Chapter Text
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Spring arrived in Monaco with a housewarming gift.
Nico showed up at Max’s new flat one mild evening in the spring of 2016 holding a bottle of wine far too expensive for someone who still preferred energy drinks and takeaway. He offered it as if it were nothing. Max took it delicately by the neck, certain he would drop it and shatter something he couldn’t afford to replace. He studied the understated label, the deep coloured glass. It was the kind of thing that belonged on a linen-covered table rather than a kitchen counter cluttered with mismatched cutlery.
“It’s wasted on me,” Max laughed, turning it in his hands.
Nico only shrugged, smiling easily. “You’ll learn.”
The flat echoed too white, too empty. Max was proud of it anyway, happy to finally have his own place, but Nico walked through it with quiet appraisal, taking in the bare corners, the mismatched furniture, the single lamp straining to light too much space.
“I’ll give you someone’s number,” he said after a while. “She will help you.”
Max rolled his eyes, protesting that he didn’t need help. He could figure out a sofa and some dishes. But trying to manage that when he wasn’t home every other weekend was a monumental task, and he called her anyway.
She was efficient and effortless, somehow already aware of what would fit the space, and things began appearing as if they had always belonged there. A low sofa showed up with a proper reading lamp, diffusing warm light instead of glare. A narrow bookshelf that made the wall feel intentional rather than empty fit in right next to art that felt minimal but not sterile. Linens stacked in his closet that didn’t look like they’d been chosen in a rush between flights. All were pieces that felt like something Max might have picked himself, had he known how.
The decorator’s fee had already been settled. “Consider it a gift,” she said lightly.
Max didn’t know how to respond, slack-jawed at the gesture, at how inhabited the flat felt now. There was a sofa beneath him instead of his dad’s futon, a lamp casting soft gold over the room instead of the harsh white of the old fluorescents. Books lined a shelf that hadn’t existed weeks before. A trophy case sat with a few championship photos and cups, while empty spots waited quietly for future memories.
The decorator was just the beginning. Other gifts began arriving, small enough that Max almost didn’t register them as gifts at all.
A book arrived first, left with the concierge downstairs, wrapped in brown paper, something about meditation, about focus as a weapon. Inside the cover, a short note featured Nico’s handwriting, neat and precise. For the days your head is too loud. Max laughed at that.
Next came a bag of organic oats, delivered with the same offhand practicality. Better for your breakfast, Nico’s note lightly recommended. More energy. No rubbish.
Plants followed, small ones at first, hardy things that could survive neglect. Then a tall green one arrived, the note reading, For the corner near the balcony. Two smaller ones showed up with a card explaining, For the windowsill. Each one was accompanied by justification—good for air quality, for mood, for sleep. Nico always framed it as optimization.
He began inviting Max out, too. He called for quiet runs along the cliff roads, or tennis in the late afternoon heat. Nico was relentless and competitive even in something meant to be leisure. It was impossible for Max not to admire his dedication.
One morning found Max outside Nico’s building at daybreak, hair still damp from a quick shower, hoodie half zipped. The street was almost empty. Monaco looked washed out at that hour and quiet, the harbour lights still glowing faintly against the water.
The door opened and Nico stepped out to meet him. He looked entirely too awake. „Guten Morgen,“ (Good morning) he said cheerfully.
Max squinted at him. “It is not a good morning,” he muttered in English.
Nico only laughed and started down the street, expecting Max to follow. He fell into step beside him, shoulders hunched against the cool air, still half asleep.
Nico talked as they walked, German flowing easily. Something about discipline, about routine, about how swimmers trained before sunrise because the body responded better to cold water.
Max caught every third word. „Ja, ja,“ he murmured at one point, then switched back to English. “You are insane, you know this.”
Nico glanced sideways at him, amused. „Du wirst sehen. Es weckt dich auf.“ (You’ll see. It wakes you up)
Max made a skeptical noise but kept walking.
They wound down toward the harbour, the sky slowly turning silver above the water. The Solarium platform sat almost empty at that hour, the stone pale and quiet except for the gulls screaming overhead.
Max dropped his towel on the sunny rock and kicked off his shoes. The air bit against his bare skin and he shivered immediately, rubbing his arms.
