enchanté

Part 22

Max wakes up when Bastiaan does. He doesn't know what time it is, except that it's dark outside, and quiet. He hadn't even meant to fall asleep; he'd put Bastiaan down after his feed and his change, and he'd laid down next to his Moses basket on the bed, just for a minute, and the next thing he knew Bastiaan was whimpering himself awake and Max was busy trying to figure out where the fuck he was.

Daniel's place. Their place? Max lets out a breath and rolls over. He touches his hand to Bastiaan's tummy, settling him. Bastiaan isn't really crying. He's just woken up and he's not in his daddy's arms or anywhere else he considers home yet. He settles under Max's hand, blinking up at him.

"Hello, little baby," Max says. He still feels half asleep, like a zombie. "Did you have a nice sleep? You could have slept all the way here in the car but you didn't, did you? And now you're awake again." Fuck, Max could sleep for a fucking week, but he can't. If Bastiaan keeps on like this, Max is never going to be able to sleep properly again. As if to prove Max right, Bastiaan's face crumples when Max takes his hand away, like he's ready to scream the place down if Max doesn't hug him right the fuck now.

Max really needs to pee. He gathers up a frowning Bastiaan in his arms to hopefully keep him from crying for a couple more minutes, then has to pee sitting down so that he doesn't have to put him down. He manages to wash his hands while holding a studiously awake baby, who — because Max gives both options a go after — doesn't require either a clean nappy or a feed. Max sighs, because apparently the only thing Bastiaan wants right now is to be held, and he will cry his frustration out into the world if his daddy does anything terrible like put him down. He kisses Bastiaan's hair, and rearranges things so that Bastiaan's curled up against his chest, wholeheartedly awake even though it's the middle of the night.

He can hear the low murmur of the TV down the hall, which means Daniel is maybe still awake. Max hasn't had anyone to talk to in the middle of the night for a long time. Maybe Daniel won't mind a visit from a wide awake baby and an exhausted Max.

Daniel is still awake. He's got papers spread out on the coffee table, his laptop open, but instead of doing anything with them, he's scrolling on his phone with the TV on in the background. When Max and Bastiaan appear in the doorway, he grins, dumps the phone on the sofa, and holds his hands out.

"Heyyyyy," he says, looking at Bastiaan. "If it isn't my favourite baby all awake at night time. Can I have a hold?"

Max feels a little weird handing Bastiaan over, but Daniel's still holding his arms out and Max never has been able to resist Daniel's smile.

"He is maybe bad tempered," Max warns, leaning over to let Daniel take his baby from him. "He keeps saying no to being put down."

"Well, I would too," Daniel says, cradling Bastiaan in the crook of his elbow and tucking him up against his chest so he can make weird little faces down at him, "if I couldn't tell anyone how I was feeling and I was very very tired." He pouts, frowning, then makes an extremely silly face. Bastiaan watches him dubiously, but doesn't cry.

Max feels something like relief seep through him. He sinks down onto the arm of the sofa. "Yes," he says. "It must be very hard to be a baby."

Daniel looks at him. There's something there in his expression again that Max can't parse. Max's ability to speak Daniel has diminished since he last saw him. He's got to get better at it again. Now that they're living together. Fuck.

"There's food," Daniel says. "I ordered it for you earlier. Didn't know what you might want, so I got some more soup, and some chicken pasta. You can warm it up if you're hungry. It's in the kitchen."

Max is hungry. He feels weird though. Like he should be taking Bastiaan with him. Like he should be asleep and when he wakes up all of this will have been a dream. He hadn't even got undressed earlier, just passed out in his jeans and t-shirt. He hates sleeping in socks. His feet always feel strangely hot when he wakes up.

"Me and Bastiaan are fine here," Daniel tells him. "One or both of us will cry if anything changes, but this is the good thing about me being here. You can go and get some food from the kitchen and I get to hang out with my new bud while you eat it. I got you coconut water too. It's in the fridge."

Max isn't used to indecision. He lost something in the accident, in all those months trapped with his dad afterwards, some sort of trust in himself that he'd always had before. He doesn't know how to get that old version of himself back. He's too tired to figure it out. His stomach rumbles.

"Go on," Daniel says, and Max, too hungry and exhausted to make sense of anything other than the fact that Bastiaan isn't crying and seems okay in the curve of Daniel's arm, does.

He has a cup of tomato soup and a helping of chicken pasta sitting at the counter in Daniel's kitchen. He doesn't know what time it is or how long it's been since he'd last eaten something. All the digital clocks in the kitchen flash blank, because Daniel's clearly never set any of them. Daniel's eaten; there's the remains of a nutritionist-approved frozen meal on the counter by the stove. Max used to have similar boxes of them delivered in bulk too. He'd had to get a whole second freezer for them in the end, because he never could be bothered to cook and he always had hated wasting time on choosing pointless things. Get a meal out, put it in the oven or the microwave, eat it, throw the dish away.

It had been easier when he hadn't had to do things like budget money he barely had on food he didn't know how to cook.

He eats his pasta. He hears Daniel talking to his baby, but then it goes quiet. Bastiaan doesn't cry and Daniel doesn't call for him and Max just wants— he wants ten fucking seconds to himself to try and figure out what the fuck is happening, and where he lives, and where his baby's going to call home. And what fucking time it is.

He gives himself about five minutes. He gets a carton of coconut water out of the fridge, downs it in one go, then goes back into the living room.

Bastiaan's asleep in Daniel's arms. Daniel looks up at him and grins. It makes something in Max's chest ache. It's like a physical pull. It hurts.

"I got him to sleep," Daniel whispers. "But he smiled at me first."

Max tries to smile too. "He's going to be good at smiling," he says. "I don't think he's good at smiling at people yet. He doesn't know it's a nice thing to do when he's happy. I think he just does it."

