#inspired by max following that dirtbike acc on ig

[girlsdads]

Max shows up on the Monday following the worst week of Daniel’s life with two dirt bikes in the back of a truck like he’s Bella from fucking Twilight.

He’d said as much that Thursday, a text that read simply: I’m coming to Perth. Daniel’s phone has been on Do Not Disturb since Singapore, but Max’s message had flashed bright in his peripheral vision as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore the gnawing pit in his gut. Daniel had pictured Max tapping Notify Anyway with the tip of his index finger, T-rex style.

He hadn’t known how to say Please don’t make this harder, hadn’t had the courage to say I need you here, so he’d sent back: Ok.

And now he’s sat here on the porch in the same baggy t-shirt he’s been wearing for days—discolored sweat stains and all—watching Max back a pickup truck down the dirt driveway. He can’t remember the last time he saw Max behind the wheel of something like this, sturdy and substantial. It feels like a first, a brand new thing for only this version of himself—Max Verstappen driving a truck.

Max smoothly pulls into a full stop, the ignition rumbles then dies. Daniel’s bare feet hit the dirt before Max even opens the door, a feeling that can only be relief blooming inside his chest. He’d said he would come, and he did, steadfast through it all.

Max is wearing travel clothes, basketball shorts and a hoodie, ankle socks and a pair of slides that look more like shower shoes than sandals. He looks tired, like he’d texted Daniel on Thursday and hasn’t slept since. Daniel knows he’s looking pretty shit himself, knows he’s been wallowing a bit hard, sue him. Still Max smiles like Daniel’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

It chokes him up just the same as the first time, almost a decade ago. That clogged-up cotton-y feeling in his throat is love, probably always has been—he’s not too chickenshit to admit it to himself now, after everything. The realization feels precious.

“Hiya, Maxy.” Daniel feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. His voice wobbles, stupidly. He’s squinting against the sun and the hot sting of tears. Max reaches for him.

All of his metaphorical strings cut, he falls into the soft bulk of Max’s chest. The gasping breath he takes as he presses his whole face against the crook of Max’s neck and shoulder feels like his first in a long, long time. Underneath the smell of sweat is the familiar clean scent of Max’s jet cabin. Daniel inhales and inhales, letting it fill his lungs like life support.

Max’s arms around him is the only homecoming he ever needed.