Chapter Text
GEORGE
George can't stop thinking about thunderstorms.
He still smells it on his skin, and he's fairly certain he scrubbed himself raw yesterday.
When he'd woken from his stress heat, he'd found Max curled around him, protective even in sleep.
He'd never seen Max like that before—soft, vulnerable, and impossibly young. Morning sunlight crowned his hair in an almost ethereal halo, gentle enough to soften every sharp edge George had come to associate with him. He looked less like the four-time World Champion and more like a boy who'd simply fallen asleep after an exhausting day.
It stirred something in George.
An urge to wrap his arms around him. To pull him closer. To care for him the way Max had cared for him.
He stopped himself.
Instead, he simply basked in the rare silence they shared, the line between rival and... something else becoming a little harder to define.
The moment was broken by the loud rumble of his stomach.
George hadn't known what else to do except gently wake Max and quietly assure him that he was alright but that he was hungry.
They’d shared an awkwardly silent breakfast. Max ordered nothing more than bread and cheese for himself while insisting George have a proper English breakfast.
Still half-asleep, Max had mumbled, "Smakelijk," before waiting for George to take the first bite before touching his own food.
George found himself watching him more than he probably should.
The absent way Max chewed while his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The fact that he hadn't reached for his phone once, oddly refreshing in an age where everyone seemed tethered to a screen. The way his eyes flickered between George and his plate before quietly asking—
"Good?"
George had nodded. Max looked impossibly pleased, a boyish smile with cheeks stuffed with bread and cheese. He had wanted to kiss his cheek.
When he finally left, he was still wearing Max's pajamas—the same pair he'd later gathered into a loose bundle and placed in his nest.
Now he’s in Mercedes hospitality, slowly losing it. “Oh my god. Oh good lord. This isn’t happening.”
“Are you okay, George?” Kimi asks.
The kid just turned twenty-one and has only recently presented as an alpha. George supposes he still doesn't have full control over his instincts because Kimi is looking at him as though he's ready to kill for him.
“I'm fine. Just... had a bit of a revelation, that's all.”
George pats the space beside him, and Kimi follows without question. The older omega leans against him, shoulder to shoulder, sighing in relief as the scent of thunderstorms fades beneath citrus groves and sea air.
Though Kimi is a full-fledged alpha now, he still acts like a little pup around George. His family is made up entirely of alphas and betas, so this is probably the first time he's ever had a proper omega matriarch in his life. George doesn't mind. If anything, he's more than happy to take the younger alpha under his wing.
He even lets Kimi nest with him from time to time—only in the temporary nest he keeps in the driver's room, of course.
“Does it have anything to do with Max?”
“Yes,” George groans. “I didn't expect it.”
“Which one? That you had a stress heat, or that you like him?” Kimi looks at him with complete innocence.
George shoots him a withering glare. “Andrea, don't make me bring Bearman here.”
“Wow. So rude.”
Kimi's nose scrunches up at the mention of the other alpha. Ever since presenting, the two of them have been in a strange sort of limbo. They'd both expected Kimi to present as either a beta or an omega.
Two alphas?
That just sounds chaotic.
Before either of them can continue, Toto steps into the room.
Their meeting begins.
It drags on longer than expected, mostly because Toto has to explain the team's strategy—and the current state of the car—three different ways before Kimi finally understands and concedes.
It gives him time to think about how to go about his own feelings. Confusing. Volatile. He thinks he’ll find a resolution once he talks to Alex. Yeah. That always helps.
“And so why does it feel like aero degradation?”
Toto, ever so patient, explains again.
After this meeting.
George weaves through the impossibly busy paddock. Lewis' latest love interest has probably just arrived, judging by the media frenzy swallowing half the walkway. But honestly, why did the Williams hospitality have to be all the way at the back? He'll have to tell Alex to find a better team.
A sharp pain blooms on his shoulder as a journalist aggressively bumps into him. “The fuck? Watch where you’re going, omega.”
George merely raises an eyebrow. "Is your eyesight going the same way as your hairline? I wasn't even heading your way."
“You shouldn't even be outside. Doesn't your alpha keep you on a leash?”
“F1 doesn’t tolerate knotheads like you. I’ll have a word with security about your access here in the paddock.”
The man stalked toward him, looking for all the world as though George had murdered his children and spat on their graves.
Without warning, his mind is invaded by memories of that night.
He can practically feel the tongue dragging across his neck.
His pulse lurches. His feet root themselves to the ground as every instinct screams at him to run. Around them, the crowd continues on, blissfully unaware that a fight is moments away.
The man's fist rises.
George doesn't flinch. Instead, he closes his eyes and lifts his chin in silent defiance.
The blow never comes.
