#otterdraws

Sebastian wanted to twist his lips into something rueful, something bitter, wanted to ask how dare Daniel hurt. It was the inevitability of a new upstart, like how all things are, David and Kimi, Mark and Sebastian, Sebastian and Daniel, it is how it is. But Sebastian’s record was supposed to be forever, not a mere eight years, it was supposed to be stone cold until the day he retired but instead Max Verstappen walked into Red Bull, not even legal to drink in half the places they went, and won on debut, won at eighteen years and two hundred and seven days old.

But these aren’t productive things to say, so Sebastian bit his lip and rubbed a hand comfortingly along Daniel’s arm, the other leant against the walls of his motorhome, his fireproofs unzipped to his waist. The door was ajar, because that’s how Daniel went, sauntered ahead with a smile, forgetting to close the door behind him, forgetting the aftermath in his wake, beautiful or burnt. 

“It was inevitable,” Sebastian offered, “The younger one always wins first.”

Daniel groaned, and pulled a hand through his hair. “I know, I know, but I was hoping that I’d get at least a chance, you know? A chance to lead the team.”

Sebastian laughed, “You’re older, and you have three wins to his one. You’ll be fine, Daniel.”

Daniel rolled his eyes, looking up at Sebastian with an exasperated expression. “Christian adores him, his new wonderchild. Mate, you didn’t see the way he looked at Max on the podium. I swear, he’s going to love him more than his own children.”

Sebastian did see, actually. He was there on the podium, third place, an unrespectable finish in the wake of the golden opportunity of the Mercedes self-destruction. He had looked down to find the undeservedly gleaming Italian faces and the glistering rosso corsa and had looked away, had looked away to find Christian with the familiar adoring expression, eyes bright like he had tasted divinity looking up towards the heavens but Sebastian knew it wasn’t for him, wasn’t for him anymore, the wayward son of Red Bull, but for its newly crowned saviour.

“I’m the middle child,” Daniel despaired, breaking Sebastian from his reverie.

“You’re going to have to elaborate more on that,” Sebastian chuckled, pulling up a chair to match Daniel’s height, leaning on the wall and bent slightly.

Daniel curled an eyebrow and repeated, “I’m the middle child. You were Christian first, like, you know, his one and only, the height of his passion, the work of his life, et cetera, et cetera. You meant that everything was worth it.”

“You make it sound quite romantic,” Sebastian joked, tried not to think about how much he wanted to agree.

Daniel rolled his eyes, shoving lightly at Sebastian. “You know what I mean. And Max is, what, his replacement for you? He’s the youngest child, the one Chritsian is going to adore the most. It’s like a parent getting their last child and giving them all the love they were too busy to give and not commit the same mistakes.”

Sebastian was a bit lost for words, but he didn’t have to say anything before Daniel suddenly groaned dramatically.

“Oh my god, he’s never going to let us fight.”

“What–?”

Daniel suddenly grabbed Sebastian’s wrist, eyes wide. “Oh my god, he’s going to have been scared by his first children – you and Mark, obviously – and he’s never going to let us fight because he doesn’t want another Multi-21, thank you very much, and I’m going to get Mark Webber-ed, fuck!”

Sebastian was very lost for words.

“You’re not going to get, what, Mark Webber-ed.” Sebastian comforted, making it up as he went, “Mark wasn’t a good enough driver. Christian never did anything, and if what you say is true, Christian’s just going to use less team orders.”

Daniel shook his head, but Sebastian knew he wasn’t not listening, knew he was spiraling because like Sebastian, he’s emotional, drives amazingly when he’s high on happiness and drowns in his own despair. 

“Multi-21 only happened because Mark was slower, anyways.” Sebastian continued in an attempt to comfort Daniel, who waved his hand in the air dismissively.

“I know, I know, you went racing, you were faster yadda yadda.” 

Sebastian doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry, but Daniel continued, sounding haunted,

“But what if he’s faster, though?”

What if, Sebastian wondered. He didn’t really have any comfort for that. Daniel was faster, but Sebastian had four titles and the bloodied corpse of Mark Webber’s racing career and he clung onto those like a lifeline for a year until he donned red and being Ferrari is winning enough but Daniel had only three wins, three paltry wins he secured under the nose of a four-time world champion, but three paltry wins and Max was only two wins away from being better, was only a devastatingly good race away from burning Daniel to ashes. 

“He’s not going to be faster,” Sebastian said instead, though he wondered how much he believes it. “You’re more experienced, and you’re a pretty quick driver.”

Daniel glared up at him, and they both knew what they’re thinking of.

