Tried to write a fun little fic about why Daniel unfollowed on Instagram Zak, Michael, Fernando, and Nicki, the most random quartet possible, only to end up with this lol
Daniel finally answers a call at just gone 4.30am, Max's time. It's 5.30am, Daniel's time, which admittedly is only marginally better, but maybe the hospital he's in has some crazy Get-Up-And-Seize-The-Day sort of ethos. Although from what Christian has told him, Daniel might not be seizing anything, metaphorically or otherwise, for some time.
"Daniel," Max says as soon as he hears the line clicking through. "How are you? How do you feel? Is your wrist alright? Do the doctors and nurses take care of you, do they speak English, or did Red Bull send a Spanish translator and I hope I have not woken you up and-"
He cuts himself off. There's a sort of stunned silence on the other side of the line. Sometimes, Max thinks his need for Daniel is a bottomless pit, something that has hollowed him out and leaves an ache echoing through him.
"Max?" Daniel says, incredulous. High, drugged up, gone on pain medication. "How did you get into my phone?!"
Max squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth is twisted, making some shape. A smile, a frown? He doesn't know, nobody can see him in his old childhood bedroom.
He wants to be with Daniel. He wants to brush a hand through his curls and run his fingertips along the lines of his faded tattoos like how a child would first begin to trace letters and numbers.
I miss you, he wants to say
I want you
I need you
"I'm not in your phone," he says instead, tone light and soft. "I called you. I am in the Netherlands."
"Oh," Daniel says, as if the fact Max had not been magically transformed into his phone is mildly disappointing. "What are you doing there?"
"We had a race, remember?" Max says. He's stretched out on his old bed. His feet dangle just slightly off the edge, and each year, he's promised a new one, bigger and larger and finally a grown-up bed. But it never materialises and Max has stopped bringing it up now.
The room is unchanged. Around him, the faces of former racing legends watch him, tapped to his wall. Above, stars look down, stuck to his ceiling in haphazard patterns. The day his father got to play God and created universes and cosmos splayed above his head.
"Of course," Daniel huffs good naturedly. "You won, Maxy."
"I know," Max replies softly.
"It was your ninth consecutive win," Daniel continues, his tone strong and proud, as if it's Daniel who has achieved it. Maybe he's so high on meds he thinks it is, that him and Max are some sort of Jeckyl and Hyde being, two sides of the same life. Max doesn't know. A headache is building behind his eyes. He hasn't really slept since Friday, three days previous.
"You're now equalling Sebastian Vettle. If you win the next race, you'll beat the record." Daniel continues before pausing, as if realisation is only just dawning. "I don't think I'll be there."
"No," Max murmurs. "I don't think you will be either."
"My wrist is really f*cked," Daniel goes back to his jubilant tone, like a child with the best show and tell in school. "I have a metal plate in it, isn't that neat?"
He laughs. Max closes his eyes, just listening to the sound. "Imagine if it goes off at every airport security, Maxy? How annoying with that be?" He laughs again, the prospect sounding delightful to him in that very moment.
Max hums softly, and then shifts on the bed, turning away from the stars his father hung up for him. Instead, he moves to his side, facing a giant poster of Micheal Schumacher celebrating one of his championships. At the bottom, Max, to great things! MS. He was six. It was one of the best Christmas presents his dad had ever gotten him.
"How do you feel?" He asks. Daniel is humming a tune under his breath, the theme song to some gameshome Max barely recognises. He stops at Max's question.
"Good," he says happily. "I have gained deep clarity."
That shocks a laugh out of Max, as only Daniel, even doped, drugged Daniel, can do. The longing feels physical, the hole never ending in his chest. He closes his eyes, blocking out the stars and racing legends whose shine has faded and whose records he's now beating.
In another life, he thinks, he would be there. He'd be the first face Daniel would see, the first hand he'd get to hold, the first for nearly everything, just like Daniel had been for Max.
But instead they're a time zone apart and Daniel is alone in a country where he can't even speak the language and Max is in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by his family who are fast sleep and utterly oblivious to the fact he's gay, let alone in a relationship with Daniel Ricciardo.
"Clarity," Max forces his mind back on track. "How so?"
"Oh you know," Daniel says with ease. "Cleared my mental space."
Max huffs another laugh. His chest aches, empty. He wonders does Daniel know how hollowed out he is without him.
"Go on."
"Well, I deleted a sh*t ton of apps. That wellness app you made me download last year? Sorry Maxy, but that went," Daniel makes a popping noise. "And the fertility tracking app Scotty downloaded at his bachelor's party."
"Presumably he just got his and your phones mixed up, right?"
"No Maxy, it was a prank because I -" Daniel breaks away, finally understanding, laughing as if Max has made the funniest joke possible.
"Okay so you cleared up some space on your phone," Max prompts him.
"Oh yes, and then deleted twitter and went to WhatsApp and left about a billion groups and then I went to Instagram, and went through who I followed, and unfollowed tons of people."
"Oh? Did I make the cut?"
Daniel tutts as if Max is being purposefully dense.
"Naturally Maxy. In fact, I sort of debated unfollowing everyone except you, but then figured you might've been pissed at me."
Max can't tell if Daniel is joking or not. He doesn't know which he wants it to be.
