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Chapter Text

George Russell was visiting the Netherlands for diplomatic reasons, for friends and connections he'd need later on in his life for when (or if) he officially reigns as king. Business and political meetings were truly nothing new, as he had been moulded to accept opportunities thrown at him at quite a young age. 

He wouldn't say he liked them, but he wouldn't say he hated them either. It's rather boring spending your time as a 23 year old in a room with middle aged men shamelessly eyeing him up. Even with that, George understands the necessity of these meetings, the necessity to ensure and establish power and connections. And after all, both words usually came hand-in-hand. 

But never, and never, in a million years would George think himself in this situation. Not even a billion thoughts could conjure up the scenario George just so happens to find himself in, and to the prince, it's almost humbling. 

The afternoon sun was soft over the countryside’s horizon, glinting beautifully off the rippling canal waters. George liked these moments—quiet and peaceful. It was rare, as rare as a gemstone, in a life as chaotic and complicated as his. He sat atop his white stallion, Emilian, trotting along the paths. His entourage lingered miles behind him, long gone after George dismissed them for some ‘quiet time.’

It was a peaceful ride. 

But something happened. Of course something had to have happened, because nope, he can never have anything good to himself ever. 

“Easy, boy,” George patted his horse’s head as it galloped, him trying to steady himself on the saddle. He half-regretted his earlier decision to dismiss his men, the fact that he genuinely insisted on riding himself. A foolish idea, one would say, as his perfectly groomed and pampered horse was very much not meant for Dutch canals and countrysides—their muddy paths and bumpy cobblestone. 

The other half of him appreciated the peace. A momentary moment of serenity pooled in silence, a breath of calm in the chaos of simply living. 

And as quickly as it came, as quickly as it went. A crack split the hush wide open, snapping George out of his bliss. A sudden slip sent his Emilian’s hooves skidding dangerously along the uneven stones. George curses under his breath, his hands tightening around the reins as he tries to steady his horse. 

“Steady, boy!” He calls, the sound of panic lacing his usually perfectly clipped and calm voice. He wasn't a stranger to accidents, but the thing is—he was in an unbelievably narrow canal, and if an accident were to happen, he'd either fall into mud or the water. None were good outcomes, especially not in the outfit he'd so carefully picked out earlier this morning. 

Despite George's attempts to calm his horse, he merely freaked out further, teetering at the canal’s edge. There, he thought: well, this is it. Years I've worked for my future, all gone, because a horse of mine decided to just go as mad as a hatter. I accept my fate, Lord. Welcome me into your loving arms and—

“Oi, hold on to the reins, not your hat!” A thick accent that came from behind shouted, followed with the sounds of hooves clattering against stone. Without missing a single beat, the mystery man leaned down, clasping his hand firmly onto George's arm, holding him still and stabilising the horse. 

The sudden presence of another man spooked George out of his boots, unfortunately leading to even more panicking, much to the man's dismay and desperate tries to keep him still from panicking. Emilian mirrored George’s fright and alarm, rearing and ultimately knocking George into the ground. 

His vision blurred as mud splattered onto his clothes and face, humiliation washing his cheeks. He peeked one eye open and saw the same man dismount his own chestnut horse, heading to calm the poor frightened stallion. Then, he turned to look at George, and George thought: Well, if Emilian doesn't kill me, surely this lad will and braced for a gun to be cocked and for his personal belongings to be handed—or hell, maybe even his clothes to be stripped off. He shivered at the thought. 

Instead of any of those scenarios, the man lended a hand, helping George up and out of the mud. George winced, skeptical but nevertheless taking the hand. The silence was loud, and awkward. A stark contrast to the silence he usually prefers. 

He clears his throat. “So, are you gonna ask me for money? Or my belongings? Or maybe even my horse?” He accused, jabbing a finger at the man. The man's eyebrows furrowed, and the corners of his lips turned slightly upwards. 

“I drag you out of the mud, and the first thing you do is accuse me of trying to rob you?” He lightly teases—that darn stupid accent. 

George helplessly tries to wipe the mud off his clothes, huffing in frustration when his attempts just clearly made it worse. The man watches with an expression similar to amusement on his face, snorting. 

“Well, what on earth am I to expect? You're..” George eyes him up and down, “well— nevermind, but, if you're gonna ask, I will not give you my belongings.”

The man let out a full-blown laugh now. 

“I have no idea if I should take that as a compliment or not. Especially coming from someone I saved.”

“Saved? Well, how dare you even suggest that! You did absolutely nothing!” George huffs, arms crossed as he almost slips on the mud again, before the man steadies him again, that stupid smile still visible on his stupid face. 