"Yet," Daniel says. His voice is soft. "Was the food okay? Do you have everything you need?"

"It was good. And we're fine," Max says, because he doesn't know what else he could want. All he needs is for Bastiaan to be safe and happy. Anything else is just… on top.

"I'll take you round and show you everything in the morning," Daniel says, after a pause. "I need to leave for the airport in the afternoon, but I'll introduce you to the guys on the desk downstairs. They'll need to take a photo for security. But after that they can just let you through without having to check. I've got a key for here for you, but they'll give you a thing for the car park so you can get in automatically, and through the gate downstairs too. Told them you and Bastiaan were moving in." He clears his throat. "I gave them a picture of your dad already. Told them he, uh, wasn't going to be allowed in."

Max looks at him.

"I thought that was what you wanted," Daniel says awkwardly. "We can tell them I was wrong."

"No," Max says. His mouth feels dry. "He isn't ever coming near my baby. Never, ever."

"Okay," Daniel says. "Well, if he finds out you're living here, he won't get in the building. They've got, like, a watchlist or something. Right now I just said he wasn't allowed in but I think they can escalate it if, uh, it's more of a risk."

Max swallows. "Okay." He doesn't want to think about his dad. He doesn't want to think about anything. He looks at his baby. If he takes Bastiaan from Daniel, then Bastiaan might wake up again and Max just wants him to sleep. He wants him to sleep, and to always, always be safe from Max's dad, who hated him so much he pushed Max down the stairs to make him go away.

He points at the papers on the coffee table instead. "What are you doing?"

Daniel looks at him for a long moment, but then he moves a hand to indicate the papers and the laptop. "Had some shit to sort out—" he stops himself, looking down at Bastiaan in consternation, but Max rolls his eyes.

"He's a baby, Daniel. He doesn't understand. You can say shit. Also he's asleep."

"Sure," Daniel says. "I had some stuff to sort out before my flight tomorrow. There'll be some deliveries here during the week while I'm away, but the desk downstairs will call and bring them up."

Max turns his head to look at the papers. They've got pictures of logos on. Photos and drawings. There are also some t-shirts. Underneath that are pictures of karts and race suits. He looks at Daniel.

"Fine," Daniel says. "I'm trying to set up a kart racing thing. So kids who can't afford to kart can still get a go. These are the logos." It says Daniel Ricciardo Series. DRS for short. Max likes that.

Max pokes at one of the sheets of pictures that doesn't seem to match. These are of t-shirts.

"I'm also trying to launch my own clothes," Daniel says. "These are the mock-ups for some of the shirts."

Max doesn't care about clothes. He never has. He likes things that are easy and always feel the same. He doesn't like that his t-shirts don't feel different now because they got all stretched out when he was pregnant, but he doesn't have any others. He's not back to the shape he was before, anyway. He'd never really thought about it, but if pressed, he would have said that people had babies and then their bodies just went back to how they were before. Max's hasn't. Apart from the gunk and the bleeding and the fact he's feeding his baby, he'd carried a baby inside of him. His skin isn't quite as elastic as he'd maybe imagined. It hasn't just gone back to how he was before. "I like this one," he says, pointing at a white t-shirt with a ric3 logo over one nipple.

"They're making prototypes. I'll get you one," Daniel says. He's a bit pink. Max is tired but he still notices; he's always noticed lots of things about Daniel. He's noticed more about Daniel over the years than maybe anybody else.

Max isn't thinking about how he kissed Daniel earlier. There's nothing to think about. He doesn't want to be touched like that now. Daniel knows he might want to be touched like that later. That's a job completed. Max can move onto the next thing.

"Tell me about your karting thing," Max says. He likes that Daniel's doing that. That he's thinking about kids. Maybe Bastiaan can grow up and wear a Daniel Ricciardo Series race suit when he starts karting. If he starts karting. He won't have to. Max isn't going to push him. He just wants him to be happy. It's the only thing he wants. The only dream he has.

Daniel starts to talk.

&&&

Daniel nudges him awake. "You fell asleep."

"The baby," Max says, because Bastiaan is no longer asleep in Daniel's arms. He looks around wildly.

"Is down in his basket," Daniel says. "He didn't wake up. I waited but he stayed asleep. Then I came to get you. So you can go to sleep too."

"I can't hear him," Max says, trying to wake up. He's never woken up and not known where his baby was before. He hates it.

"I'll order you a baby monitor," Daniel says. "He's fine. Come on. Bed time for exhausted dads too."

"What," Max says. Confused.

"Up you get," Daniel says. "I don't know where your pyjamas are so I've got you a t-shirt and some shorts of mine." He holds them out. "Come on. Bed time."

Max looks at him. Daniel presses the t-shirt and shorts into his arms.

"Bed."

Max is too tired to think. He takes his t-shirt off and swaps it for Daniel's. Daniel goes pink and looks the other way. Max can't be fucked to think about why, so he takes his jeans and his socks off too. He trips over his jeans taking them off and Daniel has to put a hand out to steady him.

"Easy," Daniel says softly.

Max pulls on the shorts. He thinks he might bump off the wall as he stumbles towards the bedroom.

Daniel's pulled back the covers for him. It's all Max can do to check on his baby and adjust the blanket before his head hits the pillow and he's asleep again.

&&&

In the morning, when Bastiaan wakes him with the sun, the covers are pulled up to Max's chin, and there's a fresh glass of water on the table by the bed.

For a moment, a long moment, Max looks up at the ceiling.

Then, shaking himself awake, he rolls over and touches his hand to Bastiaan's tummy in his Moses basket.

"Hello, my baby."

Bastiaan whimpers, looking up at him with his little serious gaze. His eyes are wet.

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?”