Chapter Text
Max woke to the most peculiar of sensations, wherein his brain was actively trying to escape through the left side of his head. Throb throb throb. He could feel it–the very literal pulsing migration of grey matter against his skull–how his consciousness had filed for divorce from his body sometime in the night and was now actively hammering out its settlement terms, with the gentle beating of a meat tenderiser. Throb throb throb. There went that pulsing again. He wished he had a gun.
Light stabbed through the gap in the blackout curtains, making him struggle to open even one eye. Divine intervention, perhaps–or, the most likely of options–
Divine punishment.
He smelled too; perfume over alcohol over something sickly sweet and positively alcoholic, the way nightclub toilets smell after someone's tried to mask vomit with cheap air freshener. There was, also, he realised with the slow horror of a man who'd made several consecutive poor decisions–the vague scent of another person’s body, and the tang of spunk and sweat and–well, sex.
Worst part–he didn't even remember any of it. Must have been pretty shit. What he could remember though, came to him in bits and pieces. Fragments out of all sorts of discernible order.
Neon signs, possibly spelling something in French. Overly-sweetened cocktail that tasted like liquid bubblegum. Someone laughing, or maybe arguing–or some combination of the two. A hand on his wrist, tugging him out the back door. His own voice saying something he hoped was charming or sexy but suspected–in retrospect–was just loud.
He turned in the sheets and, slowly forcing himself to open his eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the light, he could finally make sense of where he was. A hotel suite. The one some poor logistics intern from Team Redline had booked for him, maybe. It was expensively minimalist; the sort where everything cost three times what it should because it looked like nothing at all. White walls, white bedding, a single piece of abstract art that might have been upside down. His eyes narrowed, squinting.
On the floor: a trail of clothes leading from the door to the bed. Champagne flutes on their side, liquid dried into a sticky ring on the marble side table. Someone's shoe–singular, just one, a Chelsea boot in black leather–abandoned near the bathroom door.
Max's own clothes were scattered about; a white button up (now wrinkled and horribly stained, par every night out) is shirt inside-out, belt still threaded through the loops of his trousers. He had a vague memory of someone saying something about buttons being bourgeois. What the fuck does that even mean?
“Ow!” A sharp, whiny voice broke through the silence, paired with a thump against something blunt. It came from the other side of the suite, where, thankfully, a divider had separated the bed from the sofas in the lounge.
Even while he was still unseen, his entire body tensed; the yelp-and-thump combo sending a fresh wave of agony through his skull. Max lay still and hid most of himself behind the comforter, figure perfectly motionless in the manner (quite unfamiliar to him, really) of a prey when sensing a predator–except the predator was possibly just housekeeping, and he was a four-time Formula One world champion afraid of a woman with a hoover. God.
His body felt like it belonged to someone else, someone older and less professionally athletic. His neck hurt like hell. Reaching up, he let his fingers brush against it gingerly, immediately feeling the telltale tenderness of broken capillaries.
He hadn't had a hickey since he was nineteen and dating that girl from Hasselt who worked at the pharmacy and thought his career was cute–before it became cute and successful–back when telling people he drove racing cars sounded like a hobby rather than a vocation.
Didn’t help that his mouth tasted like cigarettes, too. Which was strange, really, because he didn't smoke. Someone else's cigarettes, then. Someone else's mouth.
Another thud. Shuffling, this time, pattering around the room. The sound of something being opened and closed with force. A cabinet, maybe, or the minibar. Whoever this person was–they clearly were going to raid the whole suite knowing that they didn’t have to pay for anything.
“Where? No, no, I don't know where I am, I'm–uh–somewhere. In England, at least, yeah–saw a Gregg’s from the window–”
British. Male. Young, or at least young-sounding, with that particular lilt of someone from the South of England–a sound Max had come to recognise by ear after years of being around Christian and his children. The voice, whoever’s it was, pitched itself as low as possible. Probably attempting (keyword here, attempting) discretion, even when there was a thread of panic running through. The constant pattering about didn’t help, either.
Upon realising that the stranger hadn’t come to realise that Max was awake, he slowly sat up. Despite himself, his body leaned in closer to where the divider was, ears picking up on the conversation.
“And stop asking questions like that! How am I supposed to know he's famous or whatever?”
Famous. Right. Max groaned before he could stop himself, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes until he saw colours. Phosphenes, that was the word. He'd learned it from a documentary about migraines. His brain was full of useless information–hoarded facts that surfaced at inconvenient moments, really–and right now, it was humbly offering him the term for the lights you see when you press on your eyeballs instead of anything useful about the previous night. Lovely.
“Oh fuck,” said the voice, quieter now. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me–”
God, this person was jittery–and he was coming closer, judging from how heavy the footsteps were now sounding.
Um–
Slowly but surely, Max’s eyes managed to adjust. The room came into focus properly now, and so did the stranger–who was now definitely standing by the minibar, about to raid it.
Max’s vision sorted itself out, and immediately caught sight of his Red Bull hoodie hovering just a few steps away from the bed. An old navy one with the logo sewn across the chest, one he'd worn on the plane from Monaco just the day before. Right beneath it, a pair of Max's boxers. His grey Calvin Kleins, hanging loose on a pair of slim, narrow hips. The realisation came to him then–not in fragments this time, but rather, as a punch in the face–that minibar thief was beautiful. In an angelic, almost cherubic way– that immediately makes his hungover monkey brain go briefly offline and non-PR certified.
All soft curls and sharp collarbones and lithe legs that went on for slightly longer than seemed structurally necessary, even when he didn’t seem to be even a toe over five-five. His hair was dark, messy and slept-on. Face had the sort of bone structure that suggested either very good genetics or very good cosmetic intervention, in which Max suspected the former. You can’t carve out that sort of beauty with a scalpel.
