Chapter Text
The classroom was empty, save for them. The evening sun glaring rays of deep reds and cherry orange into the studio, light that reflected off the polished linoleum floors gave George an unfair advantage. His skin that was slightly tanned from the summer heat wave gave him an almost unnatural glow. Max had insisted he face the light, just so he could see his features unobstructed by dark shadows.
They'd neglect to turn on the overhead studio lights in favor of the setting sun. At least for the fleeting moments before it gave way to twilight.
Max let out an exasperated sigh. He hadn’t expected to experience art block so soon after starting the sculpting project. A week had passed since the announcement of the project and although Max was making decent progress, it just wasn’t going his way. Sure, the sculpture was starting to look like George—if you stood across the room and squinted. It actually looked like George’s estranged, slightly ugly twin. Everything was going wrong, and Max wasn’t sure how to fix it.
He let out another sigh, glancing in his subject’s direction with the hope of grabbing his attention. Perhaps if he could stare at George head on he might be able to improve. His muse was too distracted in his phone, head tilted downwards in just the right direction to highlight the curtain of full lashes that hid his eyes.
With another over dramatic sigh, George finally looked up from his phone—meeting Max’s eyes with a raised brow.
“Need something, Verstappen?”
Max rolled his eyes at the use of his last name. He was acting like they were rival coworkers that hated each other instead of classmates collaborating on a project.
“Yeah actually. How do you expect me to get a good look at you?” Max turned in his chair to face George head on and greatly exaggerated his posture, holding his phone comically close to his face. It was George’s turn to roll his eyes. He lowered his phone to his lap and adjusted his posture; shoulders straightening to a fixed angle, head facing directly in Max's direction, though his head couldn't help the subtle downturn as their ever so slight height difference became glaringly obvious. It didn't help that Max was still slouching.
"Better?" George's eyes were hard, slightly squinted and the skin pulled at the edge of his eyes. Lips unmoving, pursed slightly before the tip of his tongue barely pried his rose pink lips apart and wet the corner of his mouth. A natural human movement, not meant to inspire a shortness of breath or a rush of thoughts that all went too warm for his liking. Max sat unmoving in his chair, giving his everything to not glance at George's blushed lips again. Once was already too many times. Instead, he let out a quiet, shaky breath, and leaned back.
His eyes danced across George's face, switching his perspective from that of a simple man with simple wants, to an artist dissecting his muse. A sideways glace at the not-so-George blob, and the difference became clear. He needed to go back to the basics of art.
"Perfect." His own voice was quieter than he was expecting. George remained still, though his eyes finally softened ever so slightly as they darted away to gaze at something past Max's head.
With his left hand, Max held the side of the sculpture gently. With his right, he used the heel of his palm to try and replicate the sharpness of George's cheek bones. Blue eyes flickering back to his muse, who had relaxed and used the silence to discover the intricacies of the University art room. His palm pushed apprehensively into the clay, feeling as if the thing was taking a life of it's own. It wasn't George because it didn't…feel like George.
But Max didn't know what George felt like. Only the brief handshake from their first encounter, fleeting and honestly forgetful. Maybe if he could…touch George's cheekbone, he could feel the real sharpness of it. But he couldn't just jump straight into caressing his face, but perhaps the idea wasn't a complete waste.
Max swallowed. He couldn't be too blunt, as much as he was fine with saying whatever he wanted to anyone—no matter how callous and brutally honest it was—he wanted George to like him. At least enough that their interactions weren't awkward and they could continue their collaboration with easy conversations. Sure, that was why.
"George." Said blue eyes snapped to him. Head titling slightly towards him in an inquisitive manner. His sudden full attention halted Max's momentum and began to fray at his usual stone cold nerves.
"Can I—It would really help it I could feel how—Or measure your…" He stuttered out embarrassingly, suddenly catching something in this throat. God, was he a bumbling idiot all the time? You sat him in front of a tall handsome man he suddenly became a virgin teenager again?
"What would help, Max?" George's eyes sharpened again, though this time the corners of his lips twitched up. He either thought this was funny or endearing. All Max felt was embarrassment and regret.
"It would help if I could feel…my muse. I want to measure your face." He managed to get something out. It felt more intimate and tender than he was wanting. Curse George and his ability to make Max, a usually blunt and confidant speaker, into a complete loser.
"He just looks like your ugly twin right now. It would really help." Max tried to instantly dissolve the tension he'd created, but it simply just mixed into the warm air.
Max felt heat burn up from his chest, aware of his paleness dipping into the uncomfortable deep blush red. He just hoped it wouldn't peak past his shirt and onto his neck. He was just feeling hot from all the stress of the assignment. And a little on edge because he was hungry.
