Archive of Our Own ^beta

Music blasted around him, the vibrating bass was a second heartbeat that thrumbed under his skin. He wasn't quite gone— Daniel wouldn't allow himself that luxury. He wouldn't want the journalists eating him alive as they report a one-night stand to the public. Muttering about how he got blackout drunk during the after parties of the last F1 race he ever drove in. He didn't want a one-night stand, anyway. The slight buzz of alcohol, not enough to pull him under, but enough to muffle his senses and make him tipsy, was what he wanted. He would wake up with a nasty headache for sure; he couldn't down his liquor like he could when he was younger, but during the moment, the heat of the crowd dancing around him, he could forget. Even if it was just for a little while.

Another shot. He tipped it back and let his feelings wash away. If only for tonight. When he woke up, he'd feel the heaviness. He'd pack his bags solemnly and hop on a flight back home. But at least now, in a club that was too dark so no one recognised him, nobody knew his name and he could pretend everything was okay.

It was a lie. Of course it was a lie. But another shot down and he was shuffling back onto the dance floor. He could act like he was another excited clubber, just starting their night out. Not some sad, sorry excuse for an F1 driver, heaving himself to drink away his sorrows after leaving the stillness of the nighttime paddock for the very last time.

He could pretend. He could pretend.

He had known for a while that he would be dropped. It hadn't come as a shock and perhaps that was the worst part. A building tension, a slow simmer, one he saw and took note of, so when they finally sat him down in the meeting to tell him he was being replaced, he wasn't surprised. Numb— maybe. A void that swallowed him. He hadn't been the same; his spark diminished. Even his last race hadn't been anything spectacular. It was subpar. It wasn't anything worthy of noting. It was a fitting ending for the trajectory of Daniel's career. The bowed slope he had been falling down these past years, only to get to the bottom and be left as one heaped mess.

After a while, the novelty wore off. It faded out and all that was left was Daniel stood in a sea of sweaty people, the realisation curdling in his stomach that this was the last moment of his F1 career. A breath caught against his lips and he heaved his way through the mass, pushed past flailing limbs, until he managed to find a set of side doors and tripped into an alleyway.

It wasn't the main entrance like he had hoped, but he could make do—

"Hey, you knocked over my drink, bud," a gruff voice said. Suddenly the weight of a hand was pressed into his shoulder. It turned him around forcefully.

Daniel blinked. Then took in the sight of four men, larger than him, more toned and scruffy. One was sat on the floor, back against the grimy wall, a cigarette dangled between his lips. The other two were standing, ogling at Daniel amusedly. The last one, the one who had spoken to him, was right up in Daniel's personal space. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol and ashy smoke. His hand pointed downwards and Daniel followed it. He spotted a beer bottle knocked over on the floor, contents spilling out across the concrete.

"Ah, sorry, mate," Daniel didn't want trouble. He wanted to get out of here. "I'll pay for a new one—"

Unexpectedly, a fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head to the side as it sent him stumbling backwards. The strangers were hollering, apparently entertained by what Daniel could only describe as a dramatic overreaction. He has no reprieve as a sudden impact slammed into his stomach, winding him. Then another, just below his ribs and his bones groaned under the impact. Then, once more for good measure, another fist to the face. It nicked Daniel's right eye, accompanying the pain that blossomed across the right side of his jaw.

"That's for ruining my drink," the asshole spat out. Daniel, on any other day, might have been riled up enough to snark back. But he was tired. He was alone, surrounded by four guys drunk off their asses who were not afraid to play rough.

Instead, he swallowed his pride and staggered out of the alleyway and into the busy streets. Nightlife was thriving, with neon signs and flashing lights, but Daniel felt drained. He hobbled over to an empty step, one out of the way of the main entrances and avoiding the most footfall. It looked to be a door leading to someone's apartment, some sorry soul who had to try and sleep above a nightclub. He slumped down, pulled out his phone from his pocket and squinted at how bright the screen was. Without thinking, he swiped and clicked on his contacts and suddenly there was a voice, faint, that spoke to him through his phone's tinny speaker.

