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He's been waiting a long time for this. Thirty-four years, in fact. And somehow he doesn't want the moment to come, because he doesn't know what'll come after.
He crosses the finish line in first. The grandstands explode in a flurry of cheers, and then they are obscured behind a thick cloud of blue smoke. All he can see is blue. He's not sure if he's crying because of the gas irritating his eyes, or because he just won a World Championship.
Someone screams on the radio. He screams back, his mind in an entirely different place. He parks his car behind the Number 1 board, and he returns to his own skin. He can deal with what'll come after, after. After all of this.
He leaps out of his car, and stands on the halo, and for a moment sunlight slips through him like he's not real, and ricochets through his body like a diamond. He jumps off rather clumsily, and is attacked by a hug.
It's Max, of course. The funny part is, Max is crying. He's screaming. He's doing everything Daniel thought he'd do. Everyone else rushes up at them, and soon he's surrounded by hugs at every angle. A hug that's twenty people thick. Pink and blue.
They eventually back off. Half of them are crying. Hell, he's not stopped crying either. He gets weighed, takes off his helmet and buries his face in a towel for two minutes. His eyes are still red when he's done. He is barely coherent in the Post-race interview, but neither is the interviewer. Someone throws his phone at him, and his family is on video call, crying their hearts out.
He gets to the cooldown room, and Max is right by him, with a steady stream of "holy shit" muttered under his breath. Lewis gives him an understanding smile. Nothing is like your first Championship, or your last one. He knows both.
It's the podium that helps it finally sink in. It's something else, seeing the crowds and crowds of people shrouded in pink and blue gas, all chanting his name like a prayer. He breaks down during the national anthem, and cries into his hands for the rest of it. It doesn't matter. Everyone's crying with him.
Sticky, cool sprays of champagne pour onto him before he knows it, before he's even popped open his own bottle. He loosens his shoe. The crowd goes wild. One last shoey.
It's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. Not even Max and Lewis make faces when they gulp it down, champagne trickling through their wet race suits. He drinks another, just for the heck of it. He forces the Alpine representative to drink one. He throws his shoes off to the screaming mechanics below. He's Icarus, on cloud nine, getting closer and closer.
He celebrates with the team, screaming himself hoarse. They go out for drinks, and he doesn't remember the end of that night. He's pretty sure there are crazy clips of him on the Internet. He wakes up the next morning, still in a warm glow, and sobers up when he realises what comes next.
It's alright. He'd signed up for this, anyway.
He'd won the championship with one race left. He goes through training, with Michael and him breaking into giggles every ten minutes. He gives a few interviews, cries in all of them. He's the loudest in Thursday's media duties. He's a burning star.
He didn't have to, but he gets pole position on Saturday. He waves until his hands tire during the Driver's Parade. Max stands next to him, and it's like they're six years in the past. Everything's alright again.Their hands brush against each other. Daniel grins and takes a leap, and holds it. In front of the world, in the Middle East, on a truck going around the circuit slowly for everyone to see.
Max gazes at him in wonder. "You are..." "Crazy, I know," Daniel winks. Max doesn't let go. Neither does Daniel. Daniel tells the interviewer that Max is his lucky charm. Everyone laughs it off.
He goes through his usual playlist before the race, sitting all by himself. This time, Max sits beside him, not saying a word. It's almost like he knows.
The mechanics bustle around the car, and it's a normal race, except for the way they erupt into raucous laughter over a tyre going missing, instead of tense whispers. His race engineer, Tom, gives him a thumbs up. He doesn't give it back, but hopes his smile is visible through the helmet.
And then the track is empty but for the cars. He knows they're not supposed to use the radio during the formation lap, but he switches it on for a brief moment. "Thanks, guys," is all he says, and then he's in position, with the circuit stretching ahead of him for miles and miles.
And then it's time. One, two, three, four, five. The lights go out, and he knows he can't be saved. He can see it before it happens. Familiar laughter rings in his ears. He'd been warned, after all.
In his mirrors, he sees Max right behind him, already in second from his starting position of fourth. His blood runs cold. Not Max. Not him, please. It's almost like poetry.
It happens at the hairpin. Max's brakes fail, and he's too close to Daniel, and too fast, and not fast enough. Daniel braces. And then he knows nothing at all.