"You're the artist, Max. Do what you want. Just, warn me before you do?" George's tone had taken a much less harsh tone. Less polished and pointed. He wasn't preforming in that moment, and Max bit his lip to stop himself from smiling like a damn fool.
"Okay."
He rolled his seat closer to him, slotting his knees between the taller man's legs. George had to untangle them from their crossed position and brushed his inner thigh against Max's knee. Ignoring the heat of proximity, he looked anywhere other than the blue eyes of George. He tucked an invisible hair behind his ear, ready to focus.
He honestly wasn't sure what he was even doing. They hadn't had 'how to caress your muse in a platonic way to understand them' lesson in Vettel's class yet, so Max was going purely on instinct and reason.
Raising his hand, Max hovered his palm mere centimeters from George's clean shaven skin. The heel of his palm gingerly pressed along his jaw as he kept his eyes focused on the tip of his fingers that brushed the well-styled curls that shielded his temple. Pulling away, he noted down the measurement on a spare piece of scratch paper he was doodling on before their session had started.
Returning to his muse, Max used the length of his hand once again against George's jaw. Cupping it gently, as if the man was porcelain and any pressure would crack the fragile peace they'd began to create. Those blue eyes looked anywhere but Max, while his eyes remained to analyze every bit of him. From the distance of the corner of his jaw to the beginning of his ears, Max mapped out the centimeters of each. And each time wrote down a note on the scratch paper. All while words alluded the both of them.
For the next few minutes, he meticulously recorded the data onto the page; only stopping when his thumb brushed over George's chin. Inches away from beautifully naturally painted lips and Max couldn't look away.
Physically pulling himself away from George, he stood up and began to rifle through a supply drawer—praying George hadn't clocked his intense stare as anything but artistic analyst. Finally grasping onto a flexible ruler he turned around to see an absolute sight.
With his eyes closed, George leaned back ever so slightly, using his legs as a counter weight to keep him upright. His arms reached above his head as he stretched and Max looked anywhere but the exposed skin of his lower abdomen. A deep breath and he was leaning forwards again, although a small yawn passed his lips.
"Your measurements, George." Max handed him the scratch paper, hoping to distract his own mind from the angel he'd just seen for a moment. Crowning the page was drawings of cats and geometric shapes; as if the art in a badly drawn medieval fairytale book. He pretended not to care how intensely George was looking at the page. As if it was important and interesting.
"Hold still." With George distracted, Max looped the flexible ruler and placed it like a crown upon his head. From the base of his brows to the back of his skull. He pulled it away a moment later, snatched the cratch paper from him and scribbled down the data.
"Couldn't you have used that as apposed to your hands?" George relaxed as Max finally settled back in front of the bust; ready and eager to get back to work. He smirked back at him as he tousled his hair back into place.
"I trust my own hands a little more. And besides, unless they get chopped off, they will always be right here." He wiggled his fingers in front of his face as George let a sharp breathy laugh and looked away from him.
Grabbing a carving tool, he began to etch lines and numbers into the bust's face. Like a plastic surgeon preparing to remake his clients face. Turn the clay blob to his muse, he gestured simply to it; eager to show off his progress.
"He just needs to lose some wight now. Then he will look exactly like you." Max smiled as he waited for the joke to land, but George just stared at him—looking from the project then back to Max. His blue eyes once sharp and uninterested, now held a sliver of amusement and adoration. Or perhaps Max was just lost in those blue eyes, imagining what he really wanted.
"It's coming along nicely."
The praise lit Max up. His hands gripped tightly around the carving tools handle as he kept himself from breaking out into a bright smile. Instead he just nodded his head and turned back to the bust, physically swallowing any strange feelings down.
"Thanks."
As Max continued his work with a renewed focus, his muse had gone back to his phone. This time, however, he remained poised and kept his head facing Max—still like the bust itself. As the minutes of silence passed, the room gradually became golden; the last bit of autumn light filtered past flowing drapes and onto George's face. His blue eyes squinted from the harsh light and he used his free hand to block the sun.
Almost as if his tool had been ripped from his grasp, Max's concentration broke as the shadows blocked George's face. Without the full view of his muse, he wouldn't be able to maximize his success and prowess. He frowned because this would not work.
"George, put your hand down. I can't see you." Max rolled closer, leaning down to look up at him from behind his hand. George scoffed lightly and rolled his eyes.
"I don't want to go blind, Max. And haven't you looked at me enough today?" His hand didn't budge and Max's frown deepened—almost to a scowl. This wasn't going to work for him.
