Chapter Text
The rain in Melbourne was falling like a mist.
It was not heavy, but steady and persistent, weaving through the trees around the paddock, settling on the wet tracks after the test. The garage area was empty now, everyone had left. Only one person remained.
Ge orge Russell.
He stepped into the middle of the open space, his head tilted back, letting the rain fall on his dark brown hair. No protection. No hesitation. His eyes were closed, his arms swung slightly, then he suddenly spun around – gracefully, like a wind escaping an invisible cage.
George jumped. No one saw.
Except Max Verstappen – standing silently under the canopy of the upper floor of the Red Bull hospitality.
He didn’t know why he stayed. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe… because the feeling in his chest from Qatar hadn’t gone away. Watching George jump, Max felt his throat tighten.
“Feather,” he muttered. “As light as a feather.”
That was the name Max had given George – not as a joke, but as something very personal. Because George had always felt fragile – not weak, but fragile that could fly away at any moment if he didn’t hold on to it properly.
Max stepped out of the porch. Without thinking. His feet just led him towards him.
When the distance was only a few steps, George turned back. Stunned.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking at a feather trying to hide in the rain,” Max replied, his voice as soft as the rain itself.
George frowned. “I don’t need anyone to look.”
“But I want to see. Because when you dance like that, you are you. Not ‘Russell of Mercedes.’ Not your rival. Not the person who called me ‘unfair/bully’ in front of the media.”
George pursed his lips. His shoulders shook slightly – from the cold or from Max’s words, he couldn’t tell.
He continued, as if afraid that silence would make him disappear:
“I’ve given you a dozen nicknames. Feather, swallow, moonbeam… sounds like a nursery rhyme, I know. But they’re all you – the you of the moments I can’t reach.”
George laughed, dripping wet.
“You call me swallow?”
“Because you fly around in my head. And because every time you argue, you raise your head like a swallow in spring – stubborn but beautiful.”
“You’re so… weird.”
“Yeah,” Max nodded. “I’ve never been normal, not when you’re around.”
They stood in the rain, neither moving forward nor retreating. An invisible line still separated them – stretching from Qatar to today.
George spoke first. “I’m not sure I can go back to the way things were. Or… whatever the ‘before’ used to be.”
“Then let’s start over,” Max said. “Not as a racer. As someone who’s been waiting for you to take off your armor.”
George was silent, but his eyes held Max for a long time—no longer angry, just a thin line of sadness.
“You’re all wet,” George whispered.
“It’s okay. At least today, I got to see who you are when no one was looking.”
A pause.
George stepped forward—very lightly, as if afraid to break the rain. He didn’t hug Max. Didn’t say anything. Just stood next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch.
Max didn’t say anything. He just smiled, very softly:
“Hello, Moonbeam.”
Melbourne 2025 — the rain had stopped, but George was still wet.
George didn’t know how long he’d been standing next to Max. He only remembered the feeling of their shoulders touching—not warm, but enough to make his heartbeat skip a beat. Part of him wanted to back away, to say something cold enough to end it all here, in this wet rain. But his feet didn’t move.
“Feather,” Max said again, softer this time. As if he was afraid that touching the guy too hard would send George flying.
“You keep calling me like I’m… something that’s not real,” George said. He didn’t look at Max, just at the wet pavement. “I’m not as light as a feather. I can’t fly.”
Max turned to him. “You don’t need to fly. You’re already something that makes people look up.”
George took a deep breath. The smell of rain, the wet pavement, his own hair. He felt his eyes sting without knowing why.
“After Qatar… I thought I hated you.”
“And now?”
“…I’m not sure.”
Max didn’t reply. This time he was silent for a long time, before saying“You don’t have to forgive me now. You don’t have to say anything. But if it rains again tomorrow, and you want to dance again… I’ll bring you an umbrella.”
George laughed, not sure if it was because of what he said or because of himself. He turned to look at Max, for the first time in months as if he were looking at someone who had been close, then a stranger, and now… didn’t know what to call it.
He was thin. Max had always known that. But standing this close, he could see that George was too thin. His small shoulders weren’t worth the weight of the world, his blue eyes, always proud, now hiding something painfully fragile.
Max wondered if he could be the one behind those thin shoulders, not the one who pushed him to the edge.
“Max.”
“Huh?”
“What if it doesn’t rain tomorrow?”
Max tilted his head slightly, then smiled—a rare smile:
“Then I’ll make it rain for you.”
George sighed. That answer was both childish and… beautiful.
Then he turned away, actually walking this time. But before he disappeared into the hallway leading to the Mercedes area, he turned back, his eyes meeting Max’s:
“Good night, Maxie.”
Max stood still, the rain no longer there, but inside he felt like a storm had just blown through.
Meanwhile—George’s hotel room, a few hours later
George sat on the windowsill, a scarf draped over his shoulders, his laptop open but doing nothing. The city lights reflected in his eyes. On the table was a wet hoodie draped over a chair, and a small piece of paper tucked under the door from when he came back from the shower.
“Feather,
I’m not waiting for your forgiveness.
I just hope you don’t fly too far.
— Max.”
George read it over and over. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t an apology. It was just something Max – half-hearted, honest, and raw.
He rested his chin on his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. He smiled a tiny smile, enough to warm his whole body.