Even hungover, even in Max's dirty clothes, even with last night's eyeliner smudged underneath one eye, he looked like something that should have a velvet rope in front of it.
He was also waving his phone around like it might explode.
“I don't know!” he said into it, whining as his voice rose even higher, “I told you, I woke up and he was just here, and I don't– Alex, I'm not being dramatic, you're being dramatic by asking me to–”
His brain caught on the name. Alex. Meant nothing to Max, but it sounded important to him, by the way the stranger was saying (whining) it. Well, better late than never–
Max cleared his throat.
(Which, truthfully, came out more aggressive than he'd intended; a dry rasp that sounded vaguely threatening. Brain offline and non-PR certified, indeed.)
The stranger jumped violently. Arms flailing and all, making the phone go airborne and hit the floor with a crack. Screen crunching as it hit the marble at precisely the wrong angle, making both of them wince as soon as it hit the ground.
“Brilliant,” the stranger muttered, “Of course. Of course, this would happen–”
He’d been forgotten, it seemed, for the phone whose faith had been sealed, screen gone pitch black.
The stranger bent to pick it up, and it was then he managed to get a better look at him: the perfect curve of his spine visible where the hoodie rode up, leaning with the particular grace of someone who'd spent time learning how to move in a way that made people look and stare and drool. Dancer, maybe, or–er–a petite model. Something performance-adjacent.
He straightened up, holding the phone and turning it over in his hands, sighing, “Perfect, just perfect.”
Max’s brain, on the other hand, was still several steps behind as it tried to arrange the facts in hand into something even remotely coherent. There was a stranger in his hotel room. The stranger was wearing his clothes. The stranger was talking to someone called Alex. Before he interrupted, the stranger was clearly in the process of leaving, or trying to leave, or working up to leaving. The stranger was–
“That's my underwear you're wearing,” Max spoke up for the first time, nodding to his Calvins.
It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He'd meant to say something else, something normal; hello or good morning or even the advisable, how do I know you, but his mouth had gone rogue and decided to lead with the worst possible thing to say, at the worst given moment.
“Yeah, well–” Turning to him, the stranger met his eyes properly, for the first time (that morning).
His eyes were very green, was the first thing Max noticed. Green in the way the Earth could never be–a beauty that was beyond even nature, in a body that couldn’t possibly have been human.
“Congratulations. You have great taste, I suppose.”
His voice was different when he wasn't panicking into a phone. It was softer, missing all the gravel.
“Right. You're welcome, too. I guess.”
Max shrugged, not bothering to pull up the sheets that were starting to pool lower down his navel.
Green eyes narrowed, pointedly avoiding to trail anywhere lower than Max’s chin.
“For what?”
Max raised an eyebrow. Wasn’t it obvious? He said he knew he was ‘famous’– “For last night, apparently.”
His words had–admittedly–come out all wrong, again. A touch too defensive, and definitely crossing the threshold between confident to cocky.
The stranger’s expression immediately soured. Offended, it seemed–and perhaps even a touch embarrassed, if it weren't so thoroughly armoured in that noticeably British tendency to fight everything sarcasm.
“Right,” he drawled slowly, dragging out his syllables, “Yeah. Cheers. Really life-changing. I'll write a Yelp review.”
Max wasn’t completely sure what it was that was actively stirring in his chest; some sort of deadly combination of a whine-induced irritation from his choice of company and the residual horniness of waking up next to a choice of company that was, unfortunately, pretty fucking attractive.
He reached for his jeans, crumpled on the floor beside the bed, and stood up. The room tilted slightly. The movement made his head throb in new and interesting ways. He willed his migraine to settle, grunting. He was definitely still drunk.
“So, yeah,” Max started as he pulled his trousers on, commando, “Don't expect a call.”
The stranger instantly froze. Freeze-framed when he had been moving towards the door, or was it to cradle his phone again? Either way, as soon as Max spoke, he stood back staring back at him, one hand now settling on his hip.
“Pardon?”
“I said don't expect–”
“No, I heard you,” The stranger cut him off, tone falling flat, “That's just– First of all, that’s my line? I was literally about to leave before you woke up and started being all … weird about this.”
“Weird about what?”
“This–”
He clearly didn’t want to say us–which was fine by Max. There was no ‘us’ to speak of, anyway.
“–Weird. Possessive or whatever. Doing the whole ‘that's my underwear’ bit,”
He gestured at himself–at the hoodie and boxers–as his cheeks started flushing a deep vermillion. Max was wrong, earlier–he definitely hadn’t been the prey here–
“I don't even know who you are.”
Max openly scoffed. Where had he heard that before–
“You said I was famous,” he pointed out.
“Serial killers are famous. You could be one, for all I know.”
Max stared at him. The stranger stared back. The suite suddenly felt very small and extraordinarily warm, despite the aggressive air conditioning that had been running all night.
There was something happening here, left unsaid inbetween the glaring between the bed and the minibar. Conversational chicken where neither of them wanted to be the first to admit they'd lost the fucking plot.
Max's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He ignored it, breathing in, “You're saying you don't know who I am."
“Exactly that, yeah.”
“But you slept with me,” Max tried again, carefully this time.
The hand on the stranger’s hips joined the other as his arms crossed over his chest rather defensively.
“I don't require a CV before I fuck someone, if that's what you're asking.”
Max felt his face heat up. Scarleting–which was fucking ridiculous, really. He'd had this conversation before, or at least versions of it. Morning-after etiquette and all its carefully negotiated exits, with one commonality. The person he shared his bed with always knew who he was. Some acknowledgement in one way or another, the underlying of how Max was Max Verstappen, and they were someone who'd spent the night with Max Verstappen.
