Chapter Text
The Montreal Grand Prix, is, well. It’s Montreal, so it’s wet, there are suicidal groundhogs running across the track, and everyone speaks French way too quickly and with strange accents. Lance is the only one out of them who can answer the press questions without a translator, much to the annoyance of Charles and the amusement of Lando. Despite this, Max tends to enjoy the GP, as the city is nice, the people are nice, and, well, his streak here is nice too. Everything is nice, except one thing. Daniel.
It's been a little over a month since Miami, and he and Daniel have kept in close contact. At this point, any pretence of tattoo consultation has disappeared; they’re just two friends (or “pals”, as Daniel would say) chatting. Max likes Daniel’s stupid tweets, and Daniel sends Max memes on Instagram. He’s even managed to get Daniel to try FIFA, though that didn’t really take. So, yeah. They’re friends. Close friends, even, which Max is completely, 100% fine with.
Except when he’s not. Except when he and Daniel play FIFA over Discord and he gets to hear Daniel swear like a sailor at every goal that wiggles past his goalie. Except when Daniel sends him a selfie right after practice where he’s dripping sweat, curls tight and messy. Except when Daniel falls asleep on a phone call, and Max gets to listen to his soft snores for a few minutes before he forces himself to hang up.
Except, except, except. How many exceptions can there be to a rule before one has to admit that the rule never really existed in the first place?
So Max pines like a Christmas tree. He likes to think he’s sneaky, what with waiting at least 30 minutes before liking Daniel’s story and his very reasonable one exclamation point maximum per text. However, he would not be surprised if Daniel could read him like a book and is simply too much of a gentleman to say anything or is too busy with all his beautiful girlfriends to care.
Thus, Max is faced with a choice. Tell Daniel his feelings and purge all his anxiety or bottle it up and probably explode from the pressure. Of course, the decision is easy to make. He would much rather love Daniel from afar than lose him for good. However, when Checo doesn’t even make it to Q1, and he loses pole to George by a fraction of a millisecond, that decision gets a little harder to stick to, his anxiety bubbling up within him like a shaken soda.
The morning of the race, his nice Ritz-Carlton pillows feel like rocks. Max’s head pounds as he silences his alarm, sitting up. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes and pads across the room. Throwing open the curtains, he sees that it is, of course, raining, and angry clouds are beginning to gather above the city.
A knock on the door reveals his breakfast, each plate covered in silver domes like a little Martian city. He eats mechanically, shoving oats and fruit into his mouth without thinking. It’s good – he assumes. He’s too busy running the track in his mind to really notice the taste.
He doesn’t check his phone until he’s in the car on his way to the track, leaving screaming fans in his wake. He pauses at a red light to switch it on, scrolling past messages from his dad and Christian to his conversation with Daniel.
Good luck today!
That’s it? Glancing up to make sure the light hasn’t changed, he quickly checks his other apps, looking to see if Daniel has hidden his message within them. Max turns his phone off when he finds nothing, feeling more than a little hurt and confused. He steps on the gas and peels away, chewing his lip as he drives. It’s odd how quickly he’s grown attached to someone hallway across the world that he’s met, what, twice?
Before he can fully mull over the relationship and dissect every pre-race conversation they’ve had, he arrives at the track, scanning his badge to be let into the VIP parking lot. He slides into a parking space and hops out, locking the Porsche behind him.
The paddock is only starting to fill and is still decidedly empty. This early, only light conversations and the sound of pneumatics and drills can be heard. Max jogs toward to garage, one arm covering his head to shield himself from the rain. By the time he reaches the garage, he’s decidedly soaked, trailing wet footprints as he heads past the car to his driver’s room. To his surprise, Valterri is standing near his door, dressed strangely in an oversized red long-sleeve with a sort of C in the middle of the chest rather than his usual Stake polo.
Max recognises it as the type of shirt Daniel wears on the ice, that is to say a hockey jersey. He quickly walks over, Valterri turning his head to watch him approach.
“Where did you get that?” he blurts, pointing to the C.
Valtteri looks down, as if he’s already forgotten what he was wearing. He shrugs. “Media.”