"Hello? Daniel?"

Daniel put the phone to his ear, shocked at how he had subconsciously called Max Verstappen. He was more surprised that Max had actually picked up. He would've suspected the Dutchman would be out celebrating. Though when Max spoke, he didn't hear the sound of music and shoddy singing, but instead it was the whistle of a gentle wind and the odd car driving past. Wherever Max was, he was outside.

"Daniel?" Max repeated, "Are you alright?"

"I— er— sorry to bother you, mate," his voice sounded distant in his own head. The pain throbbed across his jaw, shuttering under his eye, and he could taste a bitter coppery twang laced with the remnants of alcohol; he must have bitten down hard on his lip during the punch-up.

"No, no, it's not a bother," and Daniel was starting to think of course Max would pick up. Max, the man with whom he had a complicated history. Max, the man he had shared too many sleepless nights and sun-bleached mornings with. Max, who probably saw Daniel's name pop up on his screen, and knowing what had transpired today and yesterday, thought of the worst outcome.

"I." He stopped. Took in a breath, his ribs creaked uncomfortably. "I need to ask a favour."

"Anything," Max replied, no hesitation.

He wasn't even sure why he had called Max, let alone what he was going to say. But Max was on the other end of the line, intently listening. So Daniel swallowed his pride for once and decided not to bury the hot shame somewhere that wouldn't be found. "I'm a little hurt, some stupid drunk guys, I was wondering—" his voice tapered off, he hoped Max would get what he was putting down. He may have put aside some of his pride, but asking directly for help was a whole other level.

"Okay. Okay," Max said quickly. Quietly. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No, it's not that bad. Just roughed up a little."

"Alright." Max sounded like he didn't believe him. He chose not to argue about it. "Where are you?"

Daniel squinted up at the closest sign, a crude drawing of a cocktail glass blinking back at him. He rattled off the club name, and Max promised he was five minutes away. Daniel felt a little bit of guilt crawl up his throat at the thought that he had ruined Max's night.

Max hadn't been lying about how close he was. Daniel had closed his eyes and leant back against the stone when suddenly he was being shaken, Max's hands on his shoulders, urging him to open his eyes and stand up.

Daniel obliged, although clumsily. Max didn't comment. He took in the injuries silently and let Daniel slump into him as they walked. It wasn't until several minutes had passed that Daniel realised he had no idea where they would end up.

"My hotel room," Max confirmed, and oh, Daniel must have said that out loud.

The room wasn't much different to Daniel's, considering they were in the same hotel. Though Max could've easily deposited Daniel back in his own room— he knew the number— but he didn't. Instead Daniel was now in Max's room. Max, who shuffled around as he tidied up the mess of strewn out clothes and threw away the gaggle of empty redbull cans that had occupied the nightstand. Daniel never understood how Max could go through so many. He wouldn't be surprised if Max's veins were more redbull than blood at this point.

"You should shower, clean yourself up," Max commented from where he was stuffing some caps into his suitcase, "I've got spare clothes."

Daniel, realistically, should have popped round to his hotel room and grabbed some of his own clothes. It would only take five minutes. But Max was offering a branch and Daniel, although scared, was inclined to take it.

"Okay, I'll shower," he said as he stepped into the bathroom. He didn't lock the door behind him.

The artificial light made his skin look almost grey as he glared at his reflection. He sat on the edge of the tub, stripped off his t-shirt and held it in his hands. There were bags under his eyes, arrogantly prominent. He noted how his stubble was patchy, his last shave had been uneven, and he'd nicked the skin at the top of his neck, the thin line angry and red. Daniel didn't know who was staring back at him. Chiselled with age, gaunt and bony. If he pressed his palms across his ribs, he could feel the sharp protrusions. Underfed. Joints jutted out. Daniel hated them. Hated how ugly they looked. He had hated the idea of satiating the hungry pains that had cramped his stomach even more. Though he supposed none of it mattered anymore. (It was over. It was over.) Skin dry, taut. Lips cracked. He thought, darkly, that he hadn't looked like himself in weeks. No, months. Not since the news dropped. Not since he was told in the privacy of a corporate meeting, with staff he did not recognise that stared at him with their pitying eyes, that he would no longer race. The feeling had been there when he left F1 for the first time, the McLaren symbol burnt into the back of his retinas and the sight of orange made him feel sick. Maybe it had started when he left Redbull, all those years ago, leaving Max to stare at his back as he walked away.

