#n24

Max figures that he's saying it to Jules, who is pressed up into his side, stealing warmth, even though it's probably the warmest it's been all weekend right now, after 3pm when the race is over but the sun is still shining bright in the sky. And it's sweet, Max thinks. That Dani and Jules are so close. That they care about each other enough to make sure they aren't alone in the wake of this loss, stuck staring at a hotel ceiling, thinking about what-ifs.

They'd all been hit hard by the loss. Losing always hurts, but it felt especially cruel for it to come as it did, a mechanical failure ripping away a forty-second lead. Victory had been in their hands. It was sweet on Max's lips, and maybe he had gotten ahead of himself, letting his tongue dart out to taste it, but it had felt so real and sure.

His mouth only tastes bitter now.

And it had hit them all hard, but Dani had been driving—had had to be the one to see their victory dissipate in the rearview mirror. And Jules had sunk down to the ground, as if pushed by the weight of his grief, and had curled up, small. And Max is glad that they have each other.

Maybe he should have been the one to look out for them. To make sure they wouldn't spend the night stuck staring at a hotel ceiling, thinking about what-ifs. Maybe he still should—Luggi is hiding out somewhere Max doesn't know, and maybe Max should make sure he's okay.

But... Gosh. Not just right now. Right now, he just needs to take another few minutes to look out at the track, unseeing, and try to regulate his breaths. Needs a couple more moments to feel just a little bit sorry for himself alongside feeling sorry for the team.

He's exhausted. He barely slept while the car was on track, even when he was supposed to, too excited to see how it was doing, too filled with anticipation for his next stint. He's exhausted, and that had been a little bit thrilling and fun at 2am when he had gotten into the car and the world was dark and cool and quiet, and it was just him and headlights and the ring. But now, he just feels heavy, and he can only think about how he probably won't get any sleep tonight, either. He'll be too busy staring at the hotel ceiling, stuck, thinking about what-ifs.

Dani bumps their shoulders together. Max lets himself sway, just a bit.

"Max. I don't think you should be alone tonight."

Max blinks. He takes his gaze away from the track. Dani is looking at him intensely, mouth twisted. Behind, Jules peers out from where he's tucked himself under Dani's arm. His eyes are wide.

"What? No. I am, of course, fine." Usually, he'd wave a hand—wave it off. He can't muster the energy to take his hands out of his pockets. It's the warmest it's been all weekend, but his fingers are still cold. "It is not my first time not winning a race, of course, and..."

His words die. He wants to say, And I'm used to it. And, if I could not handle losing this one, it must make me a pretty terrible racer. And, we will get them next time. And, and, and.

And... he wanted to win this one, though. And it hurts. The way it ended. It does.

"Okay, so you are fine," Dani says, and even though Max just brushed him off, he feels his stomach twist, just a bit. Feels himself deflate at the thought of staring up at the hotel ceiling alone.

But then Dani continues. "But do you want to be alone tonight?"

Max likes to think of himself as a pretty honest person. Still. There's a difference between speaking your mind and laying your soul bare. Max will make his opinions known about penalties and rules and regulations and stupid fucking questions any day of the week. But when a reporter shoves a microphone into his face and asks if he cried when his daughter was born, he thinks he's within his right to hold his heart a bit closer to his chest.

He thinks there are only a few people in the world who could ask him if he wanted to be alone tonight and to whom he would give an honest answer. He's not quite sure where along the line the two people standing in front of him with their wide, kind eyes joined that list.

His voice catches in his throat. He shakes his head.

"Then you will not," Dani says. Simple as that. Maybe it is that simple when the people by your side are warm, eyes wide and kind and trusting. When you choose to trust them back.

Max nods. The sun reflects off of some surface somewhere—flashes into his eyes, temporarily blinding. It's past 3pm. The race is over. The sun is still shining in the sky. Their car took the checkered flag, but it was too little too late. Max had asked Dani to be the one to finish, just as he had asked him to start, and both times, it had been because he just couldn't do it. Didn't trust himself to be strong enough.