The harbour smelled faintly of salt and diesel. Somewhere behind them, a yacht generator hummed softly. The water looked dark from the rocks.
Nico stretched his shoulders like he was preparing for a proper training session. „Komm schon,“ (Come on) he said lightly. „Spring.“ (Jump)
Max folded his arms and stared at the water.
„Es wird dich aufwecken,“ (It will wake you up) Nico added with a grin.
Max glanced at him. Then, very calmly, he muttered, “Yeah. It’ll wake you up.”
He shoved Nico square between the shoulder blades.
Nico disappeared into the water with a splash that echoed against the harbour walls.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Nico surfaced with a sharp inhale, sputtering, hair plastered across his forehead.
“Max!”
Max was already doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach.
“You—” Nico wiped water from his face, glaring up at him. „Bist du völlig verrückt?!“ (Are you completely crazy?)
Max waved a hand dismissively, still laughing. “Oh, relax.”
Nico’s expression tightened. Max barely had time to notice before he dumped his own hoodie and jumped in after him.
The cold hit like a shock. It stole the breath from his lungs. The water closed over his head, and when he surfaced again, he was gasping, wiping his eyes, still grinning.
Nico was waiting. Max saw the look on his face about half a second before Nico lunged. He went under again immediately.
Max came back up laughing and choking on seawater as Nico grabbed him around the waist and forced him under a second time. The cold burned in his chest when he resurfaced.
“Dangerous, huh?” Max managed between breaths.
Nico didn’t answer. He tackled him again.
Max tried to twist away, but Nico’s grip was stronger than he expected. Their arms tangled, and suddenly they were wrestling in the water, splashing against the stone wall while gulls screamed overhead.
Max had thought he could overpower him easily. He was wrong.
Nico was slightly shorter but solid. Every movement carried tight strength. Max felt the corded muscle in Nico’s shoulders and back when he tried to break free. Nico moved with quick control, shifting his weight and dragging Max under again before he could react.
Max surfaced coughing, laughing helplessly. Nico hooked an arm around his waist and dunked him again.
When Max came up the next time, he grabbed Nico’s shoulders, trying to shove him back, but Nico twisted smoothly out of the hold.
Max felt the heat of Nico’s body through the cold water, the strength in his arms when he pulled him close. It was startling how physical he was, how little restraint he showed. Nico never handled him like that anywhere else. Usually he was careful with Max, composed.
Here, he wasn’t holding back at all. The thrill of it shot through Max’s chest.
He lunged again and immediately lost the exchange, Nico catching him easily and hauling him sideways through the water.
„Scheiße—“ (Shit) Max laughed, breathless.
Nico grinned. Max tried one last time and failed again, Nico’s grip sliding around his waist and dragging him under.
When he surfaced this time, he went limp immediately. “Okay, okay—” he gasped.
Nico held him steady for a moment. Max hung there in the water catching his breath, chest heaving. When he finally looked up, he saw the expression on Nico’s face.
He was smiling. But there was something sharper in his eyes too, something bright and competitive, like he had just won a race. Even this had turned into a contest.
Nico released him and immediately turned toward open water.
„Los,“ (Go) he said simply.
And just like that, the playfulness vanished. Nico cut forward through the harbour with smooth strokes, already beginning their workout.
Max groaned and followed. The water slapped rhythmically around his arms as he pushed after him. Nico moved through it easily, long controlled strokes carrying him further with every pull.
Max chased him anyway. It was the same instinct that pushed him on track when another driver tried to pull ahead.
They swam laps along the harbour wall while the sun rose higher over Monaco. By the time Nico climbed out onto the rocks, Max felt like his lungs were collapsing.
He clung to the ladder and hauled himself up slowly, breathing hard. Water streamed from his hair and dripped down his shoulders while he tried to steady himself.
Nico stood a few feet away. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. Water ran down his face and along the lines of his body, across his chest and stomach, before dripping onto the stone. His blond hair looked almost white in the morning sun.
Max openly stared. He had never really looked at Nico like that before, not properly.
