To The Maxiel

Like: when they’re in Austin, and their rental car reservation is all messed up, and the woman at the desk asks, “And will your partner be driving the vehicle too, Mr. Verstappen?” and Max says, “Yes. He will actually be the primary driver, I think,” Daniel just smiles, easy as anything, looping a hand around Max’s hip. 

“He likes it when I drive,” Daniel says, leaning in like it’s a secret. “My little passenger princess.” 

The back of Max’s neck burns; it’s too much, too good, too loud. 

But Daniel says it in a goofy, silly way that makes the woman laugh, not weirded out at all, because Daniel is grinning, like they’re all in on this joke together, Max, Daniel, and Dana from Enterprise. 

He knows it’s pretend: whatever happens later, he knows. Daniel isn’t his boyfriend, of course. It’s just that sometimes Max thinks he could ask him if he would be, and he thinks Daniel might say yes. He’s prepared several scenarios: Daniel wouldn’t have to stop working, if he didn’t want to, though maybe Max would have some questions; or maybe Max could just pay him an allowance and he could move in, which would save him money; or maybe—it would take time and Max would have to talk to Raymond and his family, but if Daniel needed the assurance it was real, Max would be willing to marry him. Not that he needs to, but he would, if it would make Daniel feel better to have a guarantee that Max wouldn’t leave him high and dry. 

But it’s a nice feeling, to pretend. And he thinks Daniel finds it nice, too, with the way he squeezes at Max’s waist, at the stubborn crest of fat there that he seems to like touching. Even when they aren’t pretending to be boyfriends, Daniel likes touching that place, likes to bite at it, kiss it. 

Heat blooms in Max’s belly. 

Daniel catches him looking at him and smiles, leaning in close so his lips brush Max’s hot ear. 

“Can’t wait to get you into bed for anniversary sex,” he whispers. “Not sure I’ll let you out of it.” 

Max looks at him, surprised. “It is our anniversary?” He says it too loud. Dana glances up at them. 

“Our first,” Daniel says reassuringly to Dana. “He’s bad with dates.” He shrugs. “Men.” 

Dana laughs.  

“I am sorry I forgot it was our anniversary, Daniel,” Max tells him. If it was their real anniversary, he would not have forgotten. He would get Daniel flowers—several dozen red roses like in the movies. He’d fill Daniel’s house with them, and Daniel would call him and say, “Max, I can’t even move around,” and Max would say, “Then you should just come here, and then there will be no problem,” and Daniel would laugh and come there, and Max would probably not be able to control himself and would kiss Daniel the second he got in, because Daniel is so hot it makes Max feel stupid to look at him. 

And for some reason it seems like Daniel thinks he’s hot too. He doesn’t think he’s just saying so. He had, at first, but—it’s been long enough now that Max thinks he probably means it, even if it’s not as big and all-consuming as Max’s attraction to him. 

“No problem, baby,” says Daniel, kissing him on the cheek. “You’ll make it up to me.” 

Max’s face glows red; he can feel it radiating off him. Dana also blushes, but Max is used to seeing women blush at Daniel. And they don’t know—whenever Max decides, Daniel will show up and fuck him hard enough he’ll come over and over, like he really is a girl. 

Good girl, Daniel sometimes calls him, and—it burns. Hot and shameful and delicious and terrifying. It makes him feel crazy. He tries to think if he would ever like anyone else calling him that, but the second he considers sleeping with someone other than Daniel, his stomach drops and he feels panicked and sweaty. How could it ever be as good with someone else? Who would even want—the reason Max is paying is because—

“You’re all set,” says Dana, handing them back their documents. “Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Verstappen and Mr. Ricciardo.” 

But she says it wrong, like Richie-ardo. Reflexively, Max says, “Ricciardo,” properly, and Daniel turns to look at him, a little amazed smile on his face, his eyes big and that light brownish-greenish-gold color Max has never seen in anyone else. 

“Ricciardo,” Dana repeats pleasantly. “Have a safe trip.” 

“Thank you,” says Max. Daniel thanks her too, and Max grabs both of their suitcases before Daniel can try to, because he is always trying to do these chivalrous things that Max should be doing for him. When Daniel realizes he’s been outpaced, he just laughs, putting a hand on the small of Max’s back. 

“So gentlemanly,” he says. “Is this special anniversary treatment?” 

Max blushes, glancing back toward the desk at Dana, whose customer service face has dropped, now looking neutrally bored at her computer. “You do not have to keep it up,” he tells Daniel. “I do not think she can hear us.” 

Daniel makes a dismissive sound as they exit into the dark parking lot. “And miss out on anniversary sex? No way, baby.” 

It’s the way he says it—a joke, but not. Like he knows it’s not their anniversary, but he wants to get Max in bed and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and flirt over dinner and drinks and brush their teeth next to each other at the sink later and in the morning. Like if Daniel really was his boyfriend. 

And Max had said they were dating first, but Daniel had brought up it being their anniversary all on his own, and now he wasn’t letting the joke drop, which had to mean something, maybe—

“Hey,” says Daniel, squeezing Max’s hip again. “You’re in your head. Come back to me, hmm?” 

Max looks at him, at his gleaming smile, the lines near his eyes, the necklace that Daniel had agreed to wear on this trip, sparkling against his throat.  

“I am here, Daniel,” he says. “With you.”