Daniel’s phone has been sitting on the table this entire time, face down and apparently not on do not disturb. He ignored it at first, hoped whoever was texting him would take the hint that he’s busy but as he’s about to grab it, Lando grabs it faster.

Revenge, Daniel guesses.

“Max?” He questions, and dread immediately fills Daniel’s body. Max goes through his do not disturb, there’s no other explanation for the constant vibrations. Fuck, he thinks, I’m so stupid. “What the fuck?”

Daniel’s quick to grab the phone out of Lando’s hand, not before he sees a glimpse at Max’s message. “You didn’t see anything.” Daniel doesn’t care if Lando knows he likes men, Daniel doesn’t care if Lando knows he’s dating a man. Max, though, Daniel isn’t sure.

“You and Max?” Lando says it as if he’s gobsmacked.

It’s a little bit too loud for Daniel’s liking, so he throws a piece of bread at him from across the table, hits him square in the chest before whispering, “Can you be any fucking louder?” And then he unlocks his phone and texts Max a heads up, and that he’ll be leaving soon.

“I don’t know what to be more shocked about,” Lando says, “the fact you’re dating Max or the fact–”

Daniel cuts him off quickly. “Please, Lando, shut the fuck up. This has to stay a secret.”

“I’m not gonna say anything!” Lando promises, hands in the air as if he’s surrendering in a battle, “just you and Max of all people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lando doesn’t reply for a moment, he focuses on his food, ignoring Daniel’s eyes boring into him. He lets the question hang in the air, lets the anxiety manifest in Daniel’s stomach before saying, “I thought Max would have higher standards.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Daniel rolls his eyes, but he feels himself relax; the tension in his shoulders dissipates, his hands stop shaking. “Seriously, though.”

“I know, I know,” Lando says, not even phased anymore, “I’m not going to say anything. Not even to Max, okay?”

It’s quiet between them then, and when they’re leaving Daniel pays for dinner for the both of them thinking it’s the least he could do. They’re exiting the restaurant, about to walk towards the street with the cool air hitting their faces when Lando grabs Daniel by the arm and stops him from leaving.

“How long has it been going on for?” he asks, and Daniel knows exactly what he means. This thing between you and Max?

“We’ve been together since September last year,” Daniel replies, picking at the skin around his fingers. He wonders what Lando is going to ask next; if it’s going to be questions about who knows, why they’re together, if it’s going to effect his racing.

Instead, Lando shocks him and says, “I know it wasn’t really your choice to tell me, but I promise you can trust me, mate.”

Daniel pulls him into his arms for a hug, wraps his arms around his shoulders and threatens to crush Lando’s neck as he hugs him tightly. “I know I can.”

Lando wraps his arms around Daniel in return, squeezes his so tight his ribs might break and whispers, “You need to smash him in a race. Imagine the bruised ego he’d get from his boyfriend beating him.”

Daniel laughs and pushes Lando away, ruffles his hair and tells him goodnight, see you tomorrow, get some rest.

When Daniel’s driving home, under the street lights of Monaco, he thinks about what Lando said.

Imagine the bruised ego he’d get from his boyfriend beating him.

It’s worse when he’s home. As if he’s on autopilot when Daniel parks the car, locks it, walks towards the elevator and presses the button to call it to him. Ego bruised from his boyfriend beating him. Gets his phone out of his back pocket, text Max, press button for the top floor. Imagine the bruised ego. Gets out of the elevator, walks to Max’s door, unlocks it with the spare key. Boyfriend beating—

“Hi.” Max voice is sleep-ridden when Daniel walks into his bedroom. He’s curled up in bed, his bare shoulders peaking out from beneath the sheets, the freckles barely visible in how dark the room is. Daniel hadn’t expected Max to still be awake.

“Hey,” Daniel replies, stripping from his clothes until he’s clad in only his boxers. He showered after practice, and looking at how comfortable Max is in bed, the last thing Daniel wants to do is be away from him. So, he crawls into bed, Max opening the covers for him to climb in.

Max places a hand on Daniel’s hip, Daniel wraps his own around Max’s body. Soft around the edges, pliable to Daniel’s touch, the voices are quiet now, pushed out by the smooth and soft grip of Max’s hands. “How did you feel about today?”

P1 in both sessions, Max was P2. Practice means nothing when you’ve been doing this track for years, still, Daniel says, “Good, Maxy,” and shuffles closer to get comfortable, hoping Max gets the hint.

He does, he changes the subject almost immediately. “How was dinner with Lando?”

Daniel runs his hands up and down Max’s back, considering telling Max what Lando saw, what he said. “Good,” he says, and then he doesn’t open his mouth to say anything else, lets the one syllable word hang in the air.

“That’s good,” Max replies, the same delivery as Daniel’s comment did, but he barely notices; his eyes watching Max’s lips. It’s taking everything in him to not lurch forward and kiss Max, their foreheads are so close they’re practically touching, it would be easy. “I don’t mind that he knows.”

He’s referring to the fact Daniel texted him frantically, worried that Max would be angry Lando saw his phone. Instead, he’s more relaxed than Daniel ever was.

And then Daniel watches as Max breathes, the way his mouth is slightly open, the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips, the freckle—the fucking freckle, Daniel thinks—is as mesmerising as it was the first time he noticed it.

No one speaks. The voices in Daniel’s mind quiet, but they’re still there. His ego, they say, imagine it bruised, purple and blue, sensitive to the touch from beating Max in a race.

Daniel shakes his head and looks up, and Max’s eyes are still on him. Silencing the voices, Daniel kisses him, runs his hands up Max’s body until they’re wrapped around his neck and he can pull Max closer to him by his scruff.

Daniel kisses Max, and kisses him, and kisses him, until everything is silent.

You’re on the limits in Monaco.

You have to be, to even have a chance. Drivers have to have so much trust in themselves, in the car, in the walls to ensure that they’re not going to crash. The race is slow, but qualifying is fast, so fast that a split second is the difference between pole and third, between pole and fucking destroying your car.

Daniel’s hungry when Q3 starts, he doesn’t think he’s ever been hungrier. He and Max have been trading P1 all weekend, they have equal pace that it’s anyone’s game for pole. But Daniel’s terrified of how he would react if Max inches above him, ever so carefully without him even realising during qualifying.

The thing is, Daniel knows he has it in him because he’s done it before. He’s driven this track so many times but it never gets easier. The brush of the wall against his tyres, the speed when he hits the chicane in the swimming pool, it’s the only time where Daniel’s heart jumps into his throat.

He’s the last one to cross the line, his teeth are clenched so hard that he’s terrified his jaw might break. He has no idea where he is on the time sheet, Max was on provisional pole before the last lot of laps began and Daniel thinks he’s going to be sick and then, when Martin’s voice comes ringing through the radio, and Daniel feels all the fear dissipate from his body.

Let’s just say, Daniel put his all into that lap.

Monaco is loud, there’s people everywhere. The grid is packed, Sky Sports are walking around with their cameras and microphones begging to chat to anyone available but Daniel narrowly avoids them all. With his headphones on, he sits near the P1 box and closes his eyes. I’m winning today, he chants to himself, no one is taking this from me.

Eventually, a shadow blocks the sun above him and when he looks up, he sees Max. Daniel motions for Max to sit next to him, patting the road next to him and Max is quick to take him up on his offer, sitting down so close to Daniel that their thighs bump together, it makes Daniel’s heart race.

Pulling off his headphones he says, “Hi, Maxy.”

“Good afternoon,” Max says back, and Daniel can tell that, while Max wants to touch Daniel, he’s being careful. They’ve barely had time to see each other all weekend. Daniel’s families in Monaco, but so are Max’s; the only time they’ve seen each other have been in the paddock. They’ve seen each other as teammates, nothing else, nothing more.

“Are you nervous for today?” Max asks, voice quiet in a sea of madness.

Daniel takes a moment to think about what Max is asking him. He feels guilty when Daniel wonders, deep down, if Max has ulterior motives, if he’s asking if Daniel’s nervous because he should be, a threat disguised as concern.

“Nah,” Daniel lies through his teeth, hoping Max doesn’t pick up on it, “Monaco’s gonna be easy, mate.” While Daniel knows he has it in him to win today, there’s still something deep in the back of his mind, something mean and cruel, gritty and dirty, telling him that there’s always a chance Max will win.

Max falters for a moment, before smiling at Daniel, lips stretched across his teeth and Daniel can’t stop staring at his freckle. “Well, good luck anyway, today.”

Daniel wants to drag him away from everyone, pull him towards the personnel buildings and hide away for the rest of the day. Instead, Daniel beams back and says, “You too, Maxy.”

The crowd around them is beginning to get smaller, and smaller with more people leaving the grid. Now, all that’s left is a sea of navy shirts surrounding them. GP and Martin find them then soon after, ushering the pair of them towards their cars, one final good luck said between the two of them with a quick handshake.

And then, when Daniel gets in the car, he tunes everyone out.

The formation lap begins, Martin’s voice rings through the radio as he drives through the streets for a radio check. “Clouds are grey but the weather looks fine, we shouldn’t need to worry about rain today.”

For the first time since Bahrain, he’s leading laps. There’s no one in front of him; the air is clean, there’s no worry of attacking, and the navy of Max’s Red Bull gets smaller, and smaller in his rearview mirrors.

Something feels different to Bahrain. It feels like he’s going to win today.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Daniel had regretted them.

Not because Max started to fight him, not because the Red Bull with the vicious 1 stuck to the front was suddenly even closer in his rearview mirrors, threatening him. It was because he could tell how it’s going to be perceived; snarky, competitive, hungry.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing though. When the celebrations start, they’re for him, and Daniel finally feels like he deserves to be here.

“P1 mate, beautiful, beautiful drive.” Martin’s voice scares him, pulls him out of the trance. “You were on fire.”

“Wonderful job, Daniel!” Christian’s voice rings through after that, the praise going straight to Daniel’s head. “I knew you had it in you.”

Daniel’s quick to park his car in the number one spot, and he climbs up onto the halo like he did all those years ago. He beats a fist to his chest, aggressive and hard, and he feels his ribs rattle within his body as he screams with all of his might. It’s as if he’s high, adrenaline and victory mixing with his oxygen making him light headed as he jumps off the halo and onto the ground.

Before he realises it, Max is running toward him, screaming alongside everyone surrounding them. Daniel fears he’s angry at first, that somehow what he said on the radio was relayed back but he realises no, it’s quite the opposite as Max wraps his arms around Daniel.

Their helmets come together, the clinking noise of the carbon fibre echoing in Daniel’s ears. His arms wrap around Max and Daniel refuses to let him go, just pulls him tighter, getting him as close as they possibly can be. Daniel can’t stop screaming, he can hear Max screaming in response. It feels like 2018 again, except this time Max is here with him.

“Congratulations, schatje.” They still have their helmets on, the words are muffled but Daniel hears them clear as day, as if they’re being whispered directly into Daniel’s ear. “I am so proud of you. You deserve this.”

When they finally pull apart, Daniel gets a good look at Max. Somehow, against the white helmet and the red of his squished cheeks, his eyes are even more electric, even more blue. They’re the colour of the mediterranean, and Daniel thinks he could drown in them forever, until his lungs burn and his eyes go dark.

“Fuck,” is all Daniel can say, “holy fuck. I did it.” His voice is hoarse from all the screaming, from the tears that he didn’t know had escaped his eyes and got caught in his throat.

And Max laughs again and pulls Daniel back into his arms, the pair of them jump around in pure excitement. They probably look like children, celebrating a win like this as if it’s Daniel’s first. But this means everything to Daniel, and Max knows that too.

“Go,” Max says after a second, and Daniel realises they still haven’t done anything they’re meant too; be weighed, get interviewed, go into the cool room. Daniel continues to ignore it, and when he lets go of Max, he runs towards his team, his family.

Daniel tries his best to be respectful on the podium, but he can’t stop jumping. The jitteriness vibrating out of his skin as they place the Australian anthem over the speaker, followed by the Austrian anthem. He wants nothing more than to hold his trophy above his head and fucking scream down the streets of Monaco.

He’s pulling his boot off as soon as the champagne starts to spray around him. He steps in puddles, feels his sock getting sticky with alcohol as he eyes the red number 3 on his boot, harsh against the black.

Max’s boots are red this year, they’re the inverted of Daniel’s, the same as last years. He remembers commenting on the lack of gold and Max had shrugged and implied he liked for them to match, that his only options were black or red. Daniel had known he was lying, had seen the gold boots in his room and pretended he never saw them.

The red boot is shoved eagerly in Daniel’s face, and Max is clawing the black boot out of Daniel’s hand in return. He looks at Max, the way the light from the podium hits is eyes, the way they shine from the excitement, and he nods in agreement, knowing exactly what Max means.

You drink from mine, Max said at his first win of the season last year, I drink from yours. Now, he’s saying it again at Daniel’s first win of this season, and he feels giddy all over at the prospect.

Teammates. Rivals. Equals.

When they’re ushered away from the podium, Max and Daniel find their way to each other again. Like magnets, their bodies stick together, trying to fit through doorways with their arms wrapped around each other. Their hands that touch are sticky, the curls on Daniel’s head are sticking to his forehead too.

“Hey, Daniel,” Charles says from behind them, causing them to stop in their tracks. Daniel spins, and he realises the entire time since winning he’s not been acknowledging Charles’s existence. Max has distracted Daniel from the moment they drove into parc fermé, and Daniel finds himself getting embarrassed at just how bewitched he’s been.

“Congratulations on today,” Charles says. He leans forward to give Daniel a quick hug as a congratulations, and then he’s gone, disappearing towards the sea of red Ferrari shirts, trophy in one hand, his cap in the other.

Max huffs from next to him, catching Daniel’s attention from Charles scurrying away. “What?” he asks, and he notices Max’s face, the way his lips are pinched together the knuckles holding his trophy white against the metal.

“Nothing,” Max says, tight-lipped and giving Daniel nothing, but he knows what’s going on. Ever since last year, ever since Monza, Max has been weird about Charles. It rumbles something within Daniel’s chest, and he quickly looks around, takes notice of anyone of important and shoves Max into some random, open door.

Before the door is even closed, Daniel’s lips are on Max’s, their trophies knocking to the ground as Daniel pushes Max further inside. It’s dizzying, all-consuming, something about the combination of riding the high of victory alongside finally kissing Max after what feels like days makes him feel like he’s flying. Daniel feels like he’s melting, and Max’s lips immediately part to welcome Daniel.

He cups a hand around Max’s neck, pulls him even closer, Daniel thinks his teeth chip Max’s lip at one point. His hands run down Max’s body, across his back, tracing the ribs that lay beneath his flesh and muscle. Daniel wants to be so close to Max that he can pull him apart, that it’s impossible to know where Max ends and he begins.

