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fernandopiastri28 · 1 month

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insomnia (what if you never come back?) ~ dr3 x mv1

Max doesn't know how to cope without Daniel anymore now that he's at RB- turns out Daniel can't either.

insomnia ‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅

Burning my eyes red Not slept for weeks Testing your torment My future is bleak Lost in the moment With no words to speak …. Am I a fool Waiting for you? What if you never come back?

Staying up far too late into each and every single night isn't a new aspect of Max’s life. He can’t remember a time in his life when he’s slept peacefully, allowing his mind to switch off and his body to rest. It’s a habit picked up from being so alert of living with his father, worrying that he’d sleep through his father doing something seriously dangerous to someone in the family- especially his mother. He wasn’t sure when the word ‘Insomniac’ became something he called himself, associated himself with, but it’s definitely from far before his f1 debut in 2015- meaning that the hourly hours before a race are either spent secretly working out, gaming, or wallowing in the silence like he is now.

He sits on the edge of his bed, red eyes and a mind full of torment. He has a warmed Red Bull in his hand, condensation long dripped off of his wrist and onto his thighs- a reminder of how long he’s been sat in this very position, lost in the moment. He’s sat hunched over, the thin fabric of his team supplied polo stretching across the length of his back.

In his peripheral vision, he sees a sheen of light hitting into the glass cabinet full of bits of his trophy collection. His eyes are transfixed on it, despite how it hurts his eyes to focus on a spot he’s hardly looking at. His eyes slip up to where there’s a trophy from the 2017 Japanese grand prix- the podium that he and Daniel had shared at his elder teammate’s final year at Red Bull. He feels a tense throb of reminiscence as he remembers how they’d stood up on the top steps together, covering one another with champagne.

It was the last time they would ever do it together, instead of against each other.

His thumb slides down the wet length of the can, tipping the tin back to allow the last few acidic droplets to spill down his throat. He crunches the can in his palm, the edges splitting to cut into his skin. “Fuck,” He hisses, tossing the crushed metal across the floor where it hits into his desk. He rubs the cut against the soft fabric of his shorts, a red patch appearing in lieu.

The pain isn’t unfamiliar, verging on sparking memories of the exact feeling from being a child. Young Max panicking that he’d dropped a glass, quickly picking up the shattered material into his soft hands, the jagged edges piercing his skin as he would hurriedly try and remove the evidence of breaking something. His mother would tend to his wounds after cleaning off the bloody skin, promising to not inform his father of the event.

He compartmentalises the memory once again, focusing in on the now. Pressing the injury further into the cotton over his thigh, he stands up, walking over to the cabinet he had been previously mindlessly admiring. Two of his fingers press against the glass just in front of the Japan trophy, two dirty finger prints appearing as a result. Vivid flashes of how cold the fizzy liquid had been over his sweating body, how it had dribbled down Daniel’s chin as he had greedily guzzled it down after spraying the majority onto the dutch man.

Even more vividly, Max remembers how it had tasted inside Daniel’s mouth when the two men were hidden away in the motorhome, lips attached to each other’s, skin to skin. He drops his head in shame, hot red flush spreading across his pale skin. He smears the two fingers across his dry lip, relishing in their slight chill from being against the glass. It’s near enough to how Daniel had felt; cold, wet lips on Max’s desperate and needy ones.

After enough time staring down at his bare feet, he shuffles away from the cabinet of memories, his uncut hand wrapping around the door handle. He heads out of his bedroom in his apartment, only the dim illumination of a shop outside lighting up his corridor. He needs a drink, almost desperately so. Being back in Monaco means he could go out with his usual group, but it’s not quite the time of year where all of his non-f1 friends still have work, and especially on a wednesday night- no one’s going to be able to go drinking. So that leaves him with the other drivers who also live in Monaco.

He scratches Charles off his internal list of possible candidates, knowing he’s off somewhere in Portugal with Alex. Lando could be good, but he’s pretty sure the brit is off in Bali or somewhere else random on his winter break world tour. Sure, Max likes Fernando, but he’s not really the type of guy he’d invite out drinking- the same with Lewis. Checo’s with his kids, barely gracing social media throughout the holidays, the same with Bottas and Hulkenberg.

