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You will not be racing starting next year, Yuki.
A small postured man spotted squatting alone outside the garage—the one whose nametag will soon be refurbished, blanketing himself with an oversized navy-blue jacket labelled with its owner’s name; Yuki Tsunoda. A can of RedBull on his right hand, drunk slowly as his boba eyes meticulously remembering every single detail of his own ‘home’.
Another blonde man joins him—squatting as well with just a white suit behind his own navy-blue race suit (he opened the suit just above his torso), “Yuki. I believe you will have another chance.”
Yuki—the smaller man—didn’t even budge, nor did he hear the blonde’s words.
A RedBull can unsealed, then got drunk into half—the chaperone continues on, “Just… I think, you’ll need to settle on different team. 2027’s slot is rather volatile, wanna give a shot?”
At last, Yuki nods off nonchalantly, “I guess so.”
“You’ll have two years deadline to fix these mess though.”
“One to steal the data and another year to adjust in the new team, had I able to secure the seat.” Yuki’s answer got the chaperone laughing impulsively—bonus a soft pat on Yuki’s dry and messy hair.
Both men funnily drank the can altogether while viewing the after-party’s cleaning session—in front of the garages. On the right side of Yuki’s garage, the name signed his own teammate; Max—along with the 1 number that is also going to be changed soon. “Feel free to steal any data available in RedBull, Yuki. I won’t stop you though.”
“What made you so goddamn firm on this case though, Max?” Yuki’s right eyebrow rose.
Max—apparently Yuki’s teammate—snickered, “You’re the one, Yuki. I knew you’re the type to scramble those data papers sneakily.”
They couldn’t never beat the allegations; Max observing the little guy’s antics on the engineer’s papers back and forth, then sneaking to his own team to talk of his car’s updates. Every single damn raceweek. Moreover, Max caught him doing that multiple times unbeknownst to some of the high-ups—even the damning Christian Horner.
Max points out Yuki’s RedBull can, “But I want you to trade for me shutting up.”
“What?”
“I want to regularly visit you once you’re out of this team.”
“Not a chance, you racing-freak.”
Max added two fingers on his once-pointing-the-can hand, “Two food portion on the cheat day.”
Yuki—his face showed much annoyance—finally looked up to his own teammate, “Are you a dork or something? Bribing food won’t do me any good, 5th-title-failure-guy.
And I knew you’re going to move your ass out of this godforsaken team too!”
“Oh?”
“ON THE SAME YEAR I’M ABOUT TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS TEAM!”
“HAHAHAH!” The last statement sent Max into even more violent laugh, “Busted, damn it. Thought I had this scenario kept in secrecy. Okay, how about this? We got the fuck out of RB, and I’ll bribe you any food available on the cheat day in exchange for you to visit me in to my next team. Deal?”
Yuki drank the last droplet of RedBull can, and refused, “I’d rather sleep on my next team’s garage than see you on the daylight—whatever, in the race week!
Anyway…”
Yuki left a long sigh, his eyes back on observing his own garage a little longer, “Are you absolute sure I still have a chance racing here in 2027? Considering I’m bad in RB21—that’s some shitty ass gearbox I had in this season, trust me. Adaptability is key in this ever-changing F1 climate, I see it.”
Max shrugged his shoulder and pats Yuki’s left shoulder, “I can’t guarantee that; I can say this: in the F1 climate, tomorrow is always the war season. Good or bad, you can only rely to yourself to improve.”
A sudden surprise presented before Max—Yuki leaning his head to Max’s right shoulder.
“What if I fail again?”
“Just race on the different league. If you got podium over there, wait for me. I’ll bulldozer your right away.”
“Yeah, confirmed a racing-freak. Maybe a psychiatrist would help restrain you for a while from racing 24/7 ‘till death.”
Out of nowhere, Max’s hand pats Yuki’s messy hair for god-knows-umpteenth times, “Hey, at least I got to spend our precious time together here. If you moved outta F1 and decided to try WEC earlier, I can’t freely come to see you bulldozing over there.”
Yuki grunts in annoyance, “I might end up on domestic league, I guess. I’ll try WEC simultaneously—you might’ve already done that damn LeMans though.”
“… Did I spill the tea that much?”
“From the broadcast, you dork-brain.”
Max grins as he heard Yuki’s oh-so-unfiltered potty-mouth.
As the wind blew softly, both men went into melancholic mood as the night continues even past midnight. Max kissed Yuki’s temple—as he blanketed Yuki’s neck with his right hand, “Whatever the shit’s going on, we will prevail. Yuki.”
As Max signalled Yuki to face him, Max linked his forehead with Yuki’s—and breathe calmly, “Yuki. Whatever the shit’s going on, I will back you. If you’re tired of these shitstorms, open the restaurant and I’ll help advertise your venture.”
Max’s blue eyes met with the sheepishly hidden brown color on Yuki’s boba eyes. All in a loving sight—something that is unreal in their ambiguous relationship.
Both men breathe the same rhythm as Yuki responded to Max, “I’ll use my money fully on studying as a top tier chef, then opens the restaurant. You’ll help that lane, yeah.”
“Right. We gotta get the fuck outta even those damned family, now or never.”
“Alright. Still no free food for you once I opened the restaurant.”
Max can never get enough of Yuki’s ever-bratty antics, even now. The champion nods in loss, “Fine. We got to trade though. I get to pay you to make the food, and you live in my home. Deal?”
Yuki instantly sprinkle the remaining RedBull can on Max’s side to him—a bit flustered, “Okay, you’re now a perverted-dorky-racing freak! No, and no, I don’t reside in your home!”
“But we’re in this relationship?”
“Do you even have any idea that we are technically the teammates!?”
“Okay, fair point.” Max snorts—he tried to restrain his laugh.
Max drowns Yuki’s face into his upper torso and smiled affectionately, “Okay. In a near future, I’ll tell the media that you’re going to be my boyfriend. We’re going gay sometime soon.”
Certainly, that idea got some fine smacks in Max’s abdomen—apparently, the smack didn’t look too serious. Moreover, Yuki’s face trying to hide his red blush as he heard that—and of course, he stood up and ran afront his own garage while Max heard his last words;
—“of course, Max idiot!”
Promise Hidden
English is NOT my native language.
And these story are NOT REAL. Send yourself to the psychologists if you feel that this delulu is the trululu.
(and I impulsively wanted to convey Tsutappen/MaxYuki's awkward but loving relationship in English what the actual boxer I did this)
end.