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Chapter Text

“George, how does it feel to be driving a Williams when your rookie peers are in much superior cars?”

The words land like a slap. Sharp and deliberate, cutting through the usual noise of the media pen. No one has ever asked him that outright before, not like this, not in a way that leaves no room to sidestep it. It’s always been there, the elephant in the room, the thing everyone knows but never says out loud. This reporter though, he doesn't hesitate. He bulldozes right through, like he’s been waiting for this moment, waiting to see what George will do when faced with something he can’t deflect.

George knows the answer. He’s known it since the day he signed the Williams contract. He doesn’t have Red Bull backing him like Alex. He doesn’t have a billionaire dad like Lando. He won the F2 championship, dominated it, yet here he is, stuck at the back of the grid in a car that isn’t capable of much more than survival. He should be fighting at the front, battling the same people he beat in junior formulas, proving himself. Instead, he’s stuck in what feels like a waiting room, hoping an opportunity comes before his time runs out.

Still, he won’t let them see the cracks. He forces a laugh, light and easy, even as something tightens in his chest. “Just my luck, I guess.”

The reporter doesn’t drop it. “Really? No hard feelings toward your mates?”

Of course. That’s what this is about. They want a headline, something that can be twisted into resentment, something that can be blown out of proportion. They want him to slip, to say something bitter, to make it sound like he’s jealous or angry. But he won’t. He knows how this works. He’s George Russell. He’s calm, composed, media-trained to the bone. They want to see how long that lasts.

A hundred replies spin through his head. A practiced shrug. A rehearsed joke. Something neutral, maybe even self-deprecating. Keep it light, George. Keep it clean. Say what they expect.

He opens his mouth— and stops. Because whatever comes out next, they’ll run with it. Twist it. “George Russell: Bitter. Envious. Cracking.”

Before he can figure out another carefully neutral response, a voice cuts in.

“Oh, fuck off.”

The tone is flat, firm, completely unamused.

Max.

He doesn’t look at the reporter, doesn’t entertain the question, doesn’t even offer an explanation. He just places a hand on George’s shoulder— not rough, just enough pressure to steer him away, a silent you don’t have to deal with this shit. The reporter barely has time to react before they’re moving, away from the flashing lights and the hungry mics waiting for George to slip up.

“I don’t know how you feel,” Max says when they’re clear of the crowd, voice low but steady, “but that was a shitty question.”

And just like that, he’s gone. No further comment, no need for gratitude, just Max being Max. Direct, decisive, the kind of person who doesn’t waste time explaining things that don’t need to be explained.

George exhales, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding easing slightly. He mutters a quiet “Thanks, mate,” mostly to himself, but he knows Max heard him.

George knows how he feels about being in Williams. Knows how much it eats at him, how much he wants to be fighting where he belongs. But those emotions? They stay locked away.

For now, at least, the PR nightmare is avoided.

Chapter Text

George is pretty. He knows it, hears it often enough, and he doesn’t particularly care. Tall, slender, chiseled face, sharp cheekbones, lashes too long for a guy— he’s used to the comments. Women and men alike have called him pretty, his own F2 mechanics used to jokingly call him Princess, and he had just learned to take it in stride. It doesn’t bother him. He knows who he is.

It’s the night after the Monaco Grand Prix, and he’s on a private yacht, at a party he barely remembers agreeing to attend. The music is pounding, the air thick with the mingling scents of perfume, alcohol, and saltwater. It’s the kind of party where time slips away from you too easily, where the champagne never stops flowing, and where you don’t quite realize how drunk you are until you stand up and the world tilts beneath you.

Maybe he should have paced himself. Maybe he should have eaten more. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to drink away the frustration of finishing P14 in a car that couldn’t do much more. But he had, and now here he is, leaning against the railing, trying to blink the dizziness away.

Somewhere along the way, a guy started hovering around him, too close, hand resting on his lower back in a way that felt too familiar for someone George doesn’t even know. At first, he didn’t think much of it, typical drunken party behavior, nothing he hasn’t seen before. But then, the hand lingers and the grip tightens. The touches start feeling more like possession than casual flirtation.

He tries to move away, but he’s unsteady, sluggish. He tries to say something but his words are slow, slurred. He’s pissed drunk, and he knows it.

“No, no no no…” he mutters, trying to pull away, but his body isn’t cooperating, and the guy either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care.

Then, another voice cuts through, firm and final.

“He said no, mate.”

The tone is sharp and unmistakable, the kind that doesn’t invite argument. A moment later, George feels the guy’s hand disappear from his waist, as if burned. There’s a presence next to him now, solid, steady and familiar in a way that his spinning brain barely manages to register. A scent he recognizes, a voice he knows.

Max.

George barely has time to process what’s happening before his balance completely gives out. He’s aware of himself stumbling, of gravity pulling him down, and Max catching him before he hits the deck.

Everything after that is a blur.

The next morning, George wakes up in the familiar comfort of his own hotel room, safe and alone, with the worst hangover of his life pounding against his skull. His mouth is dry, his head feels like it’s been run over by a lorry, and his stomach turns in protest the moment he tries to sit up. But beyond all of that, there’s something else. A lingering memory.