The realization hit him all at once how broad Nico’s shoulders were, how his waist narrowed below them, the muscles in his back moving under his wet skin when he reached for his towel.
Max turned quickly and grabbed his own, rubbing his hair harder than necessary. He focused very carefully on drying off. He absolutely did not look up again.
Because Nico was married. And Max was not about to stand there staring like an idiot at the most annoyingly perfect man he had ever seen, trying very hard not to think about the feeling of arms locked around his middle in the water, and how easily Max had been hauled under like he weighed nothing at all.
~~~
Once, Nico drove them across town to an organic co-op grocery store Max hadn’t known existed, moving through the narrow aisles with the focus of a man on a mission.
“Why do you drive all this way when there is a shop around the corner?” Max complained, nudging a basket along with his foot, petulant.
„Das hier ist besser.“ (This is better) Nico replied simply.
Max pulled a box of breakfast bars from the shelf, the sinless packaging promising few carbs and fewer grams of fat.
„Nein,“ Nico replied without even looking at it. “This one’s cleaner,” he said, reaching past Max and handing him another box that appeared almost identical. „Mehr Protein.“ (More protein)
Max turned it over in his hands more carefully this time. Nico never guessed. He calculated. If he said one was better, there was a reason. Max read the numbers properly, committing them to memory.
“All right,” he said, swapping them without argument.
When he held up a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels with a grin, Nico’s expression tightened immediately. „Zu viel Zucker,“ (Too much sugar) he muttered, already reaching to take them from Max’s hand.
Max huffed. “Oh, come on.”
Nico gave him a look. „Du bist schlimmer als Alaïa,“ (You’re worse than Alaïa) he said under his breath, dropping the bag back onto the shelf. „Immer was Süßes.“ (Always something sweet) The comparison landed somewhere between teasing and reprimand.
Max blinked at him. “I am not five.”
Nico’s mouth curved faintly, unimpressed. „Manchmal schon.“ (Sometimes you are)
Max rolled his eyes but dropped them back on the shelf anyway. He knew what Nico was doing. Nico was in the middle of something ruthless. Every edge mattered in a title fight. Every decision stacked somewhere. Max understood that instinctively.
He wanted to understand it fully. If this was how a world champion built himself, molecule by molecule, choice by choice, then Max would pay attention. He would learn which brands were cleaner. He would remember protein counts. He would let himself be corrected. Because one day, he wanted to be the one calculating like that.
And if absorbing Nico’s discipline meant putting the pretzels back on the shelf, then that was a small price to pay.
~~~
A bottle of cologne soon arrived in weighty, understated glass, the kind that didn’t advertise itself. The scent was restrained, something woody and warm. It was surely expensive in a way Max wouldn’t have recognized on his own, but unmistakable once he wore it. The note attached with Nico’s neat handwriting simply stated, Passt zu dir. (It suits you) Max wore it the next weekend.
Then came a white dress shirt with pressed lines and impossibly soft cotton. It fit him as though someone had measured him personally, the shoulders exact, waist tapering, sleeves falling at precisely the right place on his wrist. Max turned it over in his hands for a long time, puzzled and faintly flattered.
Flowers arrived sometimes. Max assumed at first they were practical, something Nico would suggest for balance in the apartment, for color, for light. But these weren’t arranged with clinical precision. They were fresh, loose, almost careless in their beauty. They had pale stems and open petals that softened the sharp edges of Max’s flat.
He imagined Nico choosing them. Nico would have considered the light in the shop, the way the stems sat in water, how long they would last. Or maybe he had stood at the Marché de la Condamine that morning, picking the stems out one by one while the harbour light filtered through the awnings, charming the florist out of her best flowers with that easy, practiced smile of his.
The cards that arrived with them no longer came with recommendations or instructions.
Yellow mimosas came bright and golden, smelling powdery and hopeful, the note reading, Etwas Helles für die dunklen Tage. (Something bright for the darker days)
The note that arrived with the structured pale ranunculus simply read, Haben mich an dich erinnert. (They reminded me of you) Max wondered what about the intricate but delicately soft blooms could possibly remind someone of a gangly form like him, all elbows and knees.
