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Daniel is in bed in his Monaco apartment when he gets the news that his teammate Kyvat will officially be replaced by the young Max Verstappeng from Toro Rosso.

It is still only seven in the morning. Daniel wakes not from the sound of an alarm or the buzzing of his phone. But for reasons unknown to him, something other worldly pulling him from his sleep. He reaches blindly for his phone only to find that he had woken up a whole half hour before his alarm is meant to go off. He closes his eyes for a moment and stretches out on his bed with a big exhale. He should go back to sleep, catch up on a couple more minutes of rest while he can. Michael has a modified gym routine for him after his consistent fourth place results in the first few races of the season and the horrendous eleventh he had placed in the Russian Grand Prix. It’s supposed to get him back up to speed, even if the terrible results from the last race have less to do with his own driving and more to do with his shit luck that weekend.

Kyvat had rear ended right into Vettel, who then swung out into the side of his RB12. Daniel’s pace was gone immediately. There was no coming back from that.

He turns his face into the pillow and blinks the sleepiness from his eyes while his fingers are already on auto-pilot, checking through new messages to see what he has missed and whether they are worth replying to.

There is a couple from Michael, just reminders on today’s activities. His mom sharing updates of the recent day trip she and dad had gone on. Then one from Christian Horner that reads:

Letting you know ahead of time that Verstappen will be replacing Kyvat from the next race on.

The message was sent at 4.36am. As if Christian had been up this entire time working on this, and then shot a text to Daniel once everything had finalized.

So, Kyvat’s out, and Max is in, huh. Not an unusual occurrence. After all, this is Red Bull. You either perform well enough to maintain your spot, or you’re kicked out before the crowd even gets to know your name. It’s a real shame. Daniel would feel worse about it if only Kyvat wasn’t the main reason for his shit race in Russia.

***

The media has a field day when they announce the Red Bull and Toro Rosso swap. The news breaks out that very afternoon as Daniel is downing a protein shake.

His phone pops off, messages and calls flooding in from friends and journalists alike. Curious bystanders of the situation wanting to know his thoughts. His feelings regarding this sudden switch of teammates. They want to know if he might let slip on insider information the public is not yet privy to.

Daniel doesn’t let them in on it. See, the secret to handling these kinds of messiness is to not know anything at all. Daniel had found out about it pretty much the same day the rest of the Formula One world did. Maybe it could be chalked up to great planning by the strategy and PR team to keep things hush hush right up to the last minute. Or, maybe Christian didn’t think it is of any importance to keep Daniel in the know about these things. Not like Daniel would have had any say over it regardless. Sure, he may have had an opinion or two but ultimately, Christian makes the final calls.

They meet officially as teammates during the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix.

Max Verstappen is a tall gangly teen full of unbridled excited energy. He is so eager for it he can barely contain it. Even as he is ushered into the room for his first ever Red Bull pre-race weekend briefing, with Christian explaining formally to the rest of the team the reason for the swap, Max is brimming with it. His shoulders are drawn wide and proud, hands balled up by his sides. A closed lip smile stretches across his face; it curls up at the corners just slightly. He doesn’t school his expression into a more neutral look. At this young age, Max isn’t capable of it.

Daniel shakes his hand and offers a smile of his own.

“Congrats mate, and welcome.”

“Thank you,” Max says, voice breathy, and takes the empty seat where Kyvat would have if he were still racing with the team this weekend.

As if all the stars have aligned themselves for the Spanish Grand Prix, Max Verstappen wins his very first Formula One race, rising above other veteran drivers. His smile breaks through fully as he stands at the top of the podium. He tries to hide it a little under his cap but his happiness is evident. He is pink cheeked and flushed, and he bounces on his heels endlessly as he looks down at the cheering crowd. Later when he raises the trophy above his head, the fans surge to a roar.  

Daniel puts his hand to the side of his face and whoops encouragingly. Even if jealousy creeps up along his throat to sit bitterly in his mouth. Max is his teammate, and there is no doubting how incredible of a performance he has given on his Red Bull debut race. It’s crazy impressive, to say the least. Kind of scary even, if Daniel cares to admit. It is the kind of start most drivers can only dream of. Winning right out of the gates, with all the media attention in the world on you.

That’s when things begin to go array.

When you’ve got a prodigy on the scene, everyone wants in on it. The cameras are focused. The questions are relentless. People want to know. Fresh out of the car, Max is surrounded by audio recorders.

How does it feel being the youngest ever driver to win a Formula One race?

Did you think you were going to win this weekend?

How confident are you on replicating the same results for Monaco?

Standard questions for a race winner. Nothing too out of the box.

The day goes on, and after all that can be asked, have been asked… That is when the interviews take a vicious turn.

Max is at the post-race press conference when the lightheartedness sheds suddenly to reveal an almost sinister hostility that is practically whiplash.

Have you spoken with Kvyat since the replacement?

Some are saying the swap is unjustified considering how early we are in the season. What are your thoughts on this?

Do you feel you stole Kvyat’s spot on the team?

These are difficult questions because they’re already skewed from the get go. The journalists ask since it is their job to. And Max, being a young driver with little to no prior media training, struggles to navigate the accusatory questions.

Daniel sees it on the broadcast back in Red Bull hospitality. Sandwiched between a cold-faced Kimi, and a knowing and playful Sebestian, Max barely manages to string his sentences along in a cohesive manner. He tries to keep neutral. But his face now is red for a different reason. Something like hurt, or nervousness, or anger flashing across it, or sometimes all three at once twisting across his expression.

At the end of the night, the Formula One teams pack up to head off home.

By coincidence, Daniel bumps into Max on his way out. That’s when he sees it.

The tight furrow of Max’s brows. The tense press of his lips. The hurting inward curl of his shoulders as he walks in to grab his things and pack up to head home too. He is so focused. His gaze a tight line on the floor, leading him straight and forward so he isn’t looking at anyone, or at anything.

“Hey,” Daniel stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Max had been moving with such intensity they almost collide. Daniel squeezes his shoulder with a firm assuring grip. He hopes it comes across as comforting. “You did great, today. Congrats.”

Maybe Max hadn’t been looking at anyone or anything else because he can’t bring himself to. When he lifts his face to meet Daniel’s gaze, his eyes are so full of emotion it is hard to pinpoint it down to a single one. They are dark with hurt and anger. Soft with inexperienced confusion. Wetness wells along the lower edge of his eyes, but it’s not enough to cry.

Max’s eyes shimmer light and blue.

“Uh - You alright, mate?” Daniel risks and asks.

“I’m fine,” Max says, cracking on his last word.

It is such a display of stubborn boy pride that Daniel can’t help the swell of fondness blooming in his chest. He wants to tussle at Max’s hair and laugh at the determined front the young driver is putting up.

Instead, he squeezes at Max’s shoulder another time, and gives him a teasing smile.

“Forget’ em. They’re all dickheads. Go celebrate your win, alright. You deserve to.”

Max’s chest rises as he takes in deep breath. When he exhales, the tension seems to bleed out, slowly but surely. Daniel can feel the muscles under his fingers practically loosen up, as if someone had finally given him the permission to relax. It has been a long day, Max deserves to go home feeling good about himself, instead of shitty and fucked up from unkind questions he had to deal with.

“Okay,” Max says. He looks much more like himself from earlier this morning. Good. “Thank you.”

“What are your plans?” Daniel asks.

“I think I’ll do some sim racing when I get back. Practice for the next race.”

Daniel doesn’t think sim racing is all that celebratory. But hey, it’s Max’s win. He can celebrate it however he wants.

***

The world of Formula One moves fast. As a driver, you are only as good as your last race win. After the Spanish Grand Prix, Max doesn’t stand on the podium again, not for another couple more weekends.

Daniel at least lands a second in Monaco, the revered street circuit of Formula One racing. A truly painful podium finish, considering this would have been his first ever Monaco win. It would have cemented him in the history of the sport, his name alongside the other legends who had secured a win at this prestigious circuit.

He is angry all weekend. To say he is disappointed is a huge understatement. But having been racing long enough, he knows he can’t carry that anger into the next Grand Prix. It’ll only fuck with him and screw him up for the long game. Sure, he is furious. If given the chance he would love to sulk and beat himself up about it, throw a fit at the Red Bull team for their absolute shit co-ordination, causing him his shot as Monaco race winner.

It sucks. It sucks so badly. Daniel expresses his fair share of frustration with the media and journalists. Then he packs up and moves on.

That’s the job. You race your heart out each and every time, and sometimes you win. More often than not, you don’t.

The losses are not a representation of your ability as a driver. When it comes down to it, all the moving parts in totality are probably what determines your chances of winning – your race skills, the engine, the team, the weather, your favour with Lady Luck. They all play a part in propelling you towards victory. Even if some days it is particularly hard to remember this. Some days Daniel feels like it’s all down to him. Just him and what he brings to the track.

It has taken him a long time to be able to learn to let go of the lows so that he can go into the next race weekend with a clean slate. Calm, focused, and ready to prove himself to the world again.

A concept the new Red Bull driver Max Verstappen hasn’t quite grasped.