“Well, schatje, I did try to warn you to not panic any further. But of course you didn't want to listen to me, and now look at you. All prim and proper, now covered in mud. But, well, for your information, darling, my name is Max, since you couldn't be bothered to ask me.” 

George flushes at the reminder of the humiliation that just occurred moments before, and his brain short circuits for a second. “Uh, erm, excuse me for being.. impolite. I'm, er, George. Russell. Nice to meet you, Max.” He mentally scolds himself for the awkward wording, because how the hell has he managed to lose every single word in the dictionary talking to Max. But as he was raised—bright smile, promising words. 

Max notices. 

“George.” He mutters, as if testing out the name on his tongue (and, to be honest, it sounded really good on his tongue—) “What's a pretty boy like you doing out here? You don't sound.. around here.” Max questions, eyeing him up and down. Their eyes met for a second, and George instantly looked away, embarrassment still overcoming him. 

“It's none of your business.” George simply stated, eyes looking anywhere but the beautiful man standing in front of him. 

“Oh, forgive a man for asking a question, George.” 

“A rather personal question.”

“If that's what you think is personal, then you definitely haven't seen personal, mate.”

Silence. For a beat. 

“Won't you look at me, at least, George?” Max quipped, and George could hear the grin in his voice. 

George squints his eyes, then finally meets Max's. Bad idea. He instantly found himself lost in the man's eyes—because, by God, how could literal eyes be this.. enticing? Captivating? George couldn't even find this specific shade of blue for his clothes. His eyes seemed to have been holding mystery—a long life of secrets, echoes of unsaid tales. It shouldn't even be that interesting to him, he's also got blue eyes! 

“You're from around here.” George states. Not a question. 

“You've got quite the eye, George. Very intelligent. It's basically seeping off of you.” Max comments, keeping that lazy smile on his face. 

“Thank you.” George was.. confused. Well, confused is basically an understatement. The poor boy didn't understand social cues; he was too busy getting pampered with praise and business talks to even understand a hint of sarcasm growing up. (His mother had commented on that trait, once upon a time, given the fact that he can't sense sarcasm but can somehow give sarcasm.) 

Max snorts. “No offense, though, I do think you're quite interesting.”

“Thank you?” George tilts his head. 

“You're very welcome, Your Majesty.”

Oh. So Max did know who he was, then. 

As if Max could read his thoughts (in a way, George had come to seriously think that within the short amount of time he's known him), he cocked an eyebrow. “Don't expect for me to bow down to your every will just because you'll be crowned king of England soon, George.” Max snickers.

“I— hey, I was not expecting that.” George exclaims, eyes narrowed as he regarded Max. 

“You very much were. I could see it in your face, pretty boy.” He smirked. 

“Very funny, coming from someone who, for some reason, expects some form of thanks for ‘saving’ me.” 

“Now, let's not get too cocky. Nobody's around here. You would've had to walk around asking for help in your now-dirty clothes. Not a good look for the heir to England, is it?” Max taunted. George’s cheeks flushed a timid shade of red, just imagining that scenario. Max notices, of course he does, and just laughs in that infuriating way again. “See? You wouldn't like that, would you, Your Majesty?” 

“You're way too bold for your own safety. I could get my guards to apprehend you!” George crosses his arms, trying his best to look even the slightest of intimidating. Max humoured him, that idiotic smile still present on his face, looking around. 

“Riiiiight, but they aren't here, are they? And I'm not exactly committing a crime. And if I were, you have absolutely no jurisdiction over here. And, again, still hearing no thanks.”

George narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man again. He hated that he was right, and he wished he wasn't in such a compromising position right now. But Max didn't exactly seem dangerous, just—God, forbid—absolutely annoying. 

“Fine. Thank you.” He gave in, rolling his eyes, bouncing from one foot to the other. 

“There we go. Was that so hard?” Max chuckled, stepping closer. The Brit instinctively steps back, reaching for the dagger he always kept close in case of emergency in his pocket. Max raises both his hands, sensing George seeing him as a threat. 

“Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you. Just relax.” He opens both his fists and closes them, showing George that he isn't holding a weapon. But George has been trained for these types of situations, so he keeps the dagger closed around his fist, ready to act towards any form of danger. 

Max notices it. Again. “You can keep holding onto that, but, I'm telling you again, I'm not going to hurt you.” He assures, more firmly now, then stepping even closer. This time, George stays perfectly still. 

Suddenly, Max is shrugging off his brown leather jacket, and instead of just handing it to him, he literally wraps it around George himself. “There. Should be big enough to cover the mud, shouldn't it?” 

George didn't even notice he was cold until he felt the jacket’s warmth.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. 

“That one, I didn't have to ask for. I'm proud, you're learning.” Max jokes. George huffs and swats his arm, which earns a startled ‘oww!’ from the other man. 

