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Daniel accepts the pats and the smiles from his team with a nod and an answering smile, but he still escapes as quickly as he can. There’s plenty of genuine empathy and commiseration, and a determination to do better, but the aura of disappointment is impossible to ignore, and he can’t stand a second more of it than he absolutely has to.
Michael trails in his wake back to his driver’s room.
“Not much of a race,” he says from over Daniel’s left shoulder. “Literally nothing to be had today. Fuck if I know why we keep racing here.”
Daniel would normally argue for the spectacle and the glamour and the sheer fucking skill it takes to put in 78 clean enough laps around Monaco, but he can’t find the energy today.
“Yeah,” he says.
The rounds in the press pen earlier were that wonderful mix between boring and painful, but at least there simply wasn’t that much to say about the race today. He can feel their interest in him starting to wane; even his struggles are only really interesting as a foil for Lando’s success.
He showers and changes and stretches and tries not to think about anything except the immediate physical sensations. Once they’re done, Michael hands him his phone.
“Debrief in fifteen,” he says. “I’ll be back with your shake in ten.”
Daniel nods, already scrolling through the notifications on his screen. One catches his eye and he opens it properly.
Sorry love, the message reads. It was sent about an hour ago, just after the race ended. Tough one today but we’re so proud of you. Dad says hi he’ll call you tomorrow
Daniel’s first instinct is to wonder what he’s got on tomorrow that he can use an excuse to get out of having to answer the call. It’s bad, and it makes him guilty, but he can’t help it. He fits a smile on his face to try to help set the right tone and starts to type.
Thanks mum, not much more to be done today. On to the next!!
The second exclamation mark might be overkill, but it’s too late now. Daniel puts his phone down, ignoring the rest of his notifications, and lies back on the bed and closes his eyes.
*
Daniel can’t quite believe how hard everything is this year.
Physically, the car is difficult. Daniel’s in better shape than he’s ever been in, Michael and lockdowns have made sure of that, but he feels drained after every race from muscling it round the track, from the tension in his body from all the extra attention he’s having to pay.
2020 was its own kind of nightmare, but racing, when it had finally come back, had only felt better for it, a welcome escape from everything the second the visor went down. In retrospect, the absurd unreality of everything that was happening had made it easier to put his head down and push through; now, everything has softened into a dull, relentless slog.
It’s so different to 2019 too; that was hard and frustrating in so many ways, but he could tell where the line was—where the car wasn’t good enough and where he wasn’t good enough. He knew what he could fix and he knew how to do it.
This time, it seems, the problem is all him.
*
“Five minutes,” Michael says.
Daniel nods. He goes through his final preparation—headphones around his neck, sip of his drink, stretch out his neck. He picks up his phone to make sure it’s on the right playlist, and there’s a new message waiting for him from Michelle.
Good luck!
Daniel stares at the picture underneath the text. Normally he’d be grinning like an idiot, offering the phone to Michael to look, but instead, there’s a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat and his eyes are suddenly stinging. Fuck.
He turns around and takes a deep breath. Another message comes through.
He’s obviously asleep now, but he made me take a new photo in his gear today so it would be fresh, apparently that means it’s better luck?
“All good?” Michael asks. Daniel’s been staring at his phone for too long.
“Yeah,” Daniel says. His voice comes out normal, he thinks. “Little rascal’s at it again.”
He holds out the phone for Michael to look at, and Michael laughs.
“Papaya suits him,” he says.
“Yeah,” Daniel agrees.
Well I hope it works, he texts back to his sister. Next time let him stay up to watch the race!!
Michelle’s typing bubble pops up immediately.
I told him he’s allowed this time, he was so happy. Still out like a light by 9:30 though
“Time to go,” Michael says. Daniel tears his eyes away from the screen and the picture. The lump is still there, but it’s smaller now, easier to breathe around.
“Yep,” he says. He hands Michael the phone, who slips it into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
*
The way Michael looks at Daniel is starting to piss him off.
They’ve always been honest with each other; it doesn’t work if they aren’t. But Michael’s been giving him these looks lately, like he’s holding back from saying something, like he’s treading carefully, and Daniel can’t stand it.