The track is empty now. And there's a lump in Max's throat he still can't speak past. But he doesn't need to. Dani tucks him into his side, mirror image to Jules. Says, "Come on. It's been a long day. Let's get going."

They snake through the garage, and Max carefully tries to avoid the eye of all the team members, even though he feels the ice-cold wash of shame creeping down his back because of it. He doesn't have any more speeches and back-pats in him. The rest of the team got a win anyway, with the other car. The only ones stuck with the weight of the loss so heavy are him and Dani and Jules and—

Max's steps falter. Fuck. Luggi. He can't— He can't find solace in company like this, happily lead blindly, while Lucas is alone, licking his wounds. Not when he'll be staring up at a hotel ceiling tonight, thinking of what-ifs.

"Where's—"

Max barely glances around before Luggi appears, his backpack slung over one shoulder and Max's slung over the other. Max pats his own shoulder, brows furrowed. He hadn't even thought to get his stuff. What the fuck is wrong with him that he's losing his head so much over a simple loss? How many times has he lost before? If I could not handle losing this one, it must make me a pretty terrible racer.

Luggi catches Max's eye, and he doesn't smile, but he nods his head, easy, and says, "I'm right here. Let's get going."

Max holds out a hand for his bag, and Luggi ignores it. Just nudges Max to get moving—follow where Dani and Jules are continuing their path through the garage to the exit in the back.

Max, probably, should say something, he thinks. Do something. He's supposed to be the leader, he's supposed to be the motivator, he's supposed to be the one with experience in everything and a cool head and a kind word. We'll get them next time.

He's— He's supposed to be a member of this team. Supposed to trust his teammates.

He's never really had this before. With teammates. Has never fought with them as much as he's fought against them. Has never been able to just follow behind.

He follows now. He sits in the back seat of Dani's car, and he doesn't pull his backpack over intoto his lap when Luggi gets into the other side. Outside the window, the sun is shining. The leaves are swaying in the breeze, intensely green. The beautiful ring.

Max lets his head fall forward and thump against Dani's seat in front. He's so exhausted.

The drive is short. The hotel is quiet. Luggi carries Max's bag up the stairs. Max follows Dani, and Jules presses into his side, now, unobtrusive and warm.

Dani and Jules are sharing a room with two queen-sized beds and no couch to speak of. Max gnaws at his lip, trying to figure out how to arrange things so he's the only one who has to sleep on the floor, but the others are already moving around him, pulling the set of drawers out from between the beds and pushing them together.

Luggi looks at Max, standing awkward by the door still, and tilts his head. "Give me a hand?"

Max kneels down beside him and pushes with all his might. He feels a bit like a mechanic, pushing the car back into the garage. Brake issue, driveshaft failure, race over. Unplanned pit stop, push the car back into the garage. Unplanned stay, push the beds together.

At least Max isn't the one driving. He's selfish, and he's weak, and he doesn't want to be the one seeing victory dissippate in the rearview mirror. Instead, he keeps pushing.

Eventually, the beds click together. Jules clambers on and shoves sheets down the gap methodically, sealing the seam. Max kicks off his shoes, shucks off his jacket, clambers onto the bed beside him, and tries to help, hands unsure.

Jules shuffles over and watches Max with curious eyes, and Max flushes warm with embarrassment. On track, at the circuit, he knows who he is and what he's doing. At home, in Monaco, Kelly and he figure it out together, hand in hand. Everywhere else, Max is treading water, out of his depth.

He sits back on his heels and tries to look at the sheets instead of Jules. He thinks he made them messier.

"It isn't your fault," Jules says. It takes Max a split-second to figure out what he's talking about, brain still running on the stupid sheets.

