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With a scream that died somewhere between his lungs and his throat, Max’s cap went sailing across the hotel room and feebly hit the curtains with a barely-audible thump before sliding to the ground like a wounded, pathetic animal. Max swallowed the bitter bile rising up in his throat and fell back onto his hotel bed, scrubbing furiously at his eyes.
He felt sick. That churning, horrible sense of wrongness that had ignited during the formation lap and then burst into flames along with his car seared through his veins and soured on his tongue, leaving him with nothing but the gaping maw of fury and regret opening in his chest. He knew he was being dramatic, some would say overreacting - one DNF after a truly record-breaking string of victories was nothing to look down on - and yet he wouldn’t be a world champion if he accepted a one-off failure. And for his car of all things to let him down…
A faint buzz roused him vaguely from his thoughts, and Max glanced over to see his phone light up with - yet again - a call from his father. He hit ‘decline’ and turned the device face-down, debating whether to turn it off altogether. All evening it had been humming and blaring with messages and calls from his dad, his team, Daniel and Checo, and he couldn’t bring himself to face them just yet.
In fact, the only message he had replied to was from Esteban.
A funny, fluttery feeling stirred and threatened to displace the fury in Max’s stomach as he thought of the Frenchman, a feeling he wasn’t quite ready to name just yet. In much the same way, he wasn’t quite ready to explain to himself why he had picked up the phone over the winter break and opened the conversation with the most stupid question about marvel films he could think of, nor was he ready to name the fizzy feeling that had started somewhere in his chest and spread throughout his whole body as that first call lasted for hours. The second, third, fourth, and more calls had spiralled on for hours too. Before Max had time to think about consequences he had suddenly found himself achingly familiar with the way Esteban’s eyes crinkled when he smiled and the fact his hair gel smelled faintly of mint.
His phone buzzed once more and Max checked it automatically. It was only as the disappointment curled tightly in his chest that he realised he’d been hoping for a reply from Esteban. Fuck, what was happening to him?! Max pressed the palm of his hands over his eyes again and pressed down hard until patterns began to swirl beneath his eyelids. He was contemplating taking another shower, if only to try and physically scrub away the bitterness that had been crawling over his skin since he pulled into the pits and stayed there, when there was a soft tap at the door.
Max jerked upright, his vision swimming back into focus. As he blinked and tried to regain his bearings he wondered at first if he’d imagined it. But no, in the quiet barely broken by the buzzing of near-broken hotel lamps there was a definite knock on the door, so quiet it was as if the person on the other side barely wanted to be heard. Max scowled to himself but resignedly hauled himself up from the bedsheets and went to the door, schooling his expression into what he hoped was an acceptable neutrality as he turned the handle and prepared himself to face Christian or GP or -
Esteban.
The Frenchman - as usual - wasn’t stood up straight. In an oversized plain black hoodie and with his shoulders curled he somehow looked smaller than Max. But here he was, staring with his adorable wide brown eyes at Max’s no doubt stunned expression.
“Hello,” Esteban offered him a small smile. Max could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly, when suddenly the sound of another door opening sent a spike of alarm through his chest. Seeing the same panic flitting across Esteban’s face Max didn’t think before he pulled the other man into his room and let the door fall closed behind him, before anyone saw and asked questions he really didn’t have the answers to.
“Why are you here?” Max winced as soon as he said it, the words falling out far more harshly than he intended. Esteban’s smile dimmed.
“I can go,” He offered quickly and Max’s gut twisted at the thought. Almost tentatively, Esteban lifted up a small bag Max hadn’t even noticed he was carrying, but suddenly he was very aware of a delicious, mouth-watering smell flooding the room. “I understand if you want to be alone,” Esteban went on. “I just thought you might… I wasn’t sure if you had eaten. And Lance told me about this really good Italian place nearby so I thought…” His lovely voice trailed off, his shoulders curling in a little more as he shifted on his feet, and Max thought his heart might beat right out of his chest. For someone so notorious for being unable to stop talking, he found himself speechless for probably far too long.
“Really?” He managed at last. “I - I mean - you got that for me?!”
“Of course,” Esteban said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Max felt that fluttery feeling return tenfold, swiftly warming him from the inside out and threatening to wipe out the frustration simmering beneath his skin. “I don’t have to stay of course. I can always -”
“No!” The protest flew out before Max could stop it, “No, I mean, you can…” Screaming inwardly to pull himself together, Max forced himself to take a long, slow breath, scrubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to salvage some dignity. “You’re welcome to stay, really. Sorry, I’m just… just not really with it right now.”
After a few agonising moments Max peered through a gap between his fingers to see Esteban studying him carefully. His eyes were narrowed slightly, his forehead pinched. But then the concern apparently abated and a small smile returned to his face, soft and warm.
“I understand.” His reply wasn’t pitying, or even an attempt to be consoling. It was just a statement of fact, and Max felt the tension tumble from his shoulders as his hands fell back to his sides.
“Yeah,” he swallowed, wishing he could think of a better answer. Esteban was still watching him with that small, sweet smile and Max could feel heat rushing to his cheeks under the gentle, brown-eyed gaze before he gestured to the bag. “So what did you get me?”