He bails on their plans with a few of their friends and goes out by himself instead. He picks a club he’s been to a few times; the music is good, even if the drinks are shit, and Daniel wants to dance tonight. The best thing about living in Monaco is that Daniel is so far from the most famous or interesting person here that it’s easy enough to find somewhere no one gives a shit about him.
The guy who meets his eyes across the bar has the bluest eyes Daniel has ever seen. He offers Daniel a smile and a raised eyebrow, unsubtly letting his eyes slide down Daniel’s body. It makes heat flutter across Daniel’s skin and for a moment he lets himself look back, lets his eyes drag across the guy’s shoulders. He takes a deep breath.
Not tonight, not here. Daniel’s feeling a little reckless, but he’s not stupid. He shrugs a shoulder and looks down at his glass. When he looks back up, the guy’s gone.
Daniel orders another drink.
The girl who approaches him later is pretty; long, dark hair curly to the point of frizz, warm brown eyes, teeth so straight and white she has to be American. The way she says her name confirms it—the soft, rounded vowels which make Daniel feel a pang of something. Longing, maybe.
When he leans in and puts his hand on her hip, fingers tucked under the waistline of her skirt, she smiles.
Her apartment is nice—way nicer than his—and the way she talks to him makes him think she doesn’t know who he is. The sex is good, as good as it can be with a stranger. She’s not shy about sitting on his face, and when he pushes inside her, she makes a gorgeous, breathy sound that Daniel kisses out of her mouth.
Better, though, is afterwards, when she’s asleep, one hand on his chest, her body curled into his side. It’s the perfect mixture of closeness and anonymity, affection without any of the expectations. He fights sleep, wanting to revel in it for as long as possible, but eventually her slow, deep breaths tug him under with her.
She makes him coffee in the morning, puts her number in his phone, and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye when he makes his excuses and leaves.
He doesn’t text her.
*
Austria holds a glimmer of hope. Daniel’s in a good mood—for the first time all season, it feels like the car is coming to him. It’s only free practice, but it’s something, and he’s genuinely excited for qualifying.
It’s what makes him leave the comment on instagram. It’s dumb shit, but Daniel can’t resist it. The video made him laugh, and the socials team love it when he interacts with the content.
Drifting out of the garage is my thing, he starts to type.
And then everything goes to shit in qualifying.
Daniel can feel the frustration ready to burst out of him, a tight, hot knot in his chest, so he avoids eye contact as much as he can, keeps his responses short and measured and counts down the seconds til he can leave.
He’s finally back in his hotel room, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram on his phone, when Valtteri texts him.
You are a real comedian, his message says. It takes a while for Daniel to remember what he could possibly be talking about, and once it does, he isn’t sure how to take it. In the absence of any other clues, he takes it as a joke.
Thank you, he texts back. I’m thinking of a career change.
It’s dumb and off-hand and leaving himself wide open.
Might not be a bad idea.
And—god it’s stupid. Daniel’s always lived by the rule of if you can’t take it, don’t dish it out. But it fucking stings this time for some reason, and he stares at the screen for a long time, not sure what to say. Too long—Valtteri will have seen that he read his message. Before he can figure it out, Valtteri sends another message
Sorry, it says. Valtteri was never great at being mean, for all that he can be a deadpan bastard. I couldn’t resist.
Daniel’s still trying to puzzle out the funniest response that isn’t also shitty when yet another message pops up.
Are you okay?
The most surprising thing is the instinct to say, no, actually. The temptation to put that out there and make someone else deal with it. To ask Valtteri if he wants to get a drink and listen to Daniel bitch about how hard things are, how challenging the car is, how much it sucks to be number two to a fucking child again when the car is actually good enough to win something.
Except Valtteri’s known him too long and too well, has seen him at his absolute worst—nineteen and piss-drunk and sobbing over how homesick he was. He’d see right through him in an instant.
Daniel closes his eyes and blows out a long breath.
Just 🍑-y, he sends back. It’s easy bait and Valtteri takes it.
You need to stop being so obsessed with my ass
Daniel sends him back two kissing face emojis and tries not to feel disappointed that Valtteri didn’t push.
*
The hike wasn’t Daniel's idea, but there’s worse ways to spend his last day of being 31.
The view from the peak is spectacular; it’s so picturesque that it doesn’t quite feel like it can be real. Maybe that’s why Daniel can’t really feel much looking at it, doesn't know how to process the beauty in any meaningful way.