“Media?” Max says, his voice a near squeak. He and Checo had done soapbox racing with the RB guys out in the middle of nowhere. Sure, it’d been decent, as far as media shoots went, but all the pleasant memories were inaccessible from the second he’d zeroed in on Valterri’s red jersey. “What media? There’s a hockey team here that does media with us?”
“Not us,” Valtteri says, hand going up to brush his moustache. “Me.”
Max’s cheeks flush with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. Why did stupid Stake send Valtteri to play hockey – possibly with Daniel or someone who knows him – while he was stuck nearly getting his head knocked off with a soccer ball?
He tries to squeeze more information out of Bottas, but the man’s Finnish charm means he doesn’t say more than six words at a time if he doesn’t absolutely have to. He storms past and throws his door open. He considers slamming it, but closes it slightly forcefully instead, not wanting to knock the whole motorhome down.
To his surprise, the room is already full, as a man in stylish red sweatpants is lounging on his couch, phone in hand.
“Charles?” he says, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here too?”
Charles looks up and smiles. “Max! It has taken you long enough, my goodness. Do you always arrive this late?”
Max glances at his wrist. “It’s seven in the morning, Charles. What time did you even get here?”
“I arrived with the sun, Max. This is to say around six o’clock,” he explains, as if this is not the strangest thing Max has heard all week.
“Then why aren’t you with your own engineers instead of loitering in my driver’s room?”
Charles waves him off. “They have no need of me this early.”
Max opens his mouth to point out the ridiculousness that is Charles but closes it shortly after. There’s no point. Charles will be Charles no matter what anyone says.
“Well. What are you doing here, then?” he asks.
“I have seen your boyfriend,” Charles replies, smiling conspiratorially. It’s quite a shock to see such a devious look on his handsome face, and Max feels slightly uneasy.
“Here?” Max looks around, as if Daniel, for this is the only person he could possibly mean, will be jumping out from behind his miniscule desk shouting “Surprise!” any minute.
Charles rolls his eyes. “No, on the television. And I have to say, Max, he is not being a very excellent boyfriend to you.”
“Charles, what the fuck are you talking about.”
Charles replies by pulling out his phone and handing it to Max, who looks down at the screen. It’s a screengrab of Daniel in his red hockey uniform with his arm slung over some guy dressed identically down to the As on their chests. They are both grinning, the other guy glancing down at the ice while Daniel smiles at him. It’s a shockingly intimate moment to be caught on television, Max thinks. But it is not really, because Daniel is of course not gay.
He says as much as Charles, who raises an eyebrow. “And I am not from Monaco,” he says, voice flat. “You are stupid, or what? He obviously likes men if he is dating you.”
“Charles, I swear on my cats’ lives that we are not dating,” Max says, exasperated.
Charles blinks and looks down at the photo. “Oh. And you are sure?” he presses.
Max rolls his eyes and plops down next to Charles on the couch. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yes, I’m sure. I think this is the kind of thing that one usually knows about themself.”
“Well, some of us are a little dense,” Charles mutters, back to scrolling on his phone.
“What was that?” Max asks.
“Nothing!” says Charles. “Then, we must do something if you do not want to lose him to this…” He looks closely at his phone. “Matthew.”
The name tugs at something in Max’s memory. “I think Daniel mentioned him to me.”
Charles perks up. “Yes?”
Max volunteers the story about Daniel inviting him to the cabin for his Stanley Cup party. “I think this Matthew is going.”
“It’s perfect,” says Charles. “You must confess your feelings this weekend. The wilderness is very romantic, you know.” He underscores his point with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
“First, he is, again, not gay. Second, neither am I!” Max replies, standing. He begins to pace the short length of the room, avoiding Charles’ eye.
“Let us not lie to ourselves, Max. It will distract you from my plan.”
Max pauses and glances up. “Plan?”
Charles gives Max a knowing look. “Oh, so now you are interested.”
Max considers the situation briefly. How desperate is he to see how far up Daniel’s tattoos stretch? How much does he care that Charles knows about that fact? How much is he willing to ignore that fact to get into Daniel’s pants?
Very, a lot and even more.
Max sits down. “I’m listening.”