Esteban’s face lit up. “Oh, lots! I wasn’t sure what you would like so I played it a little safe, look…” he reached eagerly into the bag and started pulling out box after box, each one smelling divine and setting Max’s mouth watering. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had indulged in food like this. “ - oh, and some arancini too. Just the classic kind, I think that’s the best.” Esteban glanced around the room, weighing up the many boxes balanced in his hands. Max gestured quickly behind him.
“Let’s just put it all on the bed, spread it out. We can clean up anything we spill.”
“We?”
“What, you think I can eat all that by myself?” Max raised an eyebrow. “I’m kind of flattered.”
Esteban’s gleeful chuckle sent a warmth greater than the Australian sun unfurling in Max’s chest, and the weight of the race eased with the smile that grew on his own face. They unpacked the food together onto the pristine white bedsheets and spoiled them immediately when Max spotted the garlic bread and made a dive for it, sending crumbs flying across the bed. Eventually however they had the boxes balanced, and a silence far more comfortable than Max could have expected settled as they started to eat.
“You were right,” he mumbled through a mouthful of delicious carbonara, “this is amazing.”
“You mean Lance was right. I’ll tell him, he’s been bugging me to try this place for ages and I remembered you like Italian.” Esteban leant over to steal some arancini from Max’s plate, which mercifully distracted him from Max’s stupefied stare.
“When did I tell you that?” He mumbled.
Esteban shrugged, seemingly more focused on catching the cheese threatening to spill over his long fingers. “When we were watching Iron Man 1.”
Max felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the food bloom and threaten to spill out in far too many and too vulnerable words before he snapped his mouth shut like a vice, as if that could prevent his whole heart escaping. Stealing what was left of his arancini right back provided a distraction, especially as he got to hear Esteban’s laughter at his feeble attempt. Eventually relenting and breaking the rice ball in two to share, Esteban smiled at Max once more, albeit a little smaller this time,
“So…” he said, far too quietly, “We don’t have to talk about it, not if you don’t want, but I just wanted to say it anyway.” His tongue darted out quickly over his lips and Max couldn’t help but watch the motion, even as the tentative words had the tension winding back in his chest. “I’m sorry about your car.”
Max swallowed. In the joy of the moments, the shared food and Esteban’s sweet smile, he had honestly forgotten why he had secluded himself away from the team, the world, and especially the endless press and questions no doubt outside that door.
“I’m sorry about yours.” He had spoken before fully realising how bitter that could sound, and he froze as Esteban’s smile dropped. The silence stretched for what could have been an age, threatening to ice over into unbearable tension. Then, just as Max thought he might suffocate, Esteban raised his eyebrows.
“Well. At least yours can be fixed overnight.”
His voice slipped ever so lightly into the hotel room and when Max dared to meet his eyes he saw something there resembling gentleness, something he definitely didn’t deserve. The restlessness was back beneath his skin, crawling like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“I guess.” It was all Max could manage, at least without letting absolutely everything crawl up from his throat where it could never be taken back.
“Max?”
It was only his name but it sounded like permission, and suddenly Max found the words that had been stirring all day like a wildfire in his chest flying free at last.
“I… we knew this isn’t going to be like last year, we knew that. The car is good sure, Adrian and the others did a great job but it’s not the rocketship like the 19 was and everyone else is catching up too - which is fine, it’s good even, I like the competition but for my own fucking car to let me down -”
Max’s hands flew to his face as he slammed the brakes on his words, stuttering to a halt much like the RB20 had done to him. “Sorry-” he mumbled. His face burnt with humiliation, and he barely noticed the bed shifting beneath him. “Sorry, I know this is stupid, it’s-”
“Hey.” A hand brushed over Max’s shoulder and his head jerked up from his hands to see Esteban moving tentatively closer, pausing at Max’s movement before properly sliding his palm over his shoulders. Max felt his face burning again, only this time for a very different reason. His heartbeat only sped up more at Esteban’s proximity and the grin that slowly spread across his face. “The great Max Verstappen apologising? To me? I never thought I’d see it.”
Esteban was teasing him, and Max was sure his face was really on fire now.
“If you tell anyone -” he grinned, “- I’ll push you again.”
Esteban gasped loud and theatrically. “You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.” Max had no idea where the courage to twist and face Esteban head-on came from, but suddenly their faces were so close Max could watch Esteban’s pupils dilate within oak-brown irises before Esteban fell back on his hands, spluttering with laughter against the messy hotel bedsheets.
“I really thought you would for a moment!”
“I’m not that bad!” Max could have had a gun to his head, another world championship on the line, and he still couldn't have explained the sudden emptiness that rushed into the proximity Esteban had just occupied.
“No, you’re not.” Apparently unaware of the turmoil he was causing, Esteban beamed up at Max and sat up again, his hand drifting towards the bruschetta. “And… Max, for whatever my opinion is worth, I think you’re going to be ok. No, I know you are.”