When he opens his eyes, the man is frozen looking at something behind him.
He turns to see Max looking almost bored. “This man bothering you, princess?”
George opens his mouth, fighting the feeling of cotton down his throat. “Actually... yes. Kill him.”
“Someone get this man out of here.” Thunderstorms crackle through the air as the sharp scent of rain and electricity crashes over the crowd, every hair on George's arms standing on end.
“You're bald and ugly,” George adds as feeling returns to his limbs.
Max rolls his eyes and gestures for security to dispose of the aggressor. The man's profanities fade into the background as George finds himself staring into blue eyes. Ricciardo was right. They really do look like the ocean in the Maldives. “Be careful, princess, I’m not always gonna be here to save you.”
Fantasy’s over. “Get over yourself. I didn’t need any help.”
“Yeah,” Max says, walking away.
George huffs before falling into step beside him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah? What does ‘yeah’ mean?”
“It means ‘yeah, I know’. I only stepped in because he was annoying and smelled like fish. You could’ve handled it.”
“Careful, Verstappen, almost sounded like a compliment.”
Max huffs a laugh. “Don’t follow me around. You look like Kimi when he was a rookie.”
“Just for that, I’m going to follow you out of spite.”
“And was that unsafe exit from your garage during the qualifying out of spite?”
“That was a safe exit. I can’t help that you keep commenting on everything I do.”
“I do not care for whatever you do.” He sees Max shooting a glare, but it’s a bit confusing since he’s looking at someone else. Come to think of it, Max has been glaring at quite a few people since they started walking. George figures he’s probably just in a mood.
George rolls his eyes. “So when you whined about how I brake-checked you during the last race – that wasn’t caring?”
“So sorry if I didn’t want to smash our cars together. Are you an idiot?”
“Katie thinks I’m right like most of the time, by the way.”
Max blinks, looking as if he’s putting two thoughts together. “Katie? Katie Mayer as in Tim Mayer’s wife?”
“Well, who else? I have tea with her now and then.”
“You just happen to have tea with the wife of an FIA steward?” Max sighs. “Okay, Prost.”
He gives him a playful shove, somewhat appalled to be compared to Prost and Balestre. Max only laughs at the contact, not even moved by such a weak shove.
“Did you see Lewis' new beau?”
Max pulls a face. “Who hasn't? I heard there were headlines about him unfollowing her.”
George grins. “Liar. You read them.”
“Can you honestly imagine me reading gossip articles? You're out of your mind.”
George simply keeps staring at him.
Max catches the look, side-eyes him, then lets out a long sigh. “Daniel sends me articles now and then.”
George gasps dramatically. “Did you read the one with the pictures of them at the beach?”
“The one where he got introduced as 'My Friend Lewis'?”
George blinks. “…Okay, maybe you read more than I did.”
They trade gossip back and forth, Max insisting he isn't interested while somehow knowing far more than he lets on. There are details George hadn't even heard himself.
George tries very hard not to dwell on the ridiculous burst of excitement blooming in his chest. Somehow, simply bantering with Max makes the day feel complete.
Maybe he's delusional, but Max seems to be hiding a smile, too.
“Oh, by the way…” George says. “Do you want your pajamas back?”
“My pajamas?” He pauses to think. “No. Keep it.”
“It doesn’t fit me though,” he says coyly.
“I can chop off your ankles if you want?”
“Ha-Ha. Why don’t you just–”
“We’re here.”
“Huh, where?” George stops right in front of the Williams hospitality. “Were you heading to see Sainz or…something…”
Max was already leaving, giving him a lazy salute. “Bye! Be good.”
For a while, George just watches Max leave, watches until he could no longer pick him out from the crowd. What was that about? Bickering with him and yet walking him to the other end of the paddock.
“What was that about?”
He almost jumps out of his skin. “Alex! Someone ought to put a bell on you.”
“Mate, I said your name like five times. It’s not my fault you’re so deep into Max.”
“Don’t phrase it like that.” George cringes at the thought. “And, right…speaking of Max…”
He proceeds to tell the story of his stress heat, where Alex tries to hide a shit-eating grin throughout all of it.
Sigh.
MAX
P fucking eight.
Max tears his helmet off, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Too many things had gone wrong to end up here—a brush with George on track, Norris' engine upgrade, Hamilton forcing his way past, and this stubborn shitbox of a car that refused to respond no matter how many adjustments he threw at it.
"Data?" GP asks, already pulling the telemetry onto the screen.
For several minutes, they stand in silence, combing through lap after lap. Max already knows what he'll find before the graphs even load.
Mistakes.
Compromises.
A car that simply wasn't fast enough.
"How many Mercedes finished ahead this time?"
