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Yuki had always been a crybaby—at least, that’s what everyone called him.
And maybe it was true. He cried when he lost points. He cried when the media twisted his words. He even cried when his favorite ramen shop back home stopped serving his usual topping. His emotions lived at the surface, always spilling out.
But with Max, it was different. Max never cried. He didn’t even frown when the world burned around him. He was calm, almost frighteningly so. He fixed things with his hands, his body, his quiet presence.
The hotel room was dark except for the soft glow from the bedside lamp. Yuki sat cross-legged on the bed, his face buried in his hands. His eyes were swollen, nose red from crying.
A knock came at the door. Two short, familiar raps.
Yuki wiped his face quickly. He opened the door, and there Max stood—fresh from media duties, a winner’s calm radiating from him.
“Can I come in?” Max asked.
Yuki stepped aside without answering. Max sat on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, silence hung between them.
Then Max asked, quietly, “Have you cried yet?”
Yuki’s head shot up, cheeks flushing. “Why would you ask that? That’s… embarrassing.”
“No, it’s not.” Max’s tone was steady. “That’s how you show your emotions.”
Yuki chewed on his lip, fighting back another sting in his eyes. “And you? How do you show yours?”
Max shrugged, gaze dropping to his hands. “I don’t really… do that.”
Yuki let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Exactly. You don’t. You sit here with your win. Meanwhile I—” He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, hard. “I look pathetic.”
Max shifted closer. His hand hovered for a second before landing gently on Yuki’s knee. His thumb brushed in small circles.
“You’re not pathetic,” Max said. His voice was low, careful, as if he were touching glass. “You’re just… brave enough to show what I can’t.”
Yuki blinked at him through wet lashes. “Then what do you feel right now?”
Max’s jaw worked, the words sticking in his throat. He wanted to say everything—proud of my race but worried for you, angry at the world for making you cry, scared you’ll never understand how much I love you. But all that came out was:
“I feel… here.”
His hand pressed a little firmer into Yuki’s knee, as if that explained it.
Yuki forced a weak smile. “I need to sleep,” he murmured, voice breaking on the last word.
Max studied him for a moment, then nodded. He slid under the covers without pressing further. For a while, there was only silence—Yuki curled on his side, facing away, his eyes burning from the tears he hadn’t let fall in front of Max.
Eventually, he felt the bed dip. Max’s arm slipped around his waist. Yuki stiffened at first, but Max pulled him in gently, pressing his forehead between Yuki’s shoulder blades.
Then, in the darkness, Max’s voice came low.
“I love you, Yuki.”
Yuki’s eyes widened. His throat closed. He had wanted those words for so long, had begged for them in his own heart night after night. And now—here they were.
But instead of joy, a hollow ache opened inside him.
Because Max had chosen now, when Yuki was at his lowest, when he was weak and humiliated. Yuki’s chest twisted. It didn’t feel like love—it felt like pity, a consolation prize.
Max tightened his hold, breathing steady against his back, as if he thought the words had fixed everything.
Yuki blinked hard into the pillow, silent tears spilling over.
He didn’t say it back.
–
The first thing Max noticed when he woke up was the cold.
The sheets beside him were empty. Yuki’s suitcase was gone, the room stripped of any trace of him.
Max sat up slowly, his heart pounding. This had never happened before. Yuki never left without telling him. Yuki was many things—loud, impulsive, emotional—but never quiet like this.
He checked his phone. No text. No call. Nothing.
Max dragged a hand down his face. He tried to replay last night in his head. Yuki had cried—like always after a bad race. Max had held him, kissed his shoulder, stayed close until he fell asleep. That was normal for them. That was how it worked. Yuki fell apart, Max put him back together.
For Max, it had been an ordinary night. For Yuki, it had been the last straw.
Because Yuki loved him—so much it burned—but being with Max was killing him slowly. Every time he poured his heart out, every time he begged for scraps of emotion back, he broke a little more.
Yuki had been patient. He had been the loud one, the straightforward one, the one who always spoke first and loved hardest. He said what he wanted, said how he felt, said everything.