“2014.” Daniel spat out. “Where did I get those three wins?”

“Hey, that’s not very nice to say.” Sebastian chided, and Daniel rolled his eyes, though he had an apologetic expression.

“Sorry, but you know that’s true.” 

“It’s not the same,” Sebastian defended.

“How?” Daniel retorted. 

“I– I don’t know.” Sebastian confessed, and Daniel huffed, threw his hands into the air and started to pace around Sebastian’s motorhome.

“I hate the kid,” Daniel ranted. “You know, I think your torpedo comment got Danill fired but I swear, this kid is worse. I mean, look at Monaco last year! He was dive-bombing you like crazy. He’s dangerous, and it’s not like he’s an upgrade to Danill anyways. I can’t talk to him at all, he’s a fucking child and he looks at me like… I don’t know, I don’t like it.”

“He did win on debut. And all great drivers were dangerous once, they used to call Lewis “Crashmilton”, no?” Sebastian regretted his statement the moment it left his mouth because Daniel turned around and glared.

“Who’s side are you on?” He asked roughly, to which Sebastian raised his hands in a sign of neutrality. 

“I’m not on anyone’s side, I’m just pointing out the truth.”

“Well, if he’s all that he should’ve won in a Toro Rosso.”

Sebastian preened internally, and he definitely didn’t hide it well enough based on the way Daniel looked at him, exasperated. 

“Sorry, sorry. You’ll be fine. You destroyed me worse last year and I’m hardly an anonymous piece of furniture right now, huh?”

“I’m not a four-time world champion though, am I?” Daniel snarked, though he did acquiesce, calming down and dropping heavily into a chair.

“Fuck, I’d still very much rather Danill.” He continued, “I know, points for the team and everything, but you know, hurts having an eighteen year old win in equal machinery.”

Sebastian moved forward to pat his shoulder softly.

“Welcome to the club. It’ll be fine, most young upstarts and all that: upstarts. He might not even win a race again. Danill didn’t last long in the Red Bull seat, who says he will?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daniel didn’t sound certain, and to be honest, neither did Sebastian.

Daniel chuckled darkly, “Fuck, watch him be a four-time world champion in a decade. We just need the Mercedes to take each other out every week.”

“I think we’d all love that.” Sebastian quipped, and leaned forward to hug Daniel quickly as he got up and moved to leave. 

“I shouldn’t be so hard on the kid, right?” Daniel asked, turning back to look at Sebastian, before he continued, “Ah, it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to last, and I’ll kill someone before I get Mark Webber-ed.”

“Don’t say that,” Sebastian replied, instantly.

“What, Mark Webber-ed?” Daniel teased, before he jumped out of the way and darted out of Sebastian’s motorhome.

Sebastian shook his head fondly, watched Daniel bound up the path away from the Ferrari camp and back towards Red Bull, the door hanging ajar like how Daniel always left it, wide open in his wake. Sebastian leaned forward to close it before he noticed a small blue bump at the bottom of his window and freezed.

“Max?” Sebastian called out, hesitant, and indeed, Max did materialise outside the open door. His face was flushed, though carefully neutral, his hair still damp with champagne and his suit still done up with a flat-brimmed cap on his head, a small swish of red hanging from his fingertips.

“Hello. I’m here to return this,” Max replied, and thrust forward a Ferrari cap, Sebastian’s Ferrari cap, which he gingerly took. 

What a contradictory character Max was. He was emotional, angry, wild, hungry and desperate and that rage had made him the youngest grand prix winner by an entire mile but he was also clinical, cold, robotic, almost emotionless offtrack unless he was surrounded by people he knew well, cold and perfectionist on track in his millisecond moves yet he was angry, rash, taking Radillion on the outside in an overtake that made even Helmut Marko clutch his headset tightly because that was bold and daring and dangerous. 

Sebastian held the cap lightly in his hands and tried to squash the weird feeling in his chest. 

“So, how much of that did you hear?” Sebastian tried for levity, though it fell flat as Max’s expression stayed the same.

“All of it, I was following Daniel to find your motorhome but I suppose he did not know I was following him.”

Sebastian winced, moved a shameful hand to rub at his neck awkwardly. Max blinked, his gaze intense, his expression unchanged.

“Sorry. You, ah, you shouldn’t take what Daniel says to heart, he’s just emotional right now, of course, losing to a teammate, you know, and he’ll come around, he doesn’t mean what he says,” Sebastian rambled, but Max shook his head, a ghost of a smile crawling to his face.