"You'll be thrilled to hear George DNF'd," GP says with a chuckle.
"No," he says flatly. "Actually, I'm not thrilled."
GP blinks. "...Right then, mate."
Only after GP walks away does Max notice the garage smells faintly of burnt wiring and smoke.
His scent.
Fantastic.
Without another word, he drops his helmet and gloves onto the designated rack before heading outside, hoping the fresh air will settle his alpha.
It doesn't.
He barely makes it halfway between the motorhomes before someone slams into his shoulder.
He immediately knows it’s George from the blur of black, teal, and brown – it’s unmistakable. Immediately, all the concern and warmth he felt just moments ago dies as the pain on his shoulder blooms.
It’s replaced by something much older.
Something ugly and grotesque.
With the pain, memories of his karting days resurface — being shoved against a wall, being smacked on the head, being shoved from his chest. He remembers Jos Verstappen’s cruel words whenever he lost a race. It’s not him who’s enraged and hurt; it’s the child within him that never truly healed. And to receive it from someone whom he saw as a potential mate burned even more.
Max catches the omega by the wrist before he can storm past.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
"You." George jerks against his grip, silver-tinged eyes blazing with fury. "You drove so fucking dirty. Look where it got me."
Max lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Me? I gave you room. Maybe if you'd stayed in your own line instead of trying to squeeze me—"
"I was defending my teammate!" George snaps. "You know, like teammates are supposed to?"
"And how'd that work out for you?"
George's jaw clenches. Pretty, perfect, pointy George, much too proud for his own good.
Max wants to crush him under his boot. "You defended him all the way to a DNF."
A muscle jumps in George's cheek.
Max keeps going. "Congratulations."
They stand between the motorhomes, only a stone's throw from the hospitality units. Mechanics, engineers, photographers—people are pretending not to stare while very obviously listening.
Max doesn't care. "I hope it was worth throwing your race away."
George lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You think you're so fucking perfect, don't you? Every time something goes wrong, it's someone else's fault."
"Oh, that's rich coming from you."
"God, you're insufferable."
Max shrugs. "You still hit me, like an amateur."
"You gave me nowhere else to go!"
"No," Max shoots back, feeling all the pain and frustration coalesce. "You misjudged it. Because everything you do, you do while relying on luck. You never stop to think. Have you ever actually done that before, huh? Think. George Russell wins because he got lucky. George Russell loses because that's what's expected of him. They don't know you're really just a fucking idiot."
The scent around George shifts immediately.
Fresh bread turns sour, the sweetness curdling into something sharp enough to sting the back of Max's throat.
To his horror, George starts to cry.
"Are you done?" His voice is painfully quiet. "Can you let me go?"
George slips his wrist free from Max's slackened grip before hurrying away, disappearing into the sea of motorhomes without looking back.
Only then does the adrenaline begin to drain.
The silence crashes over him all at once.
What the fuck had he just done?
It's not as though he dislikes George. If anything, he's grown... fond of him. Somewhere between sarcastic jabs softened into banter and the omega curling against him during his stress heat, something had shifted.
Then one stupid fucking arguement happened.
And Max had fallen back on the version of himself everyone expected him to be.
"Fuck."
Max finds himself in Charles' motorhome with his head buried in his hands, listening to the quiet clink of ice against glass as Charles fixes himself a drink.
He isn't entirely sure how he got here.
He just... came.
Charles has always been the calm head Max borrows whenever his own refuses to work.
"I don't know what came over me."
Every time he closes his eyes, George's crestfallen expression flashes through his mind.
He groans, finally looking up as Charles pours amber liquor into a tall glass.
"I thought you hated George," Charles says.
He settles onto the sofa beside Max, their knees bumping together.
Immediately, Max stands.
Charles' bonfire scent suddenly feels suffocating – not right.
He pretends to examine the blinds instead.
Charles notices anyway. The other alpha's expression flickers before smoothing over.
"Sorry," Max mutters. "I'm a bit…yeah.”
He receives a rather unimpressed look. “I've noticed.” Charles takes a slow sip. "You've been... strange ever since you rescued George. Did something happen?"
"Not at all." Max lets out a dry laugh. "He was perfect. I was just an asshole."
His fingers continue fiddling absentmindedly with the blinds.
"How do I apologize to an omega?"
Charles blinks.
"Max, they're not from another planet."
"I know."
"You say 'I'm sorry.'"
Max hums thoughtfully. "So...what about flowers?"
Charles snorts into his drink. "Max Verstappen giving an omega flowers. I'd pay good money to see that."
"What? It's not impossible."
"It's just ridiculous that the omega is George."
The silence that follows stretches a beat too long. Charles notices immediately.