And Max? Max always gave. He bought him what he liked, stayed by his side, listened without complaint. He never said no. He never let Yuki see him bleed. He never cracked open, never let Yuki into the places that hurt.
Max thought it was love—his way of protecting him. But to Yuki, it felt like a wall. A life built on actions with no heart behind them.
Yuki wanted Max’s sadness, his fears, his frustration, his weakness. He wanted the man, not the perfect wall.
And last night, when Max whispered I love you into his back, Yuki couldn’t believe it. It didn’t feel like love—it felt like another way Max kept the peace. A way to soothe him, not share himself.
And Yuki knew. He wasn’t naïve. He knew Max had shadows in his past. He knew his father’s grip had been iron-tight, that the way he grew up had left scars even if Max never admitted it. Even the media speculated about it, whispering about his childhood, about how strict, how cold, how unforgiving it had been.
Everyone seemed to know something.
Everyone but Yuki.
Because Max never told him. Never once opened his mouth to share the hurt, the fear, the history that shaped the way he lived now. He kissed Yuki, touched him, stayed close—but his heart stayed locked behind his ribs.
And that was what hurt the most.
Not the fact that Max had won while Yuki failed. Not even that Max’s I love you came too late, too shallow.
But that Max had chosen him—had told him they were a we—and still, after almost a year, Yuki felt like he was sleeping next to a stranger.
-
Max stood in the hallway outside Yuki’s apartment, balancing a neatly packed bag of sushi in one hand. He had driven across the city, his chest heavy with a weight he couldn’t shake. For days, his texts had gone unanswered, his calls ignored.
He raised a fist and knocked. “Yuki,” he said softly. “I… I brought your favorite.”
The lock clicked, the door cracked open. Yuki stood there wearing an oversized hoodie. He glanced at the bag in Max’s hand, then back at his face.
Max hesitated, throat tight. “Can we talk?”
Yuki didn’t answer, just turned and walked back inside. Max took it as permission and followed, closing the door behind him. They ended up in the living room, Yuki curled at one end of the couch, Max sitting stiffly on the other, sushi untouched between them.
Silence pressed in until Max finally spoke. His voice was quiet.
“I’m sorry if I… did something wrong.”
Yuki’s head lifted. His eyes were sharp despite the redness around them. “Why are you apologizing? What did you do?”
Max froze. The words stuck in his throat. Because he didn’t know. He had replayed the last week a hundred times in his mind, and still—nothing. Just the same pattern they’d always had.
But Yuki was staring at him now like the whole world was on the tip of his tongue, waiting for Max to finally catch up.
“I don’t know,” Max admitted, his voice breaking softer than he intended. “I just… want you back. Like before.”
Yuki’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Do you love me, Max? Or are you just pitying me?”
Max flinched. “I love you, Yuki. Why would you even say that?”
A shaky breath escaped Yuki, his shoulders curling in as though bracing for impact. “I don’t know. Maybe because that’s how it feels sometimes. Love means sharing, Max. Letting me see you. But you never do. You only show me the parts that are already perfect.”
Max swallowed hard. His chest burned, but no words came. His whole life had taught him to be quiet, to hold it all in.
“Let’s just end this, Max,” Yuki whispered, voice trembling. “It makes me feel like a fool being with you. You make me feel alone.”
The words landed like a blade. Max’s breath caught, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t know how to hide. Yuki saw his mask slip—the careful control shattered. His eyes glossed with something raw, his jaw clenched, and his hand, usually so steady on a steering wheel at 300 kph, trembled at his side.
“Don’t say that,” Max’s voice broke, pleading—thin, unfamiliar. “Don’t you dare think you’re alone with me. I just… I don’t know how to—” Max’s voice cracked, then suddenly hitched, his chest rising too fast, too shallow. He pressed a hand against his sternum as if trying to hold himself together, but the air just wouldn’t come.
“Max?” Yuki’s eyes widened. It wasn’t anger or distance anymore—just raw panic. He’d never seen Max like this, never imagined he could look so breakable.
Max shook his head, gasping, his lips parting soundlessly as though the words he wanted to say were trapped under the weight of his own lungs.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Yuki slid across the couch in an instant, grabbing Max’s hand, cold and shaking. He pressed it against his own chest. “Breathe with me, okay? In—” he inhaled deeply, exaggerating the movement, keeping his gaze on Max, “—and out.”
It took a moment, but Max’s wide, unfocused eyes flicked to Yuki’s, desperate, clinging to the one solid thing in the room. He tried, breath stuttering against the rhythm, but Yuki didn’t let go.
“Again,” Yuki whispered, his thumb brushing over Max’s knuckles. “In… and out. You’re not alone. I’m here. Just with me, Max.”
And slowly—shakily—the storm in Max’s chest began to ease. His breaths still uneven, but enough. His head dropped forward, his forehead almost brushing Yuki’s shoulder, he can felt Max’s walls crumble—not in anger, not in silence, but in fear.
Max’s grip on Yuki’s hand tightened. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice breaking, and then the tears slipped free.
Yuki froze. A Max Verstappen who cried—who let himself cry in front of someone—was something he’d never imagined he would see.
“It’s… it’s not that I don’t feel,” Max tried, his chest hitching as he swallowed against the words. “I just… I don’t know how to explain it. I never learned. I grew—”
“Hey.” Yuki cupped his hand around Max’s, grounding him, soft but firm. “You don’t need to say it if you can’t.”
Max’s head dropped, shoulders trembling under the weight of his own unraveling. Yuki could feel his pulse racing through his palm. It wasn't about racing, or winning, or perfection—it was Max stripped bare, vulnerable in a way he’d never allowed.
And in that silence, Yuki’s chest ached with something complicated: love, hurt, and the terrible relief of finally seeing the man behind the champion.
Yuki didn’t hesitate this time. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Max, burying his face against his shoulder. Max clung back instantly, so tight.
“It’s a lot, Yuki…” Max whispered against his ear, his voice frayed and trembling. “Inside me—it’s so much. I don’t know how to let it out.”
Yuki’s eyes burned, his own tears threatening to spill. He could feel the tension in Max’s body, every shudder of breath that broke the illusion of control Max always carried.
“I know,” Yuki murmured, tightening his hold. “I know, Max. You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to be perfect with me.”
Max pressed his face into Yuki’s neck, his words barely audible. “I’m scared… if I try… I’ll lose you.”
Yuki’s heart clenched. This was the first time Max had ever admitted fear.
“You don’t lose me by being honest,” Yuki whispered back. “You lose me by hiding.”
Max went still, his breathing slower now, as if Yuki’s words were threading their way inside the cracks he’d spent years covering up.
They were lying in the same bed again. Yuki turned on his side, his fingers brushing gently over Max’s cheek before pressing soft kisses across his face—temple, nose, jaw.
Max’s breath hitched, and his whisper trembled into the quiet. “I don’t want you to see me as someone… sick. I've been dealing with that since I was eighteen.”
Yuki stilled. The words hit him hard, twisting inside his chest. A sharp sting of betrayal cut through—why didn’t you ever tell me? why only now?—but what could he say, now, with Max’s voice so raw?
Max swallowed hard, eyes darting away as if ashamed. “My dad… he was always so strict. I couldn’t cry. Not once. If I did, he—”
“Max.” Yuki cut him gently, slipping closer, resting his forehead against Max’s. “Let’s just sleep, okay? I’m here.”
Max’s chest shuddered under Yuki’s hand, but slowly, his body began to loosen, the fight in him giving way to the comfort he didn’t know how to ask for.
Yuki lay awake longer, his own heart tangled between love, hurt, and the ache of finally being let in—too late, yet maybe just in time.
The apartment was silent. Yuki sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, fingers curled loosely around a glass of water he hadn’t touched.
The clock ticked past midnight. Max was asleep in the bedroom—deep, even breaths that sounded calmer than anything Yuki had heard in days.
But Yuki couldn’t follow him there.
He stared at the glass, his reflection blurred in the water. Am I being too harsh? The question burned through him. He replayed the last few days—his silence, the anger, the way he pushed Max away. The way Max had broken down in front of him tonight.
Was he the villain here? The thought twisted his chest. All Yuki ever wanted was words—something simple, something clear. But Max… Max had grown up in a world where silence was survival. Where love had no language except performance, endurance.
“Am I punishing him for that?” Yuki whispered into the empty room, voice small.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He loved Max. He knew that. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like he was drowning while holding someone else above water.
And yet, when Max had whispered don’t leave me, Yuki felt his own heart break open.
Now, in the stillness of the kitchen, Yuki wondered if maybe they were both carrying wounds the other didn’t know how to heal.
-
The paddock was alive again with flashes of cameras and questions. Max moved through it like always—expression set, answers clipped, his voice the steady monotone of someone who had built walls long ago. To the media, he was still the unshakable champion, a machine in a fireproof suit.
But behind closed doors, in the quiet of the hotel room, Yuki saw the cracks.
Max sat on the edge of the bed, his phone discarded, fingers raking through his hair. “They just keep asking me,” he muttered, the frustration low but simmering. “When I’m leaving Red Bull. When I’ll walk away. Like… it’s all that matters. Not what I’m doing now. Not the wins. Just when it’s over.”
Yuki blinked at him, surprised. Max never vented like this. He usually swallowed everything whole.
“Does it bother you that much?” Yuki asked softly, careful.
Max gave a short, bitter laugh. “Of course it does. But I don’t… I don’t let them see it.”
Yuki hesitated before sitting down beside him. His voice was quiet, slower than usual. “Max… have you ever… asked for help? You know. With… all of this?”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Max’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the floor. For a long moment, Yuki thought he wouldn’t answer.
Finally, Max’s shoulders slumped, surrender in the curve of his back. “…I stopped years ago,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I was mad at my dad. Mad at… everything. I didn’t want to get better. I thought—if I did—it would mean he won.”
Yuki’s chest ached. He turned, wanting to reach out but holding himself still. “…And now?” he asked gently.
Max’s throat worked, but no words came. He just shook his head, as if admitting that he didn’t know anymore.
Yuki finally reached out, his fingers brushing against Max’s hand before holding it firmly. His voice was quiet but steady. “You don’t need to do that for him. Don’t let it be about him anymore. Do it for yourself. Maybe… for us?”
Max’s eyes fluttered shut, his shoulders rising and falling with a shaky breath. For a long moment, he didn’t move, as if the weight of Yuki’s words had pinned him still.
“I…” His jaw tightened, then loosened again. He swallowed hard. “I’ll try again.” The words were raw, scraped from somewhere deep. “It takes long. And I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.”
He opened his eyes, finally meeting Yuki’s gaze, something vulnerable flickering there. “I hope… you can be patient with me.”
Yuki’s lips parted, his chest tightening at the sight of Max—so stripped down, so far from the untouchable man the world thought he was.
“I can,” Yuki whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’ve always been patient with you, Max. Just… don’t shut me out anymore.”
Max nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if making a promise.
-
Months passed, and the edges of Max’s walls slowly softened. Not all the way—Yuki knew some of them might never fall—but enough that the air between them felt lighter.
Max seemed happier. He laughed more. He teased Yuki about his flashy fashion sense, about how much sushi he could eat in one go, about how he snored sometimes when he fell asleep on the couch. He even complained more—whether it was the weather, the press questions, or the hotel food. Things he used to swallow, to keep locked behind that stone expression, now spilled out in little bursts.
And Yuki had never been so happy.
He felt like they were in a normal relationship—not one where he was the emotional one and Max was the silent wall, not one where love felt like a one-sided performance. Now, when Yuki cried after a bad race, Max didn’t just hold him—he let himself talk too, stumbling words, rough but real.
One night, after another long weekend, they lay tangled in bed, Yuki’s head tucked against Max’s chest. Yuki’s voice was soft, almost shy. “You know… I feel like I finally have you now.”
Max pressed his lips into Yuki’s hair. “You’ve always had me.” A pause. Then, quietly but firm, “I just… didn’t know how to show it. But I’m learning.”
Yuki smiled against his skin, eyes stinging, heart full in a way it hadn’t been in so long.
-
Their anniversary was just around the corner, and Yuki had been dropping hints for weeks. Subtle for anyone else, but probably too obvious for Max.
They were on the couch, scrolling through videos when Yuki angled his phone toward him. “Look,” he said, showing a clip of a couple having dinner at the top of a skyscraper, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lights sparkled beneath them like stars. “That looks nice, right?”
Max leaned closer, squinting at the video. His face stayed perfectly serious. “Woah. That looks scary.”
Yuki groaned and rolled his eyes so hard. Of course. Trust Max Verstappen to see romance and call it terrifying.
Later, Yuki pulled up a picture of a massive bouquet of peonies with ribbons spilling everywhere. “And this,” he pressed, watching Max’s face carefully. “Nice, no?”
Max tilted his head, studying it. Then, with the smallest smile, he said, “That’s probably bigger than you.”
He actually giggled—like his own joke was the funniest thing ever told. The kind of laugh that rumbled from his chest.
Yuki just stared at him, deadpan, his patience wearing thinner by the second. “You think you’re so funny, huh?”
Max, still chuckling, nodded. “A little.”
“I’m going to sleep!” Yuki snapped, throwing his arms up dramatically as he stood from the couch. “Nothing works on you, nothing. Good night.”
Max was still giggling when he called after him, “Good night, Yuki.”
Yuki slammed the bedroom door just loud enough to make a point, burying himself under the blanket with an annoyed huff. Hopeless man. Completely hopeless.
-
Yuki woke to something tickling his face. He groaned, swatting blindly, but the annoyance didn’t stop. A finger tapped at his lips, then brushed over his nose.
He cracked one eye open—and of course, it was Max.
“Good morning,” Max said, utterly unapologetic as he poked Yuki’s cheek again.
Yuki grumbled, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “You’re annoying.”
“It’s our anniversary,” Max reminded him, like that somehow excused the harassment.
“Mm, still sleepy…” Yuki mumbled, voice muffled by the blanket.
Max only smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Yuki’s temple. When that got no reaction, he tried his cheek. Then another, this time on the corner of his mouth. And another.
Yuki groaned louder, twisting under the covers. “Stop—”
But Max just laughed softly and kissed him again, lingering this time. “Wake up, Yuki.”
Yuki groaned and burrowed deeper into the covers, hiding his face. Finally, he thought when he heard Max’s footsteps leaving the bedroom. Maybe he’d get another five minutes of peace.
The silence lasted long enough for Yuki to start drifting back into half-sleep—until the door creaked open again. Heavy footsteps. A faint rustle. Something big being carried.
Yuki peeked out from under the blanket—and froze.
There Max stood, half-hidden behind a massive bouquet of peonies, so huge it looked ridiculous in his arms. Ribbons spilled over the edges, petals fresh and pale, exactly like the photo Yuki had shoved in his face days earlier. The one Max had laughed at. The one Yuki had assumed he ignored.
For a moment, Yuki just stared, stunned silent.
Max shifted his weight, ears slightly pink. “You… like this?” His tone was flat, awkward, as if the words themselves were foreign on his tongue.
Yuki didn’t answer. He just sat up and lifted his arms, wordlessly asking Max to come closer. The second Max leaned down, Yuki buried his face in his neck, already sobbing—classic emotional Yuki.
Max wasn’t good with words, but he always paid attention, always listened. His hand smoothed over Yuki’s back, steady, grounding. After a moment, he muttered against Yuki’s hair, half teasing, “Flowers, I can do. But the skyscraper dinner? Still not happening.”
After the hug and the emotional moment, Max cupped Yuki’s face gently in his hands. He leaned in, pressing his lips against Yuki’s in a kiss—soft, tender, with how much feeling he poured into it. When he pulled back just slightly, their foreheads resting together, Max whispered, his voice low and honest, “Happy anniversary, Yuki. I love you. Please… stay with me for a long, long time.”
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