The fact that this person didn't know, or was pretending not to know, or worse yet–simply didn't care, almost felt like a personal failing. Not on the stranger's part. On his. Max tried to remember if he'd introduced himself last night. He must have done, Mum had raised him polite enough. That was basic human interaction. You told people your name before you took them to bed. His full government moniker was usually simplified, but he was sure he had at least told the stranger that he was called Max.
“I'm a racing driver,” he said, only to immediately regret it.
His companion’s eyebrows shot up. They were nice eyebrows. Expressive, probably professionally maintained. “O–kay?”
“Formula One.”
"Is that supposed to mean something or?”
Right. Nice face to overcompensate for the lack of nice anything else. Typical. Definitely some sort of tiny model–
“It's literally the most watched sport in the world.” Max said plainly, his own arms now crossing over his chest. Not defensively.
“After football, maybe. And cricket. And probably tennis,” the stranger listed on, tilting his head, “Actually, is it even a sport? I mean, you're just sitting down the whole time, aren't you?”
“I'm not just–”
Max stopped himself. His migraine was pounding and this was absurd. He wasn’t going to defend the athletic legitimacy of Formula One to someone wearing his underwear.
“You know what? Nevermind.”
The stranger grinned back at him, nodding as he leaned against the minibar, “No, no–go on, then. Tell me how driving is a sport.”
Max’s teeth gritted, lips pursing into a tight smile. Brain, on. PR-training, channelled. “The G-forces alone–”
“Yeah, but astronauts experience G-forces, and we don't call space travel a sport, do we?”
“That is completely different. The G-forces we drivers experience are–”
With his face pulled back, the stranger hissed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Is it, though?”
Recalling all his anger tempering techniques, Max counted backwards from a hundred in increments of sixes. He’d had this conversation many times before–again, with models and dancers and the like–and came to realise (ninety-four), a long time go (eighty-eight), that there was virtually no point in debating with someone who probably thought that Formula One was (eighty-two)all just driving in circles. It was all a waste of time (seventy-six) and air and whatever braincells (seventy) he had left–
“Reckon you were one of them crypto bro, honestly–”
Green eyes were back on him again, looking genuinely curious, this time. Studying Max as though he was the painting that might or might not have been upside-down.
“'Cause the vibe’s all there. The watch, the whole,” he waved a hand vaguely at Max's general existence, “Tech bro vibe. Expensive casual, ‘I wear hoodies that cost a thousand quid’ and all that,”
Looking down at himself, Max’s brows furrowed together. He was shirtless; trousers on, no socks, but–ah–his watch was still on his wrist. The TAG Heuer Monaco that Partnerships made him wear to events. It costs more than most people's cars. It costs more than people’s cars and because of it he just got called Steve Jobs–
Max’s arms tightened on his chest, fingers flexing between the muscle of his elbows.
“This watch was a gift–” he felt his mouth twitch, despite himself.
“From whom? Your bitch-coin wallet?”
Must have thought he was so clever–
Max stopped. Took a breath. Sixty-four, fifty-eight, fifty-two–
The stranger's phone buzzed in his hand and its screen miraculously lit up, spiderwebbed with cracks. Divine intervention this time, certainly.
He glanced at it and muttered, “I should go.”
“So go.”
“I am–”
But he didn't–only stood there, still in Max’s hoodie, his Calvin’s–eyes finding their way back to Max’s once more, teeth nipping on his bottom lip. They were still pink. Rosy and flushed, matching the red still tinting his tanned cheeks.
“Do you do this often?” Max spoke up first, surprising even himself.
“Do what?”
“Sleep with people whose names you don't know.”
The stranger's face scrunched up, nose crinkling as it did. Cute, in a way.
“Do you want me to know your name?”
“I feel like it's customary.”
“Customary,” he repeated, both brows raising, as if he was waiting for the punchline Max wasn’t planning on delivering, “Right. Okay. What's your name, then?”
Max hesitated. This felt like a test, though he wasn't sure of what.
“Max.”
“Max.”
He was rolling Max’s name in his mouth; seeing how it tasted, how it felt against his tongue. Or something else, perhaps, he would like to think. A recalibration of last night’s events, feeling out how Max’s name sounded when it wasn’t whined out. His companion had a special penchant for doing so, after all. To him and to whoever Alex was.
“Huh. Well- I know like, three other Maxes so you’re not special.”
Shifting his weight between his feet, the stranger pulled back and stretched. The hoodie rode up slightly, exposing a strip of golden skin and tapered hip bones.
Huh, indeed. Dancer, maybe, then.
“I'm Lando.”
Max’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure if it was because his family never lingered around the particular tax bracket (or free-wheeling hippie nonsense, as his father would call it) that would produce a child named Lando–but it was a special one, for sure.
Not that he was going to tell him that. Obviously. He thought Max drove in circles for a living. Max didn’t even remember if he was a good in bed–pretty face and all. He could know four other Landos, for all this person knew.
“Lando.”
It was his turn now to take a feel of the other’s name on his tongue. Sickly sweet, and positively alcoholic. Not so dingy club tasting, maybe more of a cherry-tease. A name that would–for no other reasons than objective reasoning–sound good moaning out when he’d c–
“Yeah, it’s– it’s a family name. Well, not really. It's complicated.”
Lando–because he had a name now, he was Lando, not just the stranger–waved a hand dismissively, before continuing, “My mum liked Star Wars, I think. Something like that. Or she thought Billy Dee Williams’ fit or something.”
“Your mum named you after Lando Calrissian?”
“She says she didn't, but the timeline's suspicious."