His mouth slips down the side of Max’s face, underneath his jaw where he discovers the bites that made Max a vampire.

“Race winner,” Max mumbles under his breath, his hands running against Daniel’s body, unzipping his race suit and shoving it off his body. He sounds exhausted, his voice whiny and breathless. “Monaco race winner. My race winner.”

“Yours,” Daniel repeats, voice reverberating from against Max’s neck. “Always.”

There’s a bang just outside the door. It’s probably a rogue fan running past, but the pair of the spring apart at the chance of being caught. Max is breathless, his face is flushed and his lips are swollen and Daniel has to use every single piece of restraint from pulling Max closer to him.

“We should—” he starts, catching his breath and running a hand through his hair. “We should get going. To the debrief.”

“Yeah.” Max replies.

Daniel watches his eyes flick towards the trophies. Daniel’s, for the time time since Vegas last year, is the bigger one, and he finds himself curious about how Max is feeling, looking at then. If he feels the same way Daniel felt in Bahrain—distaste, disgust, an unsetting feeling deep in his gut—or if he’s better than Daniel in this way as well.

For a moment, he wonders if Max is going to say anything. He almost wants him too, but he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up his 2nd place trophy and begins to leave, hurrying Daniel to follow him.

Sun filters through half closed curtains, warming the room with a gentle light.

Daniel feels sweaty from the warmth and the body pressed against his in bed, and exhausted from last night. The glitz and the glamour of Monaco always translates into the after party, and the headache Daniel’s nursing makes him wonder if there’s a slight chance he’s still drunk.

Max is clinging to him, they’re pressed chest-to-chest and Max’s arms are wrapped around Daniel so tight that even if he wanted to leave, he probably couldn’t. Max’s hair smells like alcohol—gin, to be specific—and cigarettes, and Daniel has to stop the full-body grimace shuddering through his entire body.

Carefully, he unwraps himself from Max’s vice grip. He mewls in his sleep, his eyebrows pinch together briefly and Daniel worries for a moment he’s woken him up. When Daniel’s positive Max is still asleep, he climbs out of bed and gets dressed. The clock beside his bed reads 7, and Daniel groans to himself as he puts running shorts and a loose shirt on, searching around the room for socks and sneakers.

Walking into the living room, Daniel sees the mess from last night. There’s pillows strewn across the room, the trophies from the race sitting atop a table. He notices the two glasses on the table too, still filled to the brim and the condensation that had been dripping from the glasses have stained the wood. Daniel makes a mental note to try and fix it later.

When he finally gets out of the house and onto the streets of Monaco, he realises just how quiet it’s gotten. It’s been a constant rush for days now, cars honking and people yelling on the way to the track. Now, it’s almost like the cities been abandoned.

Daniel jogs his usual route, one he knows won’t be considered over-exertion given the night he had. His phone sits heavy and ignored in his pocket as he runs next to the harbour. When he stops, he sees people getting breakfast, watches couples hold hands across the tables and kick feet under them. Something in Daniel’s chest pangs when he sees them, carefree, happy, not a worry in the world. He thinks back to Max yesterday in the press conference, face stoic in comparison to Max last night, when they were finally in the privacy of Daniel’s home, happy and giddy, lips loose from alcohol.

We’ll never have that, Daniel can’t help but think. Maybe one day, when racings finished for both of them, when it’s been years, and years, and years since Daniel’s name is associated with a Formula 1 grid. But Max is Max, he’s up there with Senna, Schumacher, Hamilton, Vettel. He’ll be a name forever etched into the grid. There will be no time where Max’s name is no longer associated with Formula 1, there will be no time where they can just be themselves, like this.

It stirs something inside Daniel, something heavy, something that makes it feel like there’s someone sitting on his chest. He loves Max, that much he knows, but it’s new, it’s okay being a secret for now. As he watches the younger guy reach across the table with a napkin, giggling as he wipes milky coffee from the older man’s top lip. It reminds Daniel of himself and Max, in a weird, ugly, fucked up kind of way.

In a jealous, kind of way.

He quickly leaves, the bile rising threatening to burn his oesophagus until Daniel can no longer swallow. He runs, and runs, and runs, until his lungs burn and thighs hurt and he’s panting so hard he thinks maybe he actually will throw up.

When he gets home, Max is still asleep. Daniel stares at him for a moment, broad and freckly shoulders peaking out from beneath white sheets, his face relaxed and mouth slightly open. Daniel is quiet as he gets undressed, throwing clothes across the room at an attempt to get it into his washing basket and walks into the bathroom.

Daniel stands under boiling hot water and lets it run over his shoulders. He tries not to think about the couple he saw on his run, how carefree and happy they were, how there didn’t seem to be a single problem between the two of them. The way they laughed over the milk moustache and how freely one of them reached across the table. The way that the pair of them don’t seem tainted by a distant rivalry.

Jealously is an ugly thing, Daniel thinks. It’s cruel in the way it lives under your skin, infects your brain.

Daniel and Max won’t ever have that. For so many reasons more than the fact they’re both two guys.

Daniel doesn’t win in Imola, but it’s a Red Bull 1-2—the 6th one of the season, and Daniel knows it won’t be the last one. They circle the track to the chorus of Tifosi booing them, something he doesn’t think he’d ever get used to. Daniel can’t help but do his cool down lap doing the maths in his head.

When the sun had set on Monaco, he was 46 points behind. Finally, he’d put a dent in the gap between himself and Max. Now that it’s back up to 55, he could kick himself.

Fifty-fucking-five points. All he can think about is that all he needs is two race wins, and he’d almost double his points haul.

So that’s what he does. With a fire threatening to burn him from the inside out, and a hunger so intense it almost rips apart his stomach, Daniel has back-to-back wins in Baku and Spain.

It’s 33 points now. Ironic, isn’t it?

After Spain, Max and Daniel barely talk to each other. When they had climbed down from the podium steps, drenched in champagne and sticky, they’d been ushered quickly to their debrief. Max had been weird and irritable throughout it, snide comments about his engine and modes, how bad the rear wing set-up was, how his DRS wasn’t working.

“I want to be alone tonight,” Max had said when they were leaving the track that evening, “is that okay?”

Daniel had been taken aback, because of course it’s okay, and he had told him so. Max had smiled at him and said thank you, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. Instead it seemed forced, like he was doing it to quell any questions from Daniel.

So he’d pulled Max into a brief hug, kissed him on the head when he was sure they were alone, and said “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Daniel hadn’t seen Max on Monday. He had to leave early the next morning, long before Max had too, to get to the airport to fly to England. Meanwhile, he knew Max was fast asleep before his flight to Monaco.

They both have schedules to adhere to. While Max has streaming stuff planned, Daniel’s going to Milton Keynes to negotiate his contract. With Lewis announcing his retirement at the end of this year, Mercedes have been knocking on his door, Aston Martin too. Even with these teams and an abundance of money, Daniel knows he doesn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

Red Bull is his number one choice. He’d take a grain of rice as payment to stay here forever.

Milton Keynes feels like home. Between the four walls of this company, Daniel has spread his wings and grown into the person he is in this very moment. He scans his pass as he walks in, the secretary at the desk says his name cheerily and tells him exactly where he can go to find Christian.

He walks through the trophy room on the way to the boardroom. It’s still gaudy and a disgusting display of achievements, but Daniel feels proud of it now, proud to be a part of history. Both of his Monaco trophies are next to each other, his Baku and Spain wins close by.

In this room, there are hundreds of trophies, from P3s to Constructors’ Championships. So many of the trophies in this room are because of him, 14 of them are from his wins. Staring at the room, with the gold reflecting off the light, Daniel knows deep down, he belongs here.

“I’m thinking of moving the Baku and Spain trophies,” Christian says from behind him. “Because you’re starting to need your own one.”

He means a shelf, and Christian’s words turn Daniel’s attention towards a specific one–one filled with mostly P1 trophies, the rare P2 and P3 sprinkled in there, Max’s shelf. It’s weird, he thinks, thinking about his future here. He’s seen pictures of where his trophy from Monza is kept, hidden so far away that people have to go looking for it despite how much it meant to the team at the time.

It’s strange, being with a team so willingly to celebrate his achievements.

“We can talk about that another day.” Christian ushers Daniel towards the boardroom, filled with lawyers and Nick’s there too, ready, and Daniel takes the seat next to him.

Despite doing exactly what they want, Daniel isn’t entirely sure that Red Bull want to resign him. Despite doing exactly what they want—helping the team win the Constructors’ in a disgusting amount of time, not getting in Max’s way—he knows there’s other people, newer people Marko is probably more inclined to sign.

But he’s also not stupid; he knows he came here as a second driver, a support to Max’s dominance, something very fewpeople have shown ability in doing over the past few years. He knows he can use that as his leverage.

Summer break doesn’t even have a chance to start before silly season begins.

It’s not wrong, but it’s also not right. Daniel sat down and had a meeting with the people at Red Bull that much is true. They want to keep his services, that’s also true. He’s won 3 of the last 4 races, of course they’re trying to sign him before someone else does.

Daniel just… He doesn’t know if he wants to stay in F1 past this year. That’s all.

It’s a little embarrassing, DNFing in a race immediately after speculation about your contract starts. Even more embarrassing when it’s at your team’s home race, and it’s almost like karma has shot him down for flying too close to the sun.

Daniel has a lap one incident in Austria and he has to retire from the race soon after. Max doesn’t win, but that isn’t what bothers Daniel the most. What bothers Daniel the most is that with Max getting the fastest lap, the gap is back up to 51 points.

It’s getting hard to watch Max on the podium, it’s even harder to watch it in Austria of all places. Last year, he was up there, he would have been up there again this year if it weren’t for a stupid crash. He kicks himself when he thinks about it for too long.

He tries to act normal when he finds Max later. In the privacy of his driver room, Daniel gives him a hug and whispers a congratulations under his breath, careful for it to not cut at his throat. Max is thankful, giddy and champagne drunk as he talks, and talks, and talks.

“They say I could be World Champion by Vegas,” he says, and Daniel feels every bone in his body stiffen. Vegas? He feels a little sick. “It’s not fun winning with so many races to go, but I think after 2021, I deserve it.”

I deserve it, he says, and Daniel can’t dispute that Max deserves all three of his championships, but still, something crawls under Daniel’s skin; uncomfortable and sore, like it’s ripping him apart to make room for itself.

“Is it lonely up there?” Daniel finds himself asking. Charles was in contention for most of the season last year, was breathing down Max’s neck until Abu Dhabi. Now, Max is running away with the Championship with only eleven races completed.

Eleven races completed, Max has been on the top step for six of them, on the podium for all of them. Until today, every race had been won by a Red Bull driver.

“It is not lonely, no,” Max says, finally sitting down next to Daniel on the couch. Their knees knock together, and Max curls his body into Daniel’s. He’s still in his race suit, pulled down around his waist and his fireproofs are stuck to his skin from sticky champagne. He smells of alcohol and sweat still, even an hour after the podium. “I have you with me, always.”

Daniel bites his tongue to stop him from saying what he really wants to say. He stays silent for a moment before whispering, “Good job today, by the way.”

But, after Austria, something shifts between the two of them.

There’s something nasty growing, deep inside Daniel’s stomach and it’s threatening to scratch at his oesophagus as it claws its way out. He can’t stand watching videos from the podium, clenches his teeth every time he sees photos from the pit lane too. Max is unstoppable this season, steamrolling anyone who even tries to get in his way of his fourth consecutive championship.

Daniel doesn’t like being steamrolled. He wants to fight, wants to put his blood, sweat, and tears into every race until the Champion isn’t crowned until Abu Dhabi.

The text had sat opened for hours. He knows his read receipts are on, he knows Max can see that it’s been read and ignored, but he doesn’t know what to do. He loves this Max; the one who invites him over to watch silly movies with and the one who eats copious amounts of junk food with because neither of them like to stick to their diets, but he doesn’t know how to separate this Max from Max Verstappen, 3 time Champion of the World, Red Bull Driver.

When he texts Max back eventually, he lies. Fuck, I must’ve opened this by accident on my run, sorry baby. Apologies, lies, more apologies. Can’t tonight, seeing Scotty. Next week, before we fly to England, let’s have a date? he says, so sure that he will be over this by Wednesday. It was just the DNF that rubbed salt into his wound, rough and deep, sending pain through his nerves.

“How risky would it be to box for fastest lap?” Daniel asks on lap 50 of the British GP. He knows the gap between him and Charles is disgusting and more than enough time, Martin had relayed it to them during the last time he boxed. You’ve come back out still in first mate, look after the tyres and build a gap if you can.

It’s silent for a few moments and then, “How badly do you want it?”

Really fucking bad, Daniel thinks. He’s desperate, needy, will rip himself to shreds for this extra fucking point. Max had crashed out earlier in the race—contact with Ocon had put a hole in his side pod—so it’s not like he’d be losing first place to Max if it went poorly but… still…

“Box this lap, we are boxing for softs.” Martin’s voice sounds stressed, as if he doesn’t like this idea but he’s going along with it anyway because it’s what Daniel’s requesting.

28 seconds is what you lose during a pitstop at Silverstone. When Daniel hits the pit lane line, he’s 30 seconds ahead of Charles, all he can do is hope and pray that the pitstop is clinical.

Pull in to his box, stop, the cars up on the jack, the tyres get changed, the car gets dropped, go, pull out of the box.

Even after all these years of racing, Daniel has no idea whether that was a good pit stop, if it was fast enough, if he’s being taken over by Charles, if he just threw away his guaranteed win.

When he comes out of the pit lane, the red car is behind him. He can see it in his mirrors, getting closer, and closer but it never passes him. It keeps fighting until the end, but Daniel defends like if he loses this position, he loses his life, and by the time he’s crossing the finish line in first, his heart is in his throat.

It’s a Grand fucking Chelem in Silverstone.

Everyone may think Max is unbeatable, but in this moment, Daniel knows he is inevitable.

The afterparty is crazy.

It’s only Red Bull staff at the club in central London. Daniel’s been drunk since the podium, the dizziness from the champagne only getting worse with each drink someone feeds him in the club. Daniel isn’t sure why they’re celebrating harder here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because the factory in England makes this a kind of home race for Red Bull, maybe there’s a complex about a non-Englishman winning, maybe it’s the fact it’s Daniel’s first Grand Chelem.

First. Because he’s sure he’ll get another one.

For the first time in weeks, Daniel isn’t thinking of the race results; he isn’t stewing in finishing behind Max again, isn’t festering the feelings he has towards watching the Red Bull rear wing cross the line first. He’s drinking, and dancing, and celebrating himself under the strobe lights, and no one can take this away from him.