Another beat of silence. 

George breaks the silence. “Well, won't you be freezing, then?” Ever the concerned one, George asks.

Then, with another of his annoyingly handsome smiles:

“You'd be colder.”

Chapter Text

George was thinking. 

About him. Again. 

He couldn't even focus. 

George sat stiffly in the polished council chamber, tapestries and fine artworks hanging on the walls, advisors whispering strategies about diplomacy and how to proceed with connections all around him.

He pretended to be listening along to whatever the Dutch ministers were rambling about to him—something about treaty terms, maybe. George knows he should be, but really, he couldn't be bothered to go all-ears, and even if he was, he probably couldn't. 

Max had completely taken over his life. The day before, when he returned to the palace and laid on bed; he thought about him. About his stupid smile, and his infuriatingly handsome face. Of course, George would never say it out loud—but, genuinely. 

His name alone seemed to echo in his mind, as if it's bouncing right and left inside his brain, consuming his every waking thought. He's been trying to shake it off and away from him since the darn morning. He's just a boy, a local. Get it together, George, you barely know him, George had reprimanded himself, talking to his own reflection in the mirror. 

But even as the reminder lingered, George couldn't help but see it. Max's grin, that ridiculous, lazy smile that George had wanted to smack off the first time he'd seen it. 

I don't fancy him, George mentally tells himself as if reminding himself to behave, I don't. 

The morning was literal hell. He spent it rolling over the bed, trying to bury himself under the blankets as if his thoughts about Max were monsters and he was trying to hide. Because, despite every shred of his willpower, the image of Max's blue eyes (which he thinks really shouldn't be that special, he's literally got blue eyes too), the most unnerving shade of blue basically refused to leave his mind. 

But if the morning was hell, then surely this was Tartarus itself. 

“Your Majesty,” a voice cleared his throat. George blinked and was momentarily snapped out of his despair when another middle-aged man was staring at him. Lord, how long has he basically been out of it? 

George gave one of his polite, polished smiles. “I apologise. I didn't quite hear what you said. May you repeat it again?” A clipped answer. A flimsy excuse George had conjured up over the years whenever he found himself daydreaming during a particularly important meeting/event. 

The man nodded curtly, then went on about trade routes and how George would come about it. 

May God help me, George thinks to himself as he forces out some resemblance of a robotic, diplomatic and respectful answer. 

———

By the time the evening came, George still couldn't stop thinking about him. 

The way he was so.. bold, even with the knowledge of George literally being royalty. Of course, though, George had his fair share of bold people shamelessly attempting to try something on him. But never was it in that form of boldness. Like Max didn't care that George was a prince, so he didn't care about respect or trying to gain respect. 

George liked that. 

He wasn't used to it. People being sarcastic to him, people joking around with him without apologising every second. It's nothing he's familiar with, but it feels nice to feel human and not a puppet. Maybe that's why Max had found his way into George's brain, almost like a parasite of sorts. 

Max's leather jacket was somewhere in his guest quarters. The night before, he couldn't stop staring at it, the brown piece of clothing draped over a chair in the room the same way it was draped around George's shoulders. He shivered at that memory. The memory of Max's hands on his body. Even if any chance of skin-on-skin contact were to happen, it was separated by George's clothes and Max's own gloves. 

What on Earth are you thinking, George? This isn't you. Snap out of it, I beg. 

He rubs his temples. He came here for diplomacy, not to gain a rather odd obsession with an annoying local. But he felt so drawn to him, as if Max had some sort of magnetic field to him; and at this point, George might genuinely believe he does. He has absolutely no singular idea  on why he feels so drawn towards the man. 

It makes him wonder. 

When George was younger, his mum used to tell him of these certain superstitions. George wasn't one to believe in them, but he definitely enjoyed time with his mother; listening to her soothing voice. He believes he could probably listen to her talk about rats for an hour. 

“If your nose itches, my dear, it means someone is thinking about you.” 

George suddenly wonders if Max is itching his nose every second right now.

He groans, then face-palms, trying to wake himself up from wonderland once again. This is getting disruptive and frankly annoying. They've only met the other day, and now Max is haunting George's life. It's honestly pitiful, really. He's the future of England, and here he is pining over a man he met not long ago. 

Wait. 

Not pining. 

Definitely not pining. 

“He's nothing, I'm just exhausted and distracted,” George mutters to himself, walking along the palace corridors. He moved through the palace halls in silence, his boots brushing against marble veined with gold. Tapestries swayed faintly in the still air, their woven kings and queens watching as he passed. Their eyes seemed to follow George's every move, like they knew the war that was raging on in his head, and they were either pitying him or mocking him. 

He stopped at the end of the hallway. A pair of arched doors opened to a balcony drenched in the evening light. He pauses there, the cold wind rustling his hair and brushing gently against his cheeks. He takes a deep breath. 