George groans again, dragging a hand down his face. He fumbles for his phone on the bedside table, eyes barely open.

One new text.

Max Verstappen
You're lucky you're pretty, princess.
Don’t make me babysit you again.

George stares at the screen for a beat, then huffs a laugh, a dry and scratchy one, but a laugh nonetheless.

Of course.

No soft sentiment. No drawn-out concern. Just Max being Max, teasing just enough to let him know he saw everything, handled everything, and doesn’t need a thank you.

Still, George types.

George Russell
Didn’t ask you to, mate.
...Thanks anyway.

Three dots. Pause. Then nothing.

Classic Max.

Chapter Text

Hot. Humid. Blinding lights.

Singapore is unforgiving.

The air still hung thick with lingering engine fumes and the bass of distant music throbbing through the paddock walls. The Singapore Grand Prix had ended hours ago, but its weight hadn’t lifted. It sat heavy on George’s shoulders like a weighted blanket.

He was driving for Mercedes now. Mercedes. And he’d just finished P17.

One of his worst results of the season, and on a night that was supposed to mean something. Petronas logos had been everywhere. Billboards, bridges, barriers. This was the home race for their biggest sponsor. He should’ve shown up. Should’ve been fighting at the front. Instead, the race had slipped through his fingers, and he had nothing to show for it.

This was supposed to be his moment.

His first season with Mercedes, the team he’d watched dominate from the back of the grid for three straight years. He’d waited. Patient, poised, painfully ready, only to step into the seat after the music stopped. After the ground effect regs reshuffled the deck and left Mercedes clawing their way back to relevance.

He tried to be rational. It wasn’t personal. Everyone was struggling. But the weight of expectation didn’t care about new regulations or zero-pods concept flaws. It just pressed harder.

And now, standing alone in a dimly lit corner of the paddock, the silence gnawed at him. He kept replaying the race in his head. Every mistake, every missed apex, every could’ve-been overtake that wasn’t. His race engineer, Riki, had told him to let it go. The numbers were what they were. But he couldn’t stop spiraling. Not when this was what he’d waited his whole career for.

He needed to get out of the garage, away from data screens and sympathetic eyes.

So he walked.

The humid night wrapped around him like a wet slop as he drifted through the paddock, past empty garages and lingering staff and clean-up crew. He didn’t know where he was going until he ended up at the far end, across from the Red Bull motorhome.

It was still buzzing. Loud music, clinking bottles, laughter spilling out onto the asphalt. They had reason to celebrate. Checo had taken the win, with Max probably on the podium and the whole crew was drunk on it.

George didn’t move. Just stood there, watching through the open doorway, half-shadowed by the night.

Maybe it was the envy. Not of Checo, exactly, but of the ease in the Red Bull camp, their lightness, their confidence, the certainty that the car beneath them could deliver.

Or maybe he just wanted to remember what joy looked like.

Then—

“You know you’re allowed to just go home.”

The voice cut through the night, low, dry, unmistakably Max.

George turned to find him slouched in one of the outdoor chairs, legs stretched out like he had nothing to prove. His phone was in his hand, screen casting a soft glow across his face. He didn’t look up.

“You're really out here alone at your team's victory party?” George asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Max shrugged. “Not my kind of party.”

There was a beat. Then George chuckled, bitter and soft. “Figures.”

Max looked up then, one brow raised, sharp eyes catching the tension George had been dragging behind him all night.

“You gonna keep torturing yourself, or just call it a night?”

George exhaled, slow and heavy. “Kinda hard to switch it off.”

“I know.” Max’s voice dropped just a fraction. “But I also know it won’t help. Race is over. You did what you could.”

George studied him. Max wasn’t offering platitudes. Wasn’t saying you’ll bounce back or it wasn’t your fault. He just looked at him like someone who’d been there, really been there, and knew that the worst thing you could do was let it eat you alive.

“Trust me,” Max added, eyes flicking back to his screen, “I tried caring too much once. It sucked.”

And that was it. No more wisdom, no dramatic pep talk. Just Max, grounded and blunt, like always.

But somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

George let his shoulders drop. The noise from the Red Bull garage faded to background hum. He didn’t need to go back to the Mercedes garage. Didn’t need to fake a smile or explain himself.

Maybe he could just go home.

“Thanks,” he said, quiet but genuine.

Max didn’t respond. Just gave a lazy wave without looking up.

George walked away after that, the air still thick around him, the weight still lingering, but lighter now. Manageable.

Chapter Text

The bar in downtown Austin was loud. Neon signs buzzing, football blaring on the TVs, and cowboy hats bobbing through a haze of beer. It was very American, George thought absently. Bulls on the walls, drinks served out of barrels, the distant scent of something deep-fried clinging to the air.

COTA race weekend had ended like most others this season. Max won. No surprise there. Mercedes had scraped what they could. P6 and P7. Pathetic. 

George nursed his third drink of the night, shoulders tense as the bar around him pulsed with energy. Williams had just pulled off a double points finish, and the post-race excitement was thick, drivers, crew, press, everyone glowing with alcohol and adrenaline.