After Spain, Max doesn’t stand on the podium again for a while. Which is only to be expected. (It is one thing getting a win right on the get go with a new team. It would likely stir up cheating allegations if Max had won a second time, consecutively.)

So, while everyone else around him seems to get this, Max himself is struggling massively after each race weekend.

Truth to be told, Max isn’t all that far off the finishing order of the races that his stellar performance in Spain would be viewed as a fluke. Yet he is visibly upset at where he stands by the end of each weekend.

As a driver, Max is naturally competitive. They all are, Daniel thinks. However, Max may be on another level of competitiveness. Because it is starting to look as if a win is the only result Max allows of himself. Anything else is less than satisfactory.

This is the only mode he operates at.

And as the weeks go by, and Max still hasn’t brought home another victory for Red Bull, the questions come increasingly cutting and cruel.

This question is for Max Verstappen. You showed up incredibly on your debut with the RB12. What do you think is the reason you haven’t gotten another win since?

When do you think is the next time you might come in at top three?

Normally, you don’t get asked such directed questions so early in your Formula One career. You would first step into it as a Rookie for one entire year. And as you gain the experience and the wins, that is when the more serious questions arrive.

Max isn’t afforded this. He jumpstarts past the veteran drivers, right into first place, and now he is expected to outperform all the grid drivers every single time. It is a lot of pressure. Even with the PR lessons Red Bull now puts him on, and the practice press rehearsals before Thursdays – Max still fumbles with his replies. Occasionally, his lips betray him, awkwardly mispronouncing a word. Or when his sentences run long, he stumbles over the word on a stutter. It is so clear how hard Max is trying and how quickly his walls have begun to go up.

Where Daniel had caught a glimpse of Max in a moment of unabashed young excitement and boyish eagerness before, he quickly realizes how lucky he is to have seen that. Having gotten to know the young Verstappen for a bit now, Daniel can’t help noticing just how much Max hardens himself up when confronted with the press, with losses, with other drivers who do not particularly like how a driver this young has bypassed the usual racing career track to land himself such a sweet spot in Red Bull.

He hears too that this hard-faced Max isn’t out of the norm. Apparently, Max has always been like this, all throughout his karting days and when he raced in Formula Four, and Three.

Tense jawed. Head ducked low, cold eyes hidden behind a cap. A brutally unfiltered way of speaking.

Weird how that is. Daniel doesn’t at all see him that way. Like Max is some wild beast, ready to lash out at his opponents at the slightest provocation.  

Yeah, sure, Daniel considers himself somewhat of a natural people reader but come on. Anyone with a pair of working eyes will be able to tell how much of a front Max is putting on. Or can’t they?

Max finally gets on the podium once more at the Austrian Grand Prix. Red Bull’s home circuit. He is smiling, and he is proud.

But Daniel never sees that open joy from his first Red Bull win, nor the emotional vulnerability of post-press conference from Max again, not for a long time.

***

They grow closer as the months go by. Daniel gets along with pretty much everyone and Max is no exception. Like all the others, the young driver falls victim to Daniel’s charms.

When they aren’t competing on track, the Red Bull team forces the two drivers into all kinds of publicity stunts. Battling it out in game challenges, doing trivia quizzes against each other, or the odd costume dress-up videos. Despite Max’s initial unwillingness, all it takes to change his mind is for Daniel to clap his arm around Max’s shoulder, pulling him in with a warm side hug, and offering Max his biggest smile.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. Besides, it’s a charity event. It’s for a good cause,” Daniel offers sweetly.

“I would rather play FIFA,” Max says, point blank. “I am much better at that.”

“We can’t only do the things we’re good at.” Daniel squeezes Max closer towards him. Max flushes, body going warm. Daniel feels it hot against his side. “Do it for me? I bet you’d look cute in the soccer uniform.”

After a long moment Max pulls down his cap over his eyes, and in an adorably soft voice says, “Fine.”

Daniel grins and the PR girls heave a sigh of relief. Their prodigy driver has graciously extended his patience just a little more to shoot the required marketing videos for the brand. As if Max isn’t contractually obligated to do whatever Red Bull tells him to anyway.

***

As the season goes on, Max attunes better to the RB12. He is fast, but not as fast as Daniel. Because the car has been built for Daniel. The engineers had taken so much of his feedback, and input that into the RB12 that they’ve got it to match as close to Daniel’s driving style as is possible. While not perfect, it somehow just works for him. The control in the corners is fucking exceptional. But as he claws his way up the race positions one painstaking overtake at a time, he still just barely falls short of getting that victorious P1 by one miserable position.

In Germany. Belgium. Singapore.

Daniel finishes out in P2, which is great, but not good enough. And it’s so close that Daniel can almost taste it. He wants it so bad. He wants the win with such intensity it keeps him up at night.

It happens, finally, in the mid-day heat of Malaysia. Where the humidity of the air envelops him like fire and burns him up from the inside. Where the scorching temperature has him sweating warm and sticky under his compression top so that it itches like ants across his skin. His heart pounds so frantic in his chest he fights to keep his breathing under control, gasping deep lungs full of air, even though it feels as if there just isn’t enough oxygen to possibly keep him going until the finish line.

It is a battle on every front.

His mind wants to give in. His body and his muscles scream at the exertion of every lap. His will and ambition however, bare their sharpened teeth, pushing Daniel forward. Makes him keep going. Fighting and defending, speeding ahead to the front while keeping a young and viciously hungry Max Verstappen at the back.

They go wheel to wheel in the final few laps and Max makes a last-ditch effort to try for an overtake.

Daniel brakes hard and he brakes late, forcing Max on the outside, keeping him back, then flying out the corner and towards the finish line.

Daniel takes the checkered flag.

He wins.

Daniel Ricciardo wins. And it feels so good he could cry.

Instead he smiles, bright and beaming, until his cheek hurts, and the laughter spills from his lips in uncontrollable bursts. He raises his fist in the air as the Australia national anthem plays and the crowd comes alive with cheers and applause for Daniel who scores his first win in nearly two years.

It is such an ecstatic, electrifying feeling, he wants to live off this forever if he could.

Daniel is in a celebratory mood all day long, turning his usual happiness and easygoing nature up another five notches. He can’t help it. Sheer joy radiates off him. He accepts every congratulation with a toothy grin, basking in the praises like an animal in a warm patch of sun.

For a few lovely hours, Daniel gets all the attention in the world and he soaks it up. After all that hard work, the hours upon hours of dedicated time at the gym and on off-season practice tracks – Daniel thinks he deserves to enjoy this moment.

He has one of the best days in a long time. So much so that he doesn’t notice the absence of the second-place finisher Max, until after the celebratory drinking and the mandatory alcohol dousing of the Red Bull mechanics. The outside of the Energy Station is a wet mess by the time they disperse and pack up for the night.

Without his motorhome, Daniel has a scheduled ride back to the hotel instead. According to the team assistant, Max is supposed to come with on the same cab. But when Daniel searches through the scattering crowd, he can’t find the young driver anywhere.

There are only so many places Max can be.

If he isn’t in the garage, then he must be in the hospitality building. Maybe in his own room? Probably busied himself packing his belongings while Daniel was outside on the Paddock making a fool of himself.

Just to be sure, Daniel wanders from one room to the next, going from the lounge area, to the kitchen, then outdoor mini pool, then up the stairs to the offices and briefing rooms. As he makes his way through the different areas, the energy drinks and alcohol sloshes around inside of him. It has him giddy, and he sing-songs for his teammate.  

“Max… Maxy… Verstappen.” He pauses to chew around the name. “Nah, maybe just Maxy. Mate, where are ya?”

He makes it up to the third floor. Their private rooms are down the hallway, Daniel’s on the left, Max’s on the right. Doors opposite of each other.  

When he arrives at Max’s room, the door is ajar. And through the slightly parted gap he hears someone speaking in a soft but directed manner.

“Ja, ik weet het.” Daniel peers between door and frame, and sees Max. “Ik had beter in de hoek moeten kijken.”

More accurately, he sees only the back of him, with his too short cropped hair and the big red bull logo across his shoulder blades. Max has one hand hanging on to the back of his neck, squeezing tensely, working at the tight muscles there. His hair is distinctively mused, as though he had run his fingers through them multiple times already. His other hand clutches tightly at the phone.

“Of course I tried,” Max’s voice raises, near snapping. As if realizing his tone, he brings it under control. “I went for the overtake. Still, Daniel was faster. It does not mean I did not try.”

There is silence as the person on the other end of the line follows up on Max’s statement. Daniel watches as Max drops his arm to cross is over his chest instead, one foot starting to tap. He is increasingly agitated as the call stretches on.

Suddenly, Max bursts into motion. He paces the room, and Daniel can see his profile – sees the deep furrows wedged between his brows, the displeased scrunch of his strong nose, the downward cast of his angry gaze as he tracks his path back and forth within the confines of his room.

It occurs to Daniel then that if he can see Max, then Max can probably see him. He just hasn’t noticed Daniel yet.