"Just close your eyes then. Problem solved." He expected another roll of his eyes, but George dropped his hand and let his eyes fall shut. He only let out a huff be remained silent. Max couldn't help his eyes as they unapologetically scanned every inch of his face. The sun gave-way to every 'imperfection' etched into his skin from his life. From faint acne scars on his cheeks to the sunken hallow of his under eye bags, probably the aftermath of sleepless nights of a devoted University student.
It was the perfect setting.
Looking back at the bust riddled with markings of guidelines, Max realized he'd missed some important facial features. Such as the distance between the bottom of his chin to his lips or the length of his nose. It was important information that Max needed to uncover.
He gabbed a pencil this time, not quite ready to caress past George's cherry red lips with his hand. Even for the purpose of measurements. Max leaned closer—far too close—and moved the pencil to cover the center of his lips.
George snapped his eyes open and jerked back. In turn Max leaned back again, holding the pencil still in the air.
"I told you to warn me, Verstappen." He turned his head away, brows once again positioned in a resting scowl. Although, Max could've sworn he saw a hint of pink dust across his cheekbone.
"You'll live, Russell." Max shot back with little fury, more mischief than anything. He smiled as George shook his head. Seeing him slightly embarrassed just fueled him even more, his want to annoy the Brit growing exponentially. Max kept his wits about him though, writing down the data on the scratch paper just as the last light of the afternoon sun disappeared and was replaced by darkness.
Just like that, the room became a little colder. George stood up quickly, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his clothes and hung his bag over his shoulder. Max stayed seated.
"I should get going. I'll see you Saturday." Without looking back he walked towards the classroom door, but Max kept his eyes fixed on George.
"See you Saturday." He called out just as George slipped through the door.
He smiled despite the abrupt end to their session. He could blame the sun for that. But he could feel a pull in his chest, whether it was inspiration or something he didn't dare name, Max would just brush it off like he usually did.
He couldn't deny, however, that he was excited for Saturday.
—
Come Saturday and Max sat alone in the art studio. Well technically he wasn't alone, plenty of other pairs of students sat dotted around the classroom; each engrossed in their ever evolving project. Max was very much not alone. But George was no where in sight, and somehow that made the classroom feel empty and barren. His muse was missing.
He'd received the text Friday afternoon as he and Daniel were making their way to the gym. He had to miss their Saturday session, previous obligation with a younger student had been moved around apparently and that meant they wouldn't be meeting until the middle of next week. He had practically melted into a miserable puddle right there on the pavement.
Daniel pestered him relentlessly about his sudden reaction, but after his regret of telling him anything about Charles, he wasn't going to mutter a single sentence about George. Not that anything was going on with his totally normal feelings for the British man, Daniel was just annoying and always made a big deal out of nothing.
He had still decided to try and work on his project without his muse, but it had proved to be a fruitless endeavor. In the end he just hunched over staring at the bust, wishing it would just turn into George.
On the rolling chairs, he was graced with the presence of Charles, who scooted across the floor followed by Carlos. They exchanged glances, apparently becoming telepaths. Max just rolled his eyes at their nonesense. He wanted to mope around in peace.
"Where's George?" Charles asked so casually, as if George's absence was totally normal and not fucking up his day, his mood, and his passion for sculpting.
"He's helping a junior with something. Emergency he said." Max grumbled while looking at the bust. It was mocking him at this point.
"You look rather devastated. Can't you just keep working on it?" Carlos piped up, most unhelpfully. Charles lightly slapped the Spaniards arm and gave him a scowl.
"It's clear he's just missing his muse Carlos." At Charles attempt at defending him, Max just became embarrassed. Why was he so put down by George's absence? He didn't want to think about it.
"Well I just don't understand why he doesn't just do what we did. Don't you have picture of George, Max?"
"No? Why would I have picture of him? We aren't friends, we hardly know each other."
Carlos raised a singular eyebrow at his small outburst, clearly reading between lines that weren't there. Max deflated instantly, anger leaving him quickly as it became apparent to him he was overreacting.
"You should ask him. You don't want to lose valuable hours." Charles gave him a fond smile. Max looked down at the black screen on his phone. It was logical, efficient and it gave him an excellent excuse to text George. Carlos and Charles quickly became engrossed in their own conversation, leaving Max to pick up his phone and go to his mundane messages with George.
Max: george. since you abandoned me, give me a photo of your face
Max: i need it
Max: send me a video, a 360 of your head actually
He got a reply seconds later, which was odd of George. He'd usually wait ten to fifteen minutes between his messages.
George: Okay.
George: Don't use them for anything else.