His eyes hadn’t left the dance floor for the last ten minutes.

Alex was out there.

Of course he was.

Sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, a beer bottle still loosely gripped in one hand, and a smile stretched wide across his tan face. He was dancing albeit badly, but joyfully, with a kind of looseness George had only ever seen in fleeting, private moments. Beside him, Lily matched his energy step for step, laughing, glowing, one hand constantly pulling Alex back toward her when he got too far.

They looked good together.

Right George?

George watched with a hollow chest and a pulse in his throat.

It should have been sweet. It should have made him happy, his best friend, the person he’d idolized since karting, living his best life. But all it did was twist something inside him. Something tight. Something ugly.

He knew it was pathetic. He knew.

He loves her, George reminded himself. He told you, more than once.

“I think I’d marry her someday, George.”
“She gets me in a way no one else does.”
“I love her, man. I really do.”

Every time he had said it, George had smiled. He’d nodded, said I’m happy for you, mate. And he’d meant it. Sort of.

He took another sip, sharp and fast.

The lights spun across the dance floor in bursts of blue and pink, painting Alex and Lily in neon flashes, and George hated how badly he wanted to be in her place. Just one song. Just one look like that. He flinched when Lily cupped Alex’s face and kissed him, deep and playful and completely normal.

George looked away.

And drank

A tap on the shoulder. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. “Need some company?”

George glanced back, glass already halfway to his mouth.

Max Verstappen.

Of course.

George gestured vaguely toward the empty bar stool beside him. “By all means.”

Max sat, offered a small smile. “Congratulations on the points.”

George snorted. “Congratulations on the win. Why aren’t you off somewhere celebrating like a maniac?”

Max shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“Tch. Must be nice,” George muttered, swirling the ice in his glass. “To have a nice car.”

Max didn’t rise to it. Just followed George’s gaze to the dance floor. Alex and Lily. Spinning. Laughing.

Max’s expression shifted, subtle but knowing. “Ah,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Must be hard.”

George’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it like you understand.”

Max silently answered. “But I do.”

George winced like that was worse. Like being understood might undo him more than being ignored. The silence between them heavy, dense. Max flagged the bartender. “Two Negronis.”

George blinked. “Seriously?”

Max didn’t look at him. “You’ll live.”

George took one sip and nearly winced. The first sip burned. The second went down easier.

​​“It tastes like regret,” George mutters.

“Exactly,” Max grins. “Fitting, isn’t it?”

By the third, George’s shoulders had lowered, maybe just a little. Max shot a subtle glance towards the dance floor.

“Fuck it.” He muttered while pushing his chair back and stood. Holding out his hand.

“Come on,” he said, voice hoarse but certain. “Let’s dance.”

George looked at the hand like it was the edge of a cliff. Like saying yes meant falling.

His heart still hurt, but it wasn’t the gaping wound it had been a while ago. Like somehow, Max’s presence filled in the empty spaces just enough.

He let out a breath, low and shaky. “Lead the way.”

And thus under the blinking lights of some overly patriotic Texas bar, George let himself be led, not towards love, maybe, but towards something a little warmer than heartbreak.

***

George didn’t remember how long they danced.

Just that the lights were low, the drinks kept coming, and at some point, Max’s hands found their way to his waist and stayed there.

Not in a possessive way. Not even in a flirtatious one, really. Just… steady. Warm. Just there.

George didn’t say much. Neither did Max. But their silences weren’t awkward. They were tired. The kind of tiredness that comes with late nights and long seasons and hearts a little too full of things they shouldn’t feel.

Eventually, when the music dulled and the crowd thinned, Max leaned in, voice low, right by George’s ear.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

George didn’t question it. Just nodded.

They walked back to the hotel with jackets slung over shoulders and breath fogging slightly in the night. Neither of them was drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges.

George’s room was higher. Max came up with him anyway.

It was quiet, a gentle hush settling between them as George flicked on the lamp. The room glowed gold, soft shadows stretching across the floor. The minibar hummed faintly. George kicked off his shoes.

Max dropped onto the edge of the bed like he owned the place. George didn’t stop him.

“You good?” Max asked after a minute.

George leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah.”

Max raised an eyebrow.

George exhaled. “No.”

Silence.

He sighs, “I keep thinking if I were faster, maybe he would’ve chosen me.”

Max didn’t ask who he meant.

George continued, words tumbling out like they’d been waiting.

“I had this stupid fantasy. That once I got to Mercedes, I’d be where he could see me, really see me. Like he’d suddenly realize I was worth choosing. Except... he already chose. And it wasn’t me.”

He didn’t look at Max as he said it. Just stared down at his hands. His fingers were trembling.

Max stood. Walked over. Quietly took one of George’s hands and held it between his own.

“You are worth choosing,” he said.

George looked up.

And the way Max was looking at him, it was direct, steady, something almost tender underneath that familiar stubbornness that made George’s throat close up.

“You really think so?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

Max’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “I know so.”

George didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But when Max gently tugged him forward, he followed. Let himself be pulled in. Slowly, carefully, like they both knew this wasn’t about fixing anything.

Just sharing the weight.

George didn’t expect a kiss. And Max didn’t give him one.

Not tonight.

Instead, Max just pulled the duvet back and climbed in, patting the space beside him. George hesitated. Then joined him.

They lay there, not touching, just close enough for their arms to brush.

George let his eyes flutter shut.

And for the first time in a long time, his heart didn’t ache.

Not entirely.

Chapter Text

“You always leave your socks everywhere,” George muttered, scooping up a pair of dirty white ones from under the armchair and tossing them into the laundry basket with slight annoyance.

Max was sprawled out on the bed, eyes glued to his phone as he tapped away at some racing game. “And yet,” he said without looking up, “you keep letting me.”

George sighed, arms crossed. “Lords, why do I even put up with you?”

Max rolled onto his stomach, grinning into the pillow. “Because you like it.”

George didn’t dignify that with an answer. He just shook his head and made a point of straightening the edge of the duvet Max had kicked loose.

Mexico and Brazil had been a blur. After COTA, something had shifted. Not all at once. Not out loud. But it was there, unspoken. Lingering. Like two planets slipping into a closer orbit.

They started spending more time near each other, naturally, as if they always had. But always discreet. Playing padel at the same training center, but never on the same team. Eating at the next table over. Standing side by side during the national anthems before a race. Just… close. They didn’t touch. Barely spoke when others were around. But George could feel Max. He could feel him close every time. Intentional, but not enough to raise eyebrows.

Well...  maybe it did raise a few eyebrows. Maybe that was the point.

There was something there, obviously. But none of them dared to call it what it was. No labels. No definitions. Were they together? Were they not? 

George didn’t know.

And Max never asked.

Now here they were, in Max’s penthouse suite. Somewhere high above São Paulo. Quiet. Safe. Far from the prying and hungry eyes.

The Brazilian Grand Prix was three days ago. It had rained. The race was a mess. But Max, Max was terrifying in the rain. A masterclass, they’d said. George could only manage a P4 after a strategy call that didn't go his way.

He looked towards the bed, the man responsible for that ridiculous drive, currently playing a mobile game like he hadn’t just dominated an entire field in a storm.

George frowned. “Are you seriously going to bed rot all day?”

Max didn’t even glance up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

George tossed a pillow at him. “You haven’t moved in hours.”

Max caught the pillow, finally looking up, smirking. “Why would I move when I have you doing all my laundry?”

George snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

Max tossed the pillow back half-heartedly. “You love it.”

George stared at him. Just for a second too long. Long enough for Max to notice his smile faltering, even just a tiny bit.

Max’s fingers stilled on his screen. And for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the soft pitter patter of the rain against the window. Like a breath caught in the air.

George turned away first, gathering more clothes Max had left scattered across the room. He needed to move. He needed to do something. Because if he sat still in this silence, he’s afraid he would let himself ask what are we? and he wasn’t sure he could take it if Max didn’t have an answer.

Max watched him. Jaw tight. He didn’t know what this was either. But he knew it wasn’t nothing.

Suddenly, George’s phone buzzed. He checked it, thumb hovering before unlocking the screen. Whatever he read made him crack a grin.

Max glanced over. “Who’s got you all smiling?”

“Lando,” George replied curtly, still typing. “Invited me to play padel with him and Oscar.”

“Mm,” Max hummed, eyes drifting back to his phone. “So you’re going?”

“We are.”

Max didn’t look up. “We?”

George shrugged. “Yeah. You’re coming too.”

Max paused his game. “He asked you.”

George slipped his phone into his pocket. “And I’m dragging you. Simple as that.”

“You’re not letting me rot in peace?”

“Absolutely not.”

A pause.

Max looked at him again, slower this time, his eyes lifting from his screen. Softer. A little curious. “You do that a lot.”

George frowned. “Do what?”

“Just…” Max’s gaze lingered, something unreadable flickering behind it. “Decide we’re doing things.”

George’s smile twitched at the corners. “You usually don’t complain—”

“I’m not complaining,” Max interrupted, voice quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean I get it.”

George tilted his head slightly. “Get what?”

Max hesitated. “This. Us.”

George held his gaze. Still. Still. 

The air in the room felt thinner. Maybe it was the altitude. Maybe not. Of course not.

“And you think I do?” George said, after a beat. His voice was even, but the line of his jaw was set.

Max swallowed. Nodded. “Right.”

George turned, heading for the door. He paused in the doorway, still not looking back.

“I’ll be downstairs in ten.”

Then he was gone.

Max sat at the edge of the bed, phone dimming in his hand. He didn’t know what this was. And Max Verstappen did not like not knowing. But he knew it mattered. And that scared him more than anything else.

***

Three volleys in, George tripped over his own feet trying to avoid Max’s aggressive forehand.

“I’m sorry, but are you actively trying to kill me?” he asked, sprawled on the court.

“You were in my space,” Max said, offering a hand with an infuriating grin.

“This is a doubles game,” George snapped. “We share the space!”