Daniel startles backwards and flattens himself against the wall. He should probably stop eavesdropping. He knows better than that. If he were having a private conversation, he wouldn’t want someone listening in on it either. Certainly not by the subject matter in discussion.

Except Daniel had come to retrieve Max so they could both head out together, and the car is sitting idle outside of the paddock, patiently waiting for the two Red Bull drivers. And Daniel wonders how long this entire conversation will be. Should he even wait? Maybe Max will be here all night long. How long has he been on the phone anyway? He was gone pretty much the entire duration of the celebrations.  

In the end Daniel decides to wait out in his own room for the time being. He has things to pack too. Couple of shirts, dirty underwear, toiletries, the usual. As he steps in the direction of his room, Max yanks the door back suddenly and barges out into the hallway. He crashes hard into Daniel.  

“Ow, fuck!” Daniel winces.

“Mother fuck—” Max curses, then realizes who it is he had collided into. “Daniel.” He always pronounces the front syllable of Daniel’s name with an open ‘ah’ sound. It makes him sound remarkably innocent.

“Heya.” Daniel rubs his sore chin. “You’ve got a forehead of steel.”

“Sorry.” Max reaches out to inspect on the damage. The contact never comes. Max snatches his hand back, unsure if he is allowed to touch.

“You’re alright. The car is here if you’re ready to go.”

“I’m – I need a second. I didn’t pack yet.”

“Need a hand?” Daniel asks.

“No,” Max says, and returns to his room.

Like Daniel, Max doesn’t have a lot personal items he brings with him from weekend to weekend. Most of it gets hauled in totality along with the entire hospitality infrastructure. Despite that, the young driver is struggling to figure out what to put away first.

He grabs at his duffel, which is the correct action, and then swipes up the sweaty discarded shirts and shorts stacked on the chair in the corner. Halfway through he seems to remember the forgotten sim racing equipment and drops the clothing in a panic to snatch up the more important racing wheel.

“Shit – where did I put the stupid case?” Frantically, he scans the room. Noticing Daniel still by the doorway, he hurries to explain, “I was cleaning the handle but I need to put it with the pedals in the case, so it doesn’t get lost.”

He sounds down-beaten. He sounds like his mind is torn into four different directions and he can’t quite pull it back together enough to focus on one single task.

Daniel should stop watching. He should give Max space, so that he can get himself back on track. It’s just… Daniel is positive if he walks away now, Max won’t how to put himself back together anyway.

Sighing, he crosses the threshold back into Max’s room. He kneels down and drags the tortoise casing out from under the table. It is a large bulky thing. Pretty hard to miss, unless your mind is everywhere else except here. Schooling his voice into as neutral a tone as he can get it to be, Daniel slides the hard cover case across the short distance over to Max.

“Here you go, Maxy.”

Max snaps his gaze to the sims case. Eyes sharp, emotion unreadable. Is he offended that Daniel helped?

“Thank you,” Max says, crouching down to flick the cover open. He slots the wheel into its allocated space and shuts the casing.

“I’ll get your other things for you –”

“I don’t need your help.”

Shit. He knows better than to stick his nose into other people’s emotional issues yet here he is once again, trying to make others feel better. Even if the person in question is Max. Max who is clearly upset with Daniel. Or maybe it is precisely because of that, that Daniel finds it hard not to poke his head into the mess to at least try and make things better.  

“Sorry, I’ll leave you to it,” Daniel says.

He gets up.

Max stands as well.

Daniel makes for the exit.

“Wait!” Max exclaims.

Daniel halts in his tracks. “What’s up?”

Max’s expression is still unreadable. He looks like he wants to say something, but no words escape him. Daniel waits, letting Max try to formulate his sentence. But nothing comes. And in the end, they’re both standing around in uncomfortable silence.

Daniel coughs, trying to break the awkward tension.

“I’m gonna go grab my bags. I’ll see you downstairs—”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Max lets out all at once.

“That’s okay, we all have bad days.”

“I’m not allowed to have bad days,” Max says.

Daniel blinks, not fully grasping the statement. He shrugs. “Sure, you are. Everyone has a crappy day every now and then. It happens. You cry about it, then you pick yourself back up and keep going.”

This is something Max will have to learn. You aren’t going to be in perfect condition every day. You aren’t going to nail every single lap, every race. You may not win for a very long time, and that’s alright, because you try, and you keep going, and eventually you will get that win. You will taste the victory, and feel the confidence surging through you once again. Feel a joy so pure, and a happiness so all consuming, that it will fill every inch of your being until it threatens to burst out of you. The world will sit warm in the palm of your hands, and it will all be worth it.

But that is rare and fleeting. It is not the average day in a Formula One driver’s life. Daniel has hard to learn this through his years of racing. No matter what happens, you will have to pick yourself up. Your team will be there to pick you up too and push you along. That’s what having a team is for.  

“No,” is all Max says, in such a small voice that Daniel has a suspicious feeling this is going to take more than the normal senior-junior pep talk.

Daniel closes the door, then comes round to Max and stops directly in front of him. He rests his hands on either of Max’s shoulders. When Max does not make any efforts to move away from his touch, Daniel slides his arms forward. One above, and one under, and pulls Max into his embrace. He holds him, firm and safe.

Max freezes. For a long time, he has no reaction. Like his body doesn’t know how to respond to the hug, his arms hanging limply by his sides. Then something seems to break inside of Max, slowly, breath by breath. It becomes deeper, more ragged. His chest rising and falling against Daniel’s. Until finally, on an especially long exhale, when all the air has been forced out of his lungs, Max is left gasping. He sucks in a hitching breath, too quickly, all at once. It chokes in his throat.

And Max starts to cry.

Pained sobs spill from him, uncontrollable as it fills the space around them. All the frustration and tension he’d been holding on rushes to pour out of him, but the emotions mangle as it leaves his body, causing Max to shake in Daniel’s hold. His shoulders spasm erratically, and as he cries, chest expanding and contracting in quick succession, Daniel worries he might be squeezing Max too tightly.

He shifts back a little to put some space between them. But in that instant, Max presses in closer, plastering himself needily against Daniel, closing the gap to ensure that they are touching as much as is humanly possible.

It is cute. It is also kinda sad. Max is so young. The first few years of your Formula One career are always tough. Whoever had been on the call with him must be really shit at pep talks.

“Shhh, you’re alright Maxy,” Daniel coos as he rubs along Max’s back, soothing him. Max’s whimper is lost in the crook of Daniel’s neck and shoulder. He can feel wet tears on his skin. He teases, “Wiping your snot on me, huh.”

Max murmurs something that could be a swear word, or it could have been Dutch. Whatever the case, Max hasn’t let go, so he can’t be too mad about it.

They stay this way for a long time, with Daniel rubbing gently up and down Max’s spine, and Max sinking further into Daniel. Until all his weight is practically on Daniel, and the older man is actively tensing to keep them both upright.

Dammit Maxy, making me work on the night of my win.

“I did try,” Max murmurs against him, voice raspy from overuse.  

“Believe me, I know.” Daniel had to fight to keep him behind him during the attempted overtake. If Max had been any faster, Daniel would be in second place tonight. “You drove well. You always drive well. You’re very good, Max. You will only get better and better. Keep your spirits up, alright?”

“Mm,” Max hums.

He isn’t crying anymore. His breathing has returned to normal. He still sags into Daniel, unabashedly resting all his weight on him. Daniel has to move his arm to Max’s waist to hoist him up a little.

“How are we feeling?”

“Mhm,” Max replies. Sluggish.

Daniel laughs.

“Mate, I would hug you all night long if I could, but the car is waiting. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Max says, coherent this time. He steps back and wipes at his cheeks, rubbing away the dry tears.

The weight of Max is suddenly gone. Daniel finds he rather misses it.

***

The pep talk works, more or less.

At the next race, Max Verstappen is back in fighting shape on the Suzuka circuit. He is a formidable force and a speedy little terror. He defends hard to keep Lewis Hamilton back behind him, and races faster to catch up to Nico Rosberg.

In the end Max lands a solid second, wedged between the two Mercedes drivers. It is not a win, so it isn’t ideal, but Max manages his big boy feelings just fine. He stands tall as he claims his earned spot on the podium and wordlessly accepts that if he wants another big victory anytime soon, there are areas he will have to refine.

The media talks, as it always does. On certain weekends they talk more if Max’s results are less than optimal. It doesn’t matter. Max keeps racing hard, keeps pushing himself for more.

Through the end of the 2016 season, and start of 2017, he puts it all out on the circuit, driving to the limits of the car, his own mind, his own body. He must, because he is Max Verstappen. And because – here is where the pep talk hadn’t quite landed the right way – because he knows that off-track there is someone who will catch him when he falls. Someone who will piece him back together when no one else can. Someone he can steal away into the quiet of a room and sit together for a moment undisturbed, until it all feels right in the world again.

Max and him grow ever closer as they go into a new racing year. After Malaysia, and Max’s moment of vulnerability, Max had become more open around Daniel. More real. He is authentically honest, fun and childish without fear, and daringly serious on his on-track battles without the fear of judgement. He flourishes around Daniel as their friendship blossoms. And Daniel is positive that he is the only one on the grid who gets to see Max in his realest self, the only one who truly sees Max in all his good, and more importantly, he thinks, all his bad.  