Everyone who’s important is here, including Simon who Daniel can’t stop clinging to. He’s sober, with his arm around Daniel to ensure he doesn’t fall to the floor. It’s reminiscent of Daniel’s first win, all those years ago.

“Should you calm down, mate?” Simon asks, but there’s not a hint of seriousness in his words as he, seemingly reluctantly, passes Daniel another drink. Daniel throws it back, lets the vodka burn his throat as it slides down. “Can’t have you getting alcohol poisoning before Budapest.”

Daniel makes a noise, “I’ll be fine!” He puts the glass back on the bar. “Have you seen Max?”

Simon shrugs. “He wasn’t too happy about the race,” he says, shouting over the music, “I wouldn’t be shocked if he doesn’t come out.”

And Daniel, drunk thoughts get mean then. He wonders why Daniel goes out when Max wins and he has a bad result, but Max can’t do the same. He thinks the worst of Max, and then he feels so, so, so bad for thinking so little of Max. It’s not personal, he tells himself, Everyone reacts to bad races differently. Some worse than others.

And then suddenly, Max is hanging off him, probably drunker than Daniel is. Drinking to forget the worst race of the season hitting him like a tsunami. Daniel almost falls when Max slams his body into his from across the room. “Hi, Maxy.”

Daniel’s whisper is soft, but still low and deep in his chest. He feels Max’s body shudder against his, he keens and moves his head from Daniel’s shoulder so he can look up at him.

“Hello,” Max says back, words slightly slurred. “How are you.” He’s so intoxicated, face flushed and a glazed look in his eyes. He looks elated, and Daniel just wants to lean down and kiss him. He doesn’t though. Despite the alcohol coursing through his system, he knows better than to try and kiss Max tonight, in front of all of these people. Christian would wring his neck at the very least, for doing it without a heads up.

“I’m good, happy you’re here finally.” It’s the truth. Daniel can’t stop looking at Max, it’s like everything around them has gone silent, like no one else is here except Max.

He smiles when Daniel speaks. “I’m happy I’m finally here,” he says back, “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Daniel shakes his head and pulls him closer, suddenly not caring if people take photos of them, at least like this. Earlier, Daniel saw someone doing a line off someone’s tits in the bathroom, Max is also holding a vape in one hand and smoking outside if the designated smoking areas; Daniel getting clingy with Max in the middle of a club isn’t going to be the most scandalous thing someone takes a photo of tonight.

“Don’t say sorry, let’s just go dance.”

Max giggles and lets Daniel pull him from their spot next to the bar.

They dance in the middle of everyone, not once thinking about the image he’s portraying, with two drinks in his hands and grinding against Max as subtly as he possibly can. He can imagine it now, Ricciardo goes crazy in a club after Silverstone win! Everyone will put it down to a win, one that reminded everyone that he’s here too, fighting for the Championship.

When both of Daniel’s drinks are finished, and he’s passed the glasses onto a barmaid’s tray, Max has his back to him, his ass is pressed up against Daniel’s groin and he thinks he sees the light. Absentmindedly, Daniel’s hands move to Max’s hips, pulling him closer. It takes everything in Daniel’s horny and alcohol infested mind to stop himself from sucking on Max’s neck.

“Fuck,” he says instead, “Max.”

He looks down at Max, and he drops his head back onto Daniel’s shoulder. He’s all sweaty and gross from the pack of people in the club, and Daniel decides he’s a fucking winner, the 27th driver in history to get Grand Chelem, and he is going to take what he wants.

So, Daniel drags Max into the bathroom, the grip on his wrist so tight as if he’s terrified Max is going to disappear. All morality leaves his body as he pushes open the door to the handicapped bathroom, pulls Max inside and slams the door behind him and locks it. He pushes Max against the door, kisses him rough until Max is making a noise against his mouth, and Daniel swallows it.

He grips Max’s waist so hard he wonders if he leaves bruises. Max’s hands run through Daniel’s hands, fingers getting caught on the dark curls. The kiss is all teeth—aggressive and needy—and filled with obsession. This is a new level of intensity, Daniel feels, as if the love he has for Max is going to kill him, bring both of its hands to his throat and strangle him until he can’t breathe anymore. He’s consumed by Max, he wants to consume him, detach his jaw and swallow him whole.

“You did so good today,” Max whines against Daniel’s mouth, “Want to be good for you. You deserve it.”

“You’re always good for me, Maxy.” Max whines again at the nickname, his shoulders shudder and his hips rut against Daniel. “Are you going to be good?”

The club music is faint now, a gentle hum outside the door, and finally, Daniel can hear his own thoughts. He feels high when Max drops to his knees after that, drunkenly working at the button on Daniel’s jeans. He doesn’t think about how gross the floor is, about the weird stains on the counters and the walls. He just thinks about Max and his goddamn mouth, and how Max gagging on Daniel’s cock makes him feel.

Elated. On top of the world. A God.

Daniel wakes up the next morning with a warm body next to his and a raging headache.

The curtains weren’t closed before he went to sleep, so the early morning sun filters in and wakes him up. Max is sound asleep next to him, soft snores filling the room. Daniel doesn’t have the heart to move him, but he thinks if he doesn’t get up and get some medicine, he’s going to throw up his guts onto the bed.

Carefully, he shuffles away from Max, who makes a noise of disagreement as Daniel slides out from underneath him. He doesn’t wake though, and Daniel pulls on a pair of boxers and grabs his phone before rummaging through his suitcase for his medicine bag.

He sees an abundance of notifications on his phone. Mostly, it looks like Instagram notifications; people wishing him congratulations and tagging him in posts from last night. He makes a mental note to go through it all tomorrow when something catches his eye .

Panicked, Daniel texts him back. Daniel doesn’t think Lando was there last night, under the assumption it was only Red Bull staff invited. Although, Lando is small and squirrely, and could probably sneak into any club if he tried hard enough.

A million thoughts run through his head. Max is going to kill him, Jos is going to be a nightmare to deal with, fuck this is going to be a PR nightmare. He’s pacing a hole in the floor and on reason 45 of why he and Max need to flee the sport spontaneously and move to Ibiza forever when Lando’s text comes through.

Weirdly, it settles him. It was only Lando, he thinks, and he can happily crawl back into bed with Max, who makes a happy noise when Daniel wraps his arms around him. He curses himself for a moment—the curtains are still open, the room is heating up now—but eventually he settles and falls asleep to Max’s even breathing.

Later when he wakes up, Max is already awake. He clearly hasn’t dared to move, given the positions of their bodies. Daniel’s head is on Max’s chest, and he’s awkwardly playing with his phone. Daniel yawns and stretches slightly, and he hears Max hum in acknowledgement.

“What’re you doing?” he asks when he moves, getting more comfortable. His chin is on Max’s peck, and he’s looking up at him.

“Playing a game,” Max says, turning his phone slightly so Daniel can see some semblance of a connect-4 game before turning it back so he can continue to play. He bites his lip in concentration, his eyebrows are furrowed too, and Daniel takes that as a hint to roll over and grab his phone from where he dropped it on the table.

“Lando caught us last night,” Daniel says when he sees another text from Lando on his homescreen. “We have to be careful.”

When he rolls back over, he can see the smirk appearing on Max’s face. “I don’t want to be careful,” he says stubbornly, locking his phone and putting it on his chest. “Last night was sexy. We should spend every win like that.”

Daniel laughs, shaking his head and whispering under his breath, “Insatiable.” To which, Max doesn’t disagree, as he leans down to give Max a soft kiss. Max tries his hardest to deepen it, tries to force his tongue inside Daniel’s mouth and pull him closer by the hips but Daniel’s pulling away quickly and laughing. “Maxy, we can’t.”

“Why not?” he moves to Daniel’s neck, tonguing across Daniel’s veins until he bites down on the pressure point that has Daniel keening on top of Max. “Christian’s barbeque isn’t for hours, schatje.”

Max makes a compelling argument and Daniel can’t help but succumb to his words. Fine he thinks, Max wins. Daniel tries to move Max’s mouth from his throat, but he refuses to budge. He keeps biting and sucking on Daniel’s neck, moving lower and lower until he’s sucking at the junction between Daniel’s shoulder and neck.

Daniel’s keening, and Max shoves a thigh between his crotch for him to grind against. Daniel’s heartbeat is in his throat and he wonders if Max can feel it, if that’s why Max keeps going; maybe he’s hoping to rip open Daniel’s throat, bite down on his heart, the muscle and rip it apart with his teeth until Daniel dies in his arms.

Daniel would let him do it, if he’s completely honest.

He repositions them eventually, shoving a hand down Max’s boxers and curling a hand around his dick. They’re barely kissing, they’re pressed against each other as they moan into each other’s mouth. Daniel continues to get himself off on Max’s thigh while he jerks Max off and when they both come, it’s white-hot and Daniel can feel it take over his entire body.

Later, when they’re getting ready to leave, Daniel almost dies looking at the mirror. “Max, what the fuck?”

All over his neck, running down onto his shoulder are hickeys and bite marks. He feels them burn when he turns his neck to try and get a better look, and he begins to rummage through the bathroom counter to find something to cover them. Max, innocently, comes into the bathroom. His neck is fine, because Daniel had some decency to remember not to leave marks, but he guesses he can’t blame Max entirely; he didn’t say anything to stop him either.

“You look like you tried to eat me,” Daniel says, standing up and turning so Max can see. He watches the eyes almost bulge out of Max’s eye sockets, and a soft gasp leaves his mouth. “People are going to see.”

Max shrugs, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Do you want me to ring Gemma? See if she has some makeup?”

There’s an innocent look on his face, and Daniel just hits him gently on the hand. Sighing, Daniel says, “It’s fine.” He grabs the shirt he’d planned on wearing tonight and pulls it over his head. When he looks in the mirror, it covers most of the marks, but not all. Peaking above the colour, his skin is bruising, purple, yellow, and pink marks.

“I’m sorry,” Max mumbles when Daniel turns to face him, and Daniel sighs, pulling him from the doorway into the bathroom so he can wrap his arms around him. “I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”

The pout on his lips is big, he looks genuinely sorry and Daniel can’t help but lean down and give him a quick kiss. “It’s fine, just expect people to ask about it tonight. But I won the race, so people will just think I had fun with a girl I met last night.”

Max shifts his weight between his feet, and he looks away from Daniel. He wonders what’s set him off. The fact he won the race, or the mention of a hypothetical woman. It’s times like this that Daniel’s reminded of how young Max is, how horrible he is at communicating.

Neither of them comment on it. They leave the hotel together, stopping by Max’s room next door to grab his suitcase and to mess with the sheets to make it look like somebody slept there last night. They hold hands in the elevator, and before it dings on the ground level, Daniel gives Max a kiss.

It’s quick, soft, he squeezes Max’s hand one more time before dropping it as the doors open. Blake meets them in the lobby, giving them a knowing look before saying bye to Max and following Daniel into the parking lot, and they get into separate cars to drive to Christian’s place for the barbeque.

“Mate, Max has got to chill,” Blake says when they get in the car. “What the fuck is with your neck.”

Daniel shrugs his shoulders, hoping the collar of the shirt rises up and covers what can be seen. He doesn’t say anything; instead, he listens to Blake rant about how Max has no sense of common courtesy, and continues driving. It’s funny, honestly. He knows Blake thinks it’s a terrible idea, him and Max, but he loves the genuine support he still has too. ”Tell Max to chill out next time,” he says, it makes Daniel laugh.

“All because you won a race?” Blake asks, and Daniel finally acknowledges what Blake is saying and nods. “Fucking teenagers, man.”

“He’s 26, Blake,” Daniel cuts in immediately. He doesn’t need reminding. “He’s closer to 30 than 18.”

Blake rolls his eyes. “A teenager in comparison to you, you old fart. What type of person is obsessed with giving hickeys that much? Teenagers are!”

“Just pretend it was someone I met last night,” Daniel says as he pulls onto the highway.

Blake snorts. “Yeah, because the alternative is so much better.” Coming out at Christian Horner’s barbeque. Daniel wonders if he’d get fired for doing that, actually. “I’ll keep my gob shut. Just control your boyfriend next time.”

When they get to Christian’s, they’re some of the last there. They park as close as they can, and walk through the mansion to the backyard. Somehow, Max is already there, mingling around with people, mostly hanging by GP and Martin. It’s almost all Red Bull affiliated staff, but there’s some drivers here too; Charles and George are both there, obviously having been dragged along by Pierre and Alex respectfully.

“Danny Ric!” George calls when he notices Daniel walk through the door. Daniel slinks across the yard, leaving Blake with Laura and grabbing a beer on his way over. “Congrats on the win mate.”

George had come 2nd yesterday, Lewis was 3rd. Daniel can see that the pain in George’s eyes is still simmering as he congratulates him. It sucks, Daniel knows how he feels. It’s how he felt when Max won in Austria, how he felt when he crashed out of Austria.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, “Next year, yeah?”

George tuts and nods, slinging an arm around Daniel’s neck and pulling him close. “How many points are you behind Verstappen now?” he asks, and Daniel realises he hadn’t thought about it, really.

He shrugs, hoping someone doesn’t realise the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. “Trying not to pay attention to it,” he forces out, the lie burning his throat. “Constructors championship is more important.”

And Alex laughs, he actually laughs in Daniel’s face. “We’re not Sky Sports, mate, you can tell us the truth. Do you think Checo was saying shit like that?”

Daniel thinks back to 2022; Checo always wanted a championship, had never said bullshit like this, so why the fuck is he?

“You know how it is, being teammates with Max,” he says to Alex, who pulls a face. “Max gets preferential strategy, Max wins the races. I’m helping win the constructors so Mercedes and Ferrari don’t sneak up out of nowhere.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I never won races with Red Bull,” he remarks, “I never gave Max a run for his money. No one has, until now.”

He’s not wrong, Daniel notes, but he can’t entertain the idea, he can’t think too much about leading the championship, about winning the championship, he refuses to get lost in the daydreams—

“It’s 25 points, by the way,” Charles chirps up out of nowhere. He’s clearly drunk, swaying against Pierre with flushed cheeks and messy hair. “If you win in Hungary with fastest lap, you could be first in the championship.”

Pierre is shushing Charles after that, but Daniel’s stuck on his words, hanging there like a thread. He hadn’t done the math in days, hadn’t realised he’d closed the gap that much just by winning in Silverstone. The conversation shifts after that, Pierre cuts Charles off, and Charles calls Pierre something rude in French and George and Alex keep talking but Daniel can’t focus on it.

Win in Hungary. Fastest lap. You could be first. That’s never happened before. Even at the height of his career, before moving the first time, he never led the Championship. Since Webber, it’s been quiet the people down under, now’s his chance. He just has to be determined enough. He just has to be ruthless enough.

