Work Text:
Abu Dhabi arrived too fast. It always did. One minute, the season was beginning in Melbourne, and now they’re here as if they’ve gone into a blip faster than they can drive a Formula 1 car. The paddock was glowing gold beneath Yas Marina lights, signaling another ending.
Daniel hated endings. Especially this one. Because he already knew this would probably be his last race weekend for a while. Not retirement—not officially, but enough uncertainty around contracts and seats and Red Bull politics that everything felt painfully temporary.
…
Friday night in Formula 1 means a little breath right after FP2 an hour ago. No cameras, just his headphones over his head, music not even playing, and a coffee, which he definitely paid too much for, sitting in the grandstand overlooking the Yas Marina circuit and the twisting waterfront full of yachts.
The absence of a certain 8-year-old made Daniel a little restless; he still had not met the boy, and the lack of his crush updates, considering this was the last stop where he would also be present for the whole weekend. He might have had an idea why, though.
He looked below the grandstand and smiled at the few people milling around. Finally, a little free from the chaos of Formula 1, despite the impending ending he’d dreaded the most to experience. A few Ferrari mechanics strolled by. Carlos, together with his physio, pedaled past 2 runners. Joyous little shouts coming from 4 kids clad in mini Haas kits, probably staff children, echoed not far from the grandstand.
It was such a relief, considering that when Sunday came, everything would change. Daniel knows who would win the championship; he does, and he’s very happy. But one announcement. One press release. Years of fighting, years of clawing his way back onto the grid, and suddenly none of it was secured.
And yet there was a relief tangled somewhere beneath the dread. Relief that maybe, finally, he could stop fighting so hard just to stay afloat in a sport that devoured people whole. Relief that he wouldn’t have to spend another season pretending the pressure didn’t exhaust him. It felt like surfacing after being underwater too long, lungs burning as he finally dragged in air.
Daniel prided himself on resilience. There was a reason he’d survived this paddock as long as he had. He’d rebuilt himself over and over again, smiled through humiliation, through headlines, through endless speculation about whether he still deserved a seat. He was charismatic, experienced, impossible to break publicly, and one of the skilled drivers who got somewhat tangled up in Red Bull politics.
But privately? Sometimes he felt smothered by it all.
He never really escaped Formula 1. He was always Daniel Ricciardo, always the Honey Badger who bears the iconic number 3, always the guy grinning for cameras even when his career was hanging by a thread, always the driver who left his prime and the dominant team because he couldn’t bear the fact that biases could ruin his relationship with the person he loves, who considered him his best friend. Never just Daniel.
He wasn’t naïve enough to pretend he had a life outside the sport either. He’d married racing before he was old enough to understand what sacrifice actually meant, and Formula 1, it turned out, was a nightmare to divorce. Everything in his life bent around it: friendships, relationships, sleep time, and home.
He wasn’t unhappy, not exactly. Just stuck in a strange state of acceptance, for the most part at least. Sure, he missed normalcy sometimes. Missed nights that didn’t end in debriefs or jet lag. Missed conversations that weren’t about lap times, contracts, or whether his seat would still exist next season. But that was the price of staying on the grid and loving the adrenaline he feels in his job.
And then there was Max
Max, somehow, became the constant in a life built entirely on instability.
Daniel hated how much that realization unsettled him. Because once upon a time, he’d convinced himself his decisions were logical. Strategic. That signing Christian’s third driver in 2023 had been about staying close to Red Bull machinery. That taking the VCARB seat after had been about proving he still belonged in Formula 1.
But somewhere along the line, he’d realized the truth. He’d done it because of Max. Because no matter how ugly the politics became, no matter how temporary his own future felt, Max Verstappen had remained the one thing Daniel couldn’t quite walk away from.
And honestly? Max was worse than the sport itself.