Max practically forgot how to breathe. Esteban must have taken his silence as disbelief and he ploughed on. “They will fix your car this time, and still everyone knows you are one of the best drivers on this grid. Even with a less dominant car you beat Lewis in twenty-one and every time after that it has not been the car that won those championships, it was you. Believe me, I know how frustrating it is for the car to let you down but…” With a sheepish smile, Esteban shrugged. “I really don’t think you need to worry.”
“Thank you.” First apologising to, and now thanking Esteban Ocon. The Max of years ago would never have believed it. The Max of here and now felt the sickening tension from the race lessen, replaced by a bubbly warmth that lit up like a hearthfire in his chest. “Thanks, for that and, well,” Max gestured loosely to the food spread between them, “All of this.” He shrugged. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I know.” Esteban shrugged right back. “Now, are you going to save me from this bruschetta before I eat it all myself?”
Max’s response was simple; he leant over and plucked the piece from Esteban’s hands and popped it in his own mouth, grinning at the aghast look on Esteban's face as he finished it in one bite. Esteban spluttered and spat something in French that probably shouldn’t be translated, but he was laughing right back.
“Do you, um…” It occurred to Max he probably should have asked this earlier, “Do you want to talk about your race?”
“No.” Esteban was smiling still, except his eyes didn’t crinkle with the motion and Max knew at once it was fake. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
Max bit into another bruschetta slowly, the tartness of the tomatoes exploding like miniature fireworks on his tongue. “Maybe not,” he said. He wished he was better with words, half as good as Esteban had been. “But there’s still a whole season to go. You shouldn’t count yourself out this soon.”
“Maybe not.” Esteban echoed his words right back. His gaze had dropped to the food still spread beneath them and Max could see the tension practically wind itself like a coiled spring in Esteban’s shoulders. For a moment he was seized with the impulse to lean over and pull Esteban into a hug, hold him close enough to somehow shield him from whatever mess Alpine had created this time. But Max swallowed the impulse down - he didn’t want to push it and risk snapping this strange, beautiful thread that had extended between them. Instead he reached over to the garlic bread he had nearly sent flying earlier and searched for the warmest slice before holding it up like a peace offering.
“Want to talk about something else?”
“Oh yes please.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere with an ease Max almost couldn’t believe. Really, given all the years they had really known each other and how many of those had been fraught with rivalry, Max felt that bubbly excitement in his chest again at how easy it felt to just talk and joke around with Esteban, as if the race had never even happened.
Max feigned an overdramatic reluctance as he accepted the last arancini and tried not to think how fucked he was.
Eventually the food was finished, the boxes stacked away somewhere, and Max fell back on the pillows with a satisfied groan. His hand fell to the side, smacking against the TV remote he had discarded on the bedside table earlier that evening and presenting him with an idea.
“Do you want to watch something?” He asked.
Esteban’s face lit up. “Really?”
“I wouldn’t have said if I didn’t mean it.”
“Alright,” Esteban nodded, “You choose though, I think I’ve subjected you to enough marvel.”
Max narrowed his eyes. He flipped through a few channels, past some documentaries that would surely put the both of them to sleep in minutes, hovered on a replay of a recent motoGP race, and easily passed up the news channels either fixated on economics or the very race they were both trying to forget. In the end, what else would he choose?
Max logged into his disney account and made his way to the marvel section.
“Which one were we on?”
He looked over to see Esteban fighting back a toothy, joyful grin.
“The second Captain America - Winter Soldier,” he mumbled. Max found it and put it on, settling back against the pillows and headboards. Slowly, as if afraid he would be kicked off for the presumption, Esteban shuffled up next to him on the bed, his long legs stretching out and their positions leaving a respectable distance between them that Max tried not to fill with daydreams of pulling him closer, especially when Esteban shot him a knowing, almost anticipatory look. “You’ll like this one, I know it.”
“You’ve said that about all of them!”
“And have I been wrong?!”
“I mean Iron Man 2 was…”
“Oh everyone struggles with Iron Man 2.” Esteban shrugged, gesticulating at the rolling title screen. “Trust me on this.”
It took effort for Max to bite back the admittance that right now he’d trust Esteban with anything, but he should, of course, have known to trust the man's love of cinema. As it went on Max found himself increasingly lost in the twists and tensions of the film and really had to admit this might be his favourite so far. He was so caught up in the scaling conflict unfolding on the screen that a sudden pressure against his shoulder made him jump, startling him out of the moment until he looked down and his heart leapt into his throat.
Esteban’s head had fallen against his shoulder and his eyelids were fluttering closed. It was almost impressive that he had fallen asleep through the conflict happening on-screen but Max scrabbled for the remote and turned the volume down anyway, suddenly keenly aware that the last thing he wanted was to disturb Esteban or break this fragile moment. The faint scent of mint filled Max’s head as he took a slow breath in through his nose and no longer bothered to deny the smile fighting its way onto his face.
He couldn’t have expected that a day that went so wrong could end like this, but as he slowly shifted to keep Esteban comfortable and found himself grinning like a fool at his sleepy murmurings, Max couldn’t find it in his heart to complain anymore.