Whether it comes at the end of a difficult phone call from Jos Verstappen, or at the aftermath of a terrible on track racing decision that Max is beating himself up over, Daniel gets firsthand experience to Max’s roiling emotions. Max will eye him from across the room, signaling his intent well before he makes his way over, and then tugging Daniel away from the crowd. The two of them disappearing off into a quiet corner, or an empty corridor, or their private driver rooms with the lights on low.

In the moment of solitude, he will press himself into Daniel’s chest and bury his face into the side of his neck. Will murmur out incomprehensible noises until Daniel complies, wrapping his arms around Max to pull him in to his embrace. Soothing Max, giving him encouragements, placating him with a litany of, “there there”, and, “don’t get too upset Maxy, you’re so good.”

They will stay together for as long as Max wants. Daniel never pulls away, nor does he complain, or gets up to leave.

When Max decides that he has gotten his fill of Daniel, only then does he let up so that they can return to the paddock.

Honestly, Daniel should find it all quite troublesome, if only he can quell his empathetic nature. He really does understand how hard it is. Max is so young, and Daniel is the only one he trusts to share his feelings with. He needs Daniel to assure him that he has done a good job, and that it will all be okay.

This softer needier side of him that no one else but Daniel gets to see. It feels like a secret that only he is privy to. And that is as much a privilege as it is addictive.

***

The Bahrain circuit always brings up conflicting opinions amongst fans and teams alike. While not the hottest race of the year, any race where heat could become an issue always requires an extra care in the areas of hydration and body temperature management.

It’s not much a problem for Daniel whose entire childhood consists of burning summers and running wild on the family farm. Instead of worrying about potential overheating issues, Daniel gets to focus on just the circuit layout and how best to race it. There’s a whole bunch of overtaking opportunities, which is always great fun. That, combined with it being a sunset to night race, can make the weekend pretty exciting.

This year, Daniel is really looking forward to a shot at the World Championship. He has only been thinking of it all winter long as Red Bull works to build him a car that will propel him towards that goal.

He supposes that’s why it has already been such a dramatic beginning to the year with a DNF in Melbourne right off the bat, and a fourth-place finish in Shanghai after that. In Bahrain he barely hangs on to his fifth, after struggling with tire wear near the last laps of the race. (But maybe the struggle near the end is what made the finishing position a little sweeter.)

Daniel hops around on a post-race high, bouncing from garage to garage, barging into other driver’s interviews and dropping jokes a plenty. He loves the way he effortlessly pulls laughter from people’s lips. He loves how easily he can disarm someone of their initial irritation to his appearance, and watch as their tentative annoyance melts, replaced instead with smiles and lines crinkling at the corners of their eyes.

It feels so good. It’s like a superpower.

Interviewers seem to think so too. They naturally gravitate to him, wanting to be around his magnetic energy; and Daniel isn’t even one of the top three tonight.

Daniel is in the middle of flirting it up with a lady journalist who seem very interested in having a conversation beyond just racing itself, when he spots a pair of searching blue eyes well above the crowd.

Max is tall for his age. He hunches sometimes, seeming smaller than he really is, but straightened to his full height Daniel identifies him easily. Gaze hardened and expression cold, Max makes an urgent dash in his direction.

Daniel is immediately distracted.

The journalist notices his faltering smile. She turns to whatever has captured Daniel’s attention.

“That’s your teammate, Max Verstappen. Has he come to say hi?” The audio recorder makes a comeback. She is in work mode again, or at least trying to portray that she had always been. 

“Uhuh,” Daniel says stupidly before his brain catches up. “Hey Max, all done with your interviews?” He slings his arm over the younger male’s shoulders and pulls him in until they are pressed side by side. A cute sight for any spying cameras.

“Yup.” Max manages a tight smile. “It looks like you are done with yours?” He hooks two fingers into waistband of Daniel’s jeans, lightly tugging him backwards, hinting at him. He wants to leave. He wants to leave with Daniel.

“Almost—”

“Because Christian wants you,” Max says. He sticks his fingers further down the back of Daniel’s jeans. Daniel can feel the bony curl of them against his lower back. He swallows.

“Everybody does.” Daniel flashes a blinding grin and raises his free arm to flex his bicep. It makes the nice lady break out into a smile and a giggle.

“Can we go,” he whispers low into Daniel’s ear.

Daniel waves his goodbyes as Max leads them both into Red Bull’s energy station, up into their private rooms. The sounds of conversation and paddock talk increasingly taper off until all he hears is Max’s urgent footsteps down the hallway, and his own picking up speed to try and catch up to Max.

The door clicks shut. Daniel speaks first.

“Is everything okay?”

Max has never pulled him away like that. Not so openly. Not in full view of the paddock.

“Everything is fine,” Max replies, then realizes he doesn’t need to put up a front here. He huffs out a quiet bitter laugh. “Actually, it is not fine. I don’t know why I said that.”

Max paces back and forth. Daniel watches as he goes left to right. Right to left. Zipping continuously in front of him, rallying like a ball in a tennis match. His frazzled energy is palpable.  

“Okay,” Daniel drawls, licking his lips cautiously. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Max stops to look at him. His expression tense, a cross between hurt and confusion. Daniel knows that look quite well by now. It’s the one he wears when his mind is all torn up, and his emotions are frayed into a million threads and he doesn’t know where to even begin to unravel his feelings.

Max drops his gaze to the floor, unmoving. So Daniel has to be the one to move first. As always, he approaches slowly, giving ample time for Max to back away or shrug Daniel off if he doesn’t want to be touched. He never does, of course. Max always wants to be held, even if he never asks for it the way normal people do.

“I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Daniel offers lightly. “If you wanna just hang out…” He takes Max by his wrist and leads him to the couch. He guides Max into sitting, then settles beside him so that they are close, thighs almost touching but not quite. A single strip of space separates them. He waits for Max to be the one to close it.

“I keep thinking about earlier on in the race,” Max admits, picking at his nails. One of them already has a hangnail.   

“About what?” Daniel asks.

“About the lock-up. After that I just kept going until I hit the barrier.”

“Mhm,” Daniel nods in agreement, unsure of where Max is leading with this.

Max’s hands curl into fists and his knuckles turn white.

“It was a brake failure,” he says, slow and deliberate, as if trying to convince himself. Daniel only nods. “So why does it feel like it’s my fault?”

Max leans into Daniel then, head falling tiredly onto Daniel’s shoulder. He rests there for just a second before the inner hurt grows too large and uncomfortable for him to manage. He turns into Daniel a little more and rubs his cheek at him.

“It’s not your fault, Maxy. Who’s saying it anyway – media people? You know they’re a bunch of cunts. Don’t get caught up in all that,” Daniel shushes, curling his arm around Max’s small waist, hoisting him closer.

Max shakes his head.

“No one,” he replies. “I just… I feel like it’s my fault.”

Oh, poor Maxy.

“It is not,” Daniel assures, firmly. “It is not your fault, Maxy,” he says it as many times as Max needs, repeating it until the words become louder than the doubts in Max’s head. Because while Max might have no problems distinguishing between fact and feeling, acceptance and understanding however is another thing completely. The engine failure of the RB13 is out of his control. There is nothing he could have done to avoid the DNF tonight. But recognizing this won’t stop him from beating himself up about it and taking it on as a personal failing.

Max sighs. Or maybe it’s more like a whimper, a faint, pitchy sound buried into the broad of Daniel’s shoulder. Like… last year, in Malaysia.

Then, before Daniel even realizes what is happening, Max climbs over him suddenly, and drops into his lap. It is only when Daniel feels the full weight of him, feels Max’s ass settling across his upper thighs that he becomes all too aware of this new position.

His hands shoot up to Max’s hips. He had not intended for it to but there they are, of their own accord, needing something to hold on to.

“Do you think I’m being stupid?”

Not stupid. Never that. Maybe highly emotional but hey, that’s Formula One for you. Who isn’t emotional in this race of a lifetime?

He doesn’t answer nearly as quick as he wants to. His brain has jolted to a mechanical stop at the feeling of his teammate Max sitting snug on his lap. This has never happened before.

“Not at all. Maybe a little… full of feelings,” Daniel says, very gently, very kindly, sprinkling in the right amount of teasing. It earns him a huff of a breath right against his collarbone. A shiver runs down Daniel’s spine.

“I’m trying not to be... full of feelings,” Max says.

“Well, it’s not all bad. It’s good to have feelings. It’s very human and natural.”

“Is it?”

“Mm,” Daniel hums. Part of him is still grappling with the fact that Max is in his lap, his hips fitting under his hands a little too perfectly. He can’t help it; he grips him tighter.

Max doesn’t answer. He breathes out, long and heavy against Daniel’s neck, his hands cling at Daniel’s shoulders. He makes no sound at all, but Daniel can tell – Max is crying again. Quietly. Not as broken as the last time since he hasn’t been bottling everything up lately, but crying all the same. Tiny fits of tremors rippling through him as he outpours his sadness, and Daniel wishes Max would go easier on himself.