“Not when I’m serving,” Max replied while pulling the him up.

Lando was doubled over laughing. “This is the most toxic doubles pairing I’ve ever seen.”

“Bold of you to assume we’re a pairing,” George muttered, under his breath.

Max pretended not to hear that.

Oscar, meanwhile, launched a ball into the stratosphere along his racquet.

“I’m sorry,” he declared, hands up. “I do not thrive under emotional distress.”

***

On the ride back to the hotel, Oscar kept his eyes on the road while Lando rattled on.

“Mate, what was that ? There’s definitely something going on. Max and George? Are you kidding me? They’d tell me. Right? I mean, I'm their friend. I’ve been around forever. Karting with George, junior series with Max. I’ve literally seen them at their worst haircuts, mate. I cannot believe this.”

Oscar smiled, calm as ever. “You know, I saw them together after Mexico.”

Lando froze. “What?! ”

Chapter Text

The night came alive in Sin City.

Lights shimmered across the Vegas Strip like diamonds scattered over black velvet, dazzling, blinding. The paddock was packed with chaos, movement, and celebration. And yet, in the middle of it all, one man stood out. One man shone brighter than the neon skyline.

His fireproofs hung loose around his waist, bottle in hand, and a grin graced his face, sharp and effortless. 

George Russell had just won the Las Vegas Grand Prix. Now he stood atop the podium, tall and proud, bathed in spotlights and glory. Below, a sea of people surged and cheered. His gaze swept over them, searching.

He found Toto first. Their eyes met, and for once, the pride there, the quiet, guarded admiration was meant for him. The others came into focus, Gwen, Marcus, Anthony, Aleix… familiar faces, and more importantly, loyal friends. They were all here.

And then the music started. God Save the King.

A lump caught in George’s throat. Emotion swelled behind his ribs, pressing out in waves too big to ignore. He didn’t fight it. He never did. Unlike some of the others, George had always embraced his feelings, wore his heart where people could see it. Being open wasn’t a weakness. So he teared up, just a little. Not enough to make headlines. But if you looked closely, you’d see it, shining in his eyes, softening the sharp edges of his smile.

The anthem ended. The champagne flew. And before he could react, Lewis had already uncorked his bottle and soaked him in it. George laughed, savoring the moment. He didn’t want to let it slip away. This might be the last time they shared a podium. 

The walk back to the Mercedes hospitality was a blur of hugs and cheers. People spilled out of every corner of the paddock. Team members were packing up, camera crews filming, fans calling out his name, thrusting caps and phones in his direction. He stopped for each one of them. Signed each cap. Smiled for every photo.

Inside the hospitality, the German-based team was celebrating like they’d won the championship. Spirits were high and hearts full. And for the first time since the announcement, Lewis’s impending departure didn’t ache quite as much.

George’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The name on the screen made his breath hitch, just slightly.

Max Verstappen

Congratulations. It was very well-deserved.

A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it. Not the wide one all evening. This one was quieter. Private. He typed back, fingers moving quickly and instinctively.

Thank you.

George’s phone buzzed again. Still in his hand.

Another message from Max.

Come find me later. I’m still in Vegas.

Thought maybe we could celebrate properly. Just us.

The noise of the Mercedes party stilled around him, all shimmer and sound.  The message was sharp. Clear. A direct hit to the part of him that had spent the last few weeks pretending he didn’t want more than padel games and secret rendezvous up in hotel rooms.

He read the message again. Then again.

Where?   he typed a few minutes later, trying to seem casual. It didn’t land that way, more desperate really.

Ding.

My suite. I’ll send the address. 

He locked his phone, slid it back into his pocket, and forced himself to smile when Lewis clinked glasses with him for the third time. Forced himself to nod through another congratulations, to answer another interview. But he wasn’t really there anymore. He was already halfway across the Strip. High up in some penthouse suite. With Max.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because no matter how far he ran from defining it, George always knew exactly where he’d end up when the lights went down.

***

George didn’t go straight to the suite.

He waited. Played the part. Let them pour him another glass of champagne. Let Toto hug him a little longer. Laughed when Lewis called him Champ and reminded him he owed the engineers and mechanics pizzas and chicken curry for the rest of the year.

But eventually, he slipped out. Jacket up. Head down. The Strip quietened down around him, but still, glittering and loud.

He found the building without much trouble. It was grand, you couldn't miss it even if you tried. The suite was on the top floor, of course. Max didn’t do things halfway.

When George knocked, the door opened almost immediately. Max stood there in a navy hoodie and his classic tight jeans, hair still damp from the shower, face lit only by the golden glow spilling out behind him. He could smell the newly applied cologne.

“I thought this was a quiet night in,” George said, toeing off his shoes. “Celebrating properly, you said.”

Max’s mouth twitched. “Change of plans.”

George frowned, about to ask what that meant when Max tossed something at him.

A ball cap. Jeans. Oversized hoodie. Sunglasses.

George caught them mid-air, brow lifting. “You’re kidding.”

Max just shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “We’re going out.”

“In Vegas ?”