Despite everything, namely; the raging hangover, confusion over how they ended up here, Max felt himself smile. Small enough, easily mistakable as a smile, but it was there–baring the slightest amount of teeth.
“That's actually quite good.”
“Better than Max, I guess.”
Lando looked at him properly now, and there was something different in his eyes. Those gleaming emeralds that just seemed to take you in without so much of a hi, hello, my name is Lando, and I look better in your underwear than you do. Less defensive. More curious, in a way.
“Max the racing driver who might be a crypto guy.”
Max felt himself sigh. Illusion broken as soon as it started to crystallise.
“I'm not a crypto guy.”
“You keep saying that, but see–I'm not all that convinced, mate.”
“What would convince you, then?”
Scoffing, Lando shrugged, “I don't know. Proof? A race car? Photographic evidence?”
Was he throwing a bone?
“I have photographic evidence.”
He knew a thing or two about catching bones
“Of course you do. Oh, let me guess–” Lando was smiling now, at least– “-It's on Instagram. You've got one of those accounts with a million followers and pictures of yourself standing next to sports cars and fit, leggy blonde models and expensive things held by fit, leggy blonde models–”
Well, if he put it like that–
“You’re making it sound worse than it is.”
Max did have one of those accounts, admittedly. Though, he made a point of not posting on it himself–his social media manager handled that–but it was there, full of carefully curated images designed to make him look successful and approachable and very much like the reigning world champion you'd want to buy energy drinks from. It was part of his responsibilities, signed over the dotted line; the little pains he had to bear with if he wanted the money to do everything else he wanted. Didn’t he know anything about dreams?
“It’s part of the job. You wouldn’t–”
“What, understand?” Lando cut in before he could continue, suddenly sharp. Max noticed how his face soured; lips taken to a tight purse and those eyes lifting from where they met Max’s own to openly rolling.
It was true, wasn’t it?
He wanted to ask, equally as biting. No one could possibly understand. Only nineteen other people in this world would, and none of them would ever empathise with Max Verstappen, of all people–
Before they could lapse into (an awkward) silence, Lando returned to whatever it was he was doing–shuffling around, looking for his own jeans, it seemed–broke it.
“Right, whatever. Yeah, so, look, mate–”
Max had always preferred skinny jeans–despite all the begging against it he’d seen on Twitter–and in all honesty, cnever cared much for how he looked. A pair of trainers, the team kit and some jeans always did the job. Lando seemed to be living in the complete opposite philosophy.
Do jeans even still count as jeans if they ride that low? And was that, one of those tramp sta–
“This has been ... weird, but I really do have to go. I've got a thing. Work, you know.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
“Yeah, some of us work Sundays. Where the fuck are my–”
Two possibilities and one certainty presented themselves to Max, again: either Lando was really, really, really adamant in saving face, or he truly didn’t have the slightest clue what Max’s job was.
And Lando was skittering about trying to look for his clothes, before seeming to give up with a resounding sigh, throwing his hands in the air and all.
“You know what? Fuck it. Keep my top. It’s from Zara anyway.”
“I don't want your top.”
Sighing once more, Lando flashed him a forced smile, hands on his hips again.
“Then throw them away. Donate them. Sell them on Vinted, even. I genuinely don't. care.”
He was making his way towards the door, and Max following him as he went. With his mouth gaping, disbelieving and eyes trailing, taking in the way Lando still managed to carry himself with so much energy, even in the early hours of the morning. The chipped black nail polish on his fingers. The hoodie–Max’s–that had so much as swallowed him whole, and making, him look smaller than he probably was.
Lando reached the door and put his hand on the handle, and Max noticed the way his fingers tensed, hesitating before turning it.
“You are really going to leave like that?” Max heard himself say, “Wearing that?”
Lando stopped, brows knitting together before he looked down onto his chest. The Red Bull hoodie, oversized on him, with a that was logo probably visible from space. Then it was the boxers underneath the jeans, that definitely weren't his. It was at this moment, Max assumed he realised, that he was about to walk through a hotel lobby dressed like he'd been mugged by a sports merchandise shop.
“Oh,” he said flatly, biting his bottom lip again, “Guess I'll post you a thank-you note.”
Max paused.
“I don't know your address–”
“That's sort of the point of a joke, Max,” Lando said his name like it was funny, emphasis on the X, and smiled again, rolling his eyes, “You're supposed to laugh, not take it literally.”
Cold air rushed in from the corridor from where Lando had opened the door, along with the smell of carpet cleaner and the distant sound of a hoover. He paused before taking another step, half in and half out of the room, backlit by the aggressive fluorescence of hotel lighting.
“Also–” he called out, not looking back, “–you have shit taste in energy drinks. You should try a Monster.”
The shower helped, at least. Not with the hangover, exactly–which was now, rather unhelpfully presenting itself as a fully established resident in his skull with no immediate plans to vacate–but hot water had a way of easing the bones and imposing back the structure within it. Max found himself standing under the stream and tried his hand at recollection.
Sending it straight to the clubs had been someone's idea. Chris’, if he remembered correctly–or one of Chris’ friends. He'd been at the GQ party first. The one that happened every year after the BAFTAs, full of people who worked in film or fashion or finance or something with an f, who spent the entire evening pretending to care about each other's projects. He’d been there because Red Bull wanted him there. After all, appearing at these things was part of the contract, and even Max Verstappen couldn’t escape the invisible labour of being a public person.
He remembered talking to someone from Aston Martin, or maybe it was someone who owned an Aston Martin. The conversation had dissolved somewhere around the third drink, replaced by a general sense of goodwill towards everyone and a conviction that he was much funnier than he actually was. He’d done his job.