It is sad how heavily Max struggles with his feelings, about himself, his family, racing, the media. But he has started to talk about them now. He is trying to work through them, and Daniel is glad for it. It’s healthy.  

Well, talk at Daniel, to work through his feelings. Talk, while stealing from Daniel as much attention and affection as he can whenever he gets into these high-strung moments. To which Daniel, stupidly, being the kind of person that enjoys making others happy, gives as much of it as Max wants, and will take.

Tonight especially, he seems to want more than the usual cuddling or friendly pep talk.

Max snuggles in even closer to Daniel until their hips are practically pressed flush together. He has gone from using the side of Daniel’s neck as a means of wiping his tears to nuzzling there instead, nosing along the sensitive skin. He traces a languid path, up and down his throat, then back up to Daniel’s jaw.

Daniel’s mouth goes dry. He freezes, not daring to move. Like an animal caught out. Goosebumps rise over everywhere that Max touches. Is it just him, or has it gotten kinda hot up here? Did the aircon die out or something, because he is starting to sweat, and it makes his shirt stick uncomfortably along his back.

He fights the urge to fidget.  

“I like you Daniel,” Max says suddenly, pronouncing his name in that cute way that he does all the time. “You are always very nice to me.”

Daniel’s heart rate skyrockets even more and it’s getting increasingly hard to catch his breath. He pants, open mouthed and shallow, trying to get more oxygen into his lungs, which does nothing to help. It’s the opposite in fact, and he realizes that his head has gone fuzzy.

“I try to be,” Daniel replies, voice gravelly. He tries so very hard. But with Max heavy and warm in his lap, his thick thighs bracketing him in and his waist right there — fuck, he can’t help himself. He slides his hands up to Max’s waist and squeezes him. He feels so good to hold. Dangerously, he flirts with the idea of slipping his hands under Max’s polo tee to touch bare skin. He bets it would be even better.

Shit. Daniel has to slap himself mentally to stop the running thoughts. He always tries to be nice, but being nice is seriously proving to be a challenge right now.

“You always are,” Max’s speaking has calmed, voice no longer trembling. He has stopped crying. Good. He has also veered hard into a state of post-cry lethargy, becoming twice as touch starved as usual. Perhaps more than what Daniel can manage. It is very very bad.  

“Are you feeling better now, Maxy?” he hurriedly course corrects. They should go back downstairs for final debriefs, if any. Maybe a couple of last-minute interviews either of them have to see to. Daniel needs to go outside to get some desperately needed air.

“Yes,” Max says, lips so close against his ear that Daniel breaks out in a fresh wave of goosebumps along the back of his nape. He jerks away, one second too late. All the blood in his body has already rushed south and his dick starts to fill, straining against the front of his jeans.

Daniel is severely fucked. He is fucked, and he needs to get them both downstairs right now before he can embarrass himself further.

Of course, that’s when Max decides now is the perfect time to adjust himself, getting even more comfortable on top of Daniel. He spreads his thighs, widening them lazily to shimmy closer into Daniel. He wants the full body contact. And as he chases down that last bit of space between them, he rocks forward, making undeniable contact against Daniel’s hard dick.

Daniel bites back on a moan. His teeth sink into lower lip and he tastes blood.

He grabs onto Max’s hips with frightening urgency. Summoning a strength he didn’t even know he was capable of, Daniel lifts Max and shifts him further down his thighs. The cool air is a relief to his senses.

Jerked out of his lethargic stupor, Max blinks wide blue eyes at Daniel. He notes the respectable distance between them both and frowns.

“What’s wro—”

“Someone is calling for us,” he blurts. “I heard them. Uh, from downstairs. We should go.”

Max is not convinced, Daniel can tell. Despite that he gets up.

Daniel stands quickly and faces away from Max, already making a beeline for the exit. He is painfully hard. His face too warm, and his body tingling all over with arousal. He does not need Max to know this.

“Yup, we’ll be right there!” Daniel calls to no one, and vanishes down the stairs.  

***

Max cries. A lot.

Not that that’s a bad thing, no.

It’s healthy. More specifically, it’s healthy in Max Verstappen’s case, considering his history and all the emotional baggage he has had to lug from his childhood.

So no, Daniel isn’t complaining. He is however, pointing out the fact that he has definitely become Max’s safe space for emotional processing and now the younger Red Bull teammate comes to him for all his big emotions – primarily anything that will make him cry.

Frustrating media days, lousy race weekends… If he needs an outlet for his more vulnerable emotions, Max will come to Daniel. And Daniel indulges him every single time.

It’s fine, Daniel tells himself. He is more than happy to be an emotional pillar of support; lending a shoulder or two until Max is calm and back to his normal self. If only that were the extent of the support.

Nowadays, a cry session can sometimes consist of providing Max with a lap to sit in, or sacrificing his sanity as Max uses him as a life sized plushie to nuzzle up everywhere that he can. His jaw, the side of his neck, his shoulder. Sometimes Max will bury his nose into the side of Daniel’s head, breathing in the lingering shampoo scent from his curls, cooing about how good Daniel smells. Once, Max had unconsciously spent minutes on end threading his fingers through Daniel’s hair and tugging idly just to have something to do with his fidgeting hands.

It got Daniel so hard that he was genuinely in pain. All he would have needed was one more absentminded tracing of Max’s finger along the curve of his ear, and Daniel would have come in his pants.

He has read about this before in high school. Pavlov conditioning. Some crazy guy had trained his dog to associate the ringing of a bell with food.

In this scenario, Max has Pavlov conditioned to Daniel to associate his crying with non-consensual, intensely drawn-out foreplay that leads to fucking nowhere except that of his own hotel bed, guiltily jerking off with his hands down his boxers and coming with Max’s name on his lips.

It’s fucked up. He is fucked up. He is abusing Max’s trust and he has to put an end to this.

***

In Hungary, Max locks up in turn two and crashes into Daniel’s side.

Daniel feels the slam right into the car, the impact of it vibrating through the RB13 and into his body, punching the air out from his lungs. His ribs ache.

“Someone hit me,” Daniel rasps into the radio, fighting the steering wheel as the car goes off track, nearly colliding into the barrier. Somehow, Daniel manages to wrangle the vehicle back onto track, saving it from further damages.

The engine goes dead after that. They call in a recovery crane. Daniel retires from the race in lap one.

And Max… gets away with a ten second penalty.

Back at the hotel after the race, Daniel is in his room when someone knocks at the door.

He checks the peep hole.

Max is standing outside, wringing his hands together. He peers down either ends of the corridor as he waits.

Daniel contemplates ignoring him altogether. But then Max stares into the peep hole suddenly and calls him through the door.

“Daniel, are you there?”

“I’m a little busy,” Daniel says.

“Can we talk?” Max asks, ignoring the initial reply completely.

“I’m busy,” Daniel repeats, only slightly annoyed. “I’m heading out.”  

Max goes quiet, but Daniel can see on his face that more than anything, he is surprised. Maybe a bit at a loss.

“I thought I should – I wanted maybe to apologize.”

Daniel opens the door.

“You already did.”

Max looks at him then. He rakes his gaze down Daniel’s body, cataloguing the loud print button shirt paired with the dark jeans and a matching set of loafers. A silver chain hangs around his neck and he wears a watch on his left wrist. If his outfit wasn’t already clear, the freshly spritzed cologne should be telling enough.

Max inhales, head tilting back subconsciously as he takes in Daniel’s scent.

“You are going out,” Max says.

“Yup. Did you need something?”

The younger man fidgets. He looks down either ends of the corridor again as if worried of being seen.

“I was hoping maybe we could… hang out together?”

Daniel scoffs. He knows what hanging out together will entail.

Right now, Max probably still feels guilty for ruining Daniel’s race today. And although he has already apologized, Daniel is still pissed off with him; and well within his right to do so. Which in turn makes Max feel bad, so he comes to Daniel, because Daniel will always make it better. Since that is what Daniel Ricciardo does.

He makes everyone feel better.

“No, thanks. Some of the guys are headed to the club. I’m going with them.” Daniel shrugs. He keeps his tone neutral. It is not like him to be unnecessarily cruel just for the hell of it. Besides, he has been trying to find ways to reject Max when he gets into moods like these. Now that the opportunity has presented itself…

 “Oh, okay.” Max shuffles on his feet, scratching the bottom his shoe against the carpet. He is still here, reluctant to leave. What’s worse is he’s got this kicked puppy dog look about him now that is way too effective. His bright blue eyes downcast, and his shoulders slumping like he had just been berated at.

It makes Daniel want to give in. It makes him want to reach out and close the distance between them, pull Max into his arms.

He won’t, though. He shouldn’t. He must start to say no.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast,” Daniel assures with a smile, reaching out to ruffle at Max’s hair, messing it.

Desperate for the contact, Max goes onto his tippy toes, chasing the warmth, pressing his face into Daniel’s palm.

