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vicsy · 2 months ago

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"So," Daniel says and his voice doesn't wobble. He had to pull himself together for a minute or two, thumb hovering over Max's name on his phone screen while he stuffed a year's worth of bottled up emotions temporarily back into their bottle, now cracked along the sides. Small mercies, smaller victories. "Anything I want, huh?"

Not the best attempt at keeping his tone firmly in the joking territory but Max's answer is a short, bumpy giggle. He does this, always, in that private way that many others seem undeserving of but Daniel's a worthy exception, eight years and counting. He recalls Max face mid-laugh, the crinkle in his eyes. Daniel should have just texted; should have done it face-to-face instead.

"Of course," Max speaks up, finally, filling the anxious silence. Daniel hangs onto his voice like an non-believer would to a merciful god on a crashing plane. The irony of it kicks Daniel in the heart like a mule. On the other side of the line he hears the sound of a zipper, then a heavy thud. "It was insane fastest lap, mate. Thanks, it was nice of you. I can of course get you whatever you want now, you can make a list. You have ideas already, no?"

Max keeps saying something else. Daniel knows he's still talking because the claws tearing his insides apart retract and he doesn't have to fend to himself anymore, fight for his life in the pit of hungry lions. Max's voice lulls the part of him that always chooses flight – quiet literally – instead of fight. He just listens. A stewardess offers Daniel a glass of something, he takes it; he's not really on the plane and definitely not in the paddock anymore. The weird limbo surrounding him twists into pictures, visions, memories. Max talks about making time together so he can hand-deliver Daniel his impromptu gift, whatever it is, and maybe they can play padel again. Daniel thinks he should have made time to be bolder. Should have, could have, would have.

All Daniel stood for amounts to a single lap around the track in Singapore, suffocating heat, expectations crushed into dust and empty promises flung at him like knives but his hands aren't clutching the wheel anymore.

There is a pause, then, Max's raspy voice cutting off, letting the plane ambiance filter through. Daniel thinks it over again and not like he's drowning in options, pushing himself further back into the stiff business class seat, hoping he'd fuse his body with it. His hearts aches. Whatever he wants. And Daniel's on the run again, short end of a stick in hand and no one to pass it to.

Maybe at the end of the finish line Daniel's wishes are selfish and pretty simple.

"And what if it's you?"

In a short, gratifying moment where his stomach swoops like it's taking a ride on a rollercoaster and Max's breath catches audibly, Daniel thinks he pulled off a nice little trick and caught Max off guard. He could write it off as a joke with no problem but, fuck, Daniel missed having an upper hand, even if it's something he's never stopped wanting. Yet want was detrimental. Want led him to ruin but there was Max, oh, and Max he only wanted from a safe distance. And it's been growing smaller ever since.

Max lets out another raspy, little giggle tinged with something similar to relief, reserved only for Daniel, and with that any advantage is gone, up in flames but they don't scorch what's left of his ego. Daniel's left flailing with bitter uncertainty. He scrambles for a way out but Max beats him to it:

"I thought you would never ask," he says, easy, without mirth; warm, like he's been waiting for this, waiting to be asked to follow whenever Daniel chose to leave. He knows Max isn't fucking with him. Probably the most cruel part of it all is Max's clear-cut loyalty and unabashed kindness. Daniel struggles to go for a joke or full send it. Max carries on: "Did you leave? Maybe I can get to you in thirty minutes and–"

And then Daniel maybe feels his tattered soul stitching itself back together as he stares at the dark screen on the passenger seat in front of him, his phone pressed so, so firmly to his ear. His ribs might break under the stampede of his heart. Daniel rips his cap off his head, throws it on the seat next to him. Max's determination is a rug pulled beneath Daniel's feet, a stinging in the corner of his eyes blurring his vision anew. He swallows around a lump in his throat.

"I'm on the flight home," it sounds like an excuse but the scenery behind the illuminator moves and changes, taking Daniel further away from the chunk of his former self. He's the one always fucking leaving. "Kinda taking off in, uh. Five-ish?"

He called Max only when there was no chance left for him to bounce out of the plane dramatically. Now he's just some manic guy clutching a phone to the side of his face.

"Well, then it'll be a little bit more than thirty minutes," there is no pause before Max's statement lands heavy like a gavel. Daniel startles and above him the seat belt sign chimes once, twice.

"Max–"

"Have a safe flight home, Daniel."

Instead, Daniel marinates in what ifs.

Home is home but Daniel has a hard time remembering the last time he was in Perth without a semblance of a plan for the future. The idea sucks, big time, and simultaneously the unknown is awfully freeing. With his mom's hands around him, Daniel allows for the perpetual weight on his shoulders to be caught in a loving embrace. His dad sheds a few tears and even if Daniel's always been mama's boy, he cries, too. Through a smile, though, because he's home now, where nobody could ever hurt him; where his wounds would mend despite the quiet anger.