Then, sometime after the speeches and a round of polite clapping, someone (not Chris, then)–a photographer, or maybe a model, someone with nice enough teeth–had suggested, with a gentle tug to his arm and a whisper to his ear, of going somewhere else. Somewhere better and wasn't packed full of middle-aged men in suits talking about quarterly earnings (Finance bros, then).
Max had agreed simply because he’d been the right level of tipsy where saying yes felt easier than saying no, and he was whisked away to somewhere basement-level. The party–or whatever it was–proved itself to be the sort of place that only seemed to materialise after midnight. Smell of bubblegum vape smoke in the air, and the vague, lingering scent of vomit, coupled with something else that was making the floor stickier than it should be. A Monster, maybe. Max scrunched his nose and made a beeline for the bar.
He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what he ordered. He could only recall that the bartender had been wearing a mesh shirt, and with one look at his neatly pressed button-up, already disapproved of him based on principle. They’d make him a drink that arrived in a glass shaped like a lightbulb and tasted like someone had liquefied a child's birthday party. He said he wanted a gin and tonic. Maybe this was a mistake–
He'd drunk it anyway. The photographer/model with the nice teeth had disappeared, and he couldn’t find Chris anywhere. Around him were just people who were pretending to be people: someone who claimed to be a DJ but was probably lying, a group of Americans who were definitely in finance and kept trying to talk about the stock market while shouting over the music, and then–
And then.
Then.
Max closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the showerhead, letting the water ran over his face as he tried to pull the memory back into focus.
His eyes caught on the sight of a person; of him, Lando not-Calrissian, who thought he drove in circles for a living. He’d stood out in the midst of the blur of fluorescent colour, existing in all black against the tan of his skin while everyone was melting into a kaleidoscope in Max’s eyes.
Those low-rise jeans, a shirt, and a jacket–something leather. His eyeliner had been visible even in the red lighting. Max had walked over. He didn't remember why; bravery or stupidity or something similar–all he knew was that he’d say something that was enough to pique Lando’s interest. Something about how shit the music was, probably, or how shit the bar was. He was in a basement in SoHo at three in the morning when he could’ve (should’ve) literally been anywhere else. He didn’t have anything to lose.
Lando looked up with a raised brow and a quirked smirk, assessing him with his eyes and smudged eyeliner. He was surprised, it seemed–seeing Max suddenly come up in his peripheral vision. He’d probably grouped him in with the Americans. Lando had said something back, and it was enough to make him laugh, surprised and genuine.
He remembered that clearly, now; the feeling of laughing and being surprised by someone. It didn’t happen often. Especially not recently. In the past four years, most people who approached Max had wanted something, and this stranger had only looked at him (scrunching his nose up at his clothes, then at his hair) as if they were trying to see how quickly he could turn him down and offend him.
Which, really, had only made Max want to stay–just to see if he could manage it.
Even in the midst of booming EDM, they'd managed to talk. Had an actual conversation, not just the shouted fragments that passed for dialogue in loud clubs. Max had a vague memory of defending pop music to someone who thought defending pop music was beneath them. Or was it the other way around? Had Max been the dickhead? He couldn't tell. His memories of the night were arriving in the wrong order, shuffled.
He remembered that Lando had been funny; sharply and a touch mean. He fought and flirted at the same time, and they'd disagreed on just about everything. Bands, films, sports, whether London was a real place or just a collective hallucination, and Max had found how good it all had felt, having some disagreement. It was better than any ‘yes, Max’, ‘sure, Max’, could ever be.
Soon enough, they had more drinks. Lando had ordered something that seemed ‘pretty mint, dunno’, he argued, and made Max try it–only for him to pull the worst face anyone possibly could’ve in front of someone you found terribly attractive. Tasted like furniture polish, really. It was then that Lando had laughed; free and easy, and Max felt the heat of the sun flashing across his skin in bolts of light, radiating off some stranger in a basement in SoHo.
When they'd moved from the bar to a corner that was marginally quieter (and thank fuck for it), Max started to learn things. Lando either worked in music or with music. Something creative that Max hadn't entirely understood but had nodded at anyway. He lived in North London and had opinions about the Tube that Max–who hand’t taken public transport in eyears–couldn't meaningfully engage with but nodded along to anyway.
Sometime in the night, he’d asked what Max did, and Max replied vaguely, waving it off as something not worth explaining. Business, along those lines. Something that could explain why he was in a club with a pair of smart trousers and a Thom Browne shirt. He would always end these questions curtly, as he’d come to know that talking about his real job would widen eyes, and often switch the conversation to one on autographs and photos and whether Max could get them paddock passes.
Lando–notably raised with either enough sense or simply, again, didn’t care-hadn’t pressed, and instead, asked him about Monaco. Teased on whether it was a real place or just a tax haven pretending to be a country. Max had defended Monaco's honour, mostly because it was funny to do so with Lando–who didn’t care what he did or who he was. He’d called it a theme park for oligarchs. Max had called North London a theme park for people with poetry degrees. They both had to agree.
Somewhere between their laughter came proximity. He couldn't remember who'd moved first, but they’d suddenly been close enough that he could smell the lingering smoke on the leather and the sweet undertone of Lando’s cologne. Lando’s eyes were more visible now, even under the darkness; the green around the blown pupils, the eyeliner clearly deliberately smudged. Max could feel Lando’s hand on his wrist, following the lines of his veins. Testing, and teasing. He had his hand on Lando’s waist, also testing and teasing.
Then, a look between them, with a question being asked and answered without words.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Max wasn't sure who'd said it. Possibly him. Probably him, and they’d left only a moment after. Up the too-many stairs, into the cold London night that had felt shocking after the heat of the club. He’d called a taxi–no, not a taxi. An Uber. His hands had been clumsy on his phone. Lando had watched him struggle and then taken the phone and done it himself, fingers fast and impatient.