He did not know exactly when Daniel Ricciardo stopped being Daniel Ricciardo and became this instead.

His t-shirt was still held in his grip. His fingers tightened around the fabric.

A knock on the door. Twice.

"It's unlocked," Daniel rasped. The door opened.

"It's been thirty minutes," Max pointed out as he stepped into the bathroom, "you haven't even gotten fully undressed yet."

Max looked handsome under the glaring light. It was unfair. The way his tousled hair was full, it was probably soft to the touch. His cheeks were flushed pink, not overly red, tinted by alcohol. He had broad shoulders, muscles that weren't obnoxiously loud but rather sophisticatedly toned. The body of a winner. With eyes that hadn't lost their spark. Pretty lashes that framed the specs of ocean blue. Lips full. Skin marred and scratched from the battles he had fought to get to where he was, but here, it looked loved. A body beaten but cared for. As if it had come back stronger from the hardships. Where Max glistened under pressure, Daniel crumbled. Max was everything Daniel wished he could be. He was everything Daniel loved and hated at the same time.

"I'm not doing okay," Daniel suddenly blurted out, cheeks reddening. He knew they weren't warm from just the drinks. It was the realisation of what he had just said. The feeling settled in his gut.

The comment wasn't just about tonight. It wasn't about the four drunk men who had caught him stumbling outside and the one who had decided to punch Daniel for knocking over his beer. It wasn't just about his last race and how it wasn't even a spectacular finish. Just an average end to his average career. No last-minute heroics. The comment was something much more. Tonight's activities had obviously counted towards his exposed words, but Daniel knew that when he uttered the sentence I'm not doing okay, it meant a whole lot more than just tonight.

Max knew too.

Of course Max knew. He always did when it came to Daniel. Max opened him like a book, could flip through his pages and read the scrambled mess of letters that usually baited people to leave Daniel alone. Max had always been able to decipher him. He was too stubborn for his own good, so he pushed when Daniel pulled and wouldn't leave Daniel to rot when McLaren had dropped him. Daniel had upped and left, but Max stayed. A constant. At the time, their relationship had finally felt like it was on the mend again and Daniel had been ready to let it all go. But Max, forever forward-thinking and too perceptive for Daniel's shenanigans, held tight with an unrelenting grip. A determination that the public thought was only reserved for racing, but Daniel had the honour of seeing it flourish off the track too.

He did not think that Max would let him fade away. Not now. Even if Daniel was ready to go. He couldn't imagine Max letting him do that without putting up a fight.

(And, perhaps, Daniel wanted that. Wanted someone to care so deeply that leaving wasn't an option. Someone who fought for you, forever, always. Someone he intimately knew and craved to feel under his hands again.)

"Take your clothes off." Max did not leave room for argument as he reached past Daniel and turned on the taps.

"What?"

"You'll have a bath." He said simply. "I will help you."

Daniel blinked. "What, Max, you don't have to—"

"Oh please, Daniel. It's nothing I haven't seen before," he waved his hand casually and yeah, okay, sure, Max was right but Daniel wasn't concerned about stripping down in front of him. Daniel couldn't care less about being naked. It was more, you know, Max bathing him that had him second-guessing it.

It would be too intimate— then again, they had always skirted between the lines of too little and too much. So instead of saying any of the thousands of questions that ran through his mind, he landed on just one single word. "Why?"

"Because it's you. Because I care."