“Who tried to eat you last night?” Pierre asks when he finally sits Charles down somewhere with a burger and a glass of water. “I didn’t see you leave with anybody?”

Daniel didn’t realise Pierre was there last night, too occupied with Max. Clearly. “Really?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“He did,” Max says, coming out of nowhere to be straight-forward and blunt as ever. “I saw Daniel leave with her. Blonde woman, think she was Dutch.”

Someone snorts from behind Max, no one pays attention except Daniel, who turns and sees Lando standing there. How many fucking people did Christian invite? he thinks. He makes a mental note to ask Lando why the fuck he came tonight.

No one says anything, just hums and someone says Well he won the race so, under their breath as they walk towards the grill, where food is available and Daniel thinks he needs another beer. Max disappears again, and Daniel finds himself sitting with Oscar and Lando as they eat.

“Why are you two here?” Daniel asks, genuine curiosity covering his words. “Free food, I assume?”

Lando nods, and Oscar shrugs. “I think Marko is trying to poach me,” he says, “I’m only entertaining it for the food.”

Oscar being poached makes Daniel laugh. Somehow, their lives are intertwined. Alpine, McLaren, Red Bull. Different order, a different team name for one of them, still, it’s funny how the universe works sometimes.

“Take my word of advice,” Daniel says, “Stick with one team if you think one day they could win a Championship.” Everyone knows Daniel has no regrets, but leaving Red Bull might be the closest thing he has to one. It’s poetic, going home, ending his career here, but he still wonders sometimes what life would have been if he never left.

Oscar’s deadpan face gives him nothing, but there’s a small smile on his face. “Noted,” he says, and Daniel knows he’s serious. He’s glad Oscar is at McLaren, despite the circumstances that surrounded it. Proud of the way he held himself last year, how he’s fighting at the front this year. He’ll be a race winner, a Champion, before he knows it.

Speaking of Champion, Daniel’s line of sight goes behind Oscar’s head to Charles and Max. They’re both waving their hands around and talking, and Daniel can only guess they’re rehashing what happened in Silverstone. Charles had a race that wasn’t anything to write home about, a lousy 8th place. Still, Daniel can’t think of anything else the pair of them would be talking about.

“You’re staring,” Lando nudges Daniel in the ribs after following his line of sight. “You’re lucky Oscar hasn’t put two and two together.”

“Fuck off,” Daniel says, nudging Lando back. “There’s nothing to notice.”

Lando laughs, loud and obnoxious but Oscar isn’t paying attention, too busy playing on his phone and texting someone. “‘Nothing to notice’, you can’t be serious!” Lando screeches, “You might as well go over there and bug him.”

Daniel kicks him from under the table, begging him to be quiet with his eyes.

Max is still with Charles, and Christian’s joined in too now; the three of them talking as they drink the beers in their hands. Daniel remembers back before they signed him, how Red Bull were in discussion to try and get Charles to move teams. Funny, he thinks, the idea of Charles in his spot here. He wonders if it would be the same if Charles was here, or if it would be worse.

Would they be switching wins every week, or would Max annihilate Charles, embarrass him like he does to Daniel?

He shakes his head, and turns his attention back to Lando and Oscar who are wrestling over something on the table, and Daniel chugs the rest of his beer, ignoring the burn as it goes down his throat.

Daniel has a good feeling, walking into the Hungaroring. He tells the media this, he tells Martin this, he even tells Max.

Max encourages it, says “I do to!” and smiles at Daniel in a way that makes him feel like someone is ripping his lungs from his chest cavity. He can’t tell if it’s Max’s smile that does it to him, or the way Max piggybacks onto his good feeling. Daniel wonders if Max has a good feeling for the team, or for himself.

Daniel’s is for himself, he admits quietly to himself in his driver’s room There’s something in the air here. It’s meant to rain this weekend, it’s meant to wash out qualifying later today and then continue into tomorrow. Daniel loves racing in conditions that are different to normal, it gives him more of a challenge to try and get to the front, to stay at the front, especially here, where overtaking is hard.

Daniel has an incredible qualifying, and Max’s is nothing to write home about.

He qualifies P2, but he’s starting P1 because Lando got smacked with a grid penalty for impeding someone during qualifying. Daniel’s happy that Max is starting behind him, squished between an angry Ferrari and a very determined Haas. It means he’s going to fight to the front, and Daniel won’t make it easy for him.

There’s still something about today. A good feeling, one he hasn’t felt in ages. He feels as if he’s already won the race when he’s leading the formation lap. He’s decided he has won the race, so much so that this is his race to lose. He’s in the fastest car on the grid, he can outbreak everyone on the grid, there’s only one thing standing between him and winning this race, and it’s starting in P fucking 8.

After the podium, after the celebrations, Daniel is whisked away to the press conference. He knows Max crashed out of the race—something about a snap of oversteer on a still wet part of the track ended up with Max in the barriers—and he knows he won’t be happy about it either.

He hopes though, that despite all of that, that Max is happy for him.

He feels bad for Carlos and Oscar. They barely get any questions during the press conference. It’s a little ironic, thinking back to Bahrain, how everyone kept asking Charles questions about the Championship, thinking the Ferraris looked like they’d be able to fight the bulls.

It had annoyed him. How everyone was asking the same questions over and over, different variations, different syntax. Now, he’s lapping it up. Championship leader, they call him. He could get used to this.

“Do you think this will affect your relationship with Max?” Someone asks towards the end of the press conference. “We know you two are close, but we all saw what happened last time you were at Red Bull.”

“I don’t think so,” Daniel says, and it’s true, or at least, he hopes it to be true. “We’re adults, we’ve both done a lot of growing up and we respect each other as competitors a lot. We knew this might happen, being teammates again.”

He hears the clicks of the cameras, the pencils scrawling across the paper. When they leave the press conference, Oscar drags him to stay under the lights while he takes a photo with him and Carlos to post on Instagram. ‘McLaren family always’ he captions the most, and Daniel has to resist the urge to snort.

“Enjoy your summer!” Carlos says, waving goodbye as he and Oscar make their way to their respective hospitalities. Daniel waves back to them, and begins his own walk to Red Bull. They’re on the other side of the paddock, all the way in the back. Daniel spends the walk taking photos with people he comes across, and thanking people who give him congratulations.

He’s on top of the world, and he doesn’t think anything will ever make him feel like this, not until he wins the Championship. Going into summer break, going into the final eleven races of the season, he’s in front, he’s the man to beat. No one can take this from him. For weeks, at least until Belgium, Daniel is the current Formula One World Championship leader.

Max isn’t usually a sore loser, but when Daniel walks into his room, something is off. He’s playing on his phone and barely acknowledges Daniel when he comes in. He shuffles slightly, moving over so Daniel can sit down next to him, and he knocks his knees against Max’s.

“Hey,” Daniel says softly. He’s still sticky from the podium, both of his shoes are missing and his socks are a grey colour. He knows he needs to get changed, but he wanted to do nothing more than to come see Max, to make sure he’s okay. “How’re you doing?”

“‘m fine,” he grumbles, “Stupid fucking oversteerey car. Stupid fucking race.”

Daniel tries not to take it so personally. He knows Max, he knows he doesn’t mean it because of him, but still, it hurts to hear that. This was Daniel’s race, a monumental one in his career. It’s hard to not take what Max is saying so personally.

So he says, “I’m sorry you had a shit race.” Daniel places his head on Max’s shoulder and kisses it. He smells of his shampoo and conditioner, and he’s dressed in the usual Red Bull kit, clearly showered long ago. “Do you wanna do anything tonight?”

Max doesn’t speak for a moment. “No,” he says, “You can go celebrate your win but I’m not in the mood, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Daniel says, pulling away from Max. “I just want to hang out with you. It’s summer now, we don’t have to think about racing for weeks.”

Max makes an indiscernible noise, one that Daniel can’t really make out.

“You don’t have to think about racing,” Max says, stubbornly. “I have already been thinking of Belgium. Of course, if I win, I will take back the lead.”

Daniel really pulls away from Max then, as if touching him burnt Daniel. He looks at him confused, with a cocked eyebrow. “Well, yes, but if I win I’ll keep it.” He doesn’t know why he said that, but something about the way Max said it triggered something inside Daniel.

But Max shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “That is true but…” Max trails off, as if he’s contemplating on saying what he’s really thinking.

It’s as if a knife has been shoved into Daniel’s stomach, and turned so quickly it ruptured every internal organ. He feels like he’s bleeding out, leaking guts onto the couch in front of Max. He can’t believe Max just said that, and so nonchalantly at that. As if it’s something insignificant, as if it’s something that doesn’t matter.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Daniel eggs Max on, practically daring him to say what he really thinks.

“Well,” Max says, “you are only leading the Championship because I didn’t finish today or last week, right?”

Daniel can’t believe his ears, can’t believe this is something that’s coming out of Max’s mouth. He doesn’t feel like this is his boyfriend, someone who’s meant to love him unconditionally. This feels like he’s just a teammate, a teammate he doesn’t get along with at that.

“I thought you loved me?” he whispers, terrified as the words leave his mouth. He stays sitting on the couch, but he can’t touch Max right now. It doesn’t feel right, this isn’t his boyfriend.

“I do love you? Why are you questioning that?” Max argues, not realising the severity of his words, how they’ve cut Daniel so deep. He feels as if he’s bleeding out on the couch in front of Max, and Max is standing there, holding the knife, and asking why Daniel is hurt.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t be saying that, Max.”

Max blinks at Daniel, he can see the words processing in his mind, and then he says, “But it’s the truth, is it not?”

It might be. If Max had finished in second in Silverstone like he was going to and had clawed his way into the points today, Daniel wouldn’t be leading the Championship, he wouldn’t be the first Australian since Webber in 2011 to have this chance.

But, Max didn’t finish second in Silverstone, and he didn’t score a single point today. That’s the reality. Daniel is leading by one fucking point, and he tells Max he doesn’t understand why Max can’t be happy for him, like he’s been happy for Max for the past 13 races.

“I am happy for you,” Max says, “I am just being realistic, my love.”

Realistic? Daniel doesn’t understand how Max can say something so cruel but with so much love in his voice. It makes Daniel uncomfortable, makes him want to rip his skin off. “So you think it’s a fluke?”

Max not saying anything riles Daniel up further.

“Fuck you, Max,” Daniel says then, and it’s as if every rotten emotion and mean word that’s been sitting, and stewing in his stomach is crawling out of his throat to be spewed at Max. “You’re still a sore fucking loser, after all of these years.”

And Max looks at Daniel as if he doesn’t understand where this has come from.

“Daniel, what are you talking about?” Max sounds genuinely confused and Daniel has to stop himself from laughing in Max’s face. He doesn’t care if he’s being mean, he doesn’t care if he’s being cruel. “I am angry about how my last two weekends went. How is that being a sore loser?”

“I’m leading the fucking Championship, and you have the hide to downplay why because you lost two races,” Daniel questions, “You can’t be serious, Max. Can’t you see how I’m killing myself to be in contention for this championship?”

Max stutters for a moment, “That-that’s not what I meant, Daniel. I was just being logical. It’s the truth.”

But Daniel sees red, and he stands up from the couch and walks towards the door. “Fuck you, Max,” he spits, and there’s a sense of finality in his words as he slams the door behind him when he leaves. He storms all the way from Max’s room to his own, not stopping to speak to anyone, not even acknowledging Blake who’s sitting talking to Laura. He pushes the door open to his room, and sitting there on the table, is the bottle of champagne, and his trophy.

Teammates. Rivals. Fucking equals.

Finally.

The next morning is the beginning of summer break.

Daniel isn’t sure if he and Max have broken up. He assumes that they have, given that Daniel would rather spoon his eyes out with an ice-cream scoop and walk across hot coals than see him right now and Max hasn’t texted Daniel to let him know what time the plane is leaving Budapest.

So Daniel texts Lando to see how he’s getting from Budapest to Monaco. Probably flying, probably doing so with Max. When the text goes unanswered, Daniel assumes he’s right and throws his phone across the bed.

Blake comes crashing into Daniel’s room after that, nagging at him about having not packed yet, that he’s still in bed, that they’re going to be late. He groans when he rolls out of bed and walks, like a zombie, to the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything to Blake, hoping he just assumes Daniel is hungover, maybe still drunk from the party last night.

“Dan?” he asks, finally getting Daniel’s attention. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

He doesn’t push Daniel to speak, but he stands in the bathroom, hovering, as Daniel brushes his teeth and then as he washes his face. He hopes that the dark circles under his eyes, and the gauntness of his face can be chalked up to whatever celebration Daniel went to last night. If he’s honest, he can’t remember much. Margaritas and other fruity drinks being thrown his way, all under the guise of celebrating the championship leader.

“What time are we heading to the airport?” Blake tries again.

Daniel stops in his tracks. Fuck. “Not sure how we’re getting back to Monaco, mate,” he says, and he pulls up Flight Centre on his phone. $600 per person? For fucks sake.

“What are you talking about? Aren’t we going with—” And then Blake cuts himself off, clearly noticing the lack of Max in the room. No suitcase in the corner next to Daniel’s, no Louis Vuitton bag on the couch like usual. One side of the bed is almost untouched, if not for the pillow that’s slightly out of place. “Okay, I’ll get something organised.”

Daniel hums in agreement, goes back to finishing his bathroom routine, and throws everything he’s used into the bag that sits on the sink. Face wash, toothpaste, toothbrush, medication that he brings just in case. Blake’s pacing around the room on the phone to someone, clearly organising flights as Daniel packs his bag. He pulls his merch out of the suitcase and puts it on. He’s on autopilot as he finds his sunglasses and puts them on, hoping to cover his eyes as he leaves the hotel today.

“Flights in 4 hours,” Blake says as he puts his phone back in his pocket, “We should get going.”

So they do. Blake’s room has already been emptied out so they make their way down into the foyer. There’s an abundance of Red Bull staff hanging around, many of them waiting for valets to bring cars around. A few of them grab Daniel and tell him congratulations and every single person he smiles at, tells them thank you.

“Daniel!” A voice calls. It’s Martin making his way through the hoards of people. “Plans for the summer break?”

He knows Martin’s plans are to spend some time at home with his partner and their kids. Daniel finds himself jealous. He and Max were supposed to go to Ibiza together, maybe spend some time on a yacht in the Mediterranean together, where no one knows who they are. Now that isn’t happening, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Not sure yet,” he says instead.“My sister was talking about coming to Europe with the kids.” It’s the truth, Michelle had mentioned it last year, at Christmas. Daniel makes a mental note to ring her tonight, maybe they can organise something.

“Maybe you can come visit?” Martin offers, and Daniel feels his heart tighten. Martin knows how hard it is for Daniel, being so far away from his family all the time. He might be 34 now, and maybe he’s been away from them for more than half his life, but it never gets easier. “I will check with Antoine, but I’m sure it would be fine.”