“Fuck me,” Michael says, staring out at it from next to Daniel.
Daniel snorts and pulls his phone out to snap a few pictures.
“It’s alright,” he says. “If you like that kind of thing.”
Blake tsks and then puts Daniel in a headlock.
“So hard to please,” he says. “Getting picky in your old age.”
They linger for a while, exploring the area, and then head for the track that will take them back down. It’s nice, Daniel supposes. Good exercise, plenty of trash talk, and the cleanest air he’s breathed in ages. He feels calmer than he has in a while, a kind of stillness that’s easy to pretend is contentment.
His phone vibrates once they’re back in reception range, a message from Michelle that upsets all of his hard-won equanimity.
He insisted on being the first one to wish you happy birthday, the message says. Daniel stares at the frozen frame of the video, waiting to be downloaded. He doesn’t click it. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and looks back up at his friends.
“So where are we going out tonight?” he asks.
*
For the first time he can remember, Daniel calls in sick to work.
It’s so stupid—it’s a light day, just a couple of engineering meetings and filming another challenge segment in the afternoon. Daniel could easily go in late and leave early and no one would even notice. But he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and simply can’t summon the will to get out of bed.
He texts the necessary people that he’s been hacking his guts up, probably from the salad he ate last night, so he won’t be in the factory today, and then puts his phone on Do Not Disturb. It makes him feel like a little kid, fake coughing so his mum wouldn’t make him go to school. His body really does feel terrible, aching and tired and fuzzy, but he knows there’s nothing really wrong with him.
He goes back to sleep.
He feels worse when he wakes up, somehow even more tired, so he drags himself outside for some fresh air. Except he’s in England, so ten minutes into his run it starts to rain. Daniel stops, stares at the mud on his trainers, and thinks fuck this.
When he gets home, he has a long, hot shower until his skin is bright red, and then holes up on the sofa and puts on Netflix. He avoids picking up his phone, feeling the anxiety spike every time he looks at it. It was a stupid move to bail on today, probably. It’s not like he can afford to be a diva at the moment, not like his reserves of goodwill and credibility aren’t draining away with every passing race.
He hits the Next Episode button.
There’s a knock on his door at eight pm.
“You look like shit,” Michael says when he opens it.
“Yeah, cheers.” Daniel wanders back to the couch and hears Michael trail behind him, taking off his coat as he goes.
“I leave you alone for two days and this is how you cope?” Michael’s tone suggests he’s taking the piss, but he looks like he means it.
“Fuck off, I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Michael’s watching him with that look again. Daniel looks away.
“Are we going to talk about this?” he says. His tone is softer, conciliatory. It pisses Daniel off.
“No,” he says, and reaches for the remote control.
*
Daniel can’t pretend he hasn’t been dreading Silverstone. A home race means even more scrutiny, and the knowledge that Lando will be absorbing at least 80% of the attention somehow makes it worse. He feels like he’s barely caught his breath from the last three back-to-back races.
He tells himself that he just has to get through this weekend, just push through it and then there’s two weeks til Hungary and enough time to really reset and come back stronger. He ignores the fact that he’s been making this bargain with himself every weekend for more than a month now.
It works, mostly.
P7 is good enough, better than he was hoping for. It’s points, and they’re making progress, and he’s looking forward to this middle part of the season now that he’s really finding his feet, he tells the press with a grin. If he keeps saying it, eventually it will be true.
When Michael hands him his phone, Daniel has six missed calls from his mother, enough to make his pulse spike and wonder if something’s wrong. There’s a text, too, though, as if she’d known he’d panic.
Sorry for all the calls! Just wanted a chance to speak, you were fantastic today. Call me tomorrow when you can xx
“Daniel, if you don’t call your mother, I fucking will,” Michael says evenly. Daniel’s not sure if he already saw the message or is somehow just psychic now.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Promise.” He crosses his heart with a goofy smile that he knows Michael doesn’t fall for.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s really not. It’s just that she’ll be able to read him dead to rights, even more than Michael, and Daniel needs to be able to keep pretending everything is fine.
*
Daniel stays in England for the rest of the week, determined to put in extra time at the factory, get his head down and cut out all distractions like he promised himself he would. He can’t tell if it’s helping, though, won’t really know until Friday in Hungary. He’s made the mistake of assuming progress before, and he’s not going to get ahead of himself this time.