Max at least gave him the privacy when Daniel crumpled in on himself to let out several choked sobs. Max looked away, eyes focused on the running water as if not to intrude. Only reminding Daniel of his presence when he took Daniel's hand in his own and held it tenderly. Daniel let the cries out, felt the saltiness on his lips, his cheeks wet. He felt it melt away. He felt the love Max had for him, even if Daniel was a fractured version of who he once was. Max was still there. Patient as always in a way that the media never got to see.

Because it's you. Because I care.

Daniel felt seen in a way he only ever managed to feel around Max. Cut open. Dissected as the secret intricacies within him were studied. Once upon a time, the thought of being known so intimately would have scared him. Now, as he sat tired and drawn out, he didn't hate the idea of being known. To be known, to be loved. To be held, to be told it would all be okay.

Eventually, after the sniffles had died down, Max twisted the water off. Daniel had yet to move from the side of the tub but with the bath ready, Max helped him stand and stripped him of the rest of his clothes. Then Daniel was being lowered into the warm water, not scalding hot and not too cold; it was comforting in a way that made Daniel think of his mom back home, wrangling him and his sister after they had been at the beach, begging them to cooperate at bath time.

Carefully, Max grabbed a cloth that he must have brought in himself. He dunked it in the warm water and lifted it to Daniel's face, who closed his eyes and let the soft dampness rub away the crusted blood at the corner of his lips and soothe the bruises scattering his skin. Max was thorough with his methods, gentle as not to jostle any of the scrapes from the bar, but meticulous enough that it cleaned away the grime. He lathers on a citrus wash, massages it into his skin as he works his way across Daniel's body. Neither of them spoke, except for when Max muttered for Daniel to turn around so he could run the cloth along his back. Both were happy to sit in the quietness of splashing water and the fan on the ceiling that had been whirring constantly.

"There," Max said as he wrung out the cloth before draping it over one of the taps. "Time to get out."

Daniel wanted to tell Max that he had done enough. He wanted to tell Max that he could go, Daniel could do the last couple of things. Though he went to open his mouth and Max gave him a stern look.

I'm not leaving you. So stop worrying and trying to push me away.

Daniel let his lips fall shut. The bath drained, he stepped out and Max wrapped him in a large cotton towel and helped him dry off. Once that was done, a spare set of pyjamas were thrown his way— an old redbull t-shirt that he recalled was used at a race last year, and loose grey sweatpants.

Max left the bathroom, and by the sounds of it, was changing out of his clothes too. Daniel slipped into the pyjamas quietly and moved into the main part of the hotel room. Max had already snuggled into bed, duvet covering half his body. They held a gaze for a moment before Daniel tore away and glanced down at his pile of clothes. For a second, he peered at the room's entrance, only for his eyes to dart back to his dirty clothes.

"Don't," Max called out softly.

"What?"

"Don't worry about those. Why don't you stay?"

And, after everything, Daniel knew what he wanted to do. After all he had done, Daniel didn't think he could let Max down again. He nodded instead, made his way over to the bed and tucked himself next to Max. The Dutchman wrapped himself around Daniel— Daniel had always been the one to be the big spoon, to hold the other close to him. Except there was one person he didn't mind being so vulnerable with. Being cuddled in a blanket of comfort.

Max.

It had always been Max, after all. Daniel felt all the roads he took, no matter how long and winding, led back to him.

Max wrapped around him, them both tangled in the sheets as one. Max nudged closer to Daniel's neck, planted a soft kiss just below his ear and whispered, the warm breath brushed against his skin, "It's going to be okay. I've got you."

Daniel settled into the bedding. He let himself be held. Then he drifted off to sleep; he would have to face reality tomorrow. He would look his fears right in the eye and deal with his issues. Though he wouldn't do it alone, even if he wanted to turn away and not have anyone witness him. There was a constant. There at his highs and his lows. A constant that wouldn't let Daniel go alone, no matter the struggle, because that constant was annoyingly stubborn.

Max. It had always been Max, after all.