Daniel sucks in a sharp breath. He indulges, dragging his hand down to let the younger man nuzzle in needily.

After a while, Daniel takes it away.

“Have a good night, Maxy.”

“Have fun.” Max smiles.

Then Daniel watches as Max disappears down the corridor and into the lift.

The doors close, and Max is gone.  

***

It gets easier after that first rejection.

Sorry Maxy, I have an interview I gotta run to.

I can’t, Christian wants me in a meeting.

Promised the team I’d go out drinking with them tonight.

Daniel dishes out all kinds of excuses not to be around Max when he is about to have a huge emotional melt down, and Max accepts it.

Not happily, but, he has to accept it all the same. What else is he supposed to do?

Daniel no longer wants to play therapist – hates having to confront his own fucked up perverted behaviors whenever he sees those bright blue eyes get beautifully wet with tears – so Max will have to deal with his big boy emotions himself.

The season goes on. They race hard on track and always have an incredible time off-track, joking around, doing videos for the Red Bull marketing team. As far as Daniel can tell his and Max’s relationship hasn’t changed at all. Which is a huge relief.

Max must have come to some kind of realization that he has been relying way too much on Daniel lately. He has probably learnt a couple of new emotion management techniques by now, which is good. So, he comes round to Daniel for help lesser, and lesser.

Until eventually, he doesn’t at all.

Belatedly, Daniel realizes he kind of misses it.

***

Brazil is one of the last few races of the year and it is always a good time.

When Daniel and Max had first touched down in Brazil, the Red Bull marketing team has them both immediately chauffeured over to Edifício Dacon, where the two drivers participate in a session of Capoeira on the rooftops.

They get up to a bunch of cartwheels and hand-stands, kicking and turning as they learn the martial arts movements. At one point the Capoeira instructors have him and Max going up against each other. In a moment of blurred arms and too swift spins, he and Max crash. They both collapse onto the mat laughing.

Friday practice feels different. With both the Driver’s and Constructor’s championships having already been decided in the earlier rounds, the teams gear up for racing for the love of the game.

Saturday qualifying comes and goes. Before Daniel knows it, it is already Race Day.

Along with the excitement of the fans and the great selection of music being blasted down the paddock all day long, Daniel is psyched up.

The race itself leans highly aggressive with tons of overtaking; Daniel loves it. Although neither Red Bulls make it to the podium, it’s still a hell of a great time and a super satisfying race.

By the end of that weekend, Daniel is zipping up and down the paddock again, giving his big wide smiles and crowd pleasing one-liners to the camera while his younger teammate is in tow beside him.

Because they don’t get to drink as wildly in Abu Dhabi, the team takes the opportunity to go out that night instead. And since Max is already of legal drinking age here, they take him to the clubs too.

Not that he’d needed to have a night out for any excuse to drink. The Dutch driver gets snuck with shots of Tequila and Cachaça by some of the team engineers over at Toro Rosso and he takes it enthusiastically. Seriously, you can get Max to do all kinds of shit with a bit of encouragement.

By the time they make it to the club, Max is already tipsy. His complexion light red, and his body loose and relaxed. He comes back from another free shot of non-descript alcoholic something and sways his way to Daniel on the dance floor.

“Remember on Thursday, we were doing the cartwheels around each other. I think we should try that. They will all be like – woah! There is a fight in the club, quick take some pictures,” Max says, gesturing exaggeratedly with his hands.

“Mate, if you try any of the moves from that Capoeira session – you’re gonna throw up all over yourself,” Daniel chuckles, then laughs bright and loud as Max intents on proving him wrong, rocking his body back and forth in preparation for a cartwheel.

Daniel yanks him upright by his wrists. Max fights him off, tugging playfully.  

“I can do it. Maybe even with only one hand,” he insists.

It’s definitely the alcohol. He shouldn’t find this as funny as it is but Max playfighting him off just so he can embarrass himself in front of the public has Daniel in a laughing fit. He can’t breathe.

“Max, stop. I’m gonna pass out –”

“From the drinking?” Max asks, a twinge of seriousness.

“From laughing. I’m literally about to piss myself.” Daniel grins wide. “How about we just dance like normal people.”

“Okay.” Max grins too, eyes crinkling in the corners. It makes Daniel’s heart clench beneath his ribcage.

They move under the spectrum of lights. Rays of blue and green dance across Max’s face as Max sways along to the trance of the house music. At some point the DJ changes and the crowd swells with the injection of new energy the rhythmic set brings. The surge of sweaty bodies around pushes them together.

Suddenly Max is pressed close to Daniel, their chests almost touching. Max’s hands are glued to his sides. He is conscious not to invade Daniel’s space, ensuring they don’t make contact. It only makes it more awkward.  

“We’re at a club,” Daniel says, urged by the liquid courage coursing through his veins. The crowd presses in around them, bodies moving and brushing against each other. Everyone else is leaning into their desires, getting close, exploring freely. Daniel dips to whisper in Max’s ear. “You can touch me.”

Intent on making himself clear, Daniel slips his arms around Max’s waist and pulls him closer.

Max opens his mouth with a sound that is instantly swallowed by the music and the crowd. Daniel wishes he could have heard it.

Tentatively at first, Max rests his hands on Daniel’s shoulder and gauges for a reaction. Daniel stays close, his arms remain locked around Max’s slim waist, their bodies flush and hot against each other. As the music crests and a new confidence begins to thrum through Max’s veins, his hands slide forward, arms lifting to circle Daniel’s neck, pulling the older man closer.

They let the music take them under. They move against each other, shyly at first. Then, more comfortably and bolder, swaying in rhythm with the crowd, rocking together gently as they find the beat between them. The club too packed all around, and too dark. Wandering eyes won’t catch the way Max twirls his fingers through Daniel’s curls, tugging gently like he has never touched anything softer. They won’t see Daniel’s hand moving along the length of Max’s spine, tracing its curve, barely resisting the urge to dip just an inch lower. Won’t see the way their gazes grow heavy, half-lidded with alcohol and some unspoken deeper emotion Daniel isn’t yet ready to name.

“It’s late. We should head back,” Daniel says.

They catch a cab.

Max leans on Daniel the entire ride to the hotel. He laughs at every one of Daniel’s jokes, even the bad ones. It makes Daniel laugh in turn, helpless to Max’s open joy. And before long they’re both caught in a chain reaction they can’t stop. Uncontrollable giggles spill through the back of the cab.

When they get to the hotel, Daniel ushers them to the lift and walks a giddy Max to his room. He fishes the keycard from the front of Max’s skinny jeans and taps to let them both in.

Only when Max has flopped onto the king-sized bed, does Daniel make for the exit.

“I’m so glad,” Max sighs.

Daniel comes back to the bedside.

“About what, Maxy?”

“That you don’t hate me.” Max turns to look at Daniel who is standing a distance away. He smiles at him, soft and giddy.

Daniel frowns.

“I don’t hate you. Why would you think that?” He sits at the edge, and the mattress dips with his weight.

The young driver sighs again, curling in towards Daniel. His fingers stretch to touch Daniel’s.

“For many months now you have been avoiding me. I thought you were angry at me,” Max says, voice scratchy and soft. “I’m so happy you don’t hate me.”

He smiles.

And it breaks Daniel’s heart to pieces because he hadn’t known that Max had been worried about this. He hadn’t even considered that his sudden pulling away would stir up such feelings of self-doubt and worry. Max had said nothing of it.

Daniel doesn’t know how to tell Max the real reason he had pulled away. It’s too messed up for him to ever share it.

“Maxy, listen – ”

He doesn’t manage another word because from the bed, a young curled up Max starts to sniffle.

“I’m just so happy,” his voice cracks in that tell-tale way of an oncoming sob.

Daniel swallows heavily, fear creeping up from the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, c’mon now.” He squeezes Max’s shoulder.

The sob only gets louder, spurred on by Daniel’s touch. Daniel winces, taking his hand back like he’s been burned.

Somehow that’s the wrong move too! Max reads it as a rejection and balls up into himself even more than is possible, hands pressing into his eyes.

“Oh man. Please don’t cry. Please?” he begs.

His dick is already beginning to react, growing hard in his jeans. Raring to go. It is insane! A single sob and Daniel’s conditioned body goes hot with arousal. It craves the weight of Max in his lap, and the hurt needy whimpers that are only for him to hear. The way Max pants open mouthed as he struggles to catch his breath in a full-blown crying bout, exactly how Daniel imagines Max sounds when seated on his cock, his hole stretched wide, and ass pumped full with cum and —

The imagery is too much. He should not have thought of it.

Glancing at Max, he catches the exact moment the younger man peels away his hands, revealing under that his flushed cheeks, red and smeared with tears. His blue eyes sparkling with wetness. And his beautiful long lashes sticking together in clumps. He looks so messy. He looks so pretty.

Daniel digs his hand into his hard dick and moans.

The world grinds to a halting stop.

Even Max have gone quiet.

Daniel bites his tongue in shame. Maybe if he bites it hard enough it will fall off and he won’t have to explain himself.

