cw: mentions of the current McLaren fuckery, but minimal angst I promise! this is totally self-soothing so no promises on quality...
Daniel finds out about Max’s interview through a google alert.
Not the one he has for his own name, of course. His mum had made him switch that off over summer break, the third time she’d found him scrolling through Twitter instead of answering Isaac’s persistent questions.
“When are we going to the beach, Uncle Daniel?”
“Can you help me make pancakes?”
“What colour car are you driving next year?”
I don’t know, he’d thought at the time but couldn’t say, I don’t fucking know.
But now he does.
Pink and blue, not as good as the black and yellow he wore last time, but it’s sure as fuck better than the orange he was forced to call ‘papaya.’
His mum must have mentioned it to Max too, maybe asked him to keep tabs on Daniel’s social media time like he’s 15 years old or something, because Max has eyed his phone like it was the enemy, like it was Zak Brown himself, for the last few weeks. Has tentatively asked Daniel, ‘what are you looking at?’ every time Max has caught him flicking.
And Max is about as subtle as a red flag on the best of days, but he’d really given himself up when he’d suggested, ‘a hike would be very fun if we also leave our phones in the car,’ halfway through their trip to Perth. Like Daniel didn’t have to drag his ass out of bed, all but kicking and screaming, every other off-season.
This break had been different though, Daniel the one reluctant to get out of bed and face the reality of a world in which his days racing were numbered. One where he’d eventually have to remove, ‘Formula 1 Driver,’ from all his social media bio’s, the first public acknowledgement of failure, the career equivalent of a relationship status changed on Facebook.
But it’s fine.
He has a seat, has millions of McLaren dollars trickling into his bank account, and the chance at a fresh start.
And apparently, a boyfriend that is no longer so media wary.
At Daniel’s request, the first three times he’d been asked some variation of, ‘are McLaren right to dump Ricciardo in the dust,’ he’d given as close an answer to no comment as he could without actually saying the words. Daniel knows, because he’d checked in bed on Saturday night, qualifying over and Max snoring soundly in the bed next to him.
On pole of course, no reason to lose sleep.
So clearly, between qualifying and winning, Max’s loyalty had grown teeth. Or maybe he’d just gotten sick of them asking a variation of the same three questions, but in the video there was no sign of that tell-tale frustration weighing down his shoulders that he usually got right before he threatened to headbutt somebody.
EXCLUSIVE! Verstappen: If McLaren wanted Ricciardo to perform, they should have “built a better car.”
The notification lights up his lock screen like all the other articles tagged with Max’s name do.
Daniel groans, even as he feels the tiny smile start tugging at the corner of his lips. It only grows as he watches the full video, the cocky smirk on Max’s face as he shrugs at the journalist’s shameless attempt to get a controversial soundbite: “Do you think Daniel regrets leaving Red Bull now?”
“McLaren will regret this decision when Daniel is, of course, getting podiums next year with Alpine,” is all the Max on Daniel’s screen says.
Daniel climbs out of their bed and walks to the bathroom door, the article on his phone still open and lighting the way.
“Max,” he says, unable to keep the hint of laughter out of his voice as he looks at the soft outline of his body through the foggy shower door, “what did you do?”
“Hmm?” Max hums, like he has no idea what Daniel is referring to. Maybe he doesn’t. Max so rarely notices when his version of simple honesty isn’t the same shade as everyone else’s, when it’s been coloured by his feelings.
“Verstappen insisted, Daniel is the best driver on the grid?” He reads the words, typed out soundbites for anyone to see, aloud as though they are a question.
“Oh,” is all Max says over the noise of running water, rinsing his hair, “that.”
Daniel laughs and it bounces off the steam-damp tiles. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that.”
“It is the truth,” is all Max says, then turns off the shower.
“Max,” Daniel half-groans, half-snorts, “you can’t really believe that.” Max doesn’t say anything, just reaches a hand through the open glass door, clenching and unclenching his fist in a grabbing motion until Daniel passes him a towel.
“You are the best driver,” Daniel tries again, because it’s true and because he’s looking for something. Right after Hungary, it was a fight but now it's something sweeter, better.
“No,” Max disagrees, scrubbing roughly at his hair with the towel, droplets of water sliding down his naked body that Daniel can’t help but follow with his eyes. “I have the best car. There is a difference.”
Of course Max gives it to him, something to cover the crack in his chest that these days means his heart is pumping out in the open air, vulnerable.
Daniel puts the phone down on the counter.
“Oh, is there?” He asks, a teasing lightness to his voice that he can manage now he allows himself to trust in that layer of protection. He crowds Max against the wall, covering the skin that has just begun to show goosebumps with his own body. Water soaks into the fabric of his sweatpants, turning them from light grey to dark.
“Yes,” Max agrees, looking up at Daniel where he is slumped down a little, towel hanging limp from one hand before he lets it drop to tangle his hands in Daniel’s hair. “If we had the same car, I would be fighting you for the win every week.”
Daniel ducks his head to taste the clean water running down Max’s neck from his hair. He wishes it were saltier, misses the taste of Max’s sweat.
What he misses more though is the taste of champagne when it was envy-free because it covered his own body as well.
“So we are both the best,” he muses against Max’s shoulder, kissing a freckle there.
“Of course,” Max says like Daniel is asking him something stupid, like the time he’d wondered out loud if Max would want him as much if he packed it all in and retired.
Then, a little breathless where Daniel is sliding his hand along the inside of his thigh, “You can say, ‘fuck those cunts,’ from the podiums next year, yes?”
Daniel has to pull back then, to look at the grin splitting Max’s face, cheeky and adoring and match it with one of his own. Like this, with Max, it almost seems guaranteed.
Success. Winning.
“You can also thank Zak Brown,” Max continues, “when you win the WDC. For all the support and belief, of course.”
And somehow, now, that also seems like a reality he could at least brush up against, if only he can stretch his fingers far enough. It’s easier to believe in his ability to climb out from the hole he’s dug, when he knows he’s got Max at the edge, dangling him a rope.
“You’re right,” he says, “fuck those cunts, Maxy,” then tugs him in for a bruising kiss so he can say the next words against his mouth.
“I’m gonna be winning again soon.”
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