On Friday night, he ends up at a posh club in Central London that somehow makes Daniel feel like a cashed-up bogan. That’s why he’s throwing the drinks back so quickly, probably.
Lewis fits right in, fashionable in a way Daniel couldn’t be if he tried. Part of him wants to tease Lewis for the outfit, see if he can make him roll his eyes and laugh, but he swallows it down. He’s not entirely sure why Lewis said yes to coming out for a drink, but he’s grateful for it. Anyone else he’d have had no qualms about cancelling on.
“Another drink?” he asks instead, trying to catch the eye of the waitress. Lewis ignores him; his eyes are glued to his phone and he’s smiling broadly.
“I gotta know who’s putting that look on your face,” Daniel teases him. Lewis is weirdly reticent these days about who he’s seeing, enough that Daniel’s wondered more than once if there’s more to it than just bad past experiences, if Lewis is maybe more like him than he’d previously realised.
Lewis, to his surprise, turns the phone around for Daniel to see, showing him an adorable picture of his niece and nephew, both making peace signs at the camera.
“Seeing ‘em this weekend,” he says, still smiling. “Can’t wait, it feels like it’s been ages. And they grow up so fast, you know?”
“Mm,” Daniel says. He can feel it again, the ball in his throat that won’t fucking go away, sneaking up on him out of nowhere It’s beyond annoying now — it’s just exhausting, and almost embarrassing. He’s an adult. Lewis is his colleague, technically. He can’t be a mess in front of him. “Yeah.”
Lewis is busy texting, but something in Daniel’s voice must catch him out, because he looks up. He looks confused for a moment, then guilty.
“Oh jeez, man, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think, I didn’t mean to —”
“It’s fine,” Daniel interrupts. He holds up a hand as if to wave Lewis’s apology away. “No worries.”
Lewis continues to look at him though, and Daniel looks down at his drink.
“It’s okay if it’s not,” Lewis says. He hesitates for a moment, and then presses on. “How long’s it been?”
“Um, about sixteen months,” Daniel says, like he hasn’t been counting. “It’s not that long, I guess. I’m normally away ten, eleven at a time.”
“Still,” Lewis says.
“Yeah,” Daniel says. “Still.” There’s just enough alcohol in him to make the words come out easy, especially when Lewis is watching him so quietly. “It’s just different, not being able to instead of just not doing it, you know? It’s not the same.”
Lewis swirls his drink around. “Do you know when you’ll be able to go back?”
“Not sure. End of the year maybe.”
“Fuck, that really sucks,” Lewis says.
“Yeah,” Daniel agrees. He stares at the pearls dangling from Lewis’s left ear and tries to remember how to breathe. Now that he’s started talking, he feels like he can’t stop.
“I just keep thinking — is he even going to remember me? Like, properly I mean. That young, it’s not like he can really understand…” Daniel swallows.
This is it, Daniel is going to fucking cry into a weak, overpriced cocktail in this stupid club, right on Lewis Hamilton’s shoulder. Jesus Christ.
Lewis looks slightly alarmed, like he can tell what’s about to happen. He reaches out and puts a hand on Daniel’s arm.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks.
Daniel huffs a laugh, knows it comes out a little wet.
“You didn’t even buy me a drink,” he says weakly. Lewis’s eyes crinkle at the corners, but he’s quiet, clearly waiting for a real answer.
Daniel shakes his head, certain the second he gets outside and into the cool air and streetlights, he’s going to fall apart.
“I kind of just want to get fucked up,” he admits.
Lewis watches him for a long moment, like he’s weighing up an array of different responses. Then he squeezes Daniel’s arm one more time and then takes his hand away. Daniel misses the pressure.
“I can do that,” Lewis says.
*
The bed Daniel wakes up in is unbelievably comfortable. His head is aching a little, but the sheets against his skin are soft and heavy and when he shifts over, the pillow is cool and crisp and wonderful.
He can also tell, as his brain slides more and more into consciousness, that he’s not alone in it.
He rolls over and stares at Lewis, who appears to still be asleep.
If he were less hungover, he’d probably be freaking out about it. He is starting to freak out about it, but then he does an audit and he’s still got his pants and shirt on, even if Lewis seems to be shirtless.
