#luggi auer

He can watch the time difference between Maro’s Mercedes and theirs shrink and shrink, the hard-earned forty seconds disappearing like specks of dust, washed away by the rain. He watches the other Mercedes pass them and Dani coax the car down the pitlane into their box. In his stomach there is a hole that he can feel tearing at his insides with the knowledge that it’s done now. He can feel it in his bones.

The car is rolled back into the box. Dani stays inside in hopes of the mechanics being able to fix the problem quickly and send him back out. Maybe they’d still have a chance at a podium. But the clock is ticking, sand running through the hourglass in a merciless progression. 

The garage is moving around him, loud and hectic, as they all try to figure out the problem and fight against the unforgiving passage of time.

The mechanics are there, kneeling next to the vehicle, some even laying on the ground next to the broken car to reach under it.

Dani is still in the car. Max watches as he buries his head in his hands, desperation, guilt and sadness rolling off him in waves, even when he is cut off from them, the doors closed, protecting him from the chaos inside the garage.

They ask him questions on what they’re supposed to do and he answers on autopilot, spouting some bullshit he can’t quite remember. The shift when the crew accepts that they won’t repair the car in time for even the last podium spot is palpable. Dani starts moving, getting out of the car and slowly starting to remove his helmet. His head is downcast, eyes hidden and the guilt is like a cloud around him, spreading until it reaches Max. 

When he steps forward and pulls Dani to the side out of the way of the mechanics into a quiet corner, he can feel the other man stiffen up. 

“Come here.” His voice is steadier than he feels, tears forming behind his eyes and a lump in his throat. This was supposed to be his respite from everything going on in Formula 1 but it seems like this, too, might turn into the resemblance of a nightmare. But whatever he feels should be second to his team. It’s a bit like Abu Dhabi last year, he muses bitterly, even as he pulls Dani into his arms and starts hugging him. “It’s not your fault.” The words a whisper, almost inaudible above the noise, but still Dani relaxes the tiniest bit. 

His arms come up to cling to Max’s shoulders and then there’s a wet spot forming on his right shoulder. 

He lets his fingers tighten around Dani's waist and chokes the next few words out, hoping, praying that he doesn't notice how unsteady Max feels right now. “It's not your fault. I know that you feel like it is, but I promise that it isn't. There's nothing you could've done.”

“I wanted this so bad. It's your first time, I wanted‐” Dani's words are mumbled and choked up, laced with a deep sadness and way too much regret and guilt.

At some point before the race they had been talking and Dani had promised that he and the others would do everything to give him this win. They're friends, they know how F1 has been going the last few months, and Dani had wanted to give him something good. But sometimes you can do everything perfectly, give it your all, sacrifice your time and your life and still come out the other side loosing everything. He should know. After all, the same thing happened to him last year. So Max shushes him, tries his best to calm him down, grip tight and voice steady as can be.

When Dani pulls away to dry his tears and get rid of the racing suit Max lets him go. His fingers spasm with the need to hold on, but that's not something he's ever deserved. 

So he turns to find his other two teammates. 

He needs to comfort them, give them something to hold on to. 

His father had once told him “it's never the car, always the driver”. Maybe he was right. Likely he wasn't. There's no way this is Dani's or Jules’ or Luggi's fault. Maybe it's Max's though.

Comfort had never really been a thing he had been given after a bad race. But that doesn't mean they other guys don't deserve it.

He finds Luggi in the back before Max needs to go search for him. 

Head in hands, collapsed on a chair in the back of the motorhome, breathing heavy. When Luggi hears him come closer he raises his head, eyes empty of the joy that was in them just a few hours earlier.

Max places a hand on his shoulder and Luggi's left curls around his wrist. His grip is tight and warm, grounding. They both don't say anything. What is somebody supposed to say in the face of devastating defeat? He squeezes the shoulder in his grip a bit and watches the tiniest release of tension happen. Luggi is leaning towards him, accepting and willing for his touch.

There's a spark of regret in his chest when he has to pull away. But Luggi already looks better and he hasn't seen Jules anywhere since Dani came on the radio and reported the damage.

He finds Jules outside the motorhome, slumped against the track wall, tears running down his face. 