Sleep is as elusive as his chances used to be. Daniel's gittery on the inside, can't shake the feeling that he's missing something — a limb, a soul, some closure. A draft of the announcement feels like a noose tied around his throat and he could never have enough neck strength to make it snap before it drags him to the bottom of the ocean.

He thinks of Max. Of the few messages he didn't have the guts to send, of his own selfishness; of the record lap set in Singapore spelled with his name but Max's is written there, too, somewhere underneath where only Daniel can see. And he keeps thinking of Max and the great things unsaid, keeps existing on the farm in a comforting loop, keeps playing with his niece and nephew who he loves to death, loves more than the world can ever hate him. Nobody asks him to driver fast, nobody asks him for a miracle. Daniel's fresh out of those.

The message catches him counting invisible sheep and counting minutes down to when the post makes its way though the web. Daniel entertained sleep for a hot minute but he's wide awake, staring at his screen. 15 minutes. It's Max.

Walking out barefoot on the front porch, the sun just shy on the horizon, Daniel shivers. It's eerily quiet and he's left his phone in the bedroom. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. The only road leading to the farm remains empty but Daniel can swear he hears an engine running in the distance. Hope, stupidly, slithers under his skin and makes a home there.

There is an uncanny quality to it — watching a rental pull up in the driveway and then Max stumbling out of it, his eyes finding Daniel's in a fraction of a second. He walks up the steps of the front porch and Daniel knows he might actually wake up any minute now. Any second. He needs to cherish this moment.

"I told you it will take a little more than thirty minutes," Max says, casually. Daniel smiles and his lips wobble but it's a good thing. He looks down at his hands, counts all ten fingers, then looks up at Max's clean-shaven face, at the lovely mole on his lip.

It's not a dream. Sure as hell not a nightmare.

"Max, I didn't think you'd actually, uh. Wow," Daniel stumbles over his words. He's freaked out, giddy, perhaps properly insane. His announcement should be up by now but who gives a shit when Max is standing in front of him, light-blue t-shirt hugging his frame enticingly, and Daniel can practically see the sincere radiance of his heart through it. "Just because I said–"

"Wait!" Max says, stumbling back, then digs into the pocket of his criminally tight jeans. Daniel forces his mouth to close. He's surely not hallucinating from lack of sleep. Max is real, so real, fishing out a pink bow out of his pocket. He smiles, full faced and it reaches his eyes the same way Daniel wants to reach out for him but he's still paralysed, rooted in place, compartmentalising years worth of everything he denied himself. "I borrowed it from P. So it's a proper gift."

He sticks the bow to his forehead, still beaming, and looks at Daniel as if he hasn't walked through hell and high water to escape from this. Like Daniel's hasn't jumped through hoops to justify never acting on his impulses, every fibre of his being telling him to do otherwise. He searches Max's face for an answer he can only ever find elsewhere.

Then Daniel carefully cups Max's face and leverages himself forward.

The answer, he finds it — in the awkward press of his lips to Max's, in the mismatched way he clings to Max and Max doubles down, enveloping Daniel with almost his entire body, his entire soul. It's not a proper kiss by all means but it's everything else and more; more than Daniel though he could ask for but Max did say he can ask for whatever and Daniel's done being noble.

Max's bow falls off his forehead and ends up trapped between their lips. Daniel spits it out of his mouth, thrown out of whack and Max laughs loudly, all but bending in half, but his hold on Daniel remains solid. It's not even that funny but who fucking cares.

"So," Daniel chuckles nervously. Swipes his thumb across Max's lower lip, still in disbelief. "About my gift. Um."

"When the season ends," Max says, a bit breathless. Daniel knows a careful meaning behind those words. He knows. Sees it in Max's eyes, clear blue, and they look like his future. "We can do it properly. The gift. I'll bring a better bow."

Daniel shakes his head and his chest cracks open all the way. Bow or no bow, he'd rather have Max over anything, everything. Even with his life's work hanging in the balance; even if they try to erase Daniel altogether.

"Actually I think this one's perfect. Pink's your color, Maxy," he says. His voice betrays him halfway, so Max squeezes his hands. Daniel feels his skin buzz underneath the touch. He shivers again and cranes his neck towards the house behind him. "Breakfast? I mean, think my parents would love to see you dropped by. I'd love to, well. Ya know. Or you have to jet back to Monaco?"

Max makes a face.

"I won't leave," he answers. Daniel smiles back at him, grabbing Max by the wrist, and thinks – you never do.

This time, incandescent in the serene shine of an Australian sunrise, they both get to stay.

#vicsy writes #maxiel #hello hello please excuse me while I cope the only way I seem to know how #daniel/max #daniel ricciardo #max verstappen #333 #maxiel fic #vicsy? fluff? unheard of i must say #dr3 #mv1

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