As he’s staring, Lewis’s eyes open. He blinks a couple of times.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice raspy with sleep, like this is a normal way for him to wake up, in bed with Daniel.
“I don’t know,” Daniel says honestly. He feels unmoored. “Did we —”
He thinks he knows the answer, but he has to ask.
“No,” Lewis says. He shifts up a bit, so he’s half-sitting. “You were too drunk to tell me where you were staying so I just brought you back here. This is my hotel room.”
“Don’t you have a place in London?” Daniel asks, ever distracted by irrelevancies. Lewis shakes his head.
“Sold it.”
“Oh,” Daniel says. He squints at Lewis. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” He looks it too, much more clear-eyed than Daniel feels. “I stopped before you did,” he adds, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Couldn’t really keep up.”
Daniel feels a prickle of embarrassment, but it’s softened by the smile Lewis is giving him. They lie there for a few more minutes, the silence somehow not awkward. Daniel closes his eyes and is starting to drift off to sleep again when Lewis speaks again.
“You, uh,” he starts. “Talked a lot last night.”
Oh Jesus.
“Sorry about that,” Daniel says, rolling onto his back so he doesn’t have to meet Lewis’s eyes. He presses his palms against his eyes, trying to ease the headache. “Please don’t tell me what I said.”
“Nothing bad,” Lewis says. Daniel’s not convinced; Lewis’s tone is too soft for him to have done anything but made a complete fool of himself. He sighs and drops his hands.
“Have you...” Lewis hesitates. “Tell me to back off if I’m overstepping but, have you thought about talking to someone?”
Daniel thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what Lewis means, but he can’t work up the energy for it. He stares at the ceiling.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
There’s a long silence between them. Lewis just watches him, patient.
“What if it doesn’t help?” Daniel asks quietly.
Lewis’s fingers brush against his arm.
“Then at least you’ll know, and you can try something else,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I think it will, even if it won’t fix everything.”
Lewis says it with a certainty that Daniel recognises as personal experience.
“Yeah,” he says. He feels something settles in Daniel’s chest, a kind of calm and resolution he hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s worth a try. “Yeah.”
They lapse back into silence. It’s warm in bed, and so comfortable, and Daniel feels like he could easily lie here all day. He remembers Lewis saying he was spending the weekend with his sister’s family, though, and realises he’s probably waiting for Daniel to leave so he can get going.
“I should go,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” Lewis replies. “But if you want to, no problem.”
Daniel looks over at him. He looks relaxed, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth, and it tugs at something in Daniel’s gut. He isn’t sure what gives him the courage to lean in and brush their lips together, braced on one elbow so he can reach Lewis’s mouth.
He’s also not sure what he’s trying to say with it, but Lewis seems to get it. He slips his fingers into Daniel’s hair and kisses him back.
“See you around,” he says when Daniel pulls back. Daniel nods.
“Thanks for the drinks,” he replies, and reluctantly climbs out of bed.
*
The ride back to his place is long enough that Daniel dozes off in the backseat. He blinks awake when the car stops and apologises to the driver and climbs out feeling fairly disgusting. He wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and nurse his hangover, but he forces himself to get in the shower and at least wash the sweat and booze smell away.
As he stands there under the spray, he feels more than a little raw inside, like last night cracked open the trapdoor he’s been pushing every thought and feeling he couldn’t deal with under. The door is still ajar, too, emotions leaking out around it that Daniel still has no idea how to deal with.
He’s exhausted.
He tries to remember the other feeling from this morning, too, that rare moment of relief and resolve at having made a decision to do something. The tendrils of it grasp at his consciousness as he dries off and wraps a towel around his waist, and he feels the urgency to do something before it slips away again and he’s right back where he started.
Hey uh maybe I am ready to talk about it, he sends. Not to you though. Can you find someone?
Michael replies instantly, just a thumbs up emoji, and Daniel exhales. He feels a little shaky, like after an adrenaline dump, which is ridiculous. He remembers his other promise to Michael, over a week ago, and lifts his phone again before he can overthink it.
The line is ringing before it occurs to him to do the time zone maths, and he’s just trying to work it out when the call connects. Daniel takes a deep breath.
“Hi, mum.”