Once he’s reached the end of his mental invite list, only a single name remains. One that Max knows will reply no matter the time of day- Daniel. Max reaches into his back pocket, using a single hand to type a message away to the Australian. He clicks send then ignores it, returning to his room to search his closet for something more club appropriate then the ‘team-merch-pyjamas’ he has on currently. It’s not until he’s pulling his shirt over his head that he feels a vibration shoot up his arm.

‘Which club?’ Daniel shoots back. Three dots of an impending message bounce below the text for a few moments until they disappear, leaving the sole message there. Max types back, mentioning the closest club to him. He doesn’t want to make a huge night out of this, just get enough that whenever he gets home he can crash out and sleep well into tomorrow.

Well, today, given the clock is currently reading 00.33

He sets his phone down on his desk, shoving his shorts down over his knees until they pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, selecting a pair of skin tight black jeans and an equally fitted black tee, the word ‘daddy’ printed across it in thick white lettering- sure to get a laugh out of Daniel. He toes on a pair of sneakers and slips his tag heuer over his hand, clasping it around his thin wrist.

He shoves a white red bull hat over his hair, heading out the door once Daniel announces with a text that he’s just arrived at the club. Max sends back a text to assure him that he’ll only be five minutes. A perk of Monaco being so small- you’re basically ‘five minutes’ from anything if you live in a general enough area. He sneaks down the front stairs of his apparent building, staying relatively light on his feet so as to not disturb anyone who lives in the rooms he’s walking past.

He hears Daniel before he sees him, heading into the thick of the illuminated dance floor. The RB driver is clad in a beige t-shirt, a design from his own brand enchanté, and a pair of white lounge shorts. He already has an orange cocktail in hand, his opposite arm up in the air. “Maxxxxieeeee,” His thick Australian accent calls out to the younger man. It dawns on Max how long it had actually taken him to get here because Daniel is far from sober, likely having been here for far longer than five minutes as Max had promised him.

“Danny,” He gives him a grin, brushing tightly past a few other heavily inebriated clubbers to get to his friend. “You’ve been well?” Daniel replies with a huge grin, lazily slinging an arm around his shoulder, a nod into his neck to confirm.

“Peachy,” His breath is hot and reeks of tequila- far from Max’s ideal choice of a drink. He slips out from under his grip, stumbling past a few other people to get to the bar- ordering a gin tonic. The bartender slides it across the table to him and he greedily gulps it down, ordering a second one almost immediately as the bottom of the glass makes contact with the bar again.

The overdramatic thwack the glass makes triggers another memory, the noise is an exact replica of what he would hear almost each and every day. His father pouring himself a drink as he would sit Max down in front of him, making the young boy explain each and every mistake he’d made in either a race or just while ‘casually’ karting. In reality, karting when your father is Jos Verstpane can never be casual. Those conversations almost always ended in gulped tears and slammed glasses- often creating cracks in all the cups in the house.

The feeling of the cold surface around his new drink against his fingertips brings him back to reality. He takes his time with this one, taking longer and more gradual sips. He squeezes back over to where Daniel is still ‘dancing’ away to the music, more so swaying his body in the most off rhythm moves and swinging his arms above himself, luckily his once full cup is now disregarded off somewhere else. “Maaaaxxx!” He calls out again, regaining sight of the reason he’s here in the first place. The two fall back into their places next to each other, just like back in 2017.

The hour progresses, flicking over to 1am and nearing 2 am. Both of their throats are dry from continuous singing along to the music that is blaring all throughout the small and overheating area, dancing around to distract from the discomfort of their cotton shirts becoming saturated with sweat and each other's spilt drinks.

“I’ve missed you,” Max tilts his head down ever so slightly, the gap between the height seeming larger than usual as Daniel’s posture slumps down. He licks the corner of his mouth, his wet tongue peaking out which catches the eye of Daniel who’s almost shamelessly staring. “At red bull,” He clarifies, keeping it a strictly friendly moment. It’s partially the truth- he does miss him as a teammate, because despite how much he really does like Checo, Daniel had a sense of fun that no one could ever match.