Blake’s calling Daniel by now, so he quickly says, “I’ll let you know, but I’d love that.” And then he’s rushing off to make sure Blake doesn’t leave him stranded in a hotel in Budapest.

Daniel drives to the airport and neither of them speak. Blake instead rifles through the bags on the floor in front of them, making sure everything they need is in their carry ons. Passports, wallets, keys to Daniel’s car that he’d parked at the airport in Nice. Daniel isn’t sure whether he’s happy that Blake is skirting around the obvious, or uncomfortable with the anticipation of the conversation happening. Either way, he’s glad he has Blake now.

The drive to the airport isn’t long. Daniel works on autopilot through check in and security and onto the airport lounge they have access too. Daniel grabs some food from the buffet, and Blake wanders off to find something for himself.

He finds a table by the window, one where the planes taxi the tarmac before eventually leaving are on show. Daniel chews on some sourdough bread, disassociating watching the planes before he hears the clank of glasses being placed onto the table.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Blake asks, sitting down.

“No, we aren’t.” Daniel’s reply is quick, a shut-down of sorts.

“Okay, mate,” Blake says, sliding a drink over to Daniel. “When you’re ready, let me know.”

Daniel is never ready, so he and Blake never talk about it.

When they’re back in Monaco, Daniel drops Blake home and then he drives back to his place. When he pulls up, Max’s car is nowhere to be seen. Daniel had hoped, prayed maybe, that Max would come to his senses, realise what he said was wrong, and wait at the doorstep to grovel, beg with an apology.

Instead, the house is empty, there’s no Max waiting for him, there’s no note tacked onto the door. Now he realises the severity of what’s happened. When he gets inside Daniel’s apartment feels empty without another body there, without Max’s laugh echoing across the hardwood floors, bouncing off the floors.

When he turns on the TV and sits on the couch, he almost crumbles. Almost. It’s empty and lonely being here alone, it’s almost too quiet. Daniel had gotten too used to being at Max’s house, with the ruckus of them together mixing with the cats too. But then he sees himself on the news report, a shot of him on the podium, drinking champagne out of his boot as Oscar stands above him on the podium, and Daniel refuses to be the one who folds first.

He tries not to focus too much on it, turning the TV off immediately and instead, getting up and attempting to cook something for dinner. He searches through the pantry for anything he could turn into a meal, cursing himself for not keeping his kitchen stocked. Something about how often he spent at Max’s, who can cook, sits in the back of his throat.

He throws something together. It doesn’t look appetising, but it’s fulfilling and at 8 pm, he realises how tired he truly is. He showers, half-unpacks his suitcase and tries to ignore how much of Max’s clothing is in his wardrobe as he shoves it all to one side and then climbs into bed.

He lays there for what feels like hours, before Daniel opens his phone, clicks on the Chrome app and immediately looks at flights out of Europe. It’s winter at home, the weather would not be what he needs right now.

At least LA is nice this time of year.

Daniel gets the notification that Grill The Grid is going to be posted over summer break when he’s on his way to the airport. He’d forgotten about it, in all honesty, having filmed it so long ago in Bahrain, during winter testing, and Daniel dreads seeing his answers.

He knows he mentioned Max too many times. Blake had teased him relentlessly, told him he was being a touch too obvious, that anyone with ears were going to work out that he and Max were potentially something more than teammates and friends. Daniel had shook his head and waved him off. He was sure there was no way they were going to keep the clips of how often he mentioned Max in.

“It would be boring,” Daniel had said, “My answers only being Max? The producers are just going to cut me from the episodes.”

Blake had shrugged and threw an orange at Daniel’s head.

The first episode is posted on August 9th. Daniel’s in LA, soaking up as much sunshine as he possibly can when the episode gets posted.

He doesn’t watch it, but he sees the clips on Twitter, chopped up and reposted by everyone possible. People are referring to them as 333 and Maxiel, and Daniel feels sick to his stomach. Daniel had thought he was bad, with mentioning Max at every possible convenience, but fuck, seeing the clips of Max, Daniel feels the bile rise up into his throat.

It’s a lull between episodes after that. Episode two has the drivers ranking them from youngest to oldest, and episode three was guessing who said what quote. Easy stuff, Daniel remembers he had excelled at both. Episode four, however, is posted on August 23rd.

Daniel’s curiosity gets the better of him and he watches the episode curled up in bed one evening.

Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself. Daniel and myself.

Daniel wonders how hard he would need to slam his head onto concrete, to forget that clip ever exists.

Thursday in Belgium is awkward.

Daniel doesn’t explicitly ignore Max, but he doesn’t go out of his way to seek him out either. Besides, Max is busy filming stuff for Red Bull’s social media—TikToks about the flags and capitals of the world, or something like that—and Daniel is thrown into a press conference.

It’s the usual questions you get after summer break ends. What did you get up to? How was training over summer? What are your hopes and plans for this back half of the season? Daniel gets a few questions about whether he thinks he’s going to defend his championship lead this weekend. Cockily, he says yes, and he hopes Max sees the clip too.

Belgium, as always, is considered one of Max’s home races, so he’s off filming and being followed by staff all weekend while Daniel gets some time to himself. He sneaks into the Ferrari garage with Lando at one point, steals their muffins and chocolates before running out when Charles catches them.

They find somewhere to sit near the track, away from prying eyes and listening ears. “Good to know you don’t hate me,” Daniel says jokingly, but Lando doesn’t laugh. The silence sits between them for a moment, filling Daniel’s lungs up until they almost burn.

“I couldn’t hate you,” Lando says. For once in his life, he’s not treating everything like a joke. “It’s shit what happened, but I’m not going to, like, blindly take Max’s side.”

Daniel doesn’t know what to say to that. For years, he’s known friends to take sides in break ups, and he thought now would be no different. Daniel and Lando are friends, sure, but he’s best friends with Max.

“It’s a complicated break up,” Lando says, “it’s not like one of you cheated on the other and there’s a clear side to pick.”

Daniel wants to ask if Max was making him pick a side, but he bites his tongue until the taste of metallic fills his mouth. “Thanks,” Daniel says instead, “it means a lot.”

Lando just shrugs, shoving more of the muffin in his mouth. “What he said was stupid, but I know he didn’t mean it like that.” Daniel finds it hard to take Lando seriously, given the fact he’s speaking with a mouth full of food. Daniel hits him on the shoulder briefly, tells him to swallow his food before speaking in case he chokes, and Lando just rolls his eyes.

“It was stupid,” Lando repeats, “even if he didn’t mean it that way.”

Daniel pondors Lando’s words before saying, “I think he did mean it that way.” The way Max had spoken to him, the way Max had treated the situation. Daniel can’t help but think, assume, what Max had meant.

Lando makes a noise Daniel can’t make out. “I guess I can’t talk you into talking to him, can I?” He thinks about it for a moment, whether that’s something he wants to do.

But after a thought, Daniel, still after weeks, refuses to fold first. “Max can talk to me.”

Which, Daniel doesn’t think is ever going to happen. He knows he’s being stubborn, but Max is too, not trying to sort anything out. Maybe they’re both equally at fault, but Daniel was the one hurt in this situation, and Max knows that, he knows what he said hurt Daniel.

Although, it seems like Max isn’t going to budge either. They get to the track at the same time on Saturday. Daniel’s with Blake, he barely notices Max’s presence before Blake grabs him by the arm to stop him from running into a body. Max doesn’t speak, but Daniel watches him pause for a moment, before walking slightly faster than usual towards the gate.

“Weird,” Blake says, and Daniel shrugs. “Do you think it’s going to rain today?” he asks, changing the subject.

Daniel scans his pass and shrugs again. “Probably,” he says, looking up at the sky. It’s grey, and the air temperature is cool despite it being August still. “It’s Belgium, it always rains.”

It does rain, and qualifying gets delayed because of it. Max and Daniel are sitting in their cars, ready to go out, when the delay gets called. Frustrated, Daniel climbs out of the car and walks across the garage. Martin’s on the pit wall when Daniel makes his way over, biting his lip and staring at screens.

“How long do you think the delay is for?” Daniel asks, and Martin all but shrugs his shoulders. “The radar looks like it’ll clear soon?”

“We hope,” Martin replies, “Obviously here, of all places, we don’t want to send 20 cars onto the track in not ideal conditions.”

Daniel hums in agreement, too many lives lost in Spa, we don’t need to add another to the list.

Down the line, Daniel can see GP talking to Max. He looks annoyed at the red flag, and Daniel remembers once, during a race last year, that Max complained about the red flag, not understanding why people can’t drive in a little bit of a sprinkle. He had found it endearing last year, he curses himself for thinking the pout on Max’s lips was cute even now.

He watches him for a moment, Martin speaking about tech and strategy and plans for qualifying. Daniel is half listening, eyes wandering down to the ground where he spots Max’s boots. The boots he had proclaimed were red, because gold wasn’t an option for 24.

Daniel had known he was lying when he said they were red because he had no other choice, because now, in Belgium, Max’s boots are gold.

For some reason, the gold boots piss Daniel off more than he realised. He remembers the conversation they had, how adamant Max was that he had red boots because he wasn’t allowed gold ones. Daniel had known he was lying, but the confirmation that he was annoys him even more.

The gold boots are gaudy, and a way to show off. They’re for the champion, kind of like a way to let everyone know who the reigning champion is, to make sure no one forgets. Daniel had thought they were cute in 2022 when following Max’s controversial first Championship, he turned up in Bahrain with gold boots and a car sporting the number 1.

Daniel wonders if it’s on purpose, or if it’s just a coincidence that Max turns up in Belgian with the gold boots back on. He’s not even leading the Championship, but something about him doing this feels like a statement.

Like it won’t be for long, until he’s back in front, running away with the trophy. Daniel wonders if this means that he doesn’t care anymore, that all the moments he spent agonising over summer break were futile because Max doesn’t even care, he doesn’t even try and talk to him.

Neither of them win in Belgium. Instead, it’s George on the top step for the first time all season, and by the way he cries you’d think it was his first win all over again.

Daniel’s in second though, and Max is in third, so Daniel keeps the championship lead, and ignores Max on the podium.

After Spa, it’s Zandvoort.

The cape isn’t weighing down Daniel’s bag. It’s not even in The Netherlands. It’s in Monaco still, shoved in the back of the wardrobe, collecting dust, getting wrinkly.

Max wins and, with Daniel coming fourth, he reclaims the lead by three fucking points.

It’s fine though, because in Monza, it’s a Red Bull 1-2, just ahead of the prancing horses. They do the cool down lap in perfect harmony, spurred on by the noise from Tifosi booing them and Daniel, used to it now, soaks it in. He knows the booing means he’s done something right today—he’s not just beaten Ferrari on home soil, he’s beaten Max.

He’s beating Max. Again.

By four points. Four, fucking points, Daniel reclaims the lead, his lead. Try and insinuate the first time was a fluke now, bitch, he thinks from the top step, the Australian anthem the background of his thoughts.

The week between Monza and Singapore, Daniel flies home with his parents. He hadn’t told either of them about what happened, but he guesses they know by now. It’s Spring in the Southern Hemisphere, and with the new season, comes a new beginning; in Perth, this means the jacaranda trees begin to bloom, dusting the ground in pretty purple flowers. Daniel wonders if this is his new beginning, one without Max.

He plans to spend the week adjusting to the timezone differences between Europe and Oceania. The first day, he accidentally sleeps until 4 in the afternoon, and sheepishly walks out of his room as his mum is checking dinner in the slow cooker to make cereal for his gurgling stomach.

“Smells delicious, mum,” he says, trying to smooth out how late it is. “Is it braised steak?”

She hums in agreement, stirring the spoon around before scooping some out. “Try it,” she says, hovering the spoon in the air and Daniel takes it and shoves it in his mouth, not caring about the heat or the fact he has a bowl full of milk in front of him. “Still as good as you remember?”

Daniel makes a noise that only comes out when you try your mum’s cooking. “Always,” he says, “it’s horrible being away from you. I have all my prepped meals that are nothing like this. Not to mention Max—”

He cuts himself off when he realises what he was about to say. Max can’t cook either. He watches the look of sympathy wash over his mum’s face, and she bites her lip, clearly deciding on whether she wants to say something.

“What happened, baby?” she asks eventually, throwing the spoon in the sink and leaning over the counter to talk to Daniel. “You couldn’t even look at him in Italy.”

Daniel shrugs. He and Blake never talked about it. When he was in LA, he saw Dax and Kristin and didn’t bring it up with them either. Lando’s the only person he’s talked about it with, and even then, he already knew because of Max. Daniel hasn’t had to explain what happened to anyone.

He doesn’t want to explain it, because the worst thing of all, Daniel doesn’t want to turn people against Max. He knew, knows, really, that Max isn’t a terrible person. He just thinks too logically, too seriously, and unfortunately, he ended up getting caught in the crossfire.

“We broke up,” he says quietly, “a few weeks ago. In Hungary.” There’s a sense of finality in his words, actually admitting what happened out loud. Before, it was like a secret kept close to his heart, the final sliver of hope that maybe that isn’t the case.

His mum doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t poke her finger in his business, doesn’t try to get more information out of him. Instead, she circles the counter until she’s standing next to Daniel and pulls him into her arms, Daniel not getting a choice on whether this is something he wanted.

However, it’s definitely something he needed. His mum’s embrace breaks the dam that Daniel had so carefully built, and the tears flow faster than the Amazon river. He feels like a kid again, crying because Michelle didn’t let him play with her, or because he kicked his ball too hard and it went flying over his neighbours fence and into the backyard. It’s cathartic though, the way his chest burns and the way he holds her tight, the way she runs her hand up and down his back.

“You two are adults, I’m sure you can work out whatever caused this,” she whispers, and Daniel doesn’t have the heart to tell her that, truthfully, he doesn’t think they can. This isn’t some childish misunderstanding, it’s not Max accidentally hurting Daniel’s feelings.

Max knows what he said, he knew it hurt Daniel, and then he doubled down on it anyway. He isn’t sure if they can come back from that.

He shrugs against his mum, and she pulls back, holding his face in both of her hands. Daniel hadn’t realised how much older she’s gotten over the years. It almost makes him feel bad for how often he’s away now. He’s thought about retiring so many times—both seriously and as a joke—and maybe when he finally does, he’ll come back to Australia. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if Max would want that, and then he realises Max doesn’t get a say in things like that anymore.

“I don’t think so,” he whispers softly. “Do you remember Nico and Lewis in 2016? How I told you that season ruined their friendship?”

He remembers that all too easily, he remembers telling his mum and her scoffing, not understanding how something like a Championship can ruin a friendship that ran so deep, that was so strong for so many years. His mum hums in agreement, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why he’s bringing that up now, of all days.