Leaving Red Bull in 2018 was stupid. He knows it’s not only the biases in the team that were the problem; he knows, because being in love with his best friend, on the same team who has a girlfriend, is more of a bigger problem. So he left, knowing that he couldn’t stand it.
They’d both stayed in contact, and Daniel knows being the Godfather to Max’s son is goddamn stupid, but never a mistake; no, Emiel would never be a mistake in his life.
He was just taking off the headphones on his head because he’s tired of pretending he’s listening to anything when a familiar happy shriek caught his attention. He turned his head just below the grandstand and saw Emiel on a tiny scooter flinging himself around and around. He was not wearing his typical clothes, no tiny red bull jacket, and a VCARB hat that bears Daniel’s number 3. Instead, the boy was dressed in a navy Tommy Hilfiger signature tape cardigan layered neatly over a crisp white shirt, tailored charcoal trousers cuffed perfectly above polished dark brown leather loafers, an outfit far too expensive for an eight-year-old child currently flinging himself in endless circles across the asphalt.
Daniel stared for half a second too long before realization settled in his chest. His mother was here, explaining the get-up and why Daniel hadn’t seen the kid that morning, not sneaking in Uncle Dany’s motorhome, not demanding Max or him to dress him in a Red Bull jacket and Uncle Danny’s hat. Whenever Max dressed Emiel, the kid looked like a normal child. Whenever his mother dressed him, he looked like old money wrapped in cashmere. And suddenly, the absence made sense.
“Papa, Papa, Dad, look!” Emiel shrieked. Clearly enjoying flinging himself, Daniel looked around for his mother, fearing for the kid; thankfully, he found only Max, kneeling, waiting to catch his son.
“You menace.” Max caught Emiel, grinning, and Daniel froze. Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how many times he’d seen Max tend to his own child, Daniel still struggled to reconcile the version of his best friend with the boy he used to know. This Max smiled easily. This Max looked rested. This Max carried fruit snacks in his Red Bull jacket pocket because Emiel is always hungry.
Emiel giggled wildly while Max peppered kisses across his cheeks. “Again!”
“You’re gonna let your mother kill me before even seeing you do that again,” Max muttered, and something in his eyes, Daniel couldn’t decipher whether it was affection or distance.
“Again, please. Mum wouldn’t know!” The insistence on Emiel’s voice made Daniel laugh loudly and forget what he’d seen in his best friend’s eyes. He should really be leaving the stand where they couldn’t see him, but his dumb body wouldn’t listen and stayed sitting in his place.
Before he knew it, both father and son looked up to where he was on the grandstand. Two pairs of turquoise eyes landed on him, and their entire face lit instantly. It’s uncanny how much they look alike, really.
“Danny!” Both called out, he couldn’t help but smile widely, and go down from the grandstand. He really needs to stay where he is, but his stupid heart couldn’t just do that to those two adorable faces.
Kelly Piquet owns all of that. He wasn’t jealous of her.
Emiel quickly raised both his arms towards the nearing Daniel, and when Daniel was close enough, he launched himself into Daniel’s arms at full speed. Max, almost dropping him.
“Uncle Danny, I need Milo again!” Emiel shouted, circling his arms around Daniel’s neck.
Daniel laughed once more and pressed Emiel against his chest. “I’ll give you some later, bud.”
Max rolled his eyes, snorting, “You spoil your godson too much, Danny.” His nickname for him would never fail to make Daniel's heart skip a beat. A nickname Emiel had learned to mimic since then. He longed to hear it again and again and again. And he hated himself for it.
Daniel adjusted Emiel higher against his chest. The eight-year-old is not getting any lighter, trying very hard to ignore the dangerous warmth curling beneath his ribs. “That’s literally my job description as godfather.”
“It’s not.”
“It absolutely is.”
“Pretty sure being a godfather doesn’t require supplying industrial amounts of Milo.”
“It does if the child has standards.”
Emiel nodded seriously in Daniel’s arms. “I do have standards.”