He stayed there. Perfectly still, eyes closed. 

For a moment, his brain resetted. He didn't think about Max. About his stupid face and his stupid hair and his stupid eyes and his stupid voice—God, what's gotten into him? 

“George?” A familiar voice called out. George blinked, then turned around. Kimi. He was a young boy, barely 17. His noble family was closely tied with George's, funnily enough, he found himself liking Kimi more than any other in that family. His father just so happened to also have some business meetings here, and Kimi, his youngest son obviously had to have followed. 

George acknowledged him with a smile.

“What are you doing out here?” Kimi stepped closer, out and onto the balcony, just beside George. The older man turned back around, and rested his arms on the railing. Kimi seemed to mirror his movements (something George had noticed, the boy always tried to mirror his movements—he thought it was endearing.)

“Just thinking.” George replied simply with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“But it's cold out here. You're not wearing a coat.” 

George pauses. He thinks again about yesterday, when Max just shrugged off his jacket and gave it to him without second thought. Great, I'm thinking about him again, George wants to hit himself in the head. 

“It's fine, Kimi, really. It's nothing I'm not used to.” The boy was always so considerate. That's an attribute he liked about him; paired with the fact that he basically follows George everywhere. 

He turns his head towards him. “What are you doing out here, then? Shouldn't you be following your father?”

Kimi paused, then slowly turned to him with a sheepish smile. “If I told you that I didn't come to a meeting my father told me to, would you get mad and tell him?”

George widens his eyes. “Kimi!”

“The meeting wasn't even that important! I promise!” Kimi splutters out, “I don't think they would even notice if I was there or not, I promise, George, please don't tell my dad—”

And that was another thing about being around Kimi. George felt like he was some sort of mother trying to control her son around him. He takes a deep breath. “I won't tell him, Kimi, I promise. But you do realise he'll find out soon eventually, right? Meetings are very important—”

“Okay, okay, I get it, George.” Kimi chimes in, as if sensing the man will go into an entire monologue about the importance and impact of business meetings. George sighs, exasperated. Stubborn, the boy truly was. But George could never have it in him to bring himself to dislike him even the slightest bit. 

“But, actually, George—I was trying to find you.” Kimi’s eyes glinted off the horizon, the fading sun reflecting off of them. George raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. 

“Okay, so- I know if I asked anyone else they'd probably say no,” George is starting to worry Kimi’s asking him to be his accomplice at a crime scene, “but, I heard that over at the countryside they do horse races! Like, horses. Racing. You can take Emilian with you!”

“.. What?”

“I mean—it's basically it. In the name. Horse racing. Horses racing eachother. With their humans.”

“No, I know what horse racing is, Kimi, I'm just wondering what you'd want me to do.”

“There's one tomorrow afternoon! You can come with me, George! I mean, it's probably not the fancy ones you're used to, but I reaaaally wanna see them!” Kimi’s basically bouncing off the heels of his feet, holding George's arm. 

George stares at the boy. “You are a child, you know that?”

“Please, George? Pleaaaaase?” Kimi pleads.

“You ran from a meeting to come and ask me to accompany you to a horse race.. that's.. tomorrow? When you could've just asked me tomorrow morning?” He squinted his eyes, as if not believing it himself. 

“Errr, precisely. But, George, you don't get it! My friends told me about it, it's really such fun, and I just want you to come with me.” Kimi tugged on George’s sleeve. Right. He was sure at this point that Kimi is basically a child trapped in a teenager’s body. 

“You have.. friends here?” George questions. 

“Well, that's not nice.” The boy lets go of George's sleeve, crossing his arms. 

“I mean— Lord, I don't mean to be rude, Kimi. I know you have friends. But you do around here?” 

Kimi huffs. “Well, contrary to what you believe, I can make foreign friends. Also, I heard there's, like, like cowboys. Like the ones in America. Isn't that just splendid?”

George froze. Cowboys? “Right. That's.. splendid.”

“So, are you coming with me or not? Please, come, you need to come—”

“Don't you have.. your friends to accompany you? Your age?”

“I do, but they're busy, and I think it'll be fun for me and you. Like I said, you can bring Emilian!”

Funny. He would never bring Emilian to any of these events. 

He grumbles. “.. Fine.”

Kimi’s entire face changes, and he looks like he might be the happiest man alive. “Thank you, thank you, George! I'll see you tomorrow!” And with that, the boy waves at him then leaves the balcony, skipping down the corridor. 

He blinks. “Wait, Kimi, where exactly in the countryside—” but the boy was long gone. He groans. Once again, George was alone with his thoughts. 

Countryside. Horse racing. Cowboys. Max?