“This is worse.” And it pains him to admit it, to put it into perspective like that. Nico and Lewis’s friendship breakdown over the 2016 season was so well documented that it’s still talked about to this day. He wonders if people have began to notice Max and Daniel; the way they don’t hug each after the race anymore, the way they can’t look at each other on the podiums too.

He wonders if, in 5 years time when Max is probably still racing and Daniel is long retired, if people will still talk about them the way people talk about Nico and Lewis.

It takes hours for Daniel to get news about what’s going on with the grid. Max had qualified on pole, Daniel barely behind him, but the impeding in Q3 was surely enough for a penalty. Starting on pole in Singapore… It’s more important here than in Monaco sometimes.

He went straight to the stewards after qualifying. Had to listen to Max spew some bullshit about how he had to drive that slowly because the car ahead of him was driving slowly. Daniel had scoffed a little too loudly and one of the stewards had given him daggers. He hadn’t cared though, he knew Max knew he was angry, and he was glad.

They’d told them to leave, that the stewards would deliberate after they meet with more people who got impeding complaints, so it’s just as he’s finished eating dinner with Martin when the official F1 accounts all post the grid for the next day, the both of them picking up their phones and—

“What the fuck?” Daniel mutters under his breath, “how didn’t he get a penalty? I had to abort my first lap in Q3?”

He looks up at Martin, who looks just as confused as Daniel, and then he’s switching from Twitter to texts. Daniel can’t tell who he’s messaging, but the way his fingers dance across the screen makes Daniel think it’s important. “I’ll see what I can find out why,” he says after a moment's silence, “you go home, get some rest before tomorrow.”

Daniel feels as if he wants someone to hunt Max down, and serve him Max’s head on a silver platter so he can’t race tomorrow. He’s furious, he remembers Charles getting an impeding penalty for much, much less a few weekends ago, Pierre too.

Instead, he goes to his hotel room and minds his own fucking business.

He showers, scalding hot until his skin turns red raw and dry, and he wonders if his skin would peel from his bones and wash down the pipes. He wonders how Max would feel then, if a sense of guilt would fall over him, knowing he did that to Daniel subconsciously.

The shower helps, Daniel calms down once the steam starts to outweigh the oxygen in his lungs and he begins to struggle to breathe. Then he gets out, puts on pyjamas, and goes to sleep dreaming of Max crashing into turn one tomorrow.

He wonders if it’s karma, for dreaming, hoping even, for Max to crash into turn one.

Because he does crash into turn one on Sunday. He defends too aggressively, moves a little too much. It’s a rookie move, Daniel thinks, and then his own car slams into the back of Max’s. He pulls his hand off the wheel at the very last second, and then he’s slamming his fists on it instead, screaming so loud he’s sure the people in the grandstand can hear him.

“You okay, mate?” Martin’s voice comes through the radio.

“I’m fine, just fucked off,” he replies instantly, and then he’s pulling his steering wheel off of it’s hinges. He’s angry, he can feel every limb in his body shaking as he climbs out of the car. There’s a safety car, so Daniel has no problem with waltzing over to where Max’s car is.

The back is destroyed, much like the front of his own car. Max isn’t out of the car yet, and for a brief moment, Daniel wonders if maybe he’s knocked out. He catches himself being worried then, his chest aching at the prospect of being the reason Max is knocked out in the cockpit of his car.

But then he sees his hands moving, pulling the steering wheel free and trying to climb out. The care that Daniel had melts from his bones, his chest stops aching with worry. The anger comes back, hotter this time, worse this time. He can feel his blood boiling, bubbling and threatening to burst.

Daniel grabs Max by the shoulder, shakes his harshly and spits, “You’re a fucking reckless cunt. Grow up.” There’s poison in his voice, he hopes Max gets sick, throws up from it, maybe it’ll infect his organs, rot them so they match Daniel’s feelings for him.

He hears Max calling after him, but Daniel ignores him. He walks, and walks, and walks until he’s back in the paddock. He walks right up to Christian, who’s sitting at the pit wall, monitoring something and says, “I am not apologising for that. Not this fucking time.”

He knows what the internet is saying. It’s almost comical, how much this accident looks like Baku from all those years ago. Daniel was forced to apologise then despite everyone, including Max himself, knowing he moved under braking. This time, the moving and the brake checking, Daniel is not taking the fall.

“I’m not going to make you apologise,” Christian says, “I can see you’re mad. Go to medical and get cleared, we can talk later.”

“I’m not fucking talking to him.” It’s final, he’s decided. If Max wants to act that way, if he wants to be that fucking stupid, then he can, but Daniel isn’t have any of it.

So Daniel goes to medical. Max is already there, and Daniel refuses to look at him, still. He gets cleared, but they make him stay. “For monitoring,” the nurse had said, “sometimes concussion symptoms come on later.”

Max and Daniel sit in silence, watching the race on the small television they have propped up on the counter. Lando’s in the lead, still holding strong after the pair of them crashed out in front of him. Daniel wonders if this will be it for Lando.

“That was an idiot move,” Max says after a while.

It takes Daniel a beat to process it, and then he’s saying, “I hope you’re not saying that because you expect me to apologise?”

Max doesn’t speak, he stares at his hands, picks at the skin on them before standing up and coming over to Daniel. “No, I don’t expect you to apologise.”

“You were an idiot today.” Daniel narrows his eyes. He lets Max stand in front of him for a beat, and then he stands up too. Max is taller, but Daniel stands so straight that they’re almost equal in stature. “You know how to race, Max, don’t pull that shit on me again.”

“Or what?” Max questions, and it feels more like a taunt if anything.

Daniel feels as if Max is egging him on, trying to get him to say something Daniel regrets. Daniel doesn’t regret things, everything he says, he means. Max knows this, from the amount of times Daniel whispered I love yous between sheets under sunlight.

“I don’t fucking know?” Daniel says, exasperated, fed up with this. “Just try not to kill us both, yeah?”

Daniel isn’t sure if he imagines Max rolling his eyes, or if he actually does it. Either way, the words that leave Max’s mouth next make him see red. “You crashed into me, remember?”

And Daniel’s pushing Max then, pushing him away, pushing him up against the wall. “You brake checked me, remember?” Daniel says mockingly.

Max is smirking, as if he’s enjoying this, as if he’s doing it on purpose. Daniel stares at him, and wants to kick himself for thinking he’s beautiful, even now. It’s hot in Singapore, Max’s cheeks are pink, sweat still beading on his forehead, his hair is long so he’s pushed it off his face. His eyes are dazzling under the fluorescent lights. Max is beautiful, and Daniel is angry.

“No, I don’t remember,” Max says, cockily, “I remember defending my position, and breaking for the corner, Daniel. I don’t remember break checking you, because I was faster.”

He says faster like it’s a way to gloat. “You’re a fucking idiot,” Daniel hisses, but he doesn’t move away from Max. They’re standing so close that Daniel can feel Max breathing, can feel his heart banging in his chest almost. Daniel wants to reach inside Max’s chest cavity and squeeze it until it stops beating.

Daniel doesn’t remember ever being this angry, but he is, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s a monster, he needs to be put down like a rabid dog. It feels like years ago, when he and Max would flirt with each other in the brief moments before they needed to go to the press pen. Now, everything between them is disgusting, and angry, and downright cruel.

Daniel brings his shaking hand up against his head, presses it against the wall right next to Max’s head, caging him so he can’t move. Daniel doesn’t feel in control of his body anymore, his hands doing things of their own volition. Max keeps holding eye contact with Daniel, like he’s standing here, waiting for Daniel to make a move. “Do it,” he says, as if he can read Daniel’s mind, “I dare you.”

Without thinking, Daniel kisses Max.

It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet, there’s not even love in this kiss, if you can even call it that. There’s hatred in it, the way their teeth clash together and the way Daniel bites down on Max’s bottom lip. They’re panting into each other’s mouths, and Daniel’s hand moves from the wall into Max’s hair and he pulls while his other hand grips his hip so tight that Daniel wonders if he’s leaving finger shaped bruises into Max’s soft, pale flesh.

Daniel shoves his knee between Max’s legs and pushes him harder against the wall, and he takes, and takes, and takes. Max’s hands are wrapped around Daniel’s shoulders, fingernails digging into his shoulders and leaving half-moon crescents until he breaks skin and Daniel starts to bleed in his palm.

They pull away for a moment, and Max’s eyes are blown out, lips parted and he’s panting so hard you’d think he’d just ran a marathon. He’s hard, humping Daniel’s leg and for some reason it awakens something in Daniel. He pulls at Max’s race suit, forces it down his body until Daniel can shove a hand into Max’s boxer so he can jerk him off.

For a moment, it’s gentle. Daniel’s careful to not rip Max’s boxers, and softly curls his hand around his cock. But then, Daniel remembers the situation they’re in. Max doesn’t love him, they’re no longer together, Daniel questions if he even loves Max anymore. This is meant to be dirty, it’s meant to be blood and guts and gritty.

When Daniel bites down onto Max’s neck, he moans in Daniel’s ear, and Daniel laughs at him. He leaves marks on Max’s neck, bites harder next time, so hard he wonders if he broke the flesh. He wants Max to experience pain, wants Max to deal with the repercussions of his actions.

It’s not a good handjob. It’s all friction and anger but Max comes in Daniel’s hand and moans in his ear before either of them realise. “Daniel, please,” he murmurs, and the pleading, the begging, it digs a knife into Daniel’s stomach and twists it, gutting him. Everything is worse now, Daniel just misses Max even more.

So he’s quick to pull his hand out of Max’s boxers, as if there’s a flame and he’s burnt himself. He grabs the paper towel from the sink and wipes the come off his hand as Max drops to his knees. “Let me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Please, Daniel.”

Daniel lets him, the way Max says his name unravelling him in ways he doesn’t like to admit. He unzips his race suit, shoves his boxers down and gets his cock out for Max and feeds it to him. Max’s hands curl around Daniel’s thighs, pull him closer, and takes Daniel right down his throat.

I still love you, Daniel finds himself thinking when Max’s lips are split over his cock and he’s gagging. His eyes are wide open, the red bloodshot veins in his eyes making the blue look even brighter, and Daniel’s grip in his blond hair is so tight he wonders if the tears in Max’s eyes are actually from that. I’m dying without you.

“I can take it,” Max says when he pulls off Daniel, the wet and slick noise almost makes Daniel cringe. “You can be rough.”

So Daniel is rough, he pulls Max’s hair, harder this time, and fucks Max’s mouth, rougher than ever before. Max’s eyes are rolling back in his head, tears are spilling down his cheeks and Daniel bites on his lip so hard his mouth fills with metallic. He refuses to moan, to give Max the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting Daniel off.

It’s just another body, Daniel thinks, trying to ignore the thoughts screaming in the back of his mind, begging him to be gentle, pleading with him to forgive Max. When he comes, he feels disgusting, and he’s looking up at the fluorescent lights, pretending like he doesn’t hear Max gag one last time and get up from the floor.

He notices Max doesn’t spit, or if he had, he did it when Daniel was coming down from his poor excuse of an orgasm. He stays still for a moment, panting and getting his breath back before he pulls his race suit back up, and shoulder checks Max on the way out of the medical tent.

The debrief is a nightmare.

Daniel sits there the entire time listening to Christian talk about how disappointed he is. He says things like “I expected better from the both of you.” and “I thought you two said you could handle racing each other again.” Each sentence that leaves Christian’s mouth feels like a cut from a blunt knife, dragging down his arm slowly until he begins to bleed out.

“An embarrassment,” Christian says at last, “That’s what today was. You two are dismissed.”

Max is on the other side of the room, whispering to GP. His face is still flushed, and Daniel can see the faint teeth marks against his throat, ones that are shaped a little too much like his incisors. Daniel wonders what Max is talking about, whether or not he took accountability to anyone. Daniel’s next to Martin, of course, already having apologised for the mess that the pair of them caused. Daniel wasn’t taking the fall for today, but he still felt bad for ruining his car and for the bad result.

“We’ll do better in Japan,” Daniel says, standing up and clapping his heads. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to find Lando. I need to make sure he doesn’t get too drunk tonight.”

The team laugh. They all have fondness for Lando, of course. Daniel had thought, for a brief moment, that they were going to sign Lando over himself. But, he’s happy at McLaren, and tonight just proves he needs to stay there. He’s bringing them back to glory, Daniel knows it.

He finds him in the McLaren garage, clearly already tipsy from the podium. “Daniel!” he calls out, swinging the champagne bottle around and, for the first time all evening, Daniel smiles.

“Lando!” he calls back, grabbing the champagne bottle from his hand. While Daniel is long out of his race suit and changed back into team kit, Lando is still in his suit, champagne soaked, sticky and, for some reason, without shoes. “Where’s your boots, mate.”

“Osc made me do a shoey,” he says giddily, like he’s a child who’s just gotten an award at school, and not someone who’s just joined the exclusive club of Grand Prix winners. “They’re still gross, even when you win, but they’re a little bit more bearable.”

Daniel takes a swig of the champagne. It slides down his throat easily, he wonders if he could just drink the rest of it. Maybe then he’d forget this nightmare of a weekend.

“I’m happy for you, mate,” Daniel says, passing the bottle back to Lando, “No one more deserving of a win.”

Lando squeals, smacks Daniel on the arm and then looks behind him and screams, “Max!” Daniel is long forgotten then, Lando leaving his side to jump on top of Max, who groans and complains under his breath of the stench. “Don’t be jealous.”

Daniel stands there awkwardly, scowling at Max. Couldn’t you have waited for me to leave? he finds himself thinking, but he shakes his head. They can be civil for two seconds, for Lando’s sake, even if being civil is not talking to each other.

It turns out Lando can’t let them just exist in peace though, for he drags Max over to where Daniel is standing to take a photo together. Up close, Max’s lips are still swollen, but they’re pursed together in a tight line; you’d only notice it if you knew why they’re bitten. The photo is uncomfortable for both of them, but Lando doesn’t care, and Daniel smiles for it anyway.

“I have to get going,” Daniel mutters after the McLaren photographer leaves. “My flights early in the morning.”

Lando whines and says, “Stay, party with us. Fly to Japan with Max and I late tomorrow!” His words are slurred, and he’s doing his best puppy dog eyes. Daniel wonders if he’s gotten so drunk that he doesn’t remember what’s happened, hasn’t picked up on how awkward it is here.

“I would not mind,” Max offers, and Daniel narrows his eyes at him. Daniel knows he’s trying to play the good guy, to cater to Lando’s needs, but Daniel isn’t going to let him.

Instead, Daniel gives Lando one more hug, a tighter one this time, and says, “Not your best idea mate. I’ll see you in Suzuka.”