Max looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t worry. I know a place where no one’s going to be looking for two Formula One drivers tonight. And they won’t recognize you, you never wear jeans.”

George stared at the cap in his hand. “Heavens Max, this is… this is so reckless.”

Max stepped closer, just enough that George could smell his cologne, sharp and tempting. “Maybe. But don’t you want to be someone else for a night?”

George laughed softly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Max leaned in, voice low. “You coming or not?”

George hesitated.
Would he fold? Who was he kidding, of course he would. He always does when it comes to Max.

He pulled the hoodie over his head.

Max smiled.

***

They slipped out of the hotel through a side entrance. George couldn’t tell if Max had planned the route or if it was muscle memory, but he navigated the shadows like someone who had done this before. It felt thrilling, illicit. Like a secret carved out in neon, night air just for the two of them.

They ended up at a hidden bar just off the Strip. Not loud, not flashy. Dim lighting, red velvet booths, a small, not so packed, dancefloor in the center. The bartender gave Max a subtle nod, like they were friends. Because of course they were.

They ordered drinks, gin tonic for Max, vodka for George, and they settled into a booth somewhere the light couldn’t quite reach.

“You’re still grinning,” Max said, somewhere around George’s third drink.

George wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just won the fucking Las Vegas Grand Prix. I think I’m allowed to grin, mate.”

Max smirked. “Fair.”

A quiet settled between them. Not awkward, just… there. In the background, glasses clinked and soft jazz played, and the world continued on.

George tilted his glass, watching the liquid swirl. “You didn’t have to do this for me, you know.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

Max looked at him. “I wanted to.”

George’s chest ached with something sharp. He downed the rest of his drink.

By the time they stumbled out of the bar, George’s cheeks were flushed red and Max was laughing at something neither of them could remember ten seconds later.

“Okay,” George said, nearly tripping on the curb. “This is probably a bad idea.”

“You’re right,” Max replied, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s make it worse.”

George laughed, loud and unfiltered, and let himself lean into the warmth of Max’s side.

***

The first thing George registered was the dryness in his mouth. Then the pounding in his skull. The Las Vegas sun had no mercy, even through blackout curtains.

He groaned, rolled over, and winced when his arm knocked against something. It hurt. Was it his watch? No. He hadn’t worn it.

He unwillingly opened his eyes, squinted down at his inner wrist and blinked.

There. In stark black ink. A symbol. Small. Clean. Unmistakable.

A crown.

George froze.

No.

Absolutely not.

George sat up so fast his vision blurred. “No fucking way,” he muttered, stumbling out of bed and toward the bathroom. Under the harsh lights, it was still there. Permanent. Regal. A crown. On his wrist.

A fucking tattoo.

He turned on the tap, shoved his hand under it, and scrubbed. Hard. It hurt like hell. But what hurt more was that it didn’t fade. It didn’t even smudge.

His mind flickered.

Vegas.

Race.

Win.

Max.

... Drinks?

George gaped at his reflection. He looked like someone who'd made bad decisions. He was someone who had made bad decisions.

His phone buzzed on the counter. He grabbed it and immediately opened a message to Max.

Max Verstappen
Good morning, Your Majesty.

George Russell
Tell me I’m dreaming.
This is just a dream.

Max Verstappen
Is it?

George:
You should’ve stopped me.
Why didn’t you stop me?

Max Verstappen
You literally said, “Don’t stop me.”
Twice.
While downing tequila and quoting dear Torger, by the way.

George Russell
Jesus Christ…

Is there anything else I should know about?

Max Verstappen
Hold on.

George stared at the typing bubble. It disappeared. Then came back. Then—

Max Verstappen sent a photo:
Blurry. Neon-lit. The Little White Chapel. George, grinning like an idiot, arm thrown over Max’s shoulder. Max, flashing a peace sign and wearing half a veil. Behind them, a very committed Elvis impersonator. A glowing sign: Happily Ever After Starts Here.

George blinked. Once. Twice.

George Russell
NO.
NO. NO. NO FUCKING WAY.

Max Verstappen
You make a very convincing groom.

George Russell
I am so serious I’m going to throw myself into traffic.

Max Verstappen
Relax. We just crashed someone else’s wedding.

George Russell
HOLY SHIT MAX YOU COULD HAVE LED WITH THAT.

Max Verstappen
Where’s the fun in that?
Also

Check your left hand.

George looked.
Faint black marker, small, slightly smudged but still there:

MV1

Max Verstappen
Don't worry, it's not a tattoo.
But I did use a permanent marker.

George Russell
…
I am going to kill you.

Chapter Text

George was late.

He didn’t bother checking his hair this time. Just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked in. The chosen restaurant was fancy. Quite loud, with noise and movement. Voices layered over each other, glasses clinking, forks scraping plates. The air was warm and humid with laughter.

“Right this way, Mr. Russell,” the host said, gesturing toward a back room. His nametag read Ali.

George followed him through the restaurant, walking along a small corridor until they reached a private dining room tucked in the back. The lighting was soft, golden and low, and the air coated with a certain warmth. George could hear familiar voices echo off the walls.