~~~
The ride from Montreal to rural British Columbia is bumpy but short, at least compared to Max’s usual cross-continent trips. The stewardess takes to her seat for nearly half the flight and spends the rest of the time apologising for all the turbulence like it’s somehow her fault. Max nods and smiles as his hands white knuckle the armrests and tries not to hurl. When they finally touch down, he steps out, jelly-legged, and breathes a sigh of relief. He accepts his hand luggage from the flight attendant and walks over to the small outpost on the airfield to ensure all his paperwork is in order before he can take off.
He hands his passport to the bored-looking officer, who looks it over for a few seconds, glances up at his face, and waves him through. The lobby is pretty nice, with couches and a little burbling fountain, but Max ignores it, stopping in the middle of the room to check his phone for the address Daniel had sent him before he’d taken off.
“You’re going to get tech neck, looking at your phone like that,” says a familiar voice.
Max looks up. Daniel is striding toward him, stupid grin on his face. He looks tanner than the last time they’d seen each other, his olive skin flushed and alive. It’s so wonderful to see him here that it makes Max’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.
“Daniel,” he greets, sticking his hand out. Daniel scoffs and playfully swats the hand away, pulling Max in for a hug. Daniel’s body is warm, and Max tries not to think about all the body parts that are currently pressing against him, pulling up an image of George doing a T-pose to kill any impure thoughts. He breathes a small sigh of relief when he makes it through the hug, then kicks himself for not committing every sensation to memory. Daniel claps him on the arm and takes his small suitcase, striding toward the door.
“C’mon, Max,” he calls behind him. “We’re burnin’ daylight, here!”
Max huffs and breaks into a jog, catching up as they exit the sliding doors into the crisp Vancouver air. The sun is low in the sky, and it peeks out at them from behind a mountain range which seems to span as fair as the eye can see. His head swivels as he tries to take it all in, and his feet slow. A cool breeze lifts his hoodie so that it rests against his skull for a second before falling back down.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” says Daniel. Max turns to find Daniel stopped, smiling softly as he gazes out into the Canadian wilderness. He makes quite the picture, standing here with the breeze ruffling his curls and the setting sun burnishing his eyes a golden hue.
“It sure is,” Max says, not meaning the view at all.
After Daniel chides Max for lollygagging again, they make good time to the small, sparsely populated parking lot at the opposite end of the tarmac. Daniel pauses to fish the keys out of his pocket as Max scans the lot, trying to guess which car is Daniel’s. There are a couple of Hondas next to each other, as well as a hybrid Subaru, but it’s the BMW sedan that draws his attention. He makes his way toward it, but a high-pitched chirp interrupts his pace. The BMW’s lights stay dark, and he turns to find Daniel jingling the keys.
“Not quite,” he says, heading toward Max and stepping around the sedan. He extends a hand with a flourish. “Ta da!”
Max peeks around the BMW to see a shiny sports car parked nearly on the grass. He walks forward, crossing the lot and placing a hand on the Spyder. “Nice,” he says.
Daniel splutters. “Nice? I rent this puppy for a million billion dollars and all I get is a nice? See if I ever try to impress you again,” he finishes, grumbling.
Max is glad that the dark light hides his blush. “It’s no Valkyrie,” he says.
“Well, they didn’t exactly have one at the dealership,” Daniel replies, his tone teasing. He walks over to the driver-side door and opens the door, gesturing to Max to do the same.
“If you really wanted to impress me, you might have driven your car up from Florida,” says Max, sliding into the passenger seat. Daniel starts the car and it rumbles beneath them, its engine purring soothingly. Daniel carefully pulls out of the spot, slowly moving around the cars toward the exit.
“Are you sure you do not want me to drive?” Max asks as Daniel pulls up to the ticket booth. He slides a piece of paper into the slot and they wait for the light to switch from red to green as the machine reads the ticket.
Daniel turns to Max as they wait for the striped bar to rise. “What, you don’t trust me?” He revs the engines a few times, wiggling his eyebrows.
Max moves his head from side to side indecisively. “Just try not to go off a cliff or hit someone. I believe both our publicists would be very upset if we were found dead or committed a crime.”