When he leaves, Daniel imagines Max saying bye under his breath, and he pretends his heart doesn’t rattle against his ribcage.

Japan is nothing to celebrate, at least for Daniel. He finishes 6th, Max leads the championship by 3 points despite Charles winning. He cries on the podium, points up to the sky and says, ”This one is for Jules.” It’s hard not to cry with him, when it feels like Charles has just crushed the horrible feelings Suzuka has for him, rebirthed his emotions here maybe.

There’s a break in the season after that for almost a month. Max’s birthday happens the day after the race, and Daniel is all too aware of it while he’s in Tokyo airport. Everyone he turns, he sees September 30. Granted, it’s on his boarding pass, and all of the clocks and screens around the airport, but it feels as if it’s taunting him, a little bit.

He flies back to Europe, sleeps the entire time and then when he lands in Nice, he sleeps the entire drive to Monaco. Blake has to hit him over the head to wake him up and kick him out of the car when they get to his apartment complex. He grumbles something that sounds like the word prick under his breath, and climbs out of Blake’s car, flicking him the bird when he gets his suitcase out of the backseat.

He yawns when he gets in the elevator, hits the button for his floor and leans against the wall as he goes up, and up, and up. He doesn’t know what’s got him so exhausted, but he’s going to sleep for 500 years, he thinks.

When the elevator dings, Daniel walks out of the elevator without thinking. Left turn to his apartment but then he’s met with, “Daniel?” And Daniel knows that voice, the way the Dutch accent hugs every letter in his name, the way the L rolls off the tongue.

Fuck, Daniel thinks, looking at the numbers on the doors, and realising accidentally, he’s ended up on Max’s floor, walking towards Max’s apartment. His body working on autopilot, taking him home.

Or what used to be home, he guesses.

Max is standing in front of him with his own suitcases, he clearly got out of the elevator just before Daniel had too. He wonders how Max flew home; where his plane had stopped, who drove him from Nice to Monaco. Looking at Max, Daniel can tell he’s tired, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Daniel knows he’s going to go inside and crawl into bed, his suitcase abandoned in the living room while he sleeps. He’s almost tempted to reach out to Max, grab his hand and go inside with him, so exhausted that his mind and body aren’t communicating.

“My bad,” Daniel murmurs instead, turning to press the down button on the elevator. The LED screen says the elevator has somehow made its way down to the ground floor. He stares at it, pretending it’s something fascinating to watch. Green numbers, flicking from G to 1, to 2, to 3—

“Did you have a good flight?” Max asks.

Daniel had not realised Max was still standing there, assumed he’d gone inside and ignored Daniel’s existence. He almost wishes Max had done that, instead of hanging around, key in his hand.“Don’t do that,” Daniel says, not even able to look at Max.

“Do what?” The tone of Max’s voice is genuine curiosity. Daniel can’t help but laugh in his face. He can’t be serious?

“Hold small talk with me.” It’s obvious that after what happened in Singapore, they’re not on talking terms. It was stupid what they did—both the crash, and what happened in the medical tent afterwards—and Daniel had thought it was clear after the way he avoided Max like the plague in Japan that small talk isn’t an option.

“Daniel—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“What if I’m apologising? And you don’t want to hear me out?” There’s snark in Max’s tone, one that Daniel doesn’t like. He’s being stubborn, they both are, but Max knows how to grind Daniel’s gears like no other.

“But you’re not. You seem to forget that I know you, Max,” Daniel hisses back, and finally, the elevator dings and the doors open. It burns, how well he knows Max. He wishes he didn’t know him this well, that he could just believe it. Max is straightforward, he doesn’t understand why people feel the need to dance around their feelings, that is why Daniel knows he isn’t apologising now, and why he isn’t apologising anytime soon. “You would have said it already. ”

When Daniel walks into the elevator, he presses the correct floor this time, and holds down the close door buttons so hard he worries he might break it. Max stays standing there, Daniel can see him from the corner of his eye all the way until the doors shut.

His lungs burn, his skin itches, his hands won’t stop shaking and Daniel wonders if he’s dying. When he’s on the correct floor, he practically runs from the elevator to his apartment and he drops his keys twice before he can finally unlock the door.

When he’s finally inside, he begins to cry, and cry, and cry, until his lungs are rough and breathing is painful.

And then he texts his therapist.

Daniel’s therapist is a nice woman. She’s probably around his mum’s age, and given the fact she’s lived in Monaco her entire life, she’s been working with drivers for years. He got her number from Nico Rosberg in 2022, when the season was going so horribly that Daniel was wondering if it was even worth it anymore, racing every weekend when he knew he was fighting the car instead of melding his bones into it.

He still talks to her intermittently; over the breaks, before the new season starts. They have a plan, in case it gets bad again. But since being back at Red Bull, since returning to his former glory, he hasn’t needed to see her as intensely anymore.

Now, Daniel sits in her waiting room, picking at the dry skin that’s flaking around his fingernails. He pulls a hangnail, hisses when he rips the skin, shoves the finger in his mouth and lets the metallic taste settle on his tongue. The office overlooks the Mediterranean, he stares out at the blue water that reflects the sky, watches the yachts float in the water and he wonders, briefly, if Max is on any of them.

“Daniel?” she calls softly, and Daniel gets up and follows her into the office. There’s more flowers in the hallway than what Daniel remembers, it makes him realise he hasn’t been here in a while. Hasn’t felt the need to be, really. Until now.

“I haven’t had to see you in a while,” she starts, sitting down and pulling out a book with D. Ricciardo written on the side, “I’ve caught a few of the races, you’re leading the Championship, aren’t you?”

No, actually Daniel thinks, but he doesn’t correct her. Quickly, he realises he wasn’t entirely sure if he was or wasn’t, for a moment. For the first time in weeks, numbers haven’t been stuck to his brain, sharp claws haven’t been dug into his brain, squishing it.

Daniel considers telling her the truth for a moment, spilling the beans on everything. On last season, the highs and the lows, how being on the podium made him feel like a God, how winning made him feel unbeatable. On this season too, how he feels like he’s going to either win the Championship or die trying. Briefly, he considers spilling the beans on Max, on everything about Max, Max, Max, Max.

“I think this season is getting to me, actually,” he says instead, deciding against anything his heart is saying. “It’s stressful, fighting for a Championship.”

She writes something down, Daniel can’t read it from his spot on the couch. “And why is that?”

Daniel tells her almost everything. Relays the start of the season, how angry and frustrated he was that he and Max had the exact same car, but somehow Max was just better. Then, the middle of the season, his back-to-back wins that catapulted him to the top of the ladder, nipping at Max’s ankles with every race they completed. And then Silverstone, fuck and Hungary, and Max’s words, the ones that made Daniel feel—

“You talk a lot about Max,” she comments, “Do you still think going back to Red Bull is a good idea?”

“Yes.” His word is quick, cutting her off completely, the serrated knife cutting her thoughts short. “Red Bull is where I need to finish my career. It’s where I need to win a Championship.”

She hums and then says, “With Max as your teammate?”

“Max is never leaving them, his contract is one of the longest ones on the grid.”

She purses her lips together and writes something in her book, and then puts it down. Daniel doesn’t like it. He forgot how weird it is, having someone being able to read you so easily. “Why did you call me, Daniel?”

“The season. Like I said, it’s getting to me, I think.” He knows. It’s been getting to him since pre-season testing, since winter break, since Abu Dhabi last year, maybe.

“How is it getting to you?” she prompts, “Do you think you need to retire? Walk out midway through the season? What’s going through your mind?”

“I was seeing someone, it was serious. H–” Daniel cuts himself off quickly, deciding now isn’t the best time to out himself to his therapist, no matter how many NDAs she’s signed. “They’d met my family and spent Christmas with us in Perth, it was pretty serious. They live here, so we practically moved in with each other. I guess with the pressure of the season getting to me, we had a pretty turbulent break up.”

“When did you break up?” More questions, Daniel wishes she would stop before remembering this is her job. This is why he’s paying her a ridiculous amount of money.

“July, around summer break.” He’s not bending the truth, he’s just evading it. There’s nothing wrong with that if it means she doesn’t put the dots together. “I saw them after I got home from Singapore.”

She writes more stuff down, asks what Daniel means by turbulent. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He said something I didn’t like, and I knew he was just being logical but my feelings still got hurt. He’s an adult, he can handle getting his feelings trampled on, it’s more than that, they both know it.

“It was another driver on the grid,” he whispers softly, “we fought over how I won a race and what that meant. He said something that hurt me, I refused to listen to him apologise.”

She doesn’t comment on the confession, just focuses on what’s important and asks why he refused to listen to him apologise. Daniel isn’t sure whether he’s annoyed or grateful.

“Because what he said in the first place was hurtful,” Daniel argues, “he should have known better.”

“But you were thinking similar stuff at the start of the season about him, weren’t you?” Daniel has to think back at what he said, if he had mentioned Max by name. He hadn’t, he’d been careful not too. He guesses maybe he’s a lot easier to read than he’d like.

So, Daniel thinks back to Malaysia, how he crashed out of the race and Max went on to win it. How angry he was, how he should have won in Malaysia, how he should have squashed Max’s lead early on in the season before it got too big, how he thought Max was only leading the championship because he crashed.

How he would hope to crush Max like an ant against a shoe.

“Why is it only okay when you think it, and not him?” she asks when Daniel doesn’t answer, “or, better worded, why were you allowed to think it, but when he said it without realising, when it sounds like he was just angry at a situation, he wasn’t allowed to apologise for it?”

Daniel doesn’t have an answer for her. Because he didn’t say it aloud? Because he kept it to himself, until it burnt at his throat to keep it down? Because he never really did want to hurt Max the way it seemed like Max wanted to hurt him? Maybe it was because he believed he could do it without Max not finishing a race in the points, or maybe it’s because he was worried he couldn’t do it without Max crashing and burning?

Maybe the reason he was so hur is because deep down, trapped in lava, under unbreakable obsidian, is the fear that Max was right all along. That the only reason Daniel ever stood a chance this season, is because of Max’s crashes.

“But I didn’t say it,” Daniel says defiantly, purposefully ignoring all the hypothetical situations his therapist is throwing at him.

She doesn’t budge, instead saying, “What if he didn’t listen to you, if the roles were reversed. How would that make you feel”

Daniel crosses his arms across his chest. He feels as if she’s taking Max’s side, it makes him angry. She’s meant to be on his side, isn’t she? “But they’re not. I didn’t say that bullshit to his face.”

“Daniel.”

“Lynette.”

“Humour me,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Because I wouldn’t say shit like that to his face!” Daniel explodes after a minute, “I know it would hurt him! Because it’s the same shit his dad used to say to him. So he should’ve known it would hurt me.”

Finally, she stays quiet, and writes something down in the book. Daniel feels as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders finally.

“Let;s talk about this more, shall we, Daniel?”

After the talk with his therapist, Daniel misses Max so much he feels like he’s going to be sick. He has to stop himself everyday from ringing Max, from turning up at his door and grovelling, begging Max to forgive him for being so horrible.

He knows he still deserves an apology, but Max deserves one too, and while Daniel doesn’t regret the way he acted, he’s embarrassed at it. He can’t even look at Max in Austin a month later.

Which is fine, because all eyes are on him actually.

He turns up on a horse again, he shaved his beard on Wednesday night with the help of Blake, went looking for boots last second with him too. Besides Australia, there really is nowhere where he feels more comfortable during a race weekend. Red Bull media follow him around all day, he puts on his worst accent, and flirts with the camera for good measure. It’s a good way to ignore how badly he wants to go find Max.

It’s a perfect weekend; he tops the timesheets in every session, he qualifies in first place, he wins the damn race. He makes a joke that they should play the US anthem on the podium for a brief moment in his interview with Jensen after the race, which gets the crowd cheering even louder for him, but the familiar tune of the Australian anthem playing runs a shiver down his spine.

He’s too used to shoeys now, the way the champagne spills over his mouth, runs down his neck and into his suit, how it soaks his fireproofs and sticks it to his skin. Somehow, the one in Austin gets him drunk immediately, he wonders if it’s something different in the champagne here—how everything is bigger in Texas, maybe—or maybe it’s just something about winning here that makes the champagne burn his throat more than usual.

During the US leg of the season, they start to trade wins, trading the lead. It’s between Max and Daniel for the Championship now, with almost everyone being eliminated from contention by Mexico. Daniel sees the graphics on Twitter, sees everyone talk about who they think is going to win it, when they’re going to win it. When Daniel won in Mexico, Max had finished 9th, and Daniel finally started to think he had a chance, only to finish a measly 8th in Brazil and lose the lead again.

It’s Vegas actually, where Daniel inevitably breaks down. It’s the end of a triple header, there’s a three week break before they go to Qatar and Daniel does nothing but drink on the Saturday night after the race. He’d won, and with winning Miami last year, he’s the only driver on the grid to have a hat-trick of US tracks under his belt.

A lot of the drivers are out in the club, he’d seen Max somewhere near the smokers area and Daniel had promptly walked in the opposite direction and downed a shot of tequila that someone had put in front of him, and then another that he’d ordered himself.

A girl comes up to him, flirts with him by batting her eyelashes and touching his arm. “You won the Grand Prix tonight, right?” she asks, her southern drawl sticking its claws into Daniel, and he nods stupidly, and buys them both a round of drinks.

She’s cute, he thinks. Blonde, big blue eyes, she stands close to Daniel’s height too. He pretends he doesn’t compare her to Max when he’s sucking salt off her neck for a Tequila shot, pretends it’s not a woman’s hand he’s holding when he’s dragging her to the dancefloor. Their bodies are caged together, Daniel knows he’s probably flying too close to the sun, that he’s probably going to burn himself soon, but he’s too drunk to care.

He doesn’t know how long they dance there for, he’s pressed up against her back, her head is thrown back against Daniel’s shoulder. He hasn’t kissed her yet, but he doesn’t know if he wants to. He’s so out of it, maybe he should take her home, forget all about everything else and just focus on her.

Max is across the dancefloor, standing with Lando, Alex, and George. He’s smoking inside, which everyone knows he shouldn’t be doing but he is and no ones telling him to stop because he’s Max. Daniel can’t stop looking at him, watching him take a drag and then turn his head away from the boys so he doesn’t blow smoke in their faces.

They make eye contact across the room for the first time in weeks then, when Max turns towards where Daniel is. Daniel can’t bring himself to look away, but neither does Max. They stand there for what feels like minutes, just looking at each other.

He watches Max’s eyes flick to the girl in front of him. They lower slightly, Daniel wonders if he’s looking at his hand on her waist, the way his hand flexes everytime she moves but then they shoot back up and he watches Max purse his lips before bringing his vape to his mouth. ‘That shit will kill you, Maxy,’ Daniel thinks, just like he always would nag when they were together.