Max groaned under his breath. “You’re both impossible.”
God.
“It does if the child has standards.”
Emiel nodded seriously in Daniel’s arms. “I do have standards.”
Max groaned under his breath. “You’re both impossible.”
God. That voice. That fond exasperation. Daniel hated how familiar it was. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. Somewhere between becoming Max’s teammate, then his best friend, then the person Max trusted enough to make him godfather to his son, Daniel had ruined himself permanently. And the worst part? He would do it all over again. Every single time.
Daniel put Emiel down, and both he and Max watched his godson play with his scooter again, gone for a while, the perceptive eight-year-old who knows Daniel too much. Both stayed quiet, sitting at the curb and watching Emiel play with the four kids in Haas and everyone who passed the track.
And then Max broke their silence with a random fact about himself. “I never knew I could love someone as I do Em. He makes me happy. Really, truly happy.”
Daniel hummed, smiling lightly, trying to ignore the absence of a certain woman in that statement. How about Kelly? He wanted to ask but figured he might look too desperate if he did so. Too desperate for just a best friend. He hated Kelly, and there’s still a bitter part of him that still does, but it had never been Kelly’s fault, right?
There’s always a question buried in the back of his mind: regret—what if he had told Max the truth instead of leaving Red Bull? But fortunately, before his mouth opened, Max had diverted the topic again. And he didn’t know if he wanted it more or the latter.
“How about your contract?” Max had asked, and Daniel heard something in his voice, something that made his chest hurt a little. He couldn’t talk about this right now, not in the curb, not in front of his godson—nephew.
Daniel sighed, closing his eyes and looking ahead of him. “Not now, please.” And Max had respected that; the Dutchman stayed quiet, leaning against Daniel a little.
“Come to our house. Monday night, let’s have dinner, okay?”
Daniel’s heart ticked up in rhythm. Home… He had never stepped foot in Max’s Penthouse in Monaco since Max had married Kelly. Max stopped inviting him since then. Emiel wanted to hang out with Uncle Danny? Always in his Penthouse, not in their home. He’d understand, though, he knows Max knows that Daniel and Kelly had never really taken a liking to each other.
“Okay,” he agreed. He can do that.
…
When he arrived at Max’s doorstep at exactly seven o’clock on Monday night, his head was still buzzing from Max’s post-WDC celebration. He couldn’t fathom how they went straight home to Monaco from Abu Dhabi after that crazy celebration.
It was fun. He’d seen Max celebrate his fifth glorious title. Wishing it wouldn’t be his last watching the man celebrate a title. The title will surely happen again, but will he see Max celebrate it again? It’s unlikely that will happen; He has no contract. Red Bull and VCARB had made sure of that already.
He was not surprised when Kelly Piquet answered the door instead of Max. “Daniel,” she greeted cordially, but her tone did not cover the unease beneath the façade.
“Kelly,” he responded and stepped through, so she could close the door behind him. The air was filled with a rich aroma. Fresh basil, oil, garlic, and herbs. Homemade pesto pasta. Max remembered his favorite? Surely not, no? It might be a coincidence.
“Max’s in the kitchen,” Kelly said, and he followed her deeper into the penthouse. The place still carried a trace of familiarity— the polished marble floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Monaco’s harbor, the sleek architecture that had once looked more like a luxury showroom than somewhere a person actually lived. But the sharp edges of it had softened.
The penthouse no longer felt untouchable.
Back then, everything about Max’s home had mirrored him perfectly: controlled, immaculate, carefully curated down to the centimeter. He remembered walking through it years ago and feeling almost nervous to breathe too loudly, terrified he’d disturb the unnatural perfection of the place.
Now, it looked lived in.
A tiny pair of racing shoes sat abandoned near the entrance beside one of Max’s much larger ones. A child-sized raincoat hung crookedly from the coat rack, half slipping off the hook. Kelly stepped over a scattered line of toy Formula 1 cars without even looking down, which told him this was hardly an unusual occurrence anymore.