The race. Of course. The thing Max is supposed to be good at, but still couldn't crack. Not his fault, Jules said. Not anybody's fault, the reasonable part of Max's brain says. Mechanical failure. Max wasn't even in the car. Certainly not Dani's fault, though he had been. Sometimes, it's just how it goes.

Your fault, the other part of Max's brain whispers, in a voice oh so similar to his own. Your fault.

After NLS 2, after the disqualification, after the stupid fucking tyres, Jules had said the same thing to Max—"It wasn't your fault." And then he had paused, right after, and had asked, voice hesitant, eyes darting, just a bit, "Do you ever hear his voice? In your head?" And maybe, if Max were someone else, he wouldn't have known right away what Jules had meant. But he had. Because he does.

"Not as much these days," he had said, honest. Because he doesn't. The most he hears of his father's voice these days is across the phone on weekends, a little bit crackly. And this time, there had been only a brief moment of angry Dutch in his head—stupid FUCKING—before he had taken a deep breath and reminded himself that he had done everything he could.

He doesn't quite believe his own voice as much as he'd like to. But he doesn't believe his father's voice very much anymore, either.

Jules had nodded like he understood. And Max has talked with him before about growing up driving—about the thrill of the speed, and the weight of the expectations, and the desperation of the money running dry. About that drive to win, and that drive to make your father proud, and that drive to get into the car and drive.

And Jules had nodded like he understood, and Max has always found it easier to be honest when it's about rules and regulations and tearing the throats out of pesky reporters, but somewhere along the line, Jules wormed his way onto Max's list of people to whom he can lay out his soul, if only a little, and he had found himself asking, "Do you?"

And Jules had nodded. And he had said, "Not as much these days," with a smile.

Max wants to ask him again now. Do you hear him now? Are you only telling me it isn't my fault because there's angry French in your head screaming that it's yours?

"It isn't yours, either," he says instead. Because it doesn't matter what Jules' answer would be—Max would say the same any which way. Needs to, suddenly, desperately. "It was not any of your faults." He casts his voice around the room. Makes sure everybody hears it. Dani and Luggi look on. What do they hear in their heads?

"And it was not yours," Jules says, again. Like he can hear Max's thoughts. Like he can hear the voice inside his head—can suddenly understand Dutch. Maybe he can just understand anger and blame. Maybe it's a language he's fluent in from hearing it alone. Max sometimes feels that way. Used to.

"Sometimes, it is how it goes."

Yeah, but. Max didn't want it to go how it did. He wanted so badly. He should know better, but the ring was so beautiful and alluring, and he found his tongue darting out to taste the sweetness on his lips.

Maybe it isn't his fault the car broke. Maybe. But it was his fault for hoping.

"I think it's time to sleep," Dani says. It's considerably past 3pm by now, but outside the hotel room, through the curtains, the sun is still shining.

Max is exhausted. They all are. He lets himself fall into the pillows. Luggi yanks at the blankets until Max shimmies enough for him to get them free, and then he tucks them over Max before sliding under them himself.

With two queen beds, they really should all have enough of their own space, and the gap between the beds stuffed with sheets that Max fucked up should be a null factor, but Luggi just keeps scooting further in until Max is sandwiched between him and Jules. The bedframe pokes into his hip, but not uncomfortably enough for him to complain or shift away.

Max is lying on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, and his teammates are warm at his sides. He can't see the hotel ceiling, and he doesn't have the energy to turn over and look—to stare up and ponder the what-ifs.

Dani, on the other side of Jules, pressed in close, says, "I almost shit myself watching you in that first stint, Max. With the Porsche? Absolutely insane."

Max smiles. Just a bit. "Told you I'd want to fight everyone," he mumbles into the bed.

"I think next time, I should do the start again." Next to Max, Luggi hums in agreement. Max cracks an eye open to see Jule's nose scrunched in a laugh.

Next time. Next time, they'll win. Sleepy and bracketed and warm, Max's lets his tongue dart out to wet his lips.