"So firstly I unfollowed a bunch of people I had met years ago at business deals and stuff, and then Craig and Rebecca from school because I never really liked them anyway and they definitely never liked me and then Zak because the vibes were Not It and then my high-school teacher who I definitely only ended up following on a dare and -"
"Zak," Max says, picking out the familiar name in the sea of chatter. "As in Zak Brown?"
Daniel hums. "Yeah, the vibes were Not It. And then I also unfollowed Fernando -"
"Alonso?" Max splutters out another laugh of disbelief. "What on earth did he do to you?"
"I don't like how he acts around you."
"Me?!" Max voice goes up an octave. "What? But he's always nice to me Daniel. I like him."
"I know Max, that's the point," Daniel says, and before Max can even begin to comprehend what he means, he's continuing. "And then also Richard, from McLaren because I swear he used to tell Zak everything I did and then Michael, and then Sam, this old hookup, and -"
"Michael," Max cuts in, sure he's mistaken, "as in ..."
"Yeah," Daniel says after a beat. "That Michael."
Max swallows. Michael has been a constant strain on their relationship, the fly in the otherwise smooth ointment. Max had told Daniel he wasn't good for him, he wasn't looking after him. That friendship and business rarely mixed, and that in this case, it had congealed into something of neither, a strange, interdependent relationship which drained them both.
Daniel had said Max hadn't understood it, hadn't gotten how much Michael helped him, how good it was to have a physico who was also his mate. Max replied by saying that as far as he was concerned, Michael was proving himself to be neither.
Jealousy. That was what Daniel had pinned to him, had washed all rationality away with. Max was jealous.
He remembers feeling like he had been slapped. Jealousy. f*cking jealousy.
He never mentioned Michael again.
"But," Max begins slowly, mind whirling. "You had lunch with him last week." Even though you never mentioned it, even though I had to find out through fans' blurry photos.
"Yeah," Daniel draws the syllable out. "But... the vibes were not immaculate."
"Right," Max says, hating how terse the single word sounds. And the vibes were fine when he encouraged you to do that f*cked up intermittent fasting? When he recommended yoga and gym sessions instead of therapy?
"And then I unfollowed Nicky Latifi, because unfortunately, he's going to do a masters in London, and following him online will simply remind me of all the missed possibilities I had in the academic world," he goes on.
"Daniel," Max says, trying to force his mind to move on, Daniel has unfollowed Michael Daniel has unfollowed Michael. "You dropped out of school when you were seventeen. In the most loving of ways, I would hardly call you an up and coming scholar."
"Details, Maxy," he says, but then goes quiet, and so does Max. He opens his eyes. His room is painted in shadows, sunrise still distant. The trophies he won as a child are carefully displayed in neat rows, their plaques opaque with dust, now thick and heavy. He remembers winning them, young and already starving for more, remembers the weight of plastic, the way sugary pop soda dried sticky on his skin.
"I think you were right," Daniel says softly. Max nods, face pressed against his pillow.
"I mean about him. Michael."
"I know who you meant," Max murmurs.
"Okay good, because you're definitely not write about my academic prowess, I was one hundred percent on track to be this world's Stephen Hawkens."
Max laughs softly. "It's Hawking not Hawken."
"Once again Maxy, details."
There's another exhale of quiet between them, and outside Max hears the world beginning to rise. Birds waking, their whistles winding their way through the crack in his window.
"I miss you," he says softly, as if the words are barely permitted to be spoken aloud.
"I love you too Maxy," Daniel replies with ease. Then - "you should come. I think it would be nice. If you were here too."
"I think so too," Max says. The longing grows. The trophies are dusty on his shelf, forgotten. His feet hang off his childhood bed. Birds begin to sing.
"So will you?" Daniel persists. Max squeezes his eyes shut.
"I don't know. I do not think you would be saying this if you weren't off your head on pain meds," he tries to joke. His chest aches. Hollowed out, always wanting more than he's allowed.
"Of course I would," Daniel says confidently, even though he ends it with a yawn. "I anyways want you around."
Max keeps his eyes still tightly shut. He tucks his knees up, bringing them to his chest. When he was very young and his parents were still together, he'd do this. Curl up on the bed with his eyes squeezed closed. The door shut, their shouts muffled; as distant as the bird song is to him now.
"Maxy?"
His sister said the same. Maxy? Climbing on his bed, tugging at his arms. What are they talking about? Nothing, nothing, it doesn't matter.
"How's your wrist?" Max asks. He opens his eyes - the room has grown lighter, dawn finally creeping in.
"Good," Daniel says, already forgotten what he said. Like a butterfly, moving onto the next topic, nothing permanent. "Sore. I'm on some strong sh*t though." He laughs. It sounds so near.
Max imagines it. He could do it. Book the ticket to Spain. It wouldn't even be that bad. People know him and Daniel are mates, and mates visit each other in hospital. And that's if it even comes out, which it might not. Nobody has to know.
"I love you," he blurts out, cheeks warm. Daniel laughs again, soft and delighted.
"Good, because my right hand is currently out of action, so I might need help over the next few weeks with a few particular things."
Max laughs, cheeks warm. He's not being quiet any more. His family can probably hear him through the walls, just like he could hear his parents all those years ago.
He can imagine his sister asking him, echoing their childhood as she questions him on words she's grasped through walls. This time, though, he thinks he will tell her the truth.
"I've heard Spain is very beautiful at the end of August," he says.
Daniel hums, "I've heard something similar, Maxy."
Outside, birds sing. The dawn continues on, filling the emptiness of night.