The changes became more obvious the deeper he went.
The low cabinets in the kitchen had soft safety latches attached to them. The corners of the marble island were covered with foam guards that clashed horribly against the expensive interior. The giant double-door refrigerator, which he distinctly remembered once being completely bare except for bottled water and energy drinks, was now crowded with messy drawings, alphabet magnets, and a photo of Max holding a grinning little boy in the paddock.
Emiel.
Even the living room had surrendered.
A small navy backpack was tossed carelessly beside the couch. Coloring books were stacked beneath the coffee table alongside racing magazines. Draped over the back of the sofa was a child-sized Red Bull blanket; beneath it, what seemed like a cap with number three on it, clearly Emiel’s, and he thinks maybe Kelly had forgotten to throw it away.
Daniel stared at it all quietly.
The penthouse still belonged to Max Verstappen.
But it no longer revolved around only him.
As Daniel looked around, Emiel went on barreling into him, laughing joyously. “Uncle Danny, you’re here, finally!”
“Hey there, menace.” Daniel greeted, pinching his nephew’s cheeks and giving him the paper bag he almost forgot, full of packs of Milo. Emiel smiled brightly, pecking him on his cheeks in lieu of a thank you, and ran to the couch.
“Danny, finally,” Max greeted. “I made Emiel and your favorite.” He smiled, and that made Daniel’s heart skip a beat again. So, he remembered.
Why did it feel like Kelly had shot him a pointed look, or maybe she was just checking on Emiel in the living room? They were in the same direction.
“Smells wonderful, Maxy,” was all he could master, and he heard Kelly’s small scoff. That, that was deliberate, he knows, just by how Max threw Kelly a look.
“All right, before we eat, why not let’s retrieve your books first in the study, Em?” Max stated, clapping his hands and leading Emiel towards the library.
“He’s happy you’re here, you know. Winning the championship and you being here after,” Kelly said without looking up from the pasta she was dishing out into a serving bowl.
“That makes one of you, it seems.”
“Can you blame me?” She felt threatened by the tone of it. Daniel, just hope Max and Emiel are not hearing them. “Your contract situation was hanging by a thread; Max had been restless for weeks because of it. Inviting you and all of that.” Daniel paused, not because of the sting from the topic of his not having a seat being brought up. But by the knowledge that Max is restless because of it. Explaining his question at the curb last Friday.
Daniel was forced to swallow the lump in his throat. “Why do you sound like you are threatened when, in fact, nothing’s to be threatened?”
Kelly hissed for him to be quiet. She took a deep breath. “It’s clear you still have feelings for him, Daniel.” That did not shock Daniel; he knew Kelly knew, hence them, not liking each other. “And then Emiel. Emiel adored you, Daniel. Not normal godfather affection. No. My son lit up around you in ways I had never seen before.”
Daniel frowned. What the fuck is wrong with his godson loving him? Why the heck does Kelly seem like she does not fucking trust her child with him? Why the heck does she not trust her own husband? What kind of fucked up thinking is this? God, he values Max and his feelings; that’s why he never confessed. Guess that wasn’t enough for the wife.
Before Daniel could reply, they heard the door from the study open and close, and he swallowed the dread once more.
…
Dinner was unbearable. Kelly would always throw him a glance. Emiel spent the entire meal talking about Uncle Daniel. Daniel this. Daniel that. Meanwhile, Max listened with fond amusement, occasionally adding stories of his own.
Then came the cleaning of Emiel. The eight-year-old really knows how to take a bath by himself, but he wants Uncle Daniel to accompany him, and Daniel took the opportunity just to be away from Kelly’s piercing gaze.
He closed the door of the bathroom behind them and sat on the stool just near the shower. Emiel stepped into the glass door of the shower, and Daniel took the remote hanging by the bathroom door and switched the shower room from transparent to opaque.