Daniel breaks eye contact first, brings his eyes down so he can look at the girl in front of him. He focuses on her, tries to forget about blue eyes staring into his soul when he pulls her closer. Time passes slowly, the music keeps playing and then–

“Daniel, we have to go,” Max says, and Daniel thinks he’s imagining Max standing next to him with an arm wrapped around his shoulder to stop him from tripping over. He smells like raspberry and Red Bull; Daniel figures it’s a mixture of his drinks and his vape. “Our flight is early in the morning.”

“But I’m hanging out with Jessica?” Our flight? Daniel’s staying in Vegas for the next two days, he’s filming show runs with Red Bull, Max never asked him to fly back to Europe with him, Max knows Daniel needs to be in Vegas for a few days?

“It’s Jasmine, actually—”

“I’m sorry to be a buzz kill.” And then Max isn’t giving Daniel a choice. He’s taking Daniel’s hand in his and dragging him from the dancefloor towards the door. Daniel sways as he walks, but his grasp on Max’s hand is tight. He isn’t sure if he’s holding onto him so tightly because he’s terrified of losing him, or he’s savouring being this close for the first time in months. Either way, when Max is messing around on his phone—probably ordering an Uber—Daniel sways beside him. It’s… nice, being this close to Max and not feeling like he needs to rip himself apart for it. It feels normal, like this is how they spend time all the time. Daniel watches Max’s fingers dance across his phone, sees the $20 price tag for the Uber and sees that Ezekiel will be picking them up soon.

Max turns to Daniel then, and Daniel can’t bring himself to look away. He just stays looking at Max, committing everything to memory; the way his hair has grown out and it’s messy from being in the sweaty club for a few hours, the way his cheeks are flushed, bright blue eyes, bloodshot from exhaustion, his beards grown out.

Max smiles at him, softly with no teeth. Daniel almost thinks he imagined it happening. “Ubers here,” Max says, grabbing Daniel’s hand again and pulling him towards the Cherovlet.

They sit in the back together, silence falls over the two of them. It’s comfortable, everything is quiet. For the first time in weeks, months even, Daniel doesn’t feel like he’s going to die being so close to Max, doesn’t feel like he’s going to get ripped apart for looking at him. He lets himself have this, because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll have it for.

They walk in silence inside the hotel. They’re staying on the same floor, so when Max pressed the button for floor 28, Daniel stays still. He’s wondering if Max is just taking him home, if he’ll pull him towards his room and go separate ways but when the doors open, Max gently takes Daniel’s hand and pulls him in the opposite direction to his room.

“What are you doing, Max?” Daniel asks eventually, when Max is taking the keycard out of wallet and swiping them both inside the room. “You could have just dropped me home, why am I here?”

Max shrugs. He pulls his shoes off, digs around in his pockets for his vape, keys, and phone before throwing them on the bed. “You didn’t want to fuck her.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Daniel says. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so snappy, but it does. Daniel, truthfully, doesn’t know if he wanted to fuck her, if he even had plans to take her home with him, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s none of Max’s business.

“You’re right,” Max says, sadly. He’s backing down from an argument neither of them want to be having. “I just hope you don’t.”

“You don’t get a say in who I fuck, and who I don’t, Max.” While the words are vicious, Daniel says it sadly. It’s fact, Max doesn’t get a say anymore, Daniel doesn’t get a say in who Max spends his time with either.

“Fine, see if I care. You can go find her again and fuck her,” Max says with so much vitriol that Daniel’s scared for a moment. He wonders if Max words have some form of venom in them, if he’s trying to kill Daniel in his hotel room. “Maybe, I’ll go talk to one of her friends!”

But Daniel doesn’t move, the idea of someone else in bed with Max making him sick to his stomach. He stays standing in the hotel room, the walls spinning around him, the floor seems like it’s wobbling. Daniel shuffles, or more like he wobbles to the bed and lays down. For a brief moment, he thinks about the fact that this isn’t his hotel room, that he could leave and go back to his own room. But Max is here, and he doesn’t want to leave Max .

“You’re right,” Daniel says, hyper-aware of the fact his words are slurred. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”

What he says has a different meaning to what they’re arguing about. Max had said fuck, Daniel had too at first. Then, it switched. Daniel doesn’t want to be with anyone but Max, in any capacity. It’s a confession that seeps into the darkness of the hotel room and lights it up, slightly.

Max doesn’t say anything, he just walks over to the bed and stands staring at Daniel for a moment. He wonders if Max is contemplating climbing it, so Daniel moves over so there’s enough room for the both of them. Daniel’s on top of the duvet, and Max is still in jeans from the club so he’s almost positive that he’s reading the situation wrong.

But then Max is undoing the button on his jeans, and pulling his shirt over his head and climbing into bed too. He still smells like raspberry and Red Bull, a little bit of gin too, and it takes everything in Daniel to not pull him closer and shove his head in his neck.

“We will talk in the morning,” Max says with a sense of finality, but when Daniel scoots closer to Max, when he gives in to all of his needs and wraps his arms around Max, when he pulls him closer so Max’s back is pressed again Daniel’s chest, Max doesn’t budge, and Daniel swears he feels Max relax in his arms.

It’s the best sleep Daniel’s had since July, and he wakes up alone.

He swears under his breath, swearing he must have imagined last night happening but then he looks around the room. He’s pretty sure this isn’t his hotel room, and he’s still wearing jeans and whatever shirt he’d thrown on to go out last night. He finds himself wondering if this is some random girl’s room, and he passed out before getting to the main event. He curses, looks around for his phone and decides to hatch an escape plan.

But then the door slams open, hits the wall and almost swings off the hinges. “Fuck,” comes a voice from the door, and Daniel’s head whips to the door. It’s Max in the doorway, holding a tray of food and there’s a mug on it too that he’s trying not to spill.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Max says when he looks towards the bed. He stops in his tracks for a moment, Daniel wonders if he’s about to tell him to get out but then he says, “We should to talk.”

“Can I have coffee first?” Daniel’s question is genuine, not meaning to be avoidant, and Max nods, coming closer with his tray. He places it on the bedside table, Daniel eyes the waffles and ice cream, the abundance of fruit that’s on the tray too.

Max passes him the mug and Daniel takes a sip. Made to his preference, of course Max remembers. “You drink, I’ll talk, okay?”

Daniel nods, and Max begins to pace around the room as he launches into what can only be described as a wedding vow level apology. He’s speaking so fast that his lisp comes out a little bit, something Daniel knows only happens when he’s emotional. He has to focus a lot on Max’s words as they slide past his headache. It’s a lot of apologies, an explanation too. He tells Daniel that he was being realistic—something Daniel already knew—but he didn’t mean it in the way Daniel took it; something Daniel had worked out eventually, too. He apologises over, and over, and over again, as Daniel finally hears him out.

He was scared, jealous even; he confesses to Daniel about how he’d been snippy with Charles too at the beginning of 2022, but how it was worse now because it’s Daniel challenging him, and not just any colleague. “I told you at the start of the season,” Max eventually says, “I was terrified I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I was losing to you, and then I was. I’m sorry.”

Max’s voice is shaky, Daniel feels tears prick at his eyes. Max is exasperated by the time he finishes speaking.

“That’s it, basically,” he says, “After I saw you in Monaco, when you came to my floor instead of your own, I knew I needed to work it out with you. Even if you don’t want me anymore.”

Daniel doesn’t say anything. He takes in everything Max said, lets the dust settle and for the words to stick, and then he’s putting his coffee down and walking towards Max. He can tell Max is holding his breath, waiting for Daniel to make the first move, and when Daniel wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, he feels Max’s entire body relax.

Daniel does too, for what might be the first time in six months. In this random hotel on the Vegas strip, both their shoulders relax, and Daniel starts to cry.

“I’m sorry too,” he whispers softly, and he feels Max shiver as his warm breath hits his neck. “For being so horrible, for not listening to you, for being a cunt in Singapore.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Max says, “it was me.”

But Daniel won’t let him say that, he pulls back for a moment so he can look Max in the eye and say, “No, Maxy, I’m sorry. You deserve an apology as well. You tried to apologise, and I wouldn’t listen to you.” Max’s eyes are shining right now, Daniel hadn’t realised how dull they’d been these last few months. Under the fluorescent lights of the hotel room, they’re sparkling like there’s stars littered in there, like he’s looking at the person who hung the moon in the sky.

“Okay,” Max says, nodding, “then I’ll forgive you, as long as you forgive me?”

Daniel laughs and pulls Max closer and kisses him for the first time since Thursday, in Hungary. He doesn’t count Singapore as their last kiss, that wasn’t a kiss, that was something heinous, something that ripped them both to shreds. This kiss, it’s filled with love, it’s filled with care; it’s soft and gentle, there’s no ulterior motive, Daniel wonders if he’s died and gone to heaven with how at home he feels.

He holds Max’s waist gentle, thumbs under his shirt. “I think I need to give you an orgasm or two,” Daniel says cheekily, pushing Max towards the bed and getting down on his knees, “to make up for some lost time.”

Max giggles, and starts to pull down his boxers when there’s a knock at the door. “Max, do you know where Daniel is? George and Alex said he left with you last night?” Blake's voice comes through the door and Max groans loudly as Daniel laughs and climbs out of the bed.

“Gimme a second, baby,” he whispers, the pet name rolls off Daniel’s tongue so easily, almost like he’s been using it for months. He scampers over to the door, and opens it and meets eye to eye with Blake. “Hey, mate.”

Blake stares at him for a moment and then sighs. “Of course you’re here,” he mutters under his breath. “You’ve got shit to do today, mate. Meet me downstairs in 15 minutes.”

Daniel frowns but tells him okay. He wants to stay in bed with Max all day, roll around in the sheets without a care in the world.

“Are you guys…” Blake trails off, not finishing his sentence, but Daniel knows what he’s asking. He isn’t entirely sure, if he’s honest, but he thinks they’re getting there. He tells Blake this, softly so Max can’t hear. “Okay, be safe. If I see you crying over him again I’m going to kick his ass,” Blake responds, and then he’s walking off towards the elevator.

Daniel closes the door gently and walks back towards where Max is laying on the bed. He’s playing on his phone, still in his boxers and a plain white t-shirt. Daniel wants to crawl back into bed but he knows if he were to do that, he would never leave. Instead, he stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed and says, “I have to go.”

Max whines, stretches his entire body like he’s a cat and rolls out of bed to be eye level with Daniel. “I know you have work stuff,” he mumbles. He places his head on Daniel’s shoulder, and Daniel instinctively runs his hands up and down Max’s back before wrapping them around his waist.

“Are we okay, Maxy?” Daniel asks. He refuses to leave this hotel room without speaking it into words. They can’t just do casual, they can’t do just ‘working it out as it happens’. It will kill Daniel, he thinks it would kill Max too.

“We will be,” Max whispers back. “I can’t promise I won’t get mad after races but…” Max trails off, and Daniel knows what Max means. We won’t let this happen again. We know better now.

And that’s good enough for Daniel. He brings his hand up to Max’s cheek and makes him look up at him and kisses him gently. It’s not a goodbye, it’s a see you later. See you forever.

Max is cheeky, tries to deepen it, he runs his hands up Daniel’s back and wraps them around his shoulders and pulls him impossibly closer in the way he knows Daniel likes it. Daniel laughs against Max’s lips, and pushes his hips away from him. It’s not harsh, it’s not rough, it’s gentle in the way Max deserves to be treated.

He whines, and Daniel resists the urge to chase Max’s lips with his because, after all, he’s the one breaking the kiss. “I’ll see you later?” he asks, realising now he doesn’t know when Max’s flight leaves Vegas. He knows he’s not doing the show run—Christian had been adamant Max wasn’t allowed too and it had angered Daniel to no end—and he probably needs to get home to the cats.

Still, Daniel wishes he could stay here in Vegas. He wishes he could come home to Max, crawl into bed next to him and press his chest to Max’s back and sleep so intertwined that only the inky tattoos literally Daniel’s skin is the only indication where he ends and Max begins.

“My flight is tonight,” Max says, tracing the 3 on Daniel’s thumb. “Let me know when you’re back in Monaco?”

Daniel smiles, moves his hand so he’s holding Max’s and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll come straight home.”

Daniel crosses the line first in Qatar with Max hot on his tail.

They wave to each other during the cool down lap, park their cars next to each other in parc fermé. When Daniel climbs out of the car, he stands on the nose and throws his hands up in the air, cheering loudly.

One point. There’s one point between the two of them. Daniel will be going into the final race of the season the Championship leader. Whoever wins that race is the Champion, there’s no denying it.

Daniel thought there would be more tension between the two of them. If Max had won tonight, he would be Champion now instead of prolonging it one more week. Instead, as Daniel climbs down from the car exhausted, Max is running to him.

Max slams his body against Daniel’s, their helmets knock together and make a terrible noise. Daniel laughs out loud, he feels Max’s body shaking in laughter too. Vaguely, he can hear cameras clicking, the cheering from the Red Bull team against the barriers, but he wants to stay here forever, wrapped in Max’s arms, laughing at how ridiculous they’re being.

“You gave me a run for my money tonight, Maxy,” Daniel whispers, just loud enough for only Max to hear it.

“You can’t get your first Championship that easily, shcatje,” Max replies, sending a shiver down Daniel’s spine. “You have to earn it, right down to the last second.”

First. Daniel feels his head spin.

Title deciding races are nerve-wracking for everyone involved. It makes Daniel nervous, everything that’s happened this year, every move he’s made in a race, every pitstop he’s made, every race he’s won, every race he hasn’t, it’s been leading up to this moment.

Daniel’s won 9 races this year, even if he doesn’t win tonight, it’s been his best season of his career. That is the one thing that can never take away from him. It’s been a beautiful title fight, it’s been a dramatic one, a perfect one, a horrifying and an evil one too, but Daniel wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Red Bull have locked out the front row, with Max on pole, and Daniel on his right, mere metres behind him. Daniel can see the glitter on Max’s helmet dazzling under the lights that illuminate the track as they drive around for the formation lap.

“Radio check, 1-2?” Martin’s voice comes through the radio. “Let’s win this one, tonight.”

“Radio’s working perfectly,” Daniel responds, “We’re gonna crush it.”

Daniel parks in his box. His car is slightly turned, something Martin told him to do to get a better grip at the start. He’s stopped focusing on the glittering helmet when the red lights begin to countdown. Daniel centres his breathing. Tightens his grip on the steering wheel, releases it, tightens it again. The lights are still counting down.

And then, it’s under the shining lights of Abu Dhabi when the lights go out, and Daniel Ricciardo hits the throttle.