Daniel mimics the lip-lick the other man had just previously done, his pink tongue wiping along the length of his bottom lip. “I miss you moreee Maxi-Taxi,” His voice is thick and oozes out like honey, all perfect and heavily sitting in Max’s ears. Daniel sucks in his cheeks, leaning closer and closer until his hooked nose is pressing up against the other man’s curved one.

A set of soft and inviting eyes meet those brooding, pale ocean ones, a clear softening occurring as Daniel’s eyes bore into them. “You’re my favourite teammate- always,” He brings a hand to the Dutch man’s chest, the back of his hand gently smacking into the breast of his black top. “Lando- god- he's such a kid, mate,” He shakes his head, laughing mainly to himself. “Great fun but.. Yeah, immature,”

Max scoffs, draining the last of his drink before setting it down onto the nearest flat surface to him. “Like you aren’t,” He grins, a matching one occurring on the Australian’s face.

“Hardly,” He rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue into a wet squelching nose. “He’s only somewhat.. ehhh, ‘normal’ now that he’s got Piastri keeping him sane,” Max can get that, making a quick mental comparison between the two young McLaren drivers until he realises Daniel is still speaking about his teammates. “Jean-Éric, nice guy, kinda forgettable,” He rubs a hand across the width of his neck which Max oogles out, trying to seem discreet.

“Kvyat,” Max nudges him, a wide smirk painting across his face. Daniil Kvyat, the man who Max took the red bull seat from back in 2015. He’d also taken Daniil’s recently ex-girlfriend- Kelly Piquet, daughter of 3x world champion, Nelson Piquet. The romance had been short lived however, especially cut short after Max had enjoyed his en makeout session with his then teammate, now the man in front of him, more than he’d ever enjoyed kissing Kelly.

“Yes,” He lets out a mix between a sigh and a laugh, “Daniil Kvyat- fucking guy hates you,” Dan whacks him in the shoulder, pushing a sharp exhale out of his mouth. He waves over a bartender for yet another drink as Daniel continues his seemingly never ending list. “Huuulkennbergggg,” He wheezes, never forgetting his dramatised rendition of pronouncing his ex-teammates last name. “Ehhh, Ocon, and nowww… tsunoda,” He’s so clearly drunk given the way all of his words are blending into each other and he’s becoming more painfully difficult to understand.

“Quite the list,” Max muses, laughing absentmindedly to himself sliding a hand up his own shirt to separate the soaked fabric from his abdomen. When he’s drunk, he hardly gets sad or tired- he just finds absolutely everything incredibly comedic. “I’ve had, ehh, also Jean-Éric,” He remembers, a memory of a short lived three races with the French driver. “Kvyat for same amount. Sainz for.. my whole season at Toro- yeah?,” Daniel nods, sipping away at some drink he managed to secretly acquire throughout their conversation. “You- the longest amount,” He furrows his eyebrows, struggling to remember the two exact drivers he’d had in between Daniel’s departure at the end of 2018 and Checo’s arrival in 2021.

“Gasly and Albon,” Daniel interrupts his thoughts, his eyes far from looking at where Max is deep in thought. He’s distracted, distracted by the younger fiddling away under his drenched shirt. Max lets out a hum of remembrance, his mind clicking into a timeline displaying just how long he’d race with each man for.

“It’s really hot in here,” He murmurs, tucking two fingers into his t-shirt collar, pulling it away from his skin to help cool himself down. The two of them come to a consensus of heading out, already having paid means they can slip out into the night as soon as they’ve agreed to leave. The rest of the city is quiet, acting according to being near 2 am. Daniel slings his arm back over the span of Max’s shoulder, holding himself up as they stumble down the cobblestone streets.

“You smell like shit,” Daniel wrinkles his nose up, wiping a thick sheen of sweat off his forehead, “very strongly of alcohol,” He muses, slipping a hand down into his pocket as his free one finds its place on the small of Max’s back.