The bar rises, and Daniel pulls the car forward. “Such low expectations, Maxy. But I pinky swear that I kill you or put you at the wrong end of vehicular manslaughter. Maybe. Hopefully.”
“I do not feel very reassured,” Max says as they pull across a bend onto a deserted road, his voice pitching up as Daniel speeds up.
“For a driver, you’re awfully paranoid,” Daniel says, glancing at Max.
Max grips blindly for the handrest, eyes on the rapidly climbing speedometer. “When I am in a car, I am usually driving.”
“Well, don’t worry we’re not going far.” Daniel takes an exit, and they head onto the highway. “It’s only an hour away.”
“An hour is close?”
“In Canada, that’s basically next door,” replies Daniel. “Besides, I used to kart when I was younger. I’m familiar with the tech, as the kids say.”
“Oh, yes?” says Max.
“Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve never heard of me. I’m sure we crossed paths at least once or twice.”
Max contorts his face into a frown. “Sorry. My dad was very…invested, so. I was not often friends with my competition.”
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that,” Daniel says, glancing over.
Max shrugs. “That was then, this is now. Though. He is still very involved in my career.” He aims for a light tone, but Daniel just hums thoughtfully. Max doesn’t really know why he’s telling Daniel this. He doesn’t talk about his father with anyone outside Charles and Christian.
Max cues back in when he notices Daniel fiddling with the dials on the dashboard. “Want to connect your phone? We could do with some tunes,” he says. Max agrees, scrolling through his music library and doing his best to choose something he thinks Daniel would like. He picks some classic American rock that’s probably more Logan’s taste than his, but Daniel smiles over at him, and Max knows he’s done well. This little reward for his effort makes heat bloom in his chest, and he has to tamp down his grin into a normal person’s smile.
They spend the drive discussing what they’ve been up to since seeing each other last. Most of the conversation concerns their respective seasons, but Daniel listens attentively while Max discusses the adventures his cats have been engaging in lately. The conversation peters off as they turn off the highway and the sky gets darker the trees around them stretching and becoming continuous with the sky until nothing but the illuminated road is visible.
Max drums his fingers on the middle rest. “So,” he says. “Who will be there? Do I know anyone?”
Daniel considers this, frowning for a moment. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. The full list is on my phone, but let me think. Most of the Panthers will be there, so it’ll be a full house. Then the stragglers are Davo, Leo, Scotty, Mikey, Stormy…I feel like that’s everyone? Oh, and Huggy said he’d stop by if he could. I tried to keep it as small as possible, but once the boys heard I was going to be out in the middle of nowhere with booze, there wasn’t any stopping them.”
Max pauses. “Huggy? Davo?”
Daniel laughs. “Ah, I see you aren’t familiar with the tradition of hockey nicknames. Alright, well, let’s see. There are too many Panthers to even start, but I can give you a rundown of the others. Davo is McDavid; he and Leon come as a package deal. Stormy, that’s Nathan Walker, is the only other Australian player in the NHL, so we’re comrades in that sense. Huggy’s Quinn, he plays for Vancouver so he’s local. Then Scotty and Micheal are my pals from way back when. I think that about covers everyone.”
Max nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “In F1, everyone is just their name, I think.”
“You sure? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the name ‘Super Max’ tossed around somewhere,” Daniel says, his tone teasing.
Max shrugs. “I, of course, cannot control what the fans call me.”
“No, of course not, they have a mind of their own,” Daniel says, taking his eyes off the highway for a second to smile at Max, who certainly feels super in that moment.
“If everyone has nicknames, what is yours?” Max asks.
“I’ve gone by a few names over the years, depending on the team. But right now, it’s just Danny Ric, or Honey Badger if the boys are feeling frisky. That last one’s from Chucky–that’s Tkachuk.”
If Max were a dog, his ears would be pricked and his hackles risen at the mention of Tkachuk’s name. He wants to sit Daniel down on the other side of a cold metal table and shove a light in his face like on those cop shows that Charles pretends he doesn’t watch to extract any bit of information about his relationship with Matthew Tkachuk. Instead, he nods and chuckles lightly, as if he hadn’t spent a good hour last night googling this Chucky and seething at the volume of the photos there are of him and Daniel on the internet.