Whatever that meant. The bothering duo had finally left his side and Max was left alone to look at his phone with a baited breath. Then the video popped up. A blurry image of George's face as the thumbnail. He hesitantly tapped into it.
The video started way to close to George's face before being pulled back. His eyes were looking at something behind the camera and a voice spoke quietly.
"George, stop smiling. You need to look professional." A thick Italian accent and a young voice. It must be the student he was helping. The camera work was shaky as he slowly brought the camera around his head. It gave Max a quick view at the environment they were in; computers lined up in neat rows and harsh lights overhead. Not ideal lighting, but he'd work with what he was given.
"Kimi, you don't have to go so slow." George followed the camera as it passed, a whisper of a smile on his lips.
"Yes I do." The young voice spoke again. He finally reached the center of George's face and the video cut off.
It was short, less that 25 seconds long, but more than enough for Max. He had half a mind to save it directly to his phone, just incase anything like this happened again.
It wasn't the same as if George was right there in front of him, and his inspiration wasn't back in full swing. But he could leave the studio with a bit more progress than he would've before.
—
The sun had set a while ago, the sky still held the hints of purple by the horizon before fading into the blanket of stars above them. A blanket of dark clouds pushed by the wind edged closer to he and Daniel's position. But the distant thunder was far enough away to ignore. In his hand he held the piece of scratch paper containing the homemade measurements of George Russell. They were of no use here, away from the classroom and away from the presence of the Brit. Yet he still held it firmly as the wind threatened to whisk it away from him.
He and Daniel sat on the curb outside a 24 hr convenient store a short walk away from their dorm room. While he sipped on a Redbull—a bad idea given the late hour—Daniel chugged the cheap canned beer while entirely engrossed in his phone. He would sigh dramatically before typing away feverishly with his thumbs. Max always enjoyed when he could be quiet with Daniel, simply in each others company. When he was with others, he felt the need to preform and dial down what made him him.
Another roll of thunder rumbled across the darkening city. Max couldn't wait to sleep in the rain. Daniel turned off his phone and shoved it in his hoodie pocket.
"You know that Lando kid? He's inviting a ton of people to his dad's house and throwing a 'party'. Says he's a DJ now." Daniel broke the silence, leaning his head towards Max.
"Are you going?" Max tucked the paper safely in his back pocket.
"If you go with me. It's been too long, man." Max contemplated. He wasn't much for parties when he had nothing to celebrate, and it would take up a valuable weekend where he could be working on his sculpting project. With George's cancellation, he was even more behind.
"I don't know Danny. I don't want to get too behind on my project in Vettel's class." Daniel's eyes narrowed with mischief. Max avoided his gaze and focused on an oddly shaped stone in the building across the street.
"Didn't you work on it yesterday? Or does it have something to do with how mopey you were?" He clearly hadn't forgotten Max's extreme overreaction that Friday. He turned away from the Australian and took a sip of his Redbull, not willing to play any games. He hated how Daniel always managed to read his mind.
"I wasn't moping. Just disappointed my muse—my partner had to miss our session."
"Right."
A beat passed, Daniel chugging the last of his beer and crushing it.
"I'm graduating in the spring Max. This might be my last party ever." He over dramatized his voice. He placed his hand over his face, and faked a really unconvincing cry to try and guilt him into agreeing.
"You are ridiculous. Fine, I'll go." Max laughed as he pushed Daniel away from him playfully. The Australian cheered with a quiet 'whoo' and stood up—sauntering over to the bin outside the convenient store.
Max's phone buzzed in his pocket. Once then twice. He was getting a call. Thinking nothing of it, he pulled it out and blinked at the caller ID.
George.
His eyes snapped open and his heart dropped. Suddenly, his breath felt frayed and shortened. He glanced over at Daniel, who had pulled out a cig and was trying to light it. The wind his biggest enemy. Without a second thought he answered, pulling his phone to his ear and using his hand to block out any pestering wind.
"Hello?"
"Max? I'm outside the art studio." Max swallowed, not completely understanding what the Brit was saying. He turned away from Daniel who'd given up on his cigarette and was now looming over him. Max didn't normally get calls that weren't from his family.
"What are you talking about, George?"
"Oh, sorry. I just felt bad about yesterday. I know it's late, but if you need or want session, I'm available." Max couldn't contain the sheepish smile on his face. He didn't even care about Daniel's smirking face.
"You are there now? At the studio?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'm a few minutes away." He pulled his phone away from his face and ended the call before Daniel could get a word in. He downed the remainder of his Redbull and stood up.
"Where you going, Maxy?"
"None of your business, Danny."