Silence filled the room, and only the water coming out of the showerhead was heard. Daniel fiddled with his hands, thinking about how this night had gone. He should really have said no to Max last Friday. Being here is a bad idea.
“Papa smiles more with you, Uncle Danny.” Daniel flinched at the sudden voice of the kid behind the glass and realized why Emiel wanted him to be here.
His perceptive nephew, who knows everything about him, is back, ready to confront him. “What?”
Daniel looked horrified, wishing Emiel’s voice were not loud enough to be heard outside. But the child continued with brutal honesty, only a perceptive eight-year-old like him possessed. “Papa smiles at Mama like media smile. But he smiles at you like a real smile, and stares at you like no one is around.”
Surely this kid is just blabbering, no? Daniel is frozen in the stool. “Em…” he warned.
“‘Em’ from Emilian ‘Iel’ from Uncle Daniel.” Daniel looked up fast, wishing Max was here to confirm it, his head spinning, heart hammering. “I knew even before Mum had told me after I heard them fight.”
Their son carried pieces of him in his name. Not hers. And Emiel had known that. Daniel blinked hard. Maybe that’s why Kelly felt more threatened. Gosh. What the fuck.
“Uncle Danny?”
“Y-yes, mate?” Daniel croaked. The shower was turned off now.
“Remember when I told you that Dad doesn’t know about your feelings in Australia?”
“Yeah?”
“I might be wrong.”
“W-what!?” Daniel’s voice rose a little, panicking. Why the fuck is he panicking, though? He’s not doing anything wrong.
“That’s why I keep on insisting that you follow your own advice to me, right? I know more than what I am speaking, uncle.”
Daniel stared at the opaque glass once again. He’d been…stuck. For a long time, he believed what he’d thought was one-sided, but surely he’s right, no? Max was so in love; he’s been with Kelly for so many years. Maybe this time, his godson is wrong. He wants to go to Max and confirmed it, but the voices in his thoughts shouted no. Nothing is to be confirmed. Max is happy, and Daniel came here for the Dinner his best friend wants to share with him, not for something unguaranteed. Never guaranteed.
He knows he will always love Max. Will always see him as the person who taught him what bravery and love are. And maybe he’d been wrong about what he told Emiel before, that the bravest thing one can do was to stop running.
No. He’d been wrong to tell Emiel that.
But there is courage in leaving, too. In loving someone deeply and still refusing to become the reason their world collapses. In choosing distance, not because the feelings disappeared, but because they never did. Sometimes the smart thing—the kind thing, is to keep driving. To know when you’ve already lost position. To know someone else crossed the finish line beside him. And to keep from moving anyway, even if every instinct begs you to turn back around.
Maybe running isn’t cowardice after all.
The glass door opened suddenly, and Emiel stood there now wrapped in a towel and looking like he begged to differ against Daniel's thought. Looking like someone still standing beside the belief Daniel told him before all of these.
“I’m not telling you this just because I want to. I’m telling you this because I’m seeing the three most important adults in my life suffering from something that could be fixed by an obvious answer that’s already right in front of them.”
The little boy stared at him, and he thought, How come someone as small and as young as this child is full of wisdom. How come an eight-year-old boy could bear the complexities of adult emotions way more than the people beyond his years?
Daniel felt Emiel hug his neck and buried himself in Daniel’s embrace. “Stop driving in circles when the racing line is literally right there in front of you, Uncle Danny.” The kid’s voice is muffled, and Daniel did not notice the tears that had been silently rolling down his cheeks.
Oh, this boy…
Daniel buried his face in Emiel’s wet hair. How funny that an adult is leaning into an anchor, not even at half his life.
He’s crying, and he doesn’t know why. Maybe because the cruelest part wasn’t him falling and loving his best friend. Maybe it was realizing from the perceptive, full-of-wisdom of a child, some broken, hidden part of Max might love him back all along.