“No, it’s okay. Friends are not made in a race, I know.” He said, like a mantra drilled into his brain. “I do not like Daniel to like me. In fact, it is good he doesn’t like me because it means I scare him.”

“Do you want to scare him?” The question slipped out of Sebastian, unbidden, and Max blinked, ran a finger over his eyelid. 

“Of course. Did you not want to scare Mark Webber?”

Why did everything always come back to Mark? That wasn’t the only teammate Sebastian had. Isn’t it better that he was beating Kimi, an actual world champion, someone with twenty wins instead of a pitiful nine wins to his name, someone who went up against Schumacher and survived, someone who nearly won over Schumacher?

Sebastian didn’t say that, of course, merely searched in Max’s expression, open and curious but also hungry, always hungry, and tried to find something familiar, tried to find that hunger in his own soul.

“Yes, but. It’s important to get along with your teammate. I enjoy racing much more with Kimi because we get along well.” God, he sounded so much like a miserable adult.

“Yes, but winning is more important. I would not like racing if I was not winning.” Max replied, blunt, the ghost of a smile growing into a grin, but a curious honest grin. 

“I will beat Daniel again,” Max replied, turning to leave, smiling at Sebastian. “I will.”

Max turned around, quick as he came, oddly grounded for a child who’s just won their first grand prix, the youngest to do so, but exuberant, self-believing where it bordered on youthful arrogance.

Sebastian couldn’t find it in himself to protest, though. Mark was an extended heartbreak, silent garages crackling with anger and tension, frustrated cooldown rooms and loud explosive blowouts after everyone had gone home, but. It felt amazing to pull a thirty second gap on a teammate in equal machinery, a drunken high Sebastian would always chase.

But this is Baku, not the blinding lights of Las Vegas. The commentators joke that it's a front row Toro Rosso lock out, but they had never driven here as Toro Rosso teammates, the circuit only arriving in 2016. Max waved to him before the mechanics dispersed and the lights went out, and Carlos waved back, smiling underneath his helmet though no one could see. Looking at the empty track ahead, Carlos almost wanted to dream. He's never podiumed here, not even in a Ferrari, but his fingers thrum against the steering wheel in anticipation. Carlos glanced at Max, who's staring into the distance, eyes fully concentrated. He held onto the steering wheel and squares his shoulders.

Max won, of course, two wins in a row in Red Bull's chaos year. He crawled to the top of his car and saluted the sky. Carlos thought that was where Max belonged best, top of his car, top of the time sheets, top of the world. He was inevitable since the day he stepped into an F1 car, too young to drink and too ambitious to care. Carlos watched Max for a while, waiting for his breathing to calm before he ran towards the Williams mechanics. He didn't know them well, not yet, and their grasp on him was foreign in every way, but Carlos leant into it, screamed in celebration because he's actually done it, he's dragged a Williams to the podium.

Max came up to him having just finished his interview and stepped close enough Carlos could feel the heat radiating off Max. His eyes are wet, and Carlos almost wanted to ask if he was windswept or emotional but he hasn't got a second before Max tugged strongly on his arm, his hand on Carlos' shoulder and he folded them into a hug. Max hugs like he never wants to let go, and so Carlos melted into his touch, held his hand on Max's back and remembered a time when they lived between the crevices of each others' ribcage.

Max pulled back, his eyes glittered and his helmet rough hair stuck up in a thousand directions. There was a slight flush to his pale face, a deep contrast to his navy blue fireproofs. Max squeezed his arm slightly, a wide smile on his face like a cheeky I told you so. Carlos pushed Max away with a smile, heart fond in the fact they could still communicate without words, talk without speaking with the comfort of knowing someone, not the longest, perhaps, but at the precipice of their lifetime, the moment when the world tipped on its axis and rewarded you for the years and years of sacrifice.

Max drenched Carlos on the podium, a loud laugh ripped out of his throat as he flooded Carlos with the sweet taste of champagne. Carlos grinned back in response, his heart full and light. Max looked ethereal in the waning sunlight, his skin glittering like gold as he took the top step of the podium, his step of the podium. Carlos breathed in deeply, pressed against the side of his old teammate. It smelled like 2015, a thrum of gasoline mixed with the scent of something fresh, the tangy hint of Red Bull, and something Carlos couldn't place that tasted like Max and Max only. Of course, it wasn't 2015, the overpowering glorious taste of champagne swirling on his tongue, but Carlos grabbed Max's waist tightly anyways, held on like they were the two gambles Red Bull were taking, held on like it was before only one gamble paid off. Well, maybe. Max forecast him a podium, full of excessive faith in him, and now he's made good on that promise.