“Happens when you drink,” The younger murmurs, pushing his nose into the base of Daniel’s throat, pushing a gurgled sound out of him. He swallows thickly before aimlessly mouthing at the spot of skin just above the hem of his collar. “You taste like sweat,” He mumbles out, a twisted grimace coating his expression.

Daniel brings the hand from his pocket back out to slide into the hair on the back of Max’s head, fingers tangling up in the messy and dampened blond strands. “Like you don’t?” He taunts, tugging back on the hair so Max’s looking up at him from the slightly crouched angle he’s standing at.

Neither of them realised at what point of the night they suddenly became desperate to be in this position, the exact one they’d been in back in 2017. A few experimental times later in that year, a few in 2018- once as a ‘goodbye’ for the Australian in 2022. Nothing had been like the post podium one yet- not until now.

“Try,” Max challenges him, sticking his tongue out ever so slightly. “Taste,” His words are beginning to become fuzzy in his head, a weird static trailing along with every noise that travels past his ears. He can’t tell if this is a good idea, or the worst he’ll ever make- but he wants to make it regardless.

Daniel looks down at Max’s nose, studying the curvature of it. Back up to his eyes, the deep and cloudy ocean blue that engulfs his pupils. The wispy and dark curls that frame those eyes, how they clump together with perspiration. His red lips, wet with a mix of alcohol and spit. Fuck, how good they look right now.

“Yeah,” Daniel nods, resting his forehead against Max’s. They breath out against each other’s faces for a few moments, both waiting for the other to take initiative and jump the bullet to get the end product they’re both keen for.

Daniel takes it in the end, taking his fingers higher up against Max’s scalp to cradle the back of his head, connecting their mouths finally. He was right, he tastes like bitter gin and salty sudate. Harsh around the edges and intoxicating the longer the kiss lasts. If Daniel wasn’t before this, he definitely is now. Max lets a moan pass into Dan’s mouth who eagerly engulfs it, desperate for more of those same noises. “You’re not mine, shouldn’t have you like this,” He hums as Max whines needily for more.

“Danny,” Max has to forcibly detach his mouth from the older man’s, a thumb pressing into his Adam's apple while his remaining fingers splay across the back of his neck. “Neuken- you’re all I want, I’m all yours'' He laughs, licking straight back into his mouth.

“Fuck you, Max,” Daniel murmurs straight back to him, wrapping two arms around his waist, hoisting him closer to him as he pins him into a wall nearby. “You let me go for so long thinking I was second to Leclerc- but I was always first, wasn’t I?” He taunts, a thumb playing with his bottom lip as he kisses as his top one. “You don’t fucking want him?” Max nods, confused as to why Charles is being brought into the conversation.

“Not at all, just you,” He promises, his huge hands squeezing into Daniel’s narrow hips as he flips them over, effectively shoving Daniel against the stone wall instead. “Why would I want him?”

“I see how you look at him,” He looks up at him, his eyes transfixed on the layer of sheen decorating the dutch man’s forehead. “Like you wanna fuck him,” He grins stupidly, “like how you’re looking at me right now,” Max clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he forcibly kisses Daniel again,

“I don’t do anything with him though,” He sneers, “I do things with you,” His stare softens, his thumb swiping down along one of Daniel’s tanned cheeks. “I only want you,” He whispers against his parted lips. His adam's apple bobs up and down, a long swallow accompanying it.

“What’s that make us?” His Australian accent is further amplified by his intoxication. Max twists his lips, shrugging at the question. Neither of them really know. If this means they should date, be friends who hook up whenever they want, or just never do this again- the lines between them fade into one another.

“Just mine,” He tilts his head, narrowing his eyebrows. “And all yours- we’re just each other’s,” Daniel agrees, a signature Danny-Ric smile spreading across his face.

“I can deal with that,” He pushes him away, wrapping an arm around his waist as they stumble down the same street, the dim lights of the street lamps illuminating the sides of their faces as they silently admire one another.

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