Lando slotted himself next to him as soon as the car arrived, sitting close enough to touch but not reaching out first. Max remembered all of it; leather seats, pine air freshener, the driver who hadn't spoken, the hand just next to his own, drumming against the seats as he hummed. The lingering tension of it. The mounting anticipation.
The lift was next, and he felt the kiss lingering on his lips, clearly now. Even the scathing heat of the water couldn’t wash away the feeling of Lando pressing himself against him, tongue tasting like that furniture polish drink and neck faintly smelling of ice berry vape liquid. He could feel Lando’s hands in his hair, tugging. Max's hands on his everywhere else.
He remembered the stumbling to the corridor, hands still on each other even when they reached his door. Max's key card wasn’t working. Lando laughing at him, teasing. The card finally, finally working on the third try. Both of them falling through the door.
And then–
Came the bits he definitely didn't remember. The important ones. He turned off the shower and stood there dripping, breathing in the vapour into his lungs as his hand touched the hickey on his neck. The only memory he had left of it, the only remnant that reminded him that it–they–were real, even if just for a night. He just couldn't remember what.
Which was probably fine. Better that way, even. People had one-night stands. People forgot things. It was normal. It was better that way. Nothing to feel weird about.
He got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, droplets of water trailing behind him as he made his way back to the room. It was still a mess, to say the least. If he were smarter, he would probably have started gathering his things to leave. Let housekeeping deal with the general air of poor decision-making.
Instead, Max ended up picking up his phone. Seven missed calls.
Anna had called twice more while he was in the shower. Christian once. Someone from Red Bull's communications team. A number he didn't recognise, which probably meant a journalist had got hold of his personal mobile.
Great. He really should’ve stuck to a gin and tonic.
In his first of many trials of the day, he decided to call Anna back, first. She answered on the first ring.
“Where,” she started, not bothering with hello, “are you?”
“A hotel. The–” he looked around for evidence again, even when he already knew, “–Corinthia.”
“Why are you at the hotel?”
“Slept here, didn’t I?”
“Max.”
Anna’s tone had taken to that particular one she’d often save for one of the nepo-er interns, explaining things to him as though he were a moderately intelligent dog. He didn’t have the energy to argue, not before a Bloody Mary or a lemon water, at least.
“You were supposed to be at the GQ thing until eleven, then the plane back home. Why are you at a hotel?”
“I went out after.”
His eyes drifted to the landline by the bedside table, lingering across the laminated folders labelled as ‘room service’. His stomach growled, still hungry even when he couldn’t bring himself to eat just yet. His mouth still tasted like sandpaper. .
“Where?"
A hand reached out, brushing open the folder. Hm– Bradley wouldn’t exactly murder him if he had toast and an omelette. Something multi-grained.
“I don't remember the name.”
“Of course you don't.”
A pause. He could hear her typing, probably pulling up whatever damage control she'd need to deploy.
“Have you seen the photos?” She asked again.
Now it was Max’s turn to pause, hand stopping somewhere between the page options for a Full English and whatever a ‘Champion’s Breakfast’ was, “What photos?”
“The photos of you leaving a club in SoHo at four in the morning with someone who is definitely not your girlfriend, because you don't have a girlfriend, but who the internet has decided you're secretly dating.”
The mattress was very good, at least. Everything in this hotel was. It took to sinking him in comfortably as he sat himself down on the bed, phone suddenly feeling cold in his palm.
“I'm not dating anyone.”
“I know that. You know that. Unfortunately, Twitter doesn't know that, and Twitter is currently very excited about the prospect of you dating this person, whoever they are.”
“I don't know who they are either.”
“You don't–”
Anna stopped. To breathe, presumably. He could picture her in her office, or possibly her flat, because it was eleven in the morning and Anna worked at all hours. Could see her closing her eyes–counting down from a hundred in increments of six, accessing whatever well of patience she'd cultivated specifically for managing him.
“Let me try this again. You went home with someone whose name you don't know.”
“I didn't go home, I said. I went to a hotel.”
“That's not better, Max! That's actually worse. Much, much worse–”
“I think it’s better, if I’m being honest. He doesn’t know where I live.”
“That’s not–”
(If she wasn’t counting down then, she was definitely counting down now)
“Max, I'm begging you. Please, please just tell me what happened.”
“Went to the GQ party, like you asked. Then a club after. Met someone–”
His eyes trailed across the clothes on the floor. Scattered about the carpet were his button-up and trousers. Next to it, a leather varsity jacket he didn't recognise. Wallet still sitting on his side of the bed.
“–We left together. I woke up alone. That’s it, Anna. Really.”
In all his years in Red Bull, he’d come to learn that a little white lie won’t kill anyone. Especially not the PR manager whose veins were probably going to pop right out of the side of her head.
“Did you sleep with them?”
“I mean–”
He didn’t know well enough the difference between a blush and a concealer. Probably no use in lying about this one and hiding the big, darkening bruise on the side of his neck, so–
“–Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don't remember.”
Anna sighed through her nose, sounding much more pained than earlier, “The person you were with. Do you remember anything about them?”
Max thought about green eyes and ice berry vapes and smudged eyeliner and sharp collarbones and a breathy voice that sounded a bit like heaven and hell, all at once.
“A bit.”
“Well, do you think they're going to sell a story?”
A story?
“What?”
“To the tabloids. Do you think they're going to go to The Sun or whoever and talk about sleeping with Max Verstappen?”
The thought hadn't even occurred to him. It should have–it was the obvious concern, the thing any capable PR manager was paid to always worry about–but Max had been too busy being annoyed about being dismissed as forgettable to consider whether Lando might weaponise having met him.