"...Listen," he says more gently. "It's you and George. Give it a week, and you'll be back to arguing like cats and dogs."
They are, in fact, not back.
George ignores him for two race weeks.
No George wandering through the paddock.
No George joining Lando for padel.
No George lingering after interviews.
It's as though the omega has learned to orbit the circuit without ever crossing Max's path.
It's driving him insane.
Even during the drivers' parade, George refuses to look his way, choosing instead to chat animatedly with Oscar and Kimi.
Alex, however, makes direct eye contact.
The glare says enough.
By the third race week, driving no longer distracts him. Instead, honey trails the whole track and he feels compelled to follow it.
Until Max crashes four laps before the chequered flag.
Midfield traffic squeezes together at the worst possible moment, ending in a collision violent enough to rival Zhou's.
The world flips.
Once.
Twice.
Metal screams against asphalt.
The crowd roars.
Distantly, he hears GP in his comms. “Max, are you okay?”
He answers with a groan.
He thinks of George, all blue-eyed and pretty.
Then he closes his eyes.
He walks out of the medical centre late in the evening. Hell. Walking out of the medical centre with nothing more than bruises feels like a miracle.
He's still trying to process it when he notices someone sitting outside his motorhome.
George.
Curled against the railing, face buried in folded arms atop his knees.
"George?"
The omega looks up.
His eyes are already red.
Max quietly lowers himself beside him. The space is cramped, their shoulders pressed together, but neither of them moves away.
They sit in silence until George finally speaks.
"You scared me."
"I'm only good at making you cry, huh?"
George doesn't answer.
"I'm sorry." Max reaches up, brushing away a tear with his thumb. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry also for what I said. I didn't mean a single word."
George's mouth trembles. "Really?"
"Really."
Max smiles sadly. "You're talented. You worked your ass off to get here. None of it is luck."
"Thank you. I'm so glad you're safe. I've never seen you not walk away from a crash before.” A shaky breath. "I really thought you died."
Max reaches over, ruffling the omega's hair. "You wish."
"Don’t joke." George immediately glares at him through watery eyes, his lips wobbling. “'S not funny."
"...Sorry." Properly chastised, Max sits in silence, just staring at the unchanging scenery in front of them. “I thought of you when I crashed.”
George doesn’t answer, just looks at him curiously. This gives him the push he needs to continue.
“I thought about how I would never be able to apologize, and that the last words I'd ever shared with you would've been spoken in anger.”
The omega rests his head against the alpha's shoulder, a quiet comfort that fills Max with warmth. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of a warm bakery in the middle of a pouring rain—crisp air laced with honey on toast.
“Sometimes I'm scared that what you said is actually true. That that's what other people really think of me.”
George's voice comes so suddenly it almost makes Max jolt.
“Do you think it's true?”
The brunet shakes his head.
“Then fuck what they think. You don't get to this level without talent and determination.”
“Unless, of course, you're...” George trails off, an impish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don't be bad.”
“I'm sorry!” George laughs, sounding anything but apologetic. “It just came to mind.”
They stay like that for a long while, talking about anything and everything.
Max learns about George's fixation on growing plants from seed and how absurdly accomplished it makes him feel whenever one finally sprouts. In return, Max digs through the happier corners of his own childhood, though he has to reach deeper than expected. Most of what he remembers is karting, and his father.
Time slips away unnoticed until their legs begin to ache, their backs stiff from sitting on cold metal stairs.
It fascinates Max to watch George talk about something he genuinely loves. His eyes shine impossibly brighter, his hands becoming more animated with every passing sentence as they flutter through the air. Some would call it adorable.
At some point, Max can't stop himself. He reaches over and brushes a stray curl away from George's eyes.
George doesn't even notice, too absorbed in explaining why cherry tomatoes are superior to ordinary ones.
A yawn escapes Max before he can stifle it.
George glances down at his watch and gasps.
“Oh my! It's two in the morning. You need to get some rest.”
Max really doesn't want to.
He wants to hear how the tomato story ends.
“You can keep talking until I fall asleep?”
George rises to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his trousers.
“Do I bore you, Mr. Verstappen?”
“Not at all,” Max says, following George with his eyes as the omega steps down from the stairs. “I just want to know how your tomato story ends.”
“There'll be more time tomorrow, I'm sure.” George smiles. “You need to rest. Damn alphas acting like they're never hurt.”
Max raises both hands in surrender.
“Alright, schat. I concede.”
“I'll see you tomorrow, before you leave?”
“I'll stop by to say goodbye.”
George begins walking backward, biting his lip as though trying—and failing—to stop his smile from growing any wider.
“Okay. Goodnight, Max.”
Max follows him for a few steps before finally stopping.
“Goodnight, George.”