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“You’re leaving Red Bull? Because of me?”.
Max. Max, in his drivers room. Max, sounding unbearably sad.
Max? No, that can’t be true.
Daniel turns and, oh, there he is. Max, in his drivers room, looking as unbearably sad as he sounds. Then he realizes what was said, having been momentarily distracted by the despair in his voice.
Max knows, and he really doesn’t know why he’s surprised, of course they’d told him.
They wouldn’t let him hear it from hungry reporters desperate for marketable reactions.
They wouldn’t let him hear it from the paddock, through gossip and speculation, as dramatic as they can make it sound. At least they didn’t make Daniel tell him.
Doesn’t mean he can get out of this conversation.
“N-no, what, who said that?”, he forces out eventually, the words scraping against his throat on their way up, the wrongness of the excuse sitting heavy on his tongue.
Maybe Max will believe him.
He won’t.
“Don’t lie to me, Daniel, I know you don’t want to be the second driver. It’s not in your blood. But It’s not in mine either”, Max says, trying for defiant, failing miserably.
All Daniel can see in that moment is the boy Max was two years ago, 18, not yet grown into the man he is now, confident in his ability to drive, a brand new car and brand new circumstances, but too scared to act in normal human interactions.
The boy who’d flinch when mechanics offered him high fives, make himself smaller when strategists raised their voices, and completely shut down when Jos was anywhere near him, seemingly always stuck between fight or flight, frightened prey backed into a corner, until there was a steering wheel in his hands.
Carbon fiber turned into armor, into protection from the world he thought was out to hurt him, not yet realizing Red Bull was enough.
Christian, always ready to fight for his drivers, ruthless and relentless, leaving no penalty unquestioned, was enough.
Helmut, a willingness to abandon those he thought were useless, cunning and cruel, somehow softening for an armored boy, was enough.
Daniel, with an unavoidable urge to help Max, always smiling, always joking, fierce and friendly, was enough.
Maybe he isn’t anymore.
Maybe he never was.
“It’s time for me to leave, Max. It’s how this sport works, how the drivers work. Michael left Ferrari after winning five championships with them, Seb left Red Bull after literally being their golden boy for years, it’s normal”, Daniel finally answers, trying to convince himself as much as Max. He hadn’t won any championships with Red Bull, wasn’t considered shiny enough to be their golden boy, but it was normal.
Right?
“Sebastian left for Ferrari. You’re leaving for Renault”. Daniel winces; the comparison hurts, just another reminder of what Daniel failed to achieve after so many years trying, but the pain in Max’ voice makes it worse. Now free of defiance, he just sounds desperate.
Max, one year ago, 19 years old, used to the car, still uncertain socially, getting better race by race, gaining tenths and gaining confidence. The DNFs had taught him that love wasn’t conditional, that the team adored him either way, before the wins proved to him that the top step of the podium was achievable without being punished beforehand, without having to suffer for mistakes he didn’t make.
He’d learned to laugh and he’d learned to live, to find freedom on dirty dance floors, to be radiant in terrible lighting, blue and red and green, to badly sing along with whatever music the clubs played, no matter how obnoxiously loud or horrendously overplayed, accent curling around words Daniel isn’t quite sure he understood.
He’d learned to love, to find peace in organized motorhomes and personalized drivers rooms, away from microphones and cameras, still radiant, but subdued in those quiet moments, shy smiles and gentle laughs, accent now curling around whispers Daniel definitely knows he understood.
But what he’s facing now, a year later in a drivers room no longer personalized, isn’t happiness, joking and joyful, light and lovely, it’s desperation, heavy as it surges up, a wave crashing over Daniel and swallowing him whole, and even though he should be used to being submerged, all those summers spent surfing in the turfs having left their mark upon him, he’s suffocating.
It floods through his system, substitutes the blood he so desperately needs to live, makes its way through his body until it reaches his brain and heart and lungs, he’s suffocating, suddenly faced with the misery he tried to suppress, years and years of work undone, he can’t breath, why can’t he breathe-?
“Daniel?”
He’d failed to deliver and he’d failed to succeed, standing small and pathetic in front of the one person he’d told himself to protect, promises breaking along with a relationship made on podiums and sealed in celebration, because he’d failed, he always fails-
“Daniel!”.
Hands on his shoulders, he finally manages to breathe again, desperate gasps for air as he lets the oxygen retake its place in his lungs, finally feeling the wave recede.
He’s on the floor, he realizes, and Max is right there with him, the desperation gone, replaced with worry.
“You were having a panic attack. I-I think. You didn’t respond and I d-don’t think you were breathing properly. I’m sorry”.
Desperation gone, replaced with worry. Sounding shaken, scared, 18 again, 19, the way he spoke when he first joined the grid.
17 years old.
Nervous, no idea what he was getting himself into, he’d stumbled into the paddock. The fire within him burned hot already and maybe he was born with it, crawling out of whatever pit Formula One drivers returned to when they died.
"There is no racing in heaven because all drivers go to hell”, said Niki Lauda, three time world champion, better than Daniel.
Maybe Max was raised with it, a punishment, a metaphor. Those who fail, burn. Maybe he’d learned to sustain the heat, a burning boy racing around an icy track, frozen fingers not enough to distinguish the fire, never enough, just like Daniel.
Except he was, even as it burned him, 17, desperate to prove himself, to finally stand on the podium, to finally feel the spray of champagne, to finally find an escape from the constant heat, always clutching at his chest, scratching at his arms, shaken, scared, 17.
3 years later, 20, having tasted victory, still having to live with a fire that burned even worse than before, Max lowers his hands, quickly, as if he’d just realized he was still holding Daniel. They’re shaking too.
Sorry, he’d said.
“Why?”
Max looks at him, worry shifting into confusion shifting into an even greater worry than before. “What?”. His voice cracks, 17, 18, 19, a reminder that he’s still changing, still growing, just like the fire.
“Why are you sorry?”
A frown, and now he’s looking at Daniel like he’s stupid, and at least it’s familiar. He never did that before he turned 20, having been too busy admiring him, too busy worshipping the one person that loved him, no matter what, before finally realizing Daniel loved him, no matter what, and deciding to call him out on all his bullshit, to look at him like that, even though his words had always been soft, fondness curling around them along with his accent.
When he speaks now, his words are matter of fact, neutral. The accent is there. The fondness isn’t. “I shouldn’t have walked in here like that, and I shouldn’t have said what I said. It’s not fair. I’m sorry”.
He stands, suddenly, seeming small even as he looms over Daniel. He wonders if Max still has some inches in him, how much taller he’ll get, before realizing what the action means.
Before he knows what he’s doing he’s on his feet. I’m not leaving because of you, he wants to say, but he can’t, throat too raw, tongue too heavy. It’s true and it’s not. He’s scared of getting burned, of the fire spreading within Max, of the heat engulfing him just like the wave had and never receding, lungs filling with smoke until he suffocates, because he knows it might never extinguish, not until Max does what Daniel couldn’t and wins a championship.
He knows he will, shiny enough to be their golden boy, Max has no other option. Daniel has plenty, and he chose Renault, even though he wishes he could’ve chosen Max and even though he needs Max to know it’s not because of him, not in the way Max thinks.
Throat too raw, tongue too heavy, the words won’t come out.
Max’ expression falters, finally realizing there’s nothing to be said anymore, not out loud, not here, 17 and scared, 18 and armored, 19 and desperate, before shifting into something Daniel has never seen before.
“Goodbye, Daniel”.
He turns, takes a step towards the door, voice as distant as his expression, even the accent has gone.
“I’ll see you around”.