Before this morning, he was just a stranger, but now–with his name having been tossed around on Max’s tongue and settling itself as something familiar–he was becoming less of a problem and more of a person.
“No,” Max decided, surprising himself with his certainty, “I don't think so.”
“How can you be so sure? You said you didn’t even know who it was–”
“Because,” he cut in, taking in a sharp inhale, “They– He didn't know who I was.”
She paused again. Had she finally counted down to zero?
“I’m not even going to get into the ‘he’ of it all for now–”
Right, that’s what the pause was for.
“–but, that’s not–Max, that's not possible. Everyone knows who you are. I made sure of that, all your championships made sure of that, and you’re telling me, out of all the people you’ve probably slept with–” she paused again, taking in a breath, finally, “–he claimed he didn't know you're Max Verstappen. Four-time world champion. One of the most photographed athletes in the world.”
“He thought I was a crypto guy.”
This time, her silence was different; less exasperated, more baffled than anything else.
“I'm sorry,” Anna said slowly, “He thought you were what?”
“A crypto guy. Someone who works in cryptocurrency. They said I had the energy.”
“The energy.”
“Yes.”
“Of a crypto guy.”
“That's what he said.”
“Oh my fucking god–”
Enna made a noise that met helfway between a laugh and a sob, hard to tell which over the phone, honestly, but it was enough for Max to suddenly have felt that are undercurrent of guilt (and what might have been his stomach telling him he was hungry). Rattling on the pit of his guts, swirling and threatening a round of hangover sick rise up his throat and decorate the carpets a putrid green.
Still would've been better than the art, he thought.
“Okay. Okay. That's either very good or very concerning. I can't tell which yet.”
“It's probably fine, Anna–”
Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t live to make her life difficult. Quite the opposite, in fact. Besides the extremely rare cases of his lapses in judgement (i.e. this one)–it’s been a while, and it being a while generally meant easy days for Anna.
“Max, nothing about this is fine. You're trending on Twitter. There are photos. Multiple photos, from multiple angles. Someone got you getting into an Uber. Someone got you in the hotel lobby.”
Max looked at the leather jacket on the floor.
"Which means, right now, someone is walking around in London and will soon realise that they’ve left their jacket with the Max Verstappen, and have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a decision about whether that's a fun story to tell around in the pub or a profitable one to sell to the Daily Mail.”
He looked back at his trousers and realising, not for the first time–he’d have to actually go commando when he eventually has to leave. That’s going to be fun.
“Okay–so, here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay in that hotel room. You're not going to leave. You're not going to post anything on social media. You're not going to call anyone, text anyone, or send fucking smoke signals. You're going to drink water, take paracetamol, and think about your life choices. I’ll send someone to pick you up in an hour–”
He felt like a scolded child for having put his hand on the cookie jar; lips still chocolate-stained, head hung low and all.
Max sighed out, “I can take care of myself, An–”
“–No, you can’t. Not right now. I’ll ask Raymond get the jet ready as soon as possible to take you home, then you have an eleven a.m. flight to Bahrain tomorrow morning. Which will give you approximately twenty-four hours to recover from whatever this is and get yourself together before you have to go and be professional in front of hundreds of journalists and win yourself another title.”
He felt himself smile a bit, piping up with an easy, “You already think I’m going to win?”
And he could feel Anna smile a bit, too, even when he couldn’t see it. Even when she was trying her best not to indulge him.
“That, I’m not concerned about. I know you will, we know you will. The problem right now is reworking back in that PR training and professionalism you’ve seem to have forgotten over the break–”
Even after he’d made her smile, it wasn’t enough to completely abolish him of his supposed sins–
Divine punishment, he finally decided. That was definitely what it was.
“What do you want me to do then?” he sighed, running his hands over his hair, water still dripping down his back and rolling down to the bed, slowly soaking a part of the sheets under him.
“Nothing. I want you to do nothing. I'm going to handle this. The official line is you were at a club with friends, you left with a friend, there's no story here. Standard stuff, okay?”
Max was never religious, but there was no better time to repent than the present, he supposed, “Okay.”
“And Max–please, please, please try to make better choices. For my sake if not yours. I'm thirty-two years old and I'm going grey because of you.”
“You're not going grey.”
“I am. I have grey hairs. I found three this morning. Named them all after you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“No, and I have to go. I have to call Christian and explain why you're trending on Twitter next to some pop star. Just stay in the room. Order room service. Watch the telly, and Do. Not. Leave. Call Raymond if you need anything, not me.”
She hung up, leaving Max sitting on the bed, on a wet patch of sheets with his hand still holding his phone. He stared back at the wall. The art was definitely upside down. He could see it clearly now, the way the signature was at the top instead of the bottom.
Anna was right–he definitely needed to work on his professionalism.
Did he even catch Lando’s last name?
INSTAGRAM 📸
[IMAGE: Blurry photo from inside the club, two figures–presumed to have been Max and Lando–close together near the bar, one's hand visible on the other's waist]
clubscenelondon: Spotted last night 👀
Liked by f1gossipcentral, formulaupdates and 31,793 others
View all comments:
@verstapp1e: IS THAT MAX
@norrisarmy: that's literally lando's jacket oh my god
@verstappenupdates: can we not do this please. let people have privacy.
@paddocktea: @verstappenupdates they were in public??? in a club??? that's not private luv
TWITTER 🐦
@f1investigations: [THREAD] okay so I've analysed all available photos from last night and here's what we know:
Photo 1 (outside club, 2:47 A.M.): Max and mystery person leaving together. Max is laughing. Mystery person's face not visible but wearing black leather jacket.
Photo 2 (Uber, 2:51 A.M.): Both getting into same car. Max's hand on mystery person's lower back. Clear contact.