“Daniel?” Max sits up. His cheeks are still ruddy. He’s so pretty it hurts. “Was that – ”

“I um,” Daniel swallows. He can’t bring himself to keep looking at Max. He is so hard he just might come if he gets another glance at Max’s ruined, teary face.

Warily, Max crawls over. Daniel can sense his curious gaze on him. His attention is drawn to Daniel hiding his embarrassment away. Max reaches for Daniel’s hand and takes it away gently. And fuck, even the slight friction makes him shiver.

“I’m sorry Max, I really am. I’m so fucked up. Every time you cry I just… this happens.” He grimaces. He is the worst person in the world. “There’s something wrong with me. I know. Fuck, I – I’ll just go.”

He’s about to stand when Max swings a leg over to straddle him, trapping him there so that he can’t leave. He sits, and stares down between them, studying Daniel’s evident bulge.

Daniel wants to hide. He wants to disappear of the face of the earth. He wants to be anywhere else but here.

Max tilts his head curiously.

“Do you always get hard when I cry?” He runs an inquisitive finger along the outside of his jeans, tracing over the curve of his trapped cock.

“Not at first,” Daniel says, and it’s a relief to know that it is also the truth. He holds still as Max keeps up the light pressure and scrutiny. “But somewhere along the way you started getting very um, handsy. Usually when you cried, or just after. Probably, that’s when I started associating your crying with touching. Like, intimate touching.”

Max hums, consideringly.

“Do you ever touch yourself after that. Do you come thinking of me?”

It’s a dangerous question. What if he says yes and Max punches him in the face and tells on him for sexual harassment. What if he says no, and Max still punches him in the face and tells on him for sexual harassment regardless.

Both seem like bad options. But going with the truth will always be the better choice.

“Yeah,” Daniel admits with a shuttered breath.

“I don’t really feel like crying anymore but maybe you can make me,” Max says.

And Daniel’s mind fizzes out. What does Max mean? Daniel can make him cry? He would never make him cry. Nor anyone else for that matter. Not intentionally at least.

Max shimmies off his lap and drops to his knees, settling between Daniel’s parted legs. When he looks up his eyes are dry and the salty tear marks are only faintly visible on his cheeks. There is a growing determination all over his face, an expression not unlike the one he can often be spotted with when on track. With deft hands, he undoes the button and zipper of Daniel’s jeans and takes him out.

Daniel hisses. His cock stands tall and proud, embarrassingly eager.

Max stares, equally wanting and hungry. He leans up on his knees, closing the distance, then kisses the tip. Precum beads at the tip like a pearl. He licks that up too.  

“Fuck my mouth, Daniel. Make me cry.”

There is no time to think of the implications of that statement when Max takes him into his mouth. He gets up to halfway and sucks. Daniel’s eyes roll up.

“Fuck – Max!” His hand lands on Max’s head, instinctively grabbing on. The sharp spike of pleasure is too sudden and fast, and not at all unwelcomed. Max doesn’t seem to mind either. He makes a satisfied sound and shimmies his head side to side, trying to take more of Daniel into his mouth. It’s a move he only ever sees on videos. Max is not a porno veteran, Daniel thinks.

“Slow down, you’re gonna choke,” he warns in a hiss.

It is exactly what Max wants. When Daniel hits the back of his tight throat, Max gags, squeezing down on his cock. It is so sinfully good. Max hollows his cheeks as he draws back, coming up to catch his breath.

“Daniel, do it. Make me cry,” he demands with a half-glare.  

And then he takes all of Daniel again, this time letting him slide all the way down to his throat without pause. Max chokes a little, his shoulders shake as he fights to keep Daniel there. Still, he doesn’t let up. Instead, he bobs his head up and down, building a rhythm. He wraps his lips around Daniel’s girth and sucks obediently. Needily. Hollowing out his cheeks on his way up to the tip and relaxing his jaw and throat as much as he can, tongue sticking out as he gets to the base of Daniel. His nose burying into the soft curls there, taking in Daniel’s scent.  

It is filthy. It is beyond his wildest dreams. Max is enthusiastic, and it’s so hot. Daniel must have died somehow and woken up in heaven.

The enthusiasm though can only get him so far. Max’s inexperience far outweighs his ambition. As he pushes himself to make this good for Daniel, going too fast and taking too much at once, coupling with the gag reflex that Max hasn’t yet learned to control, Max quickly shoots past beyond his pain threshold. Tears well up in his baby blue eyes.

It is a devastatingly arousing sight. It has Daniel’s cock spurting a little. A surge of want blooms from deep inside of him. He is afraid of what that says about him. How much farther he wants to take this. How much more he wants to see Max cry for him.

He runs his fingers through Max’s short blonde hair, grabbing it in a testing hold.

Max whines.

“You’re so pretty when you cry,” Daniel’s admission is hoarse with lust. He watches Max suck him harder, plump lips stretching wide around his girth. And he can feel his control on the situation slipping from him. So, when Max goes down on Daniel the next time, Daniel tightens his grip and keeps him there.

Max’s nose scrunches up, his brows furrowing and his eyes screwing shut. Daniel is too big. Max chokes, spluttering on his dick. Drool and precum spills from the corners of his lips and down his chin. His throat is vice tight as Daniel cruelly rams it in and keeps it there for way too long. Uncontrollably, the tears flow from his bright blue eyes, streaking wet and salty down his pinked cheeks.

Finally, when Max slaps a hand to Daniel’s shin, he lets him up.

Max coughs wetly and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. As he is about to rub away the tears, Daniel snatches his wrist in a stern hold.  

“Don’t.” He tips Max’s face up to look at him better. “You’re so hot like this.” He feels Max’s shiver through his fingertips. “Let me fuck you face?”

Max nods.

Daniel gets up to remove his jeans and underwear. Max waits patiently on his knees while he does so. Afterwards, he parts his mouth and his tongue peeks out invitingly. And Daniel cups the back of his head and slides his cock into his warm wet mouth.

It is messy. It is mean. But Max wants this, and Daniel has only been participating in the longest foreplay ever so he will take everything that Max is willing to give.  

Both his hands are on Max, holding him still as he thrusts into his wet mouth. He watches his thick cock sliding in and out of Max’s parted lips, glistening them with saliva and precum and bruising them dark red. He burns into his mind the image of Max going loopy, his glazed over pleasured look as Daniel uses him. Max, tear stricken and dirty, sticky with fluids all over his face, as delicious wet noises erupt from his throat as Daniel hits the back of it again and again.

Eventually, Max’s eyes slide shut, hands disappearing to between his own legs. He fumbles with the buttons.

Daniel pulls him off his cock.

“Let me.” He drops to his knees and reaches for Max’s skinny jeans, hastily undoing the front and reaching inside. Max is hard. Daniel cups him and squeezes.

“Daniel,” Max moans, strength disappearing from him. He falls forward into Daniel’s chest.

“You’re so good, Maxy. So good for me.”

He pumps him slowly, drawing pleasure from Max. Max buries his wet face into Daniel’s neck and Daniel turns to press kisses everywhere that he can reach. His jaw, his ear, his neck. Then he kisses Max on the lips.

And Max kisses him back, parting his mouth to let him in. Daniel licks across Max’s teeth and tastes himself, salty and bitter. Under that he tastes Max. Sweet and darling, and so delicious.

“Daniel,” Max pants openly. He sounds wrecked already. Daniel can’t help the smug grin spreading across his face.

“What do you want, baby? Want me to get you off?”

“Can you fuck me,” Max begs softly.

If Daniel hadn’t spent the last year practicing ruthless self-control, he might have come from that question alone.

“Anything you want, Max,” he says; and it scares him how much truth there is to that.

Their clothes come off, forgotten in a pile on the floor. He takes Max to bed.

Max sprawls out across the white sheets. He is strong and gorgeous, all lean lines and toned muscularity. When Daniel comes to lay atop him, Max parts his legs for him. Daniel grinds down experimentally and they both moan.

“Baby,” he says, rubbing soothingly on the outside of Max’s thigh. His hair is short there and soft to the touch. 

Max sighs in response. He clutches at Daniel’s biceps, feeling him up. It strokes at Daniel’s ego. “You don’t have to use any lube.”

Holy shit.

“You prepped before we went out?” He dips his hand to between Max’s legs and presses firmly at his hole, meeting with resistance.

“No, but you can put it in me, dry – if you want to,” Max says, unsurely.

And that has Daniel yanking at the brakes. He pushes up on his arms to better look at Max under him and is met with a single arched brow. As though he hadn’t been expecting this response from Daniel. A sinking feeling grows in the hollow of his stomach. If Daniel’s gut instinct is right regarding Max’s line of thinking, then this has all gone very wrong.  

“I feel like I really need to ask before we end up doing something very bad. Do you think I get off on hurting you?”

Max bites his lip.  “Well, you like to see me cry.”

Shit. No. It is exactly as he’d thought. Daniel sits up immediately, putting as much distance as he can between them.

“Daniel, what’s wrong?”