Soft pink peonies, heavy-headed and extravagant, their petals layered like folded silk, arrived in a large vase one early morning. Some were still tight at the center, others blown open in full, unapologetic bloom. They smelled faintly sweet. There was a card tucked low among the stems that read, Nicht alles Schöne hält lange. (Not everything beautiful lasts long)
Max didn’t keep the cards. Paper and ink were temporary. The words lingered long after, pressed into him deeper than they had any right to be.
He found himself checking the concierge more often than necessary for deliveries. He told himself it was curiosity, that Nico was simply indulgent. Some days, Nico wouldn’t bother with the mail and would simply text. Ready in ten minutes. Come down. And Max would.
They’d drive without much direction, Monaco slipping past in bright flashes of sea and stone, Nico’s hand steady on the wheel, German filling the car like a private current. It became easier to switch languages around him. Monaco was multilingual, but German created a quiet bubble most people couldn’t pierce.
Soon, it was just easier. Max’s mouth adjusted to the clipped consonants, the sharp edges. He found himself thinking in it sometimes when he was alone. Nico corrected him occasionally, gently but precisely, until his sentences flowed more cleanly.
It helped elsewhere, too. He gave interviews in German, and the practice eased his mind. In the paddock, other drivers kept their distance in subtle ways. Smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Max knew some of their laughter wasn’t entirely good-natured. Conversations quieted too suddenly as he approached. Max was young and unproven, and he had an abrasive way about him that he knew people didn’t always like.
Sebastian had been one of the colder drivers when Max first arrived in Formula One. He wasn’t openly hostile, just distant in that veteran driver way, like the paddock was a proving ground and the newcomers were expected to survive it without guidance. Maybe it was just the culture of growing up in Red Bull. Maybe it was that Max reminded him too much of himself a few years earlier, as another young driver suddenly handed a fast car and told to prove he deserved it.
But when Max answered a question in German one afternoon in the paddock, Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted. After that, the edges softened slightly. Sebastian would still tease him sometimes, quick and cutting in the way Germans could be with each other, but there was less distance in it. Sometimes he’d linger after a briefing, switching into German without thinking. Sometimes he’d toss Max a quiet comment about a corner or a line at a track, the kind of advice drivers usually kept to themselves.
That was about as warm as most of the paddock ever got. Most of the drivers accepted Max the way they accepted weather or traffic, as something new that had appeared and would either give them a headache or disappear.
Nico was different. He didn’t simply tolerate Max’s presence. He made space for Max. He folded him into his routines and made the unfamiliar feel easy. Where the others watched from a distance, Nico stepped closer. He made Max feel welcome in a way no one else had.
One night, they were sitting in the car outside Max’s building, engine idling low. The evening air smelled faintly of salt and warm stone. Nico reached over as if to adjust Max’s collar, then didn’t quite pull back. Max shouldn’t have been surprised, not after the swims, not after the flowers, not after the way Nico’s hand had started to rest just a second longer at the back of his neck when they said goodbye.
When Nico leaned in and pressed his mouth to Max’s, it felt like stepping into sunlight after standing too long in a cold shadow. Nico’s hand slid briefly into his hair, and Max felt something inside his chest loosen in a way it hadn’t since he’d moved there.
Other drivers had dismissed him. Nico had cultivated him. In a city that still felt borrowed, in a paddock that didn’t quite welcome him yet, Nico was fresh growth curling over his balcony where there had only been white walls and echo before.
When Nico pulled back, his expression was calm, almost analytical. „Du hast gerade zu süß ausgesehen,“ (You just looked too sweet) he said softly. „Konnte ich nicht lassen.“ (Couldn’t help it)
Max stared at him for a second, completely blank, caught somewhere between confusion and delight. “Oh,” he said after a moment, though he clearly hadn’t processed anything at all. His lips still felt warm, tingling faintly where Nico had kissed him, and he realized distantly that he’d stopped breathing.
Max climbed out of the car into the evening air feeling strangely weightless, blinking at the street like he had forgotten where he was, the night air cool against his face while his mouth felt impossibly warm. As Nico drove away, the harbour lights flickered against the darkening sea, and Max stood there with the distinct, impossible feeling that something new had taken root.