Max is quiet as he sits down next to him, their shoulders brushing. There's a bit of pressure when Jules leans into his side. It's calm around them, even peaceful, if there wasn't the knowledge that the race is now over for them, and, not for the first time, he is thankful that endurance racing doesn't have even a fraction of the media circus around it that Formula 1 does. Even with him here no one is shoving a microphone into their faces right after the worst case scenario has happened and demanding answers from them they don't even know themselves. It's just them and the silent support between teammates.

Jules sobs get quieter with the time passing and when Dani comes outside to check on him, they're almost gone. They fall into each other's arms and there's a pang in Max's chest as he sees them hug each other. He feels bad for it immediately. It's not his place. Jules and Dani are best friends. He's just their team principal, maybe a friend, but not nearly as important as they are to each other. For a second he allows himself to long for it, tangling limbs and warm support. He slinks away before they notice him still standing there.

He finds another corner out of the way of the hectic movement and lets himself drop to the ground behind a tyre stack.

There's a sharp stone digging into the flesh of his thigh, the smell of tyres and fuel in the air, the roar of the crowd loud as the motors of the other cars growl when they pass their section of the wall. Disappointment weighs heavy on his shoulders, the pain of regret in his chest, where the hope resided previously.

He had wanted. Of course he had wanted. When had he ever not?

What is racing if not want? 

The want to win, to be the best, to beat everyone and stand on that podium, back straight and the crowd screaming your name. Hungry and all consuming. Able to destroy everything in a moment's notice. Chest empty because there's still so much not achieved even on that highest step. A black hole threatening to take everything as much as it promises to give.

So what is racing if not want?

What is racing if not hurt?

The hurt of a mother's smile, a father's fists, a little sister's screams and tears as she is left behind. Laps in the cold rain until hands have no feeling and the cold burrows into bones, there to keep forever. Bruises all over the body, from the car and harsh hands. Sweat and champagne burning the eyes, even when it's won. Nails digging into hands, leaving bloody indents. Getting into the car right after a horrific accident because there's nothing else that can be done.

So what is racing if not hurt?

What is racing if not love?

The love for the speed and the danger, the adrenaline surging through veins. Dozens of arms wrapping around a waist, catching, cushioning the jump after a win. The bond between driver and car. Hundreds of thousands of people screaming one name while the sun beats down, all connected to one another. The sound of an “I'm proud of you” spoken from the lips of a mother. The smiles of teammates after a race well done and their soft regretful touches after a bad ending. 

So what is racing if not love?

Sometimes he thinks he is so full of this overflow of feelings, so full with the want and the hurt and the love that he can't breathe.

He's proud of his boys, of the fact that they even came this far. He tries to convince himself that it doesn't hurt too bad and fails. If that were true he would not be sitting here after all, hiding from the world to lick his wounds in private.

He's always been someone who goes for the best. It doesn't matter how much of a risk it is or how much work he has to put in. He would rather do everything under the sun, shunt someone into the wall, before he rolls over and presents his soft belly to be dug into. A risk, a danger to have on track is what they called him at the beginning. Still call him sometimes. But he'd rather lose five places because of a penalty than just give up without a fight. That's what they don't get.

He wraps his arms around his legs, tucks his face into his knees, breath leaving him in one big exhale. His eyes are burning and not from the champagne like he hoped they would. 

There had always been a chance of the car not making it through the race, breaking before the finish line.

He can't help blaming himself for it though. Had he not pushed the car this hard, it would likely still be on track, driving like it's supposed to be doing right now.

The light drizzle has started up again and a harsh gust of wind makes goosebumps explode all over his arms. He shivers. Typical Nordschleife weather.

It reminds him of a quote he'd heard around the paddock at some point in the last few months of racing here. “The ring picks the winner.” Must one be deemed worthy to win here? Had he not put up enough of a show for the ring to be happy? Had he done something to anger her? Has he done something that makes the ring give him a chance at victory, lets him taste it on his tongue before snatching it away? Or does it happen during the race? Does he disappoint? Is that the reason?

He's been racing just the way he knows how. With exhilaration in his veins, trust in the car in his heart, feeling for the track in his fingertips and aggression and calculation behind his overtakes.

He'd always felt like the Nordschleife would like this kind of racing. 

It seems she doesn't. 

He had always wanted to race here. The Nordschleife and real racing are synonymous in his head. He's been watching the races here for years. First with Formula 1, his father and Uncle Michael, watching them as they circled round and round. Now it’s NLS and the 24 hours, the Nürburgring wild and free, the car warm under sure hands as it soars down the Döttinger Höhe, slinks through Brünnchen, turns slow in Aremberg corner.

