Chapter Text
They were in a club with Lando and Max after Vegas GP. George observed Max with the detached curiosity of a scientist noting the behavioural shifts of a predator. The man took a meagre sip of the drink Lando poured him. Pathetic. Or perhaps calculated—this title-obsessed model of Max Verstappen had forgone the fondness for partying of his youth. George’s gaze caught on the scar on Max’s forearm, souvenir by Kimi from the Austrian GP. The man was durable. He’d survive a night of moderate alcohol inhibition.
The conversation was as flat as Max’s tyre on lap eight in Brazil. Lando was nosey about Max’s break-up with Kelly; Max was offering monosyllables instead of actual answers.
“You’re quite harsh tonight,” Max remarked.
“Always am,” Lando beamed. George snorted.
“Blimey. Should I leave? Not interested in this tittle-tattle of yours,” George spoke rudely, the after-race weariness getting the better of him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Lando smiled insincerely. Max smirked as well, a silent, infuriating monument.
George was rabidly interested in the technicalities of Max’s driving—an acceptable, professional obsession—but he didn't want to hear all about his personal life. Were this conversation to devolve into a dissection of Max’s romantic failings, George would have to stab himself in the eye with the cocktail umbrella. He applied a splendid double standard: his own dramas were nuanced tragedies; others’ were tedious soap operas.
“Another round?” Lando chirped.
“Sure,” Max croaked. His voice was hoarse, grated by shouting over engines and team radio. George, for reasons he elected not to psychoanalyse (likely overexposure to post-race press conferences with the man), found it annoyingly attractive. The threatened argument dissipated. Lando poured the drink.
“Whoa, aren’t we waiting for the others?” George drawled, stretching his limbs with deliberate languor.
“Alex and Lily are doing their own thing. Oscar hates clubbing,” Lando shrugged.
“Did Kimi ask to come?” George levelled his gaze at Max. It was a probe disguised as small talk.
Max’s eyes met his, blