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There’s a tangible crispness in the air. Bright and early in the morning, it’s not too hot—that’ll be good for engine performance. Not that he’s worried, this sort of stunt is nothing out of the ordinary. Grand spectacles of sport are Red Bull’s bread and butter. They’ll casually land a plane on any array of unorthodox surfaces on a random Tuesday just for a marketing scheme. Not that he’s worried about landing today. Today is about racing.

And all things considered, this should be the easiest race of Daniel’s career.

He kneels down to take a closer look at the wheels, running his fingers over their ridges he carefully inspects the struts. Everything perfectly in its place. Getting up he wipes the dust off his knees, and moves on to checking the engine as an array of cars roll up to the track. That would be the competition arriving.

Formula 1 cars are fast, sure. But Daniel is fast too. And yeah, he’s the world champion, but so is Daniel. And while he’s relegated to the ground, Daniel gets to fly his trusty Red Bull-clad airplane. Not that this race actually matters, it’s for the company’s YouTube channel. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to win.

His pre-flight inspection is soon interrupted. Cameras, crew, and mechanics surround his plane and the sleek Red Bull race car sitting alongside it. Among the crowd is his competitor: Max.

Daniel takes a step forward, pushing through the crowd, and offers up his hand to him. He takes it, and introduces himself in an accent that sounds stronger in real life than over any race broadcast Daniel’s ever witnessed.

“So,” Daniel begins sheepishly, after a brief moment of silence. With the team bustling around, nobody else seems interested in formally introducing the pair to each other, so awkward conversation is all in his hands. “Are you looking forward to our race?”

Max frowns for a minute, before answering blankly, deadpan. “No.”

For a moment, Daniel’s heart sinks, an unexpected wave of disappointment washing over him coolly and quickly. Then, just as quick as it came, the feeling disappears as Max breaks into a wide grin.

“I’m kidding, of course,” Max says.

Daniel laughs lightly and looks at the ground. Max is Dutch, he has to remind himself, of course he’s got a dry sense of humor. Still, it caught him slightly off guard, and he can’t help but to feel a sense of relief.

”Sorry that it’s not exactly a fair fight.” Daniel grins, gesturing at the starting line where the car and plane sit side by side. Deep blue and yellow and red. All smooth lines and aerodynamics–both incredibly fast. Still, one is considerably faster than the other. And for the first time in ages, the odds are not in Max Verstappen’s favor.

“Eh, that’s okay,” he says, still smiling. “We race, we get the video, no stakes.” Someone from his team hands him his helmet, as they’re both corralled towards their machines.

A gold lion roars at Daniel from the top of the helmet under Max’s arm. It’s formidable, ominous. His own helmet is far less menacing, just blue with Red Bull’s logo on it. Being Red Bull Air Race World Champion comes with far less prestige than being Formula 1 World Champion, and it shows. But today, at least he will be able to say he’s beaten Max Verstappen.

He hopes.

Before jumping into the cockpit, Daniel calls out to his competitor, “Hey, Max!”

Max looks up, quickly, balaclava only half on, and meets his gaze. Dark blue machines and dark blue race suits. Challenger to challenger. Racer to racer.

Daniel smirks. “Winner gets bragging rights.”

Across the track Max laughs, a wide smile transforming his face—wrinkling it around his eyes. He puts his helmet on and pulls the visor down and that smile becomes burned into the back of Daniel’s brain. The lion isn’t so scary now.

The teams of people clear the track. Max’s engine roars while Daniel starts his propeller. Cameras point in their direction.

All eyes on us, Daniel thinks.

He clears his throat, shakes his head and blinks hard. Relax, breathe, focus.

Lights out, and away they go. Both barrelling down the racetrack-turned-runway, Max off the line a lot quicker than Daniel, but his lead won’t last long. Soon, the airspeed creeps up, slow and steady, and Daniel pulls back on the control stick to rotate. The whole world goes buoyant under him.

“Eat my wake turbulence, Verstappen.”

The hotel room is warm. No air conditioning, and although every window is open that does little to quell the slightly sticky heat that keeps him company. It is uncharacteristically warm tonight, according to the locals.

Daniel is sprawled on the stripped bed, shamelessly refreshing his messages. The phone is hot in his hands, he has been staring at it for too long. He rereads the last few messages another time.

‘Congrats on the win!!’ The last message from his girlfriend reads. It was sent just over five hours ago. Daniel had responded two minutes later with a ‘thank you’ and a heart. Five minutes after that Daniel had asked her if she still wanted to call him later. She had simply liked the message. Daniel told her to call whenever she was available.

That had been three hours ago.

Sure, there’s a time difference. But it should be the middle of the day over there. Meanwhile, Daniel avoids looking at the clock as the numbers slowly creep up. Later and later, and finally very, very early.

He sighs, tosses his phone away, and rolls over. Watches the fan spin lazily on the ceiling for a moment before reaching for the phone again. This time opening up a lengthy email from one of the Red Bull publicists he’d met yesterday morning.

The subject line reads “Pictures and Videos From Today.”

He was generally apprehensive about doing press work. Not that Daniel necessarily minds the cameras or the attention, but aside from a few interviews by aviation magazines and the occasional social media video for Red Bull’s page he had very little experience with it at all. And certainly not to the level of today’s stunt.

The race itself had been simple. It required little more than simply flying the track above (and ahead) of Max. It was after the race that had been unfamiliar; an extensive photo shoot, a joint interview, and an utterly mortifying game in which the two of them had swapped aviation and formula 1 terminology and he had proven himself to be a world class idiot.

Luckily, one publicist had been so kind as to offer to share what she could. Raw footage and unedited photos, just so Daniel would have an idea of what was going to be put out there. He’s not sure if it makes him feel better or worse.

Scrolling through the attachments he stops and focuses on each one. There he stands in his blue race suit, hand on the wing, and helmet under his arm. A gazillion photos of him exactly like this one exist, but they all exclude one important detail. Max.

Daniel’s race suit hangs off him in all the wrong places, it’s off putting and frumpy, but beside him Max looks comfortable in his; Red Bull logo displayed proudly on his chest. And while Daniel stands awkwardly beside his plane, Max looks confident, one foot on the ground, the other up on his car, with a fist in the air and his face turned towards the sun.

And god, his helmet hair looks awful, unruly and tangled, meanwhile Max pulls off the slightly tousled look. In fact, he manages to look really rather good in general, despite the sweat and exhaustion and the red marks left on his face by the balaclava.

It almost pisses him off.

The videos aren’t much better. He sounds so concise and media trained, compared to Daniel who seems to clamor and stumble over his words, jarringly loud and boisterous next to the Formula 1 champ. Not to mention the fact that Max’s accent and tendency to look around after cracking a joke just to make sure someone laughed are endlessly endearing.

At least in the game—where Daniel rambles on about the car’s aerodynamics using airplane physics but can’t explain the difference between the tire compounds—Max carries the energy with a number of sarcastic jokes and comments. In fact, he’s just about likable enough for the two of them, so it almost doesn’t matter that Daniel was a stumbling mess.

Watching it all back now it feels so obvious–so plain on Daniel’s face the feeling that had struck him when he first met Max. The thing is, Daniel isn’t usually such a loping idiot. Ask any one of his friends, ask anyone at all, ordinarily he tends to be very sure of himself. He’s comfortable in his skin. He’s happy to be the loud, boisterous one. The one with all the jokes. The center of attention. Not to toot his own horn, but if asked to describe himself, ordinarily, Daniel would say that he just oozes charisma. And he’d only barely be joking.

There had been something about Max that had set him off balance. Something in the hard set angles of his jaw, the intensity of his stare. Though Daniel had learned that the lion wasn’t scary, he couldn’t help but to cower away, just slightly. Afraid less of Max and more so of the effect he seemed to have. The one that pulled Daniel out of his usual gravitational orbit and sent him spinning into space.

He had felt like an idiot standing next to Max on that track. He looks even more like one in the pictures. His expression is so noticeable that Daniel wishes he could reach into the screen and wipe it off his own face. It is not intimidation. It is awe.

Sprawled on the hotel bed, somewhere between opening up the email and rewatching that clip where Max jokes to Daniel about putting him in an F1 car to see if he could get it to fly, he falls asleep.

He wakes up to seven missed calls from his girlfriend and the video still paused on Max’s face.

The videos were posted a week later, just in time for the next Grand Prix. Daniel avoids them like the plague, but not even a day after they went up, the publicist emails Daniel again.

This time the subject line read “Positive Response.”

The email details the massively positive public response to the video, all alleged love for him and his interactions with Max. He hasn't checked to see for himself, but he did notice a significant increase in followers across his socials. It’s slightly unnerving.

But Daniel’s not necessarily upset that people like him.

The email ends with the claim that he and Max are “already a popular duo,” and that Red Bull Racing wants to capitalize on that. So, naturally, Daniel’s been invited to the next race.

His face feels hot—a tinge of embarrassment that he writes off as the warmth from the sun peeking through the clouds. Daniel feels foreign and strange and out of place entering the paddock, with a VIP pass and all. Only a few weeks ago he barely knew the basics of formula 1–obviously as a Red Bull racer himself he was aware of the various endeavors and successes of the team—but he certainly wouldn’t have been able to spare any details.

And now, he’s arriving at a Grand Prix for the weekend. The whole weekend. Which begins on a Thursday: Media Day.

It is today that is most important, for Daniel, at least. For the rest of the weekend his only job is apparently to stand in the garage and watch the race; he’s even been instructed to “look interested” in case the cameras pan to him—not that that will be difficult. But today. Today he’s filming content. Specifically, he’s filming content with Max.

Despite himself, he can’t help but to fill with a little bit of pride at the notion that the two of them are a popular pairing. Yeah, so what if people only like him when he’s standing beside Max? It means people like him. And, perhaps selfishly, that’s what matters the most to Daniel.

Plus, it also eases his apprehension about whether or not Max actually likes him. Because the thing is, Daniel, quite unexpectedly, does really like Max. They get along well. He’s kind, and funny, and refreshingly down to earth for an athlete of his caliber. Daniel can certainly say he’s met worse men.

So the idea that they’re funny together, or make good friends, have good chemistry, even (in the eyes of the internet, that is). Well, certainly that’s a good sign. It’s hard to fake chemistry like that, Daniel thinks.

Listlessly the sun sets over the table. Outdoors, on a patio, drinking in the last remnants of daylight, the group is gathered. Nearly everyone around the table is wearing some form of Red Bull team wear—himself included.

He’d been invited to a team dinner following Media Day. Alone in an unfamiliar city, he agreed to tag along. Despite the logo on his chest, however, Daniel still feels like an outsider, he hardly knows anyone here and has little to add to race-related conversation.

Among the gentle murmur of conversation around him, he discreetly slips out his phone, shooting off a text to his girlfriend. She’s asleep, she won't answer, but it's something to do with his hands.

He’s halfway through his next message, this one to a buddy who also won’t respond, when he’s startled out of finishing by a gentle poke to his shoulder. “You’re not hiding that very well.” Max leans over the empty seat between them and gestures at the phone in hand, which Daniel lamely hides under the table.

“Oh, sorry.” Daniel slips the phone back into his pocket. His skin begins to warm. Busted.

Max laughs lightly, waving away his embarrassment. “Are we not interesting enough to you?”

Daniel shakes his head, rather frantically, and holds his hands up to explain. “No, no no, it's not that,” he pauses, Max smiles at the denial of boredom, still leaning over the chair, “I just don’t really know anyone here. I don’t know what to say. That’s all.”

Max gets up. He’s leaving, Daniel thinks. Not even bothering to end the conversation, just leaving. He pushes in his chair, then pulls out the one beside Daniel. Now, side by side he turns to face him.

“You know me.” Max grins. Cheeky.

Daniel smiles, huffing a laugh, and turns away before looking back at Max. He stares, unblinking, unwavering, intense. He has a look that Daniel imagines must be very intimidating on the track. But here it feels sincere, caring, like he is showing genuine interest in whatever Daniel may next say.

“Well, then,” Daniel says, “what do you want to talk about?” A notification chimes from his phone. It stays in his pocket.

The podium after the race is towering. Daniel’s never seen one quite like it before. His own races are completed on a podium a quarter the size and three times less spectacular. And yet, Max commands it.

There, on that top step, eyes skyward, basked in late afternoon sun, he looks nonhuman. People call him robotic, a machine built simply for winning. Daniel thinks his otherworldliness is more akin to art. He looks statuesque, like something carved out of marble, like a monument to some great figure of times past.

And yet, the passion that he emanates is distinctly human. Pride radiates off of him, Daniel can feel it all the way down here, surrounded by the team, all reveling in Max’s power shining down from the podium above them. It is overwhelming, but Daniel drinks it in, enjoys the moment. This feels like a victory even to him—a mere spectator.

Sunlight glints off the beads of sweat gathered on Max’s temples, and the light makes his hair look simultaneously dark and golden. As tired of the Dutch national anthem as everyone seems to be, nobody looks away. Neither does Daniel. He doesn’t think he could if he tried. Max is utterly captivating.

Trophy in hand, satisfaction in his eyes, beaming. Winning is an art. Daniel is certain of it now.

The sky grows dark while a comfortable evening warmth lingers. They walk, two abreast along the street—suddenly and shockingly very empty after all the race day festivities of the day prior. An airplane engine hums overhead and Daniel is reminded of the flight he would have been on had he not opted to stay another day. He would’ve been halfway across the Atlantic by now. But Max had invited him to stick around, and then, all of the sudden he was impulsively changing his ticket just this morning.

A thin trail of sticky vanilla ice cream runs down his fingers and Daniel’s forced to contort his neck to chase it with his tongue. Beside him, Max laughs at his struggles.

“I feel bad you didn’t get any.” Daniel says, lifting his arm to lick at the sugar left on his wrist—nearly dropping the cone in the process. “You’re sure you didn’t want ice cream?”

“I do want ice cream,” Max disagrees, shoving hands in jean pockets and turning to watch Daniel.

Max is an eye-contact person and Daniel is decidedly not. It’s disarming.

“I just can’t have any,” he continues, “my trainer will be upset.” He punctuates the sentence with a bark of a laugh, but Daniel can’t help but to feel bad.

Sure, he’s got to keep himself in shape to race and handle some high G-forces too, but his training is not nearly as intense. And the pressure is a lot lower too. There’s a lot more riding on a formula 1 win than on an air race win. Still, he should be able to enjoy some ice cream every now and then, right?

“Hm,” Daniel hums disappointedly, “I just feel so sad eating ice cream alone. Maybe we should go back and get you some.”

But Max smiles and says “I’ll just take some of yours.” Daniel’s caught off guard, not because he’s opposed to sharing food with friends but because, well, that would make them friends.

Regardless, Daniel barks a wide, open-mouthed laugh and holds out the cone. Max reaches out and Daniel expects him to take it from his hands. Instead Max only steadies Daniel’s hand with his own, now awkwardly craning his neck to reach the ice cream.

Max pulls back and laughs, mouth full of vanilla.

Daniel purses his lips, desperately holding back a too-big smile. His mouth is dry, sticky, and sugary sweet. It turns his stomach.

Eyes closed. Relax. Breathe.

Now go. Airspeed comes up. Pull back on the stick. He’s aloft. Now add some power, right rudder. Get the speed up. Hear the engine roar. He’s only 500 feet off the ground, but he feels infinitely higher.

Here comes the race course.

Left around a pylon. Right around the next. Left, right, left, right. Wings slicing sideways through the air. Getting as close to the pylon as he possibly can without touching it. He watches his airspeed, careful to not get slow.

Dive through the gate, then pull the nose up. And up and up and up. Faster. He holds his breath, squeezes his legs, and forces himself to keep his eyes open. 8 G’s. 9 G’s. Don’t pass out. Focus!

Then dive, get the airspeed back up. Way up. Faster, faster, faster, and! Finish line.

“How’d we do?” Daniel keys the mic and speaks into the comms.

The response comes back grainy, but audible "Nice job, that’s first place!” Yes! Another win, he flies low over the crowd in celebration. From here he can see the team celebrating, but there’s really only one person in the crowd he hopes to have impressed.

He passes a hand through his hair, smoothing down sweaty curls, as he climbs off the podium, a shiny medal around his neck.

“Great flying today,” one of his mechanics gives him a friendly slap on the back. Another grabs him and shakes him by the shoulder. It’s smiles and jubilation all around, but Daniel just jostles through the crowd with one target in mind.

The gaggle of cameras gives away the race’s token celebrity guest.

It was marketing, once again. Daniel had gone to support him in his race, naturally he should come and support him for one too. It’s just good PR, really.

But if Daniel’s being honest, it doesn’t matter to him why Max came. The fact is Max is here, and he’d finally got a chance to really see Daniel race. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t a little proud of himself.

”Max!” Daniel calls out to him, a couple cameras turn in his direction but he hardly notices. Max smiles wide, it’s a smile Daniel’s begun to grow accustomed to. The way it lights up his whole face, the seemingly angry demeanor drops in an instant, and his eyes squint up as if bothered by the sun.

“Hey, Champion.” the driver teases. Heat creeps up the sides of Daniel’s neck. The cockpit of the plane was hot, he tells himself, and he just hasn’t quite had a chance to properly cool off.

Max’s hands are placed firmly on his shoulder, friendly, exactly the way a mechanic touched him just a minute ago. But Daniel flushes under the pressure. And Max’s compliments only make his skin feel more aflame.

“High compliments.” One reporter says to a camera, remarking on Max’s praise of his race. Daniel doesn’t register, he’s not listening to her. He’s not listening to the cheers of the crowd or the camera shutter. He’s hardly even listening to the formula 1 champion in front of him. He’s just smiling straight at Max.

Max is smiling back.

“Babe, do you mind if I change the channel?”

“Wait, no!” Daniel rushes over, taking the remote from his girlfriend's hands just as Q3 starts. “It’s almost over, I promise.” He reassures her, settling back on the couch, his heart slowly creeping up into his throat.

He knows Max is going to do just fine, but it does nothing to quell his nerves. His girlfriend settles down next to him, slipping her fingers into his. Daniel gives her a soft smile, and she laughs, noticing the screen of his smart watch lighting up with an elevated heart-rate warning.

“Didn’t you watch this yesterday?” She asks, gesturing at the screen. Daniel rolls his eyes and sits up straighter–eyes glued to the TV. Max is starting another lap and he wants to pay close attention.

“That was free practice. This is qualifying. Tomorrow is the actual race,” he explains to his girlfriend, ignoring how she tries to pull him back into a more comfortable position. He’s quite literally on the edge of his seat, which feels like the only way to properly watch.

His girlfriend huffs in disbelief, and shakes her head as he nearly jumps at Max’s provisional pole.

“I didn’t realize you were so into formula 1,” she grumbles from her position on the couch. “I bet you think one of those guys is hot, huh? Is it that red one? I know all the girls love the red one.”

She pokes him on the side, joshing him around, but Daniel just bats her hand away. For a man with a sense of humor, he’s really missed her joke.

”What? Charles Leclerc?” Daniel questions, offhandedly. He’s still seemingly oblivious to the banter she is attempting to start. “No, I don’t think he’s hot, that’s not why I’m watching.”

The flag comes out and qualifying ends. Max is on pole, and now Daniel can relax until tomorrow. He reaches for his phone immediately. He’d acquired Max’s phone number after his race last week. They’ve only messaged occasionally. Mostly Daniel just receives pictures of his cats. Still, he can’t stop himself. He knows Max won't see it for a while, but he can’t suppress the urge to text him congratulations.

“So you don’t think they’re hot?” Your girlfriend jests again.

“No, I don’t.” Daniel scoffs, still not having it.

”Good,” she says, laughing, reaching over and pulling him into her, “Cause you’re mine.”

She buries her head in his neck, as he shoots a message to Max. It’s just a simple congratulations, but he still dims the light of his phone screen. The thought of his girlfriend reading his messages with Max feels wrong. Max is a special sort of friend, someone sacred, someone from outside his normal life, his normal circles.

Daniel can’t quite explain why, but he feels the urge to protect that.

It’s late. Or, actually, it's early. But it feels late, he’s been out all night, and has spent the better part of it in the passenger side of Max’s car. Some song with lyrics he can’t understand is playing, not that it matters, the volume is low enough that he can hardly hear it. Neither of them have paid any significant attention to the music. They’ve been talking over it ever since Max suggested driving just for the sake of driving. What was that now? Hours ago?

Daniel would be the first to admit he’s not the best passenger. He’s always been a bit apprehensive in cars. Yes, he’s aware of the irony given that he’s a pilot, and a stunt pilot at that, but cars are significantly more dangerous than planes. Besides, when Daniel is flying he’s in control—anything that goes wrong is his fault and his problem. But in a car? Then it’s in the hands of fate.

Even so, he had agreed when Max suggested it. The idea sounded nice. A change of scenery, an easy way to see the sights of Monaco, a chance to live out a picture-perfect Grace Kelly-eqsue fantasy. Plus it means he’d be off his feet. He’s still a bit jet lagged from his last minute flight out to Nice on a whim.

And then there was Max. With room for only two in his fancy, no doubt very expensive and very fast car, Daniel gets him all to himself. That had been a fairly alluring prospect.

So that’s how he found himself wedging his way into the passenger seat, trying to trust in Max’s skills as a driver. “Formula 1 World Champion,” Daniel repeated to himself over and over, a little mantra in his head, as they began driving. Luckily, it didn’t take very long before he eased into his seat and relaxed a little.

Max had helped, unknowingly. Keeping Daniel focused intently on idle chatter. He told stories from his childhood, and talked about karting. Daniel bit his tongue from time to time to stop himself from commenting, just so Max could continue to talk uninterrupted. His voice is soft and raspy, and slowly it lulls Daniel into a gentle sense of peace and safety.

Now, he feels comfortable in the car, even as Max takes the sweeping, mountainous corners with incredible courage and no hesitation. Incredibly, Daniel finds himself so relaxed, he thinks he could fall asleep right there. In the passenger seat of a fancy car, gray morning light slowly seeping through tinted windows as the first rays of sun peek out from under the horizon. Max is telling a story again, this time something recent, he thinks, hearing Max mention his name. But Daniel’s having a hard time paying attention.

Sunlight filters in through drawn shades. The first thing Daniel notices is he’s not in his hotel room. The next thing he notices is his phone buzzing on a night stand. It’s his girlfriend calling. He’ll get it later. He checks the notifications instead. Twelve missed calls and about twenty text messages.

One is from Max.

It says, ‘Went for a run. Feel free to use anything in the guest bathroom.’ It’s punctuated with a smile emoji that he can practically picture on Max’s face.

Begrudgingly Daniel opens his girlfriend's text thread, and is met with a barrage of ‘where are you’ and ‘answer me’ texts. The most recent one includes a screenshot of his location captioned with ‘This is not your hotel? Where are you?’

Shit.

He sits up straight and kicks off the covers. Any notion of grogginess completely forgotten as the details of early morning come back.

He remembers being gently shaken awake in the passenger seat of Max’s car.

“What hotel are you at?” He’d asked. He remembers his voice so quiet, just a raspy whisper. One hand placed lightly on Daniel’s shoulder. He remembers smiling, content.

The weak light had caught on the ridges of Max’s cheekbones and lips, revealing an equally happy smile. He was amused that Daniel had fallen asleep. Probably less so that he couldn’t remember the name of his hotel, but he’d smiled nonetheless.

The next thing he remembers was climbing flight after flight of stairs. Arms linked together like little kids on a playground. Max helping him up as if he were drunk or off balance.

He remembers yawning as Max had unlocked the door. Both of them giggling when Daniel passed the yawn to Max. Tiredness as contagious as their laughter.

Then Daniel remembers a bed. An empty bed. This bed. The door was ajar. He looks over to see it still slightly cracked. He remembers seeing a light on in the hallway, and hearing Max walking around.

Good. That means he spent the whole night in this bed, alone.

And nothing happened.

Good, that’s good.

Nothing happened.

Good.

Now all he has to do is explain that to his girlfriend so that she will believe him.

Max leans in to read the words on the screen in Daniel's hand, which means they’re flush together on the couch. He’s laughing, like, seriously laughing. Belly-laughing. Smile-splitting, ribs-cracking, sort of laughing. Daniel wants to feel Max’s joy, to join in on his laughter and revel in his smile, but the only thing he feels is a knot growing in his stomach.

They’re reading the comments on Red Bull’s latest post of the two of them. The comments are positive, they’re funny. But they’re not that funny.

’This duo>>>’ one says.

’They are so funny together’ reads another one.

Those sorts of comments are fine. They're kind. They make Daniel glad to have entertained people, something he so loves to do. But there are others.

‘They have such great chemistry.’

’They would make a great couple.’

’They are so cute together.’

One has copy-pasted a bunch of Taylor Swift lyrics, and another says ‘the way Max looks at him.’

The way Max looks at him.

And Max is reading them all and laughing. Because they’re not serious. Of course they’re not serious.

It’s a bunch of comments left by strangers on the internet, what do they know about him and Max? What do they know about the way Max looks at Daniel? What do they know about Max laughing at his own jokes making him laugh in turn? What do they know about Daniel cracking his own jokes just to see Max smile? What do they know about the way he beams down at him from the podium after winning a race? Or about how he hugs Daniel after he's just won one of his own? What do they know about late night conversations over text, over the phone, over time zones that have steadily grown more frequent? What do they know about driving around together or booking last minute flights to other countries just to spend more time together? What do they know about the way Max looks at him?

That’s the thing. They don’t know.

But Max does.

And Max is laughing.

‘They would make a great couple.’ It’s funny because, of course, it isn’t true. Two guys who–all things considered–barely know each other. Max and Daniel. Max who is, almost undoubtedly, a straight man. Daniel who always thought he was, too.

Of course they wouldn’t ‘make a great couple’.

It’s so ridiculous. Just the idea of it is funny.

And Max is laughing, precisely because it’s so untrue that it’s funny.

Max is laughing, so Daniel laughs too. It takes some effort, he has to force it out, but he does laugh. He hopes the sound comes out light-hearted, carefree, and happy. He hopes Max can’t hear the way it curdles in the air.

Max holds out a hand to Daniel, urging him to take it. Giving Daniel no choice, really, as he grabs him and pulls him along through the bustling paddock. Only innocently showing him around. Daniel can’t help but to feel wrong.

There feels something sacred about this friendship, that was something Daniel had almost immediately known. But that something has felt, lately, somewhat marred.

Maybe it’s the effect of the internet. Various marketing videos on Red Bull’s page and his very public attendance of Max’s races means this sacred thing no longer remains so. And certainly that’s tainted things somehow?

Max leads the way ahead of him and the sun catches on his deceptively dark hair as he moves. Daniel knows it’s actually blonde. The sun knows it too, catching on the strands and lighting up his whole head a golden hue that reminds him of the lion embossed on his helmet.

Daniel’s reminded of the first time he witnessed him winning a race. There on the podium, so statuesque, Max Verstappen, an art form in and of himself. Daniel sees him in a way, he thinks, that the internet comment sections will never understand. Like an admirer of art. Like a reveler. Their friendship like an oath. Like a promise. Like a vow.

Surely he gets it. Surely he feels the same way, right? Daniel worries sometimes. Only recently Max has sat there laughing at and mocking those very same comments Daniel felt misunderstood their connection, but he was mocking how wrong they got it, right? He was laughing at their fundamental misunderstanding of what this friendship actually meant to the two of them. Right?

Just then, his mind racing as if around a circuit—around and around and around, over and over and over again—Max squeezes his hand. Just barely. Ever so slightly, but it was enough. A quick gesture of reassurance, as if he could tell exactly what Daniel had been thinking. As if he could read his mind without even looking at him. As if he could just feel it.

Daniel can feel it. If Daniel can feel it, maybe Max can feel it too.

Eyes closed. Breathe. Relax.

Eyes closed. Breathe.

Relax, just relax. Stop thinking about the Grand Prix.

It’s 12:00 o’clock in the south of France, he’s in the cockpit of his plane, race suit on, Red Bull helmet encasing his head. The pylons marking today's race course are set up in the water off the coast of Marseille. Only a mere two hours from Monaco. Only a mere two hours from Max’s apartment, with his cats and his trophies and his crinkly-eyed smile.

But Max is not there.

Daniel can practically picture him standing on the shore, in blue jeans and his Red Bull shirt. He’ll look up as the planes fly over, shielding his eyes from the sun, he’ll watch as Daniel carves sharp corners and creases across the Mediterranean sky. He’ll hold his breath as he crosses the finish line, though never doubting him once. Ultimately Daniel will come out victorious, and he’ll watch on with pride as Daniel accepts his trophy. He’ll smile and look up at him and see him in the sun, a piece of artwork, the same way Daniel’s seen Max on his podiums. Winning as an art.

But he’s not here.

As if cosmically connected, today their races align. Though not just on the same day, they align almost to the minute. Despite being on opposite sides of the continent, they’ll both be racing, for at least some of the time, together.

Although it had been initially funny—Max texted him about it a few weeks ago, and Daniel had spent that evening calling with him, laughing about how fun it will be to race in tandem—now it’s only nerve racking.

A weather delay to his race start means he won’t have time to see even the end of Max’s race. And even though he trusts Max will perform well, that hasn’t stopped a pit of nerves from forming in his stomach. Turning at the thought of something going wrong for him, at the thought of him crashing or getting hurt.

It’s certainly not productive to his own race to be sitting here worrying about someone else’s, but it’s been nearly an hour and he hasn’t so much as taxied, much less taken off. Besides, Daniel can’t help but wonder if Max is out there, on lap 34 or something, thinking of him. Wondering if he’s okay and wishing him a safe race.

He’d like to think so, but he doesn’t get much time to ponder the idea as a message comes over the radio letting him know that it’s finally time to fly.

Eyes closed. Breathe. Relax.

Don’t think about the Grand Prix.

Don’t think about Max.

Just fly.

It’s a good start, and he’s ahead already by the time he reaches the second pylon, quickly turning his wings to bank left, smoothly making his way around the obstacle. The engine is loud, but he can still hear the crowd “ooh” and “ah” below him.

Just keep this momentum going, he thinks, just focus on winning. Focus on the art. Daniel banks hard and makes his next turn even better.

He zips all the way around the course once, then begins climbing: faster and faster, until he’s 1,000 feet in the air and just about ready to turn upside down when a bright red engine warning light blinks to life in the center of the cockpit, accompanied by an alarm so blaring it startles him into missing his turning point.

“What’s going on up there? That’s a DSQ!” He hears his engineer's voice loud over the radio but he barely lets it register.

Daniel is 500 feet too high, disqualified, and engine power is quickly, quickly dropping.

Chapter Text

The crash made the news. The photos make it look worse than it was. The plane dug into the sand, nose down, propeller bent. Greasy gray smoke enveloping the blue fuselage and rising in thick plumes up into the blue sky. 

Daniel recalls thinking, just after it had happened, about Max. His race was barely over, he’d probably be on the podium, but Daniel couldn’t shake a bad feeling. As if the same universal force that had cosmically connected their races would connect Max to his crash too.

As he was driven away by an ambulance, he hadn’t been able to peel his eyes away from the wreckage. Gaze glued onto the distorted Red Bull logo. The longer he stared the more the image warped in his mind. Wings jutting out from the sand became bits of navy blue carbon fiber. The propeller became a twisted front wing and the shore turned into asphalt. Through the smoke Daniel swore he saw a halo. 

Despite his delusions, the CT scan comes out clear. He’s not concussed. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake the incessant worry that has been eating at him since he’d untangled himself from his harness and clamored out of his totaled airplane. 

He falls asleep in a sterile white hospital bed, somewhere in France, with a pit in his stomach. 

The first thing that he notices is that his head hurts. Squinting, he’s hesitant to open his eyes all the way. The world is bleary and too bright. Daniel shuts his eyes again. 

His peace and quiet, however, is soon interrupted as he slowly begins to register a faint but incessant beeping. Sighing, he opens his eyes once more, ignoring the LED lighting that floods his retinas and the subsequent splitting headache. 

A hospital room comes into view.

Then he remembers the crash. 

Still in a significant amount of pain, Daniel slumps back on the pillows, closing his eyes, shutting away the painful light and noise and nuisances in the room, not to mention his slowly clearer and clearer recollection.

“Ah, sir,” a nurse speaks in a heavy French accent, but at least he can understand, “You have a visitor.”  

A visitor? That would be his girlfriend. It hurts too much to open his eyes. He keeps them closed. 

“Would someone be able to get my things for me, please?” Daniel chokes out. His throat feels thick and his voice comes out heavy, sounding far coarser than he’d expected. “I need to check my phone.” 

“Of course, sir, we will bring you your personal items.”

”Thank you,” he sighs, as he hears the nurse retreat.

Finally the room goes silent. Or, near silent. Some monitors continue to beep, but it is quiet enough that with some effort he can simply tune it out. It’s a relief. Everything hurts. His head, his eyes, his battered and bruised body.

The soft sound of footsteps echo in the hall, and then, ever so slowly, they enter the room. His girlfriend can wait, he thinks, she can simply sit quietly by his side and allow him to have his peace undisturbed. Boredom be damned. Daniel hopes, silently, that she won’t speak. 

A beat of silence passes. Then another. 

But then a voice cuts through the dull, sterile quiet of the hospital room. 

“Hey,” it says so softly, so gentle. So quiet as if not to disturb the peace in the room. So quiet the voice is nearly inaudible. But it is audible enough.

Enough to hear his unmistakable rasp, his accent, his tone. 

“Max?” Daniel sits up quick, too quick. His muscles scream. He’s startled, his eyes are wide open now, but he’s not even thinking about the pain. 

The reality of the situation washes over him in one, monstrous wave. It crashes down on him in the form of a bright red flush. He can feel the heat in his face and neck, he can feel it spread to his arms as he sits there, helpless, in a flimsy paper hospital gown—held together by string.

All Daniel can do is stare. He doesn't dare move. He may not even be blinking. His hair is surely a mess, there’s no mirror in the room, but Daniel can picture his curls springing from his head in every which direction–all crushed from the firm hospital pillows. Even worse, his back is completely exposed, he’s wearing paper. He is wearing nothing but paper in front of Max Verstappen.

In front of Max who is perfectly put together, of course. In jeans and a crisp white t-shirt that looks as if it’s never seen a wrinkle a day in its life. Hair perfectly coiffed and, well, he’s clearly unshaven, but he pulls it off. Not to mention the watch on his wrist that almost certainly costs as much as the plane Daniel just crashed–if not more.  

And Daniel is wearing. . . paper. 

Max doesn’t seem to notice his mini freak out, or if he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He only asks Daniel if he’s okay, once again in that ever so steady voice. Daniel repositions himself a little, turning to face Max straight on, but more importantly, trying to hide his exposed back.

”Yeah, I’m okay,” he looks down at his right arm, it throbs with a dull, omnipresent pain as he says it. His skin is dotted with splotchy yellow and purple bruises blooming from the impact and he looks as if a child who hadn’t quite learned how to color inside the lines had taken a marker to his tattoos. Daniel forces a wide smile. “Just a little bruised.”

Before he can choke out a further lie about feeling fine, it flashes behind his eyes again. The Red Bull car in the barrier. Completely, and utterly, destroyed. After a wreck like that shouldn’t Max be just as bruised, just as maimed as Daniel is right now? Shouldn’t he be in a hospital too? Shouldn’t Daniel be asking him if he’s okay?

”Wait, what are you doing here?” Selfish, you’re so selfish, Daniel kicks himself. Max had walked in the room and the only thing he could think about was how ugly he must look and how unflattering the hospital gown is. He didn’t even think to consider Max. Or Max’s crash. 

“I am here to see you.” Max sounds puzzled.

”But what about your crash?”

”What crash?”

What crash? What crash? That car had been completely destroyed, Daniel remembers. Daniel saw it. This wasn’t a case of simply brushing a wall or being nicked by another driver. This was a real, honest to God, crash. And it had been a big one. 

Max says his name, clearly confused, trying to get his attention. But Daniel’s busy running through the past twelve or so hours in his mind. He’s certain he saw Max crash. 

Only, he didn’t have time to watch the broadcast. Maybe he saw it on the news? Or maybe it popped up on his social media feed? Only, he just sent the nurse to get his phone. He doesn’t even have a way to go online.

“There was no crash,” Max says, plainly. Interrupting Daniel’s train of thought. “I won.” 

Won? 

In a flash of blinding head pain it all comes back. The bent and twisted wreckage of the airplane preternaturally morphing into that of Max’s car. As if just because he had crashed Max would too. As if Daniel had wanted him to. As if Daniel had wished it upon him. 

Suddenly he’s not sure if what he’s feeling is relief or guilt. 

“Wow,” he breathes, quiet as if still unsure of the soundness of his reality, “Congrats.” 

“It looked bad.” Max waves off the congratulations, brow furrowed as he asks about the accident. The real accident. “What happened?”

”Engine failure at fifteen hundred feet,” Daniel says solemnly, “I was upside down when the engine quit.” 

Max looks as if he’s seen a ghost.  

He sits, knees up on the chair, facing the window. The sun rises languidly through concrete columns of the city. It’s ungodly early. His girlfriend is still asleep. 

A laptop sits open on the kitchen table. The race is about to start, but Daniel can hardly stand to spare the screen even a glance. 

In the distance, a plane takes off from the airport. He trails its path through the dawn with his eyes. Red Qantas logo burning against the vivid morning sun like a reminder.

Aside from a long-haul flight home, on which Daniel had spent the majority of the time in a pain-medication-induced coma, Daniel hasn't flown since the accident. The doctor ordered him to rest, but he doesn't know if he would have even wanted to fly regardless. For the first time in his life, Daniel recognizes there’s something very comforting about having his feet on solid ground. 

His girlfriend’s high rise provides no such comfort. 

He’s been sitting here for hours, waiting for Formula 1 to catch up with his restless night, and now that it has he just can’t bear to watch it. 

As the lights go out he remains faced away, the volume turned down to the lowest notch so that he can just barely hear the low hum of the cars, but can’t make out the commentary. Every time he blinks, the sun paints a pileup on his eyelids. He sees bits of metal and carbon fiber and blood go hurtling around turn one. Then his eyes open again. 

It’s not hard to trace his irrational fears back to his own incident, but the deep dark pit that pools in his stomach before races predates the crash entirely. 

His heart races as he dares take a peek at the screen. Max has made up places already from where he’d started–further back on the grid than usual. It’s not enough though, Daniel looks away immediately.  He can’t stand to see the blue car clip by the cameras. All at horrible, stomach turning speed. 

It’s how Daniel spends his morning. Max winning only in his periphery. His eyes glued out the window, shaky hands spilling hot coffee on his thighs. He’s not even paying attention to the final laps of the race when his girlfriend wanders, yawning, into the kitchen. 

She spots Daniel—practically catatonic as he stares out the window—before he can even hear her approach. The sound of her soft, but irritated, sigh hits his ears just as a manicured hand comes into view. 

“Not this again.” She reaches out and slams the laptop shut. 

Daniel snaps around to look at her, gaze hard and glaring. His jaw wide open at the audacity. Truthfully, he hadn’t even been watching. That race was making him nauseous. But a cliffhanger is even worse. The nausea boils over.  

It had been so easy, so simple. He’d hardly had to even think about it, really. Like ripping a band-aid off then all of the sudden the steady relationship he’d held for years was over. Just like that.

She’d been so pissed at him. At the casual tone with which he’d said it. I think we should break up. Like he was suggesting they run out to grab coffee after breakfast. Or go for a run. Or see a movie. Like it was something totally ordinary and completely innocuous. Like he wasn’t breaking up with his girlfriend of four years. 

She’d stood up and stormed out of the room, but only momentarily, before marching back in with a million demands and questions and tears. She’d shouted and bargained and cried. She accused him of not being in his right mind, surely he was concussed, not even two weeks out from his accident. 

Ultimately, after the hysterics, she relented. Claimed she knew it was coming. Claimed he had changed. She was still pissed when she sent him away from her flat with a cardboard box full of his belongings, but she had calmed down enough that he was able to offer a half-hearted goodbye with a quiet, sympathetic smile.

Despite the drama of it all–on her end, that is–Daniel hardly felt a thing. Sure, he felt sorry for her. Sorry to have to do that to her. But his sympathy began and ended there. He felt no guilt and he certainly felt no grief. She was right, afterall, it had been coming, even if he hadn’t explicitly thought about it until now. They’d reached a natural breaking point. 

Daniel couldn’t really say what the breaking point was, if he was being honest. It seemed so silly to chalk up the dissolution of his long-term relationship to his newfound interest in Formula 1 that had, admittedly, been taking up so much of his time. Nor did it feel right to blame it on all his running around with his new friend Max that had been taking up even more of his time. Or his crash.

Well, maybe the crash was not so silly a reason. 

Daniel grips the wheel loosely with only one hand, the other laying casually on the center console. To his left is a haphazardly packed backpack thrown half unzipped on the passenger seat. He hadn’t really thought about it much, just dropped off his breakup box, grabbed the bag and started stuffing it with essentials.

He had been out the door in 20 minutes. 

On the way to the airport, he thinks about his crash. He navigates the roads by memory alone–his mind left free to wander. 

He replays what he can. Not the crash itself, but the aftermath. The bleary ceiling tiles hanging over him. The harsh fluorescent light bouncing off linoleum floors. The incessant beep, beep, beep of the machine whose wires he was tangled up in. 

How he’d faltered around in a confused mental state. How he’d sat in that hospital bed, reaching back into his mind, trying to make sense of his own memories. Looking for the point where reality and unreality met, made contact, swirled and melted into each other. Trying to understand what sick, twisted, mental defense mechanism had forced him to believe that Max had crashed too.

Daniel exits off the highway. The sun is in his eyes. It blinds him, briefly, and for a moment he feels the way he did earlier that morning. Watching the race. Closing his eyes to see a five car crash into the first corner. Max caught up in the middle. The whole scene painted bright red by the glow of the sun through Daniel’s skin. It had all looked so real.

Then he opens his eyes. 

As Daniel turns towards the airport his eyes are relieved from the stinging of the sun’s sharp rays. The road is clear ahead of him and it all comes into view.

The worry that had wormed its way into his gut at the sight of Max’s Red Bull lining up on the grid takes shape. The crash that his brain had invented for Max in that hospital room adopts a meaning. The breaking point in his relationship after four long years becomes clear. 

Daniel pulls the car into a spot in the airport car park. ‘Long Term Parking,’ the sign says. With a glance over at the bag that he’d packed in a hurry, not a second of thought put into it, it all dawns on him. He realizes what he’s doing. Where he’s going. Why he’s doing it. 

Max.

Oh, god. Max.

The stupidity of it all washes over him. Really, what did he think he was doing? Running home to pack a bag not even an hour after breaking up with his girlfriend. Sending Max a quick, probably typo-ridden text asking to visit him in Monaco and not even waiting for a response before rushing out the door. Driving to the airport, no ticket, no plan. It’s stupid, Daniel thinks. So fucking stupid. 

He’s about to chicken out, turn the car back on and go home, when his phone chimes. It’s Max responding to his message. 

The race only just ended a few hours ago, he’s probably not even left the paddock yet, but he’s written back that he’ll meet Daniel in Monaco when he gets there. That the guest room is open. All his. ‘Stay as long as you’d like.’

The car stays off. 

He slings the backpack over his shoulder and starts walking towards the terminal. It’s not a long walk, but it gives him just enough time to shove some terrifying realizations away. Max goes back into the ‘friend’ category in his mental filing system. For now, that is. He’ll deal with it later, he thinks. He just has to get to Monaco first. 

Best he can do is a flight to Paris in just over an hour.

The agent at the Qantas ticketing counter is surprisingly helpful for such a last minute request, and the security line moves quick, so Daniel is well on the way to his gate with plenty of time to make the flight out. Plenty of time, that is, until his feet plant hard to the floor and refuse to take even a step forward. 

It hits him in the chest first. 

This tight, squeezing feeling around his ribs like his lungs are being run through a compactor. He sucks in a breath of air, but his lungs seem to have shrunk to a fraction of their former size. He just can’t keep the air in. What follows is the slow, dreadful building of a feeling resembling fear as he fails to keep the next breath in as well. 

Relax, breathe, focus, he tells himself. 

He’d relax, breathe, and focus if he could but his short, shallow, futile breaths–in, briefly, then out, and out, and out again–are not helping on any front. 

He hasn’t felt this way since he heard his engine sputter and give out fifteen hundred feet above the Mediterranean sea. When he watched the numbers on his altimeter spin lower and lower and lower as he looked down to see nothing but the ocean below. When he had, in a plane practically falling out of the sky, grabbed the control stick and aimed for sand in a desperate, last ditch measure–hoping it was not too far a distance to glide. 

He remembers it all, up until the impact. After that he remembers very little else. The one thing he does remember though, is the panic. 

Daniel’s knees feel weak, faltering a little below him and something dark takes over the corners of his vision. He’s stood still, in the middle of a bustling airport on a Sunday morning, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can only panic. 

Somewhere in the distance, a plane engine roars, spooling up for takeoff, and that’s what does him in. He snaps back to it in an instant, jostling his way through the crowd to find a place to sit before the darkness on the edges of his reality takes over entirely and he passes out. He needs to calm down, he needs to breathe, he needs to stop hyperventilating. He needs to not panic.

Airport seating is never very comfortable but this bench feels warm and solid underneath him, and that’s all Daniel needs. 

He focuses on his breathing, counting the seconds in and out, until his breaths slow and his lungs decompress. He still feels slightly woozy, but everything is clearer now, and he doesn’t feel like he’s teetering on the verge of unconsciousness. 

Once he feels okay to walk he checks the time. His flight just barely started boarding. He’s not too late, he can still make it. So he stands up.

The lightheadedness hits again in a sudden, painful instant. His eyes go blurry. Something rings in his ears like the toll of a bell. He sits back down almost immediately. 

Okay, maybe not yet, he thinks. But when he tries again a few minutes later he doesn’t make it much further, and on the third attempt he only gets halfway to standing before he’s forced to sit back down. He must be sick. He must have been concussed in the accident. There must be something actually wrong with him. 

There must be something wrong with him.

Why else would he find it impossible to stand? Why else would it feel so hard to breathe? Why else would he be sitting here hyperventilating in the middle of the airport? 

Another plane rockets down the runway. Daniel watches it through a window. His lungs feel tighter again. He’s going to miss his flight. What will he say to Max? 

He doesn’t even feel sad, really. He wants to go to Max, he wants to see him. But he can’t seem to muster frustration, or disappointment, or anger or any of the other feelings that are typically brought on by missing a flight. 

He feels content to sit on this bench and watch his plane take off, its red Qantas logo burning against the sun like a reminder. 

Daniel’s not sure how long he’s spent sitting idly on the airport bench, but it must have been at least a few hours. 

The funny thing is, he’s not having trouble moving at all. He’s gotten up and sat back down a number of times when he needed to use the restroom, or grab a drink of water. He even went and got himself a shitty, airport sandwich when the empty feeling settling in his stomach became too much to bear. And really, aside from the initial wave of panic that had rendered him incapable of movement, Daniel feels perfectly fine. 

Well, mostly fine. 

The airport is as good a place as any to let one's mind wander. Daniel has become all too familiar with that truth after spending countless minutes rooted to his bench, eyes glazed over, and lost in thought. 

All he can think of is Max. 

Not for the first time that day, either. All he could think of was Max as the Formula 1 race flashed by on his laptop screen early that same morning. All he could think of was Max as he stared off into the distance too scared to watch the race itself in case Max lost. Or crashed. Or worse. All he could think of was Max as he broke up with his girlfriend, as he packed his bags, as he drove to the airport. All he could think of was Max as his flight took off without him on it. 

All he can think of is Max, as he opens his phone and sends a message with bitter disappointment. ‘Not gonna be able to make it, mate,’ he writes. ‘Think I’m coming down with something.’

Sitting on this airport bench, Daniel lets it wash over him. The feeling he had pushed down for the past few hours, days, weeks–months, even. It rings out in him, crisp, sharp, clear. Like the sound of a TCAS alarm bell in the cockpit warning of an imminent collision. This time, though, Daniel doesn’t pull up. 

His phone chimes with Max’s response: ‘No worries.’ Then a follow up, ‘feel better soon.’ 

‘Sorry, man.’ Daniel writes back, unable to suppress the urge to apologize for his little white lie. Not that Max knows any better. Daniel really could be getting sick, Max wouldn’t have any way of knowing from 13,000 kilometers away, after all. Still, Daniel can’t help himself. ‘I was looking forward to seeing you.’ 

Before he can regret the double text, Max’s reply comes through. ‘Me too.’

It’s enough to push Daniel over the edge. What was probably just a thoughtless, polite message to Max–or small confirmation of their friendship, at the very best–feels suddenly monumental. Me too. Me too, he’d said. Max had wanted to see him. And Daniel knows he wants to see Max too. So, very badly. Then why hadn’t he gotten on that damn plane?

What Daniel also knows is he’s not sick. He’s been haunting this airport bench for long enough to have figured that much out. But as easy as it had been to let the big, scary Max feelings in when they came once again relentlessly knocking at his door, this seems to be a much harder pill to swallow. Something is wrong with him, he’s aware, but Daniel really doesn’t want to admit much more. At least, not to himself. 

Without really thinking he’s pulling his phone out again. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t get on the plane.’ He types it and sends it without a moment of hesitation, not even giving himself a chance to read the words he’s writing. He sends another. ‘I just had a bad feeling.’

A bubble appears on Max’s side of the screen. It disappears, then reappears, then after a moment disappears once again. Mere seconds after the typing bubble disappears, Daniel’s phone screen lights up with an incoming call. 

“Max?” He answers upon picking up. 

“Hey, Daniel,” Max’s voice comes through slightly muffled, obscured by some noise on the other end of the line, but his endearing overpronunciation of Daniel’s name is picked up loud and clear. 

“Max, mate, listen,” Daniel’s voice falters as he fumbles to explain himself, “I’m real sorry about this whole–” 

“I have some time before next race, you know,” Max talks over him, “I’m thinking I can come visit you in Perth. If this is okay with you, of course.”

“Uh,” Daniel starts, dumbfounded, into the phone. He’d been sure Max had only called him because he was confused. Who wouldn’t be confused upon receiving a friend’s impromptu message asking to come visit and then only a few hours getting a perplexing retraction of that request? But now Max is asking if he can come visit Daniel? “Are you– uh, are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Mate,” Max says, sounding almost exasperated, “you just had a big crash. I want to check on my friend, of course.” 

He’d said it so easily, so casually. My friend. It was the first time he’d ever called Daniel that. His friend. It’s not like Daniel didn’t know, but hearing Max say it out loud makes his skin feel warm in that familiar, pleasant way. Daniel has half a mind to just shout yes. Yes, yes, yes. Get on a plane right now. Come visit, come stay. Make yourself at home with me. I want to see you. I want to be around you. Yes. 

“Won’t you be jetlagged?” He asks instead. 

Max just laughs, claiming to be unaffected. “You think I’m not used to it by now?” He says. “Besides, it’s easier for me to come to you. This way you do not have to deal with crowds and airports, you know.”

Daniel can’t help but to silently agree. Max has the benefit of being able to fly private, which certainly makes the whole ordeal easier. Still, Daniel wouldn’t have minded putting up with airports; despite the hassle, he’d always liked them. Or, up until today he had. 

Regardless, Max seems insistent, and who is he to fight it. Besides, he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t giddy at the thought of Max invading his life, even if for a short time. 

“Okay,” Daniel gives in. “Just, uh, let me know when you land and stuff. I’ll, uh, I’ll pick you up.”

“Yeah, of course.” Max says perfunctorily, and Daniel responds with a hasty goodbye and hangs up quickly, before Max has a chance to change his mind just like Daniel had. 

Just like that, plans are finalized. Quick, almost thoughtless, hardly any different from Daniel’s own spontaneous instinct to jet off to Monaco earlier that day. Perhaps it's the racing in their blood. An instinctive need for speed manifesting itself as a ruthless efficiency in every other aspect of their lives. Or maybe they’re both impulsive and reckless. 

He gets up, and for the first time in hours, makes a meaningful effort to leave the airport. As he finally leaves his trusty bench behind, making his way back to his car left ironically in a long-term parking spot, Daniel rolls the phone call with Max around in his head. 

It had been so. . . uncomplicated. Without needing to ask about it at all, Max made the decision to come to Daniel instead. No need for a reason or an explanation, he had just done it. And his voice over the phone had sounded so steady and sure, not an ounce of confusion or annoyance or judgement. 

Daniel hadn’t needed to say a damn thing. Max simply understood.