~~~
Rain battered the windows of Max’s new flat hard enough to make the glass tremble in its frame. The harbour below churned, masts clinking faintly between cracks of thunder, the Mediterranean restless and slate-dark under a storm that had rolled in without warning.
Max had turned on every new lamp he owned, but it still wasn’t enough to light the apartment against the dark of the storm. Light pooled in uneven circles across the hardwood, leaving the corners shadowed and strange. The place still smelled faintly of new paint and sea air and something metallic from the storm. Nico fit among it all seamlessly, as if he had always belonged there, too.
Nico had taken to appearing unannounced more often lately, slipping into Max’s apartment in the quiet hours between obligations. Sometimes it was because he had been in team meetings all day. Sometimes it was because his daughters had been restless at home, the house too full of noise for the kind of concentration he liked to maintain. He never said it outright, but Max understood the pattern well enough. Nico came when he wanted peace, however best he felt he could achieve it.
Max never pointed it out; Nico never asked.
Nico sat at one end of the sofa, bare feet planted neatly on the floor, one ankle crossed over the other, a book open in his hand, something dense. It was Sun Tzu, maybe, or perhaps Machiavelli; one of those men who believed power was something to be studied.
Max lay stretched across his lap, one arm flung loosely over his own stomach, the other resting against Nico’s thigh, head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded as Nico’s fingers moved slowly through his hair, stroking from crown to temple and back again without ever looking down. The gesture was absent-minded, but there was something in the way Nico’s hand settled there, something faintly proprietary. As if Max were another carefully acquired piece placed just so.
Max shifted closer without thinking, nuzzling faintly against Nico’s thigh, and Nico’s hand tightened in his hair for a brief second before resuming its slow, steady stroke.
Outside, the storm rattled the harbour. Inside, Max, arranged there in Nico’s lap, felt like something rare that had been won and set on display. But every time a thought popped into his head, it would escape his mouth just as fast.
„Ich hab’ über Barcelona nachgedacht,“ (I’ve been thinking about Barcelona) Max said, staring up at the ceiling.
One of his hands lifted automatically as he spoke, sketching the corner in the air above his chest, fingers turning an invisible steering wheel.
„Wenn wir die Hinterachse ein bisschen weicher machen, vielleicht—“ (If we make the rear axle a little softer, maybe)
“Max,” Nico murmured without lifting his eyes from the page.
Then Max’s hand moved again. „Und in Spa,“ (And in Spa) he continued, reaching up and catching Nico’s wrist lightly, trying to guide his hand through the shape of the corner the way drivers always did when they talked about it. „Glaubst du, ich sollte die Linie in Eau Rouge ein bisschen—“ (Do you think I should dip the line through Eau Rouge a little—)
His fingers tilted Nico’s hand upward, tracing the rise of the hill in the air between them.
Nico exhaled softly through his nose, gently extricating his hand from Max’s. “Shhh.” The sound wasn’t unkind.
Max frowned faintly but tipped his head back into Nico’s hand anyway, seeking more of the stroking motion. He turned his face slightly, nuzzling into the bare skin of Nico’s thigh past the hem of his shorts, pressing his nose there like a cat insisting on attention.
„Ich will nur wissen—“ (I just want to know) Max whined softly.
„Du willst immer nur wissen,“ (You always want to know) Nico said mildly, turning a page.
„Du musst nicht jetzt wissen.“ (You don’t need to know now)
Max huffed, but the protest was soft. Nico’s fingers scratched lightly at his scalp, and Max felt his body loosen under it.
The rain intensified, drumming harder against the windows. Thunder cracked somewhere out over the water.
Max let out a short puff of air. Still, his hand drifted back toward Nico’s, restless. He nudged Nico’s fingers again, trying to place them on his own palm so he could show him the braking point.
„Aber schau—hier,“ (But look, here) he insisted quietly. „Wenn ich später bremse, dann—“ (If I brake later, then—)
Nico let his hand be moved for half a second before pulling it back and returning it to Max’s hair.
“Max.” This time, there was a hint of warning.
Max bit his lip, smiling faintly despite himself. He shifted closer instead, sliding one hand higher up Nico’s leg, fingertips tracing idle patterns just above his knee.
