enchanté

Max hums. He’s not really looking at the plate. He’s looking at Daniel like he always does when Daniel is saying things that have no point. Like there might be a point anyway, hidden somewhere under all the bullshit, and Max is patient enough to wait for it.

This is very annoying of him.

Daniel gestures with his wine glass. “I’m just saying, if you’re a cat and you let yourself be walked on a leash, you have to admit you’ve lost some mystique.”

Max smiles, small and crooked. “Maybe the cat likes being close.”

“To the man?”

“Of course cats shouldn't be on leashes anyway, Daniel...but yes.”

Daniel’s mouth closes around the rim of his glass. “Right. Yeah. Emotional support cat.”

Max laughs.

It’s how he knows Max's laughs.

One he barely does anymore with anyone else. It's more in his shoulders first, then his face with straight teeth and crinkly eyes, like the laugh is a private thing he’s decided to let Daniel see. It makes Daniel feel weirdly successful, like he’s won a trophy for being a dickhead.

Max gives Daniel’s fork back and pushes his own plate closer, because there’s still some pasta left on it.

Daniel takes a bite without asking.

Again: normal.

Very normal.

It is also normal that Max’s knee has been pressed against his under the table for most of dinner. The place is small. The tables are cramped.

Daniel does not move.

Max reaches over and turns Daniel’s wine glass by the stem because Daniel keeps fidgeting with it and nearly knocked it over twice.

“Careful,” Max says.

“Yes, Mum.”

Max rolls his eyes, but his fingers stay around the base of the glass for an extra second, right next to Daniel’s hand. Daniel notices this in the same way he notices cars passing outside or the low music from the speakers. As something that is simply true about the room he is in.

Then the waitress comes over with a cake.

It’s small and white and stupidly pretty, with a candle stuck in the top and two spoons balanced on the plate. There’s chocolate writing on it.

Happy Anniversary.

Daniel looks at it. Then at the waitress. Then at Max.

The waitress smiles. “Congratulations!”

There are, Daniel thinks, a few moments in a man’s life where his soul leaves his body to watch from above.

This is one of them.

Because the cake is wrong. Obviously the cake is wrong. The cake belongs to the couple at the next table, the ones who have been holding hands and smiling softly and being so married.

But also.

Also.

Daniel looks down and sees Max’s knee against his. Their plates pushed between them, half-shared. Daniel’s fork on Max’s side of the table. Max’s cap sitting in Daniel’s lap because Max had taken it off earlier and handed it to him without a word. Daniel’s thumb still damp where Max had wiped a drop of wine from it with his napkin, like that was a thing people just did.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

They look like a couple.

Not in the way Daniel calls half the people he knows babe and lets people think whatever they want because attention is attention and he’s Australian enough to weaponize friendliness.

This is different.

This is Max knowing Daniel doesn’t like the bitter olives but likes the salty ones. This is Daniel ordering two desserts because Max always says he doesn’t want dessert and then eats half. This is knees touching. This is Max’s face going soft when Daniel talks nonsense. This is Daniel being so used to Max’s attention that he has stopped recognizing it as attention.

His chest goes hot and horrible.

“No,” Daniel says.

Max blinks.

The waitress’s smile twitches.

Daniel laughs, because always laugh and everything becomes okay again. “No, sorry. We’re not— That’s not ours. We’re not, um. Together. Like that. We’re not together together. We’re just—”

Max’s face changes.

Only a bit. The crinkly eyes vanish.

Daniel should stop speaking. Daniel has never stopped speaking in his life.

“Friends,” he says, and then because that sounds awful for some reason, adds, “Mates. Old teammates. Pasta associates.”

The woman at the next table says gently, “I think that might be ours.”

“Yep,” Daniel says too fast. “Yes. That makes heaps more sense. Anniversary people. You guys look anniversary.”

The waitress starts apologizing, lifting the cake away, but another waiter appears so quickly it’s like someone summoned him in a panic. He takes one look at Max and goes completely rigid.

Daniel knows that look. The oh shit it’s Max Verstappen look. The I’m going to pretend I don’t know but now I look like I’ve seen God look.

“Mr—” the waiter starts, then visibly swallows. “Sir. I am so sorry. This was entirely our mistake.”

“It’s okay,” Max says.

His voice is flat. It is not okay.

“It’s not okay,” the waiter says, sweating. “Please accept our apologies. Dessert is on the house. Anything you want.”

Daniel almost says, The cake seems taken, which would be funny if his entire life had not just quietly exploded.

Max says, “We don’t need anything.”

“Max,” Daniel says.

Max looks at him, and there it is again. That offended little hurt. Like Daniel denied something Max thought they both knew. Daniel’s gay panic, which had been sprinting around his skull with a fire extinguisher, trips and falls directly into realization.

He kind of loves Max.

“Oh,” Daniel says, very quietly.

Max’s mouth tightens. “What?”

Daniel swallows. “I think I said the wrong thing.”

“You said many things.”

“Yeah.” Daniel tries to laugh, but it comes out thin. “Classic me.”

Max shifts his knee away.

Daniel hates it immediately.

“Don’t,” Daniel says, too quick.

Max freezes.

Daniel reaches under the table like a lunatic and puts his hand on Max’s knee. Warm and terrifying. “Don’t move away.”

Max looks at him for a long second.

“The cake,” Daniel says, because apparently this needs explaining. “The stupid cake saw me before I did.”

Max says nothing, but his knee presses back into Daniel’s hand.

The waiter returns, still pale. “Tiramisu?”