It was the annual drivers’ dinner. Somewhere in Abu Dhabi.

Usually, George loved these nights. He loved the chatter, the conversations, banter over wine and good food. He loved a dinner party. But mostly, he loved being around his friends.

Tonight, though, the smile he wore was less genuine. A little more practiced. It was still charming, but, polished. Wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach the crinkle of his eyes.

He stepped into the room and scanned the table for the last empty seat.

Lando spotted him first.

“Mate, we saved you a seat!” he called, waving dramatically, pointing to the spot diagonal from him.

Normally, George would’ve gone straight to it. No second thoughts. Lando across, Oscar probably nearby. Safe company.

But not tonight.

Because the seat Lando had flagged was next to someone else. Someone who had kept his back turned until that very moment.

Max.

And as if sensing it, the blonde turned.

Slowly. His head tilted slightly and their eyes met for half a second. Max smirked and nodded toward the chair beside him.

Like everything was fine.

Like he hadn’t looked into a camera last week and called George two-faced. Called him a backstabber. A snake.

Like Qatar never even happened.

George felt the red flush rise in his cheeks, creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. His hands stayed loose at his sides, but only barely. The rage was simmering. Slow-burning. Acidic. The betrayal was still lingering in his chest.

Max was smiling.

Sitting there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t dropped the bomb on the media last week. And what— did he think George would just take it? Play along? Pretend everything was fine?

George didn’t say a word.

Just kept walking. Past the seat Lando had pointed to. Past Max. Reached for said chair and dragged it with a dramatic scraping sound to a new spot, at the far end of the table, beside Lewis.

“Sorry to interrupt,” George said lightly, hands still in his pockets. “Mind if I sit here?”

Lewis looked up and took one look at him.

“Not at all, mate.”

George pulled out the chair and sat. Back straight. Jaw tight. He didn’t look back.

Besides Lewis, Charles muttered into his glass, “I already told them it wasn’t funny.”

Pierre snorted. “That was definitely Lando’s idea.”

“Hey!” Lando called from the far end of the table, arms raised like he’d been falsely accused. “Don’t pin this on me! Max told me to— ”

“Lando stop,” Carlos cut in, voice flat.

Silence settled over the table for a good second. George could feel it. The eyes on him, anticipating what he might do next.

But to their surprise, George just smiled.

“You know what? Doesn’t matter,” he said as he reached for the bread basket and took a piece like nothing had happened. As if the scraping drag of his chair hadn’t been as dramatic as it was.

Fine.

If Max wanted to pretend everything was fine, George could too.

Whatever.

Two could play pretend.

“Anyways,” he said to the drivers near him, flicking a crumb from his fingers, “you guys really have to hear why I was late. The taxi decided to give me the full tour of Abu Dhabi. Completely unasked for.”

That got a few snorts.

Carlos leaned over. “Let me guess, you were too polite to tell him to stop?”

“I tried,” George sighed. “He said ‘very nice view’ and just kept driving.”

Alex laughed. “You probably thanked him for it.”

“I did,” George admitted, raising a hand in surrender. “After he missed the exit, I asked him again if we were close, and he just smiled and said, inshallah, inshallah. Inshallah, we get there.”

The guys burst out laughing. Pierre shook his head with a grin. “Yeah mate, you being late? That’s got to be a first.”

“Blame the GPS,” George said smoothly. “And my tragic inability to say no to a man named Khalid.”

The tension cracked. Stories flowed. Elbows nudged. Someone clinked a glass. It was easy from there. As it was supposed to be. His end of the table couldn't stop laughing.

And George never once turned his head. Not when he heard Max say something a little bit louder. Not when Lando tried to loop him into a cross-table conversation. So if Max had something to say, he’d have to say it to the back of George’s head.

***

The dinner finally reached its end. The noise gradually dimmed to a low hum. Chairs scraped back, napkins dropped on plates, glasses drained down to their rims. People stretched, joked lazily, and started saying their goodbyes. George leaned back in his chair. His face ached from smiling.

He was magnetic.

George had been loud at the table on purpose. Animated. The charming offensive. He told some stupid stories from the summer break that had Charles practically wheezing into his wine and even Lewis, was shaking his head with a grin. He'd occasionally reach across the table for salt he didn’t need, just to block Max’s line of sight. George laughed too loudly, clinked his fork too hard. But he never once spared a glance at the Dutchman. 

Now, the chairs were being pushed in and jackets were being put on. Alex and Yuki were arguing over who owed whom dessert. Lando had thrown an arm over Oscar’s shoulders. They were heading back together, George thought. Fernando said goodbye to him while still animatedly yelling at someone in Spanish.

But Max was still sitting there and George could feel it. The lack of his usual snarky chatter.

George stood, said goodbye to Lewis quietly, let Pierre ruffle his hair on the way out. His hand was on the door when—

“George.”

Max’s voice. Low and unsteady.

George stopped with his feet half out the door.

“George.”

Still, he didn’t turn. “You should go home, Max.”

“George. Please.”

George turned. His gaze met those familiar blue eyes for the first time that night, and the ache that came with them hit like a Eurotruck simulator.