“Max, I don’t – I’m not trying to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” He gestures between them. He doesn’t know how to even explain himself. Of course, Max would misunderstand his weird fucked up kink. Like, who even has a crying kink? Daniel didn’t even know he had developed a thing for it until he was knee deep in this and even then, it’s not like that. He never wants to hurt others. Certainly not Max. Yet he has no idea how to even explain this.

He scrubs his hands through his hair. Max sits up as well, looking concerned. Daniel must be wearing an awful expression right now.

“Listen,” Daniel cups Max’s cheeks, wiping away the remaining fluids off his skin. He locks gazes with Max. He needs him to know. “I am sorry. I’m sorry I took advantage of your trust when you were just looking for emotional support. I’m sorry this developed into some weird fucked up kink. You don’t deserve that. I shouldn’t have let this happen because now you think you need to let me – or anyone – hurt you. No one should ever want to intentionally hurt you or make you cry, okay Max?

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t get off on hurting you. I very much prefer it if you cry from feeling good instead of feeling pain,” he admits seriously. Then, sheepishly adds, “Or, if we don’t have sex at all. I mean, we never discussed that. I don’t want to force you into anything. Shit, did I force you into this?”

That would be the worst case scenario. He doesn’t know how he will live with this. He may have to throw himself in front of a car or something.

Max makes a face between a frown and a pout. He lays his hands atop of Daniel’s.

“You didn’t. I wanted to blow you. I wanted to make you feel good. I want to have sex.” Want, in the present tense. Max still wants to have sex. A positive sign. “But thank you for telling me, and apologizing.” He lowers his gaze shyly. “Can we continue now? And you can show me how you will make me feel good.”

Daniel smiles, surging forward to kiss Max.

“Yeah, Maxy.”

The lube in the drawer is three quarters of a way empty when Max throws it over to Daniel. When Daniel repositions himself back between the young man’s parted legs, he can’t help asking, “Been busy, ay?”

The flush of realization blooming over Max is a funny sight. He squirms as kisses flutter along his neck and collarbone, and a cold finger touches his hole. Daniel warms the lube by circling his entrance, rubbing back and forth.

“Maybe sometimes,” Max gasps as a finger enters him. Daniel slides it in and out and feels Max clenching experimentally. He keeps planting kisses across Max’s skin as he eases it in past the last knuckle.

“Someone from the grid?”

“No, just myself when I – ah,” he keens when Daniel pushes in a second finger. His breathing picks up as Daniel works him open nice and slow, leisurely, with all the time in the world. The lube is warmer now and Max is more relaxed. So Daniel pushes his fingers deep into Max and twists his wrist. It earns him another moan. “—When I touch myself sometimes. I like it with something inside.”

“You use a toy?” Daniel asks.

“My fingers.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Daniel presses in a third finger. Max shakes from the intrusion, the size of it combined. The stretch he has never experienced until now. His abs clench, muscles straining. Instinctively, he twists, trying to run away from the feeling of Daniel’s fingers spreading inside of him.

Daniel has to shush him with a hand to Max’s cock and kisses to his mouth. He gives Max a couple of long firm strokes as he searches for the spot he knows will make it all better. Max struggles under him, chest rising and falling with quick pants.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” A whine escapes at the encouragement. Oh, so he reacts to positive reinforcement in bed too, that’s perfect. Daniel continues his ministrations on Max, scissoring him, rubbing at his inner walls until he can feel Max easing, body accommodating to the feeling of all three of Daniel’s fingers inside of him. But Max is sweating across his forehead, and he is forcing himself to relax as best he can because he yearns to be seen as good, no matter the situation. Daniel won’t draw this out for longer than he must. Once he feels Max loosen up enough around him, he twists his wrist, pushes his fingers deep inside of him, and curls them up right there.

Max cries out, voice cracking.

Daniel grins and does it again, stroking the spot inside of Max repeatedly. He pumps Max’s cock in time with his finger fucking. The slick leaking wetly from the dickhead providing a nice glide as Daniel pleasures him both ways.

Max bucks, trying to get more while simultaneously wanting to hide away from the building pleasure. His legs kick out, and Daniel has to slot himself even closer between Max’s thighs so he isn’t hit by accident.

“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel…” Max keeps calling, keeps moaning out his name. It stirs up in Daniel something dark and greedy. He wants to always hear Max calling for him this way.

“Maxy,” Daniel coos, bending down to kiss at his temple. “You wanna come for me?”

Max reaches out to push at Daniel’s forearm. He shakes his head.

“I want you to fuck me, please?”

Please.

Fuck.

Max hooks his legs around Daniel’s hips, pulling him in closer, showing his need for it. He clenches down around the fingers inside of him.

“Condom,” Daniel says as he withdraws hastily from Max.

“It’s fine. I’m clean.”

Daniel almost dies.

“I am too.”

 He shuffles up on his knees and pulls Max closer by his waist; unable to resist the urge to palm up and down his sides, feeling his bare skin, the heat of his skin. It earns him a squirming impatient Max demanding at him to hurry, grinding his hips to get some kind of friction, some amount of pleasure. Anything. Daniel laughs, endeared. He pours the rest of the lube on his dick and slicks up. Gripping one of Max’s hips to settle him, Daniel guides his cock forward and pushes in.

Max chokes, eyes squeezing shut against the pain of being forcibly opened. Daniel is almost all the way in, and he holds himself still as Max strains under him. He can feel Max around him, hot and wet, clenching down tight. It’s already so good. When he steals a glance at Max, his face is red and the flush travels down, all the way to his chest. Daniel dips to press a gentle kiss at the spot just below Max’s ear as a silent encouragement.

After a moment, he pulls out, and when he thrusts back in this time, he buries all the way in. Max whimpers. He paws for Daniel, reaching up to grab him everywhere. Eventually his hands settle onto Daniel’s back.  

“Max, you okay?” Daniel noses at his jaw.

Max doesn’t manage more than a single nod. He doesn’t look to be in pain, but he doesn’t like it’s any bit pleasurable either. The assuring thing is that Max is still hard.

“Move,” Max rasps.

Daniel complies. He rolls his hips, slow at first, letting Max get used to the feeling of having someone inside of him. Max still gives no indication of any signs of discomfort. Just holds on as Daniel fucks him. Only after a while when Max has loosened up enough, literally, no longer squeezing down on Daniel with such intensity and his limbs going lax – Daniel picks up the pace.  

It gets easy after that. He finds his rhythm, each thrust going deeper and harder. Max’s body is hot and pliant under him, relaxed now. Daniel grips his hips and angles him just so to aim for his sweet spot, and drives home.  

“Ah!” Max breaks, letting out a moan, loud and uninhibited. It is the most beautiful sound Daniel has ever heard.

“There we go,” Daniel growls. He chases after those gorgeous sounds of pleasure. He fucks Max deep and hard, hips snapping forward to bury himself in just the right way so that Max melts under him. And Max is overcome, calling his name endlessly, intoxicated. Sometimes it cracks on a particularly well aimed thrust, and it only spurs Daniel on more, pumping into him until Max is thrashing on the bed, wrecked and overwhelmed but never letting go. His thighs bracket around Daniel’s waist, his feet hooking behind his lower back to keep him close. He wants more, more of everything, more of Daniel.

When Daniel kisses up his neck and jaw, getting to his cheek, he realizes that Max’s face is wet. He is crying. Daniel’s cock twitches, he snaps his hips forward, hard.

Max throws his head back with a sob, tears flowing freely from his wet eyes. Daniel laps them up hungrily and the taste of salty sweetness floods across his tongue.

“Daniel,” Max blabbers. His mind already hazy, pleasure keening rapidly inside of him. All he can do is hold on as Daniel tells him how good he is. Praising him. Calling him pretty. Kissing and touching him everywhere.

“So good for me. So wet for me. Maxy, baby,” Daniel coos, reaching for Max’s dick.

A single pump is all he needs. Max climaxes suddenly, muscles tensing and dick spurting hot wet streaks between them. It splatters across Max’s chest, some of it hitting Daniel in the chin; there is so much. Daniel keeps stroking Max through it until he gets too sensitive and raw and bats Daniel away.  

“Please. I want you to come in me,” Max begs. He grabs Daniel’s jaw with one hand and drags him down for a kiss. “Please, I want it. Please.”

Daniel comes with his face buried in Max’s hair, panting into the short strands and drinking in his scent. They lay together, taking a moment to recover. Afterwards, he peels himself off Max and flops onto the bed, turning onto his side so he can look at the other.

“Are you okay?” Daniel asks as he brushes Max’s sweaty hair out of his face.  

“Yes. It was very nice,” Max says with a pleased smile, so polite and straightforward it has Daniel barking with laughter.

“Out of ten?”

“Eleven.”

“Ace.” Daniel grins.

They clean up with the hotel towels. Max asks Daniel to stay the night. He has no idea the time, but he is almost certain that they won’t be making breakfast in the morning.

Just as Daniel is about to slip into unconsciousness, he hears a question.

“You licked my tears.”

“Mhm.” Daniel nuzzles the top of Max’s head.

“Out of ten?” Max asks into Daniel’s chest.

“Twelve.”

“Score.”

Daniel smiles and falls asleep.