Photo 3 (hotel lobby, 3:04 A.M.): Same two people entering Corinthia. Mystery person is shorter than Max, dark curly hair visible.
Photo 4 (elevator mirror selfie from another guest, 3:12 A.M.): Blurry but you can see two people in the background. One is definitely Max's jacket.
@f1investigations: Whoever this is, based on the body language, and timeline this does NOT seem like ‘just friends’. This is romantic. Or at least headed that way.
@mvx133: @f1investigations THIS IS INSANE. WHERE DID YOU GET PHOTO 4
@f1investigations: @mvx133 Someone posted it on their Instagram story and deleted it, but the internet is forever x
@norrisupdates: @f1investigations I'm 90% sure that's Lando Norris. The hair, the build, the jacket is the same one from his Instagram last week
@lcnorris: @norrisupdates NO WAY. LANDO??? AND MAX VERSTAPPEN???
@landoalbumclub: @lcnorris @norrisupdates lando literally said in that interview last month that he knows nothing about sports why would he be with an f1 driver lol
@f1investigations: @landoalbumclub Maybe that's exactly why? Opposites attract
@norrisdefender: @f1investigations can we please not speculate about lando's personal life he's been very clear about wanting privacy..
@f1investigations: @norrisdefender If it IS him (and I'm not saying it is) but IF, then he's the one who went out in public with a famous athlete so ... what did he expect
@365norrisgirl: just a reminder that lando literally opened for charli last year and if you haven't listened to his stuff you're missing out. he's incredibly talented and also this speculation about his personal life is weird
INSTAGRAM 📸
[Image: Grainy photo from what looked like hotel CCTV, showing a figure in an oversized navy hoodie with a visible logo, sunglasses on, walking through a lobby]
@popgirlupdates: Lando Norris spotted leaving London hotel this morning wearing what appears to be a Red Bull Racing hoodie 👀
Liked by f1updates, landofanclub and 18,847 others
@mvfan: ISNT THAT THE HOODIE MAX WHEN HE FLEW IN FROM MONACO OH MY GOD
@f1teaqueen: not the red bull merch I'm SCREAMING
@norrisarmy: lando in a sports hoodie is so funny actually. man hates exercise.
@lcnorris: okay so it IS real then. this is actually happening.
f@ormulagossip: source close to the situation says they met at an industry party last night. apparently hit it off immediately. max was “very interested”
@verstappenupdates: @formulagossip your “sources” are never real. stop spreading rumours.
@formulagossip: @verstappenupdates my sources are VERY real actually and they said max left the party early to go to a club. unusual for him. make of that what you will.
TWITTER 🐦
@ragebulls: I know everyone's excited but can we talk about how max looks genuinely HAPPY in those photos? Like when was the last time we saw him like that at a public event?
@vondutchmax: @ragebulls THANK YOU. people are so focused on the drama they're missing that he looks more relaxed than he has in months.
@SUP33RMAX: @vondutchmax @ragebulls okay but we also shouldn't be parasocially invested in his happiness based on grainy photos. he's a person. let him live.
@landoalbumclub: okay I know we're all freaking out but has anyone actually CONFIRMED this is lando? like with actual evidence? because I refuse to believe it until I see something concrete 🤔🤔 has oscar even said anything? george?
@norrisupdates: @landoalbumclub alex just posted an Instagram story of him getting lunch with lan, and you can see a cracked phone screen in the corner. same crack pattern as the hotel lobby photo from this morning.
@landoalbumclub: @norrisupdates ALEX WHAT ARE YOU DOING. DELETE THAT.
@verzoomies: @landoalbumclub wait who is alex
@landoalbumclub: @f1popculture alex albon. lan's social media manager. he's usually more careful than this lmao
r/formula1 🤖
NEW THREAD by @UnleashTheMax: I know we don’t usually talk about gossip here, but if this is real, good for Max, honestly. Man deserves to have fun. Though I do question his decision to do it three days before testing.
+ 5.1k UPVOTES - 1.7k DOWNVOTES
- @16scuderia44: Everyone saying this is Lando Norris but I've listened to his music and there's NO WAY he even knows what Formula One is. Man wrote a whole song about hating sports.
- @yukierrecomeback: He didn't write a song about hating sports, he wrote a song about hating sports CULTURE. There's a difference.
- @16scuderia44: Okay but either way. The vibe is not compatible.
r/formuladank 📉
NEW THREAD by @honeybadgerwdc: [VIDEO ATTACHED: Lando performing on stage in an intimate show, cut with the grainy club photos of Max. The song playing was presumably Lando's. Hyperpop, aggressive, a tune about about driving out your anger and crashing] NOT THE F1 DRIVER GETTING WITH SOMEONE WHO MADE A SONG CALLED 'BRAKE CHECK’
+ 13.7k UPVOTES - 6.9k DOWNVOTES
- @broingcedes: this is so funny actually
- @il16presidente: max verstappen woke up yesterday and said i'll date someone who writes songs about cars but doesn't know what I do for a living
r/popheads ⭐
NEW THREAD by @swiftscholar: okay so I've been listening to lando's discography and this is what I've learned:
- he has commitment issues (see: ‘TEMPORARY FIX’)
- he doesn't do relationships (‘SOLO’ is literally about preferring to be alone)
- he writes about city life, specifically London
- he collaborates a lot (very social, lots of industry connections)
- his lyrics suggest someone who is deeply private but performs openness
Conclusion: if this is real, that Max Verstappen person is in for a WEIRD time
+ 8.8k UPVOTES - 5.3k DOWNVOTES
- @party4charli: this is unhinged. you can't psychoanalyse someone from their music.
- @swiftscholar: watch me.