„Es ist nur—“ (It’s just) he started.
The lights cut out. The room dropped into darkness so complete it felt physical. The harbour vanished. The lamps died. Even the hum of the building seemed to blink off at once.
For a second, there was only the storm. Nico sighed. The book snapped shut.
Max grinned into the dark. „Also,“ (So) he said lightly, fingers creeping a little higher along Nico’s thigh now that there was no light to betray him. „Jetzt können wir vielleicht über Racing reden?“ (Maybe now we can talk about racing?)
Max barely had time to register the movement before Nico leaned over him, weight settling above him on the sofa. The air changed immediately, charged in a way it hadn’t been before.
„Ist das wirklich, was du willst?“ (Is this really what you want?) Nico asked quietly.
His mouth found the curve of Max’s neck in the dark, lips warm and soft when he kissed just under his jaw. Max inhaled sharply, the teasing tone dying in his throat as Nico’s lips moved lower, grazing teasingly beneath his ear.
Max’s hand tightened on Nico’s thigh. “Nico—” he breathed.
Nico thumbed over his pulse point and sucked warm skin between his teeth, Max gasping at the sharp feeling.
„Du willst über Set-up sprechen?“ (You want to talk about setup?) Nico murmured against his skin.
Max tried to answer. He truly did. But Nico’s mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing lightly just enough to make Max groan, and Nico caught one of Max’s wrists as it drifted upward. Instead of letting it clutch at him, he guided Max’s hand away, pressing it flat against the cushion beside his head.
„Willst du über Fairmont reden?“ (You want to talk about Fairmont?) Nico murmured close to his ear.
He took Max’s other hand and arranged it like he was positioning a steering wheel between them.
„Ganz eng, ganz langsam… viel Geduld,“ (Very tight, very slow… takes patience) he said close to Max’s ear, voice low and teasing, nipping at his earlobe.
Max smiled, trying to think of a clever answer, but the thought evaporated before it could form properly. „Nico, ich—“ he began, breath catching as another kiss dragged slowly down the side of his neck.
His fingers tightened uselessly around the German’s grasp. The storm outside cracked loud enough to shake the windows, but the sound felt distant now, swallowed by the rush in his ears.
Nico mercilessly laced their fingers together, pinning Max’s hands above his head, sucking a love bite between his neck and shoulder.
„Oder soll ich dir zeigen, wie man die Parabolica richtig nimmt?“ (Or should I show you how to take the Parabolica properly?) Nico murmured.
He steered Max’s hands above his head to mirror the sweeping right-hander. Max opened his mouth to respond, but the only thing that came out was a broken inhale.
„Nico, warte—“ (Nico, wait—) he tried again, breathless, failing. His breath was already uneven. He could feel Nico grinning in the dark, could feel the tease of it, the way Nico knew exactly what he was doing.
„Vielleicht reden wir später über Copse. Erst musst du lernen, die Linie zu halten.“ (Maybe we’ll talk about Copse later. First, you need to learn to hold your line) Nico said, voice dropping, tugging Max down, pressing his thigh between Max’s legs, swallowing the groan that immediately followed.
The storm raged outside, thunder cracking close enough to make the windows rattle again.
„Du wolltest doch reden,“ (You wanted to talk) Nico said, voice dark and taunting. „Oder?“ (Right?)
„Vielleicht… nicht,“ (Maybe not) Max admitted, finally, voice thin and betraying.
Nico chuckled low against his throat. „Dachte ich mir.“ (I thought so)
His mouth claimed Max’s attention entirely with kisses that stole the breath from him one by one until there was nothing left in his head but warmth and Nico above him. His earlier thoughts about setup and circuits dissolved without resistance, slipping away as easily as the light had when the power cut.
He no longer cared about Barcelona, or Eau Rouge, or Copse, or Parabolica, or any line he had meant to perfect.
He was warm and dizzy, tangled up in long limbs as the faint scent of rain carried in from the balcony. Nico’s hands kept him where he was meant to be, and Max let himself sink into it without thinking, without calculating, without trying to extract anything useful from the moment.