A song comes on, and Daniel oohs and turns up the volume. “This is my jam,” he says, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He begins to sing, and it’s not half bad. Max’s anger at the idea of his nemesis getting “frisky” with Daniel dissipates slightly, and he finds himself joining in on Daniel’s performance as well as he can, not that that’s saying much.
The road gets narrower and the trees taller as they make their way higher up into the mountains. Daniel turns expertly despite the low light, and Max is impressed at his handling. Max glances at the GPS, but it’s been rerouting since they got onto gravel roads. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asks.
“Like the back of my hand,” Daniel says. “No need to fret.”
Max nods and settles into the leather seat.
“Getting sleepy?” Daniel asks.
“A bit,” says Max, yawning. Daniel chuffs.
“Nearly there,” he says.
After around 15 minutes of driving on the bumpy road, Daniel approaches a gate. He dials down the music and rolls down his window, leaning out to type on a small, illuminated keypad. Max’s eyes affix to the small strip of tanned skin beneath the hem of Daniel’s sweatshirt, which has risen a touch. He quickly averts his eyes when Daniel sits back down. The gate slides open before them, and Daniel creeps forward. Small lights illuminate the path before them as they drive through a more manicured version of the woods they’d just exited from.
A minute or so down the road is a large, woodsy mansion surrounded by tall trees. It’s different from the styles Max is used to, much more rustic compared to the glitz and glam of Monaco. It’s too big to be charming, but it still looks homey with its thick wood slats and illuminated stone porch.
Daniel unbuckles himself with a click, glancing at Max. “Home sweet home,” he says. “At least for the next few days.”
Daniel looks excited to be at the cabin despite his obvious tiredness, and Max feels his stomach twist with nerves at what he will meet inside. He presses the latch on his buckle and slips out of the car, unfolding his aching body from the vehicle. He twists to the right and left in a stretch, rolling his neck until it pops. Max walks over to the trunk and grabs his carry-on from Daniel, thanking him.
“No problem,” Daniel says, clapping Max on the shoulder. It’s only for a second, but Max feels it like a brand, Daniel’s handprint searing into his skin.
Max’s suitcase rattles noisily across the cobblestone path, and he lifts it as they walk up the front steps onto the covered entranceway. Daniel roots in his pockets and pulls out a set of keys with a little moose keychain dangling off it. He slides a bronze key into the lock and twists, the door opening smoothly with a chirp from the alarm system. Daniel shushes the little panel and ushers Max inside. They slip their shoes off, and Max searches for a spot to drop his sneakers among the massive dogpile. Max places his shoes delicately on top, and Daniel places his on top of Max’s.
“Let me show you to your room,” Daniel whispers. Max follows him up a set of wood stairs, carrying his suitcase with one hand and tracing his hand on the railing with the other. They pass a series of white doors and walk up another set of stairs to a small landing with a room. Daniel twists the knob and pushes the door open, waving Max forward.
The room is small but not cramped. Daniel turns on a tall lamp with a switch by the door, and warm light illuminates the space. The walls are painted light blue, and the ceiling slants inward, forming a triangle above a queen bed. Behind the bed is a large window looking out onto the street and the woods beyond. Max puts his suitcase down on the hardwood floor beside a sturdy-looking desk.
“There are two full baths downstairs and another on the main floor and basement. Kitchen’s on the main floor; help yourself to breakfast food if you’re up early. Basement’s got a game room and a small gym if you’re a freak about keeping to your training schedule.” Daniel pauses. “I can’t think if there’s anything else. Do you need anything?”
Max reflects and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, then. Night, Maxy. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Goodnight, Daniel.”
Daniel gives him a soft smile and turns around. He pauses in the doorway, giving Max a little wave before slipping away.
Max collapses on the light grey sheets, spreading his limbs out. He stares up at the ceiling as if it’ll answer as to how the fuck he’s supposed to survive this weekend. Eventually, he gives up, changing into his pyjamas and tucking himself into bed. And if he goes to bed plotting how he can steal Daniel away over the trip, well. That’s no one’s business but his.