Max’s blue orbs locked on his, searching. Relieved.

“Finally,” Max whispered. “Finally, you look at me.”

Silence.

George felt something twisting in his chest. But he didn’t soften. He shook his head slightly, like brushing off dust. “I’m not doing this here.”

“Then where? When?” Max stepped forward. “You’ve been pretending I don’t exist all night. You made your point. Please. Please just talk to me.”

George blinked. “Talk? You’re kidding, right?” he said, his voice gradually rising, simmering with rage. “After all that talking to the press, you’re not done talking? So now what? Are you going to call me a snake to my fucking face?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Stop.” George’s voice cut through the air. “It’s late, and I’m tired. And we both know how this will end.”

He turned to go. The thud of his shoe against the floor filled the silence hung between them.

Max didn’t follow. 

George walked out into the night, jaw clenched with his chest tight. He could feel Max watching him as he left.

***

The coolness of the air outside the restaurant was a relief after all the warmth and noise. George leaned against the wall, arms crossed, blinking hard at the floor as he replayed the moment with Max earlier.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until Lewis was beside him.

“You alright, mate?”

George exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

Lewis didn’t push. He just stood there with him, shoulder to shoulder.

“I saw Max hang back,” Lewis said after a moment. “Didn’t look like he wanted dessert.”

George let out something between a huff and a scoff. “No. He wanted to talk.”

Lewis nodded, slow. Thoughtful. “And did you? Talk?”

George looked at the starry sky. “No.”

Lewis didn’t speak for a moment. They just stood there in that steady way he had, shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the horizon. Above them, the Abu Dhabi night stretched wide and black, scattered with a spill of stars. George glanced sideways, caught the way the light made Lewis’s eyes sparkle, and how that sparkle didn’t quite reach. They were glazed, lost. Like he was seeing something far beyond the desert sky.

“I hated Nico by the end of it,” Lewis said, breaking the silence. “Didn’t even realize how much until after he was gone.”

George blinked.

“He was my friend,” Lewis continued. “We came up together. Karting. Junior Formula. First teammate I ever trusted. And then we just… burned it all down. Couldn’t stop.”

George didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t breathing normally either.

“I look back now, and I wonder what might’ve been different if one of us had backed down. Or been honest. Or just— ” He paused. “Said the things we were actually feeling instead of all the ones we weren’t.”

George’s jaw tensed.

Lewis glanced at him. “But Max isn’t Nico.”

“No,” George said. Quiet. “He’s worse.”

Lewis smiled faintly. “Impossible.”

George turned away again, back to staring at the sky. “It’s not just about racing,” he said. “He made it personal. He knew what he was doing.”

Lewis didn’t answer right away. The quiet stretched. 

“And you think he doesn’t regret it?”

George flinched.

Lewis laid a hand briefly on George’s shoulder. “You don’t have to forgive him now. But you should figure out what you want from this before it turns into something you can’t come back from.”

“I know what it’s like,” Lewis said, softer now. “When the whole world watches you tear each other apart. And no one sees what happens when the cameras are off. The things you say. The emotions running under it all.”

Lewis added gently, “He looked like he was breaking back there, man.”

George swallowed hard. And for the first time since dinner started, he let himself think of Max’s face, eyes wide, voice cracking, all but begging.

Finally, you look at me.

George shut his eyes.

“I don’t know if I can trust him again,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

Lewis nodded. “Max is not the type that breaks. I know that. Hell, you know that.”

George didn’t answer him. 

“I’ve seen him get penalties, lose races, get screamed at by Jos. He takes it. Keeps walking. But you? You ignore him for one night and he looks like he’s about to break.” Lewis paused. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the full charm offensive at dinner. You were doing the most. Even the fake salt reaches. I know you, mate. You wanted to hurt him.”

George flinched, then covered it with a scoff. “So I’m supposed to feel sorry for him now?”

Lewis gave him a look. “No one’s asking you to feel sorry. I’m saying you’ve got more power than you think. And that matters. Especially to someone like Max.”

George looked back down at the floor. His voice was quieter now. “He called me a fucking snake.”

Lewis didn’t blink. “I know.”

“He said I ran to the stewards. He made it sound like I cost him pole on purpose. Like I was trying to ruin him.”

“I know.”

George looked up, eyes fierce. “But I didn’t. The car was shit and I saw an opening. It wasn’t personal.”

“I know.”

Lewis let out a heavy sigh. “But this is Max. He doesn’t know how to separate those things sometimes. You and I both know that.”

George scoffed again. 

“And now he’s trying to take it back,” Lewis said. “That’s more than most people ever get from him.”

George looked away. He hated that Lewis was right.

“You don’t have to give him everything,” Lewis added, voice gentler now. “But maybe give him a chance to explain.”

George exhaled slowly. He could still hear Max’s voice from earlier replaying like a broken radio in his head.

Please. George. Finally. Finally, you look at me.

He pressed his fingers to his brow. “This is all just so— exhausting.”

Lewis gave a small, all-knowing smile. “Yeah. That's how it usually is.”