Their car had upgrades, changes paid for by his hand, money happily given to make the car feel like it was supposed to. It was useless in the end.

There's a second car, third really, an hour away in the factory, also built for him, should something go wrong. They'd almost had to go and get it, when Maro turned on Friday, crashed in Qualifying into the barriers, and they weren't sure if they'd be able to get it fixed in time.

In the end it wasn't put to use and now Maro is leading, so it seems to have worked out for him quite nicely, even with the amount of overtaking the other had to get done in the beginning. 

That car, too, had originally been built under his direction.

His stomach is rolling and he absentmindedly wonders if they're going to send him back out when the car is fixed. 

Earlier he had been excited at the chance to drive the car over the finish line. Now the image makes bile rise in the back of his throat. 

He doesn't think he could do it if he tried. He feels too unsettled, too agitated to trust himself with the car.

It's a distasteful mirror image of yesterday at the start, when he refused to drive the car because he would have gotten too excited.

Max curls into himself tighter, presses closer to the tyres, using them like a shield against reality.

He doesn't want to get up and tell the team that he can't do it, doesn't want to walk up to the other three and reveal that one of them needs to get back into the car, because their team principal is too much of a mess to do the one thing he's supposedly good at.

With a groan he lets his head thud against the tyre stack, relishing in the distraction the pain brings.

—

He doesn't even notice the footsteps until they stop directly in front of his hiding spot.

Blue sneakers, the left with a scuff on the front side, the right sprinkled with little spots of mud, both of them a little worse for wear. These are Luggi's shoes.

When Max looks up their eyes meet for a split second, before Luggi turns around and quietly calls back to whoever else is out here with him. “I've found him.” There’s a little commotion a few meters away but it gets ignored by both of them. The next words are addressed to Max again. “Hi.” It's soft, a barely there greeting, as he sits down next to him. “Why are you hiding out here?”

Max doesn't want to answer. He also doesn't want Luggi to leave him here alone, should he inevitably leave when Max doesn't give him an answer that is deemed acceptable.

Had he been younger he probably wouldn't have answered anyway. 

But he's grown, or at least he likes to think that, and he's learned quite a few things since he first joined Formula 1.

The other two have found them in the time it takes him to think this through and they, too, join Max on the ground.

A nervous tongue darts out between his lips, but their full attention makes his skin crawl and he can't drag this out any longer.

“Sorry, that i disappeared on you. I just needed some time to think, of course, get away from the noise and clear my head a bit.” He gestures vaguely in hopes of them leaving it be.

They don't. Of course they don't. 

Dani is wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tucking Max into his side, careful and slow, as if he's trying not to spook him. “Now tell us what made you actually disappear. Because unless you have a problem with us being upset there's no reason for you to go hide.”

“I am, of course, not upset about you being sad with this. It is perfectly understandable.” Max sounds a little desperate, frantic, his hands moving fast as he tries to explain himself. He's ripped himself out of Dani's soft touch, eyes wide as he tries to meet brown with his blue.

“Hey, hey.” It's Luggi again, warm hand on Max's spine, comforting as it slides up to wrap around the back of his neck. “No one is saying that. We just want to know what made you hide away from us.”

“He's right. Did I make you uncomfortable with my crying earlier? Or is it just the race?” Jules has now decided to, also, join the conversation, his left finding Max's thigh, right coming up to wrap around Dani's wrist.

Max leans into the touches. It's cold out here under the cloudy sky, the occasional strong gusts of wind alleviating the shivers that wreck over his body, his jacket entirely too light, but from the spots where their hands are touching him, almost like waves crashing at a beach, is spreading a bit of warmth. It's comforting. 

“Just overwhelmed.” Is what he decides upon. “And a bit sad. It was really looking like we might do it, before the drive shaft failed.” And I know that nothing is over before it's over, but I was really letting myself hope, especially with everything going on right now, is what he doesn't say. 

“I need one of you to drive the car later.” Is what he says instead.

They seem to get it anyway if the way Dani is tugging him back into his arms is any indication. Their knees knock together but it's warm and the drizzle has stopped, and Luggi is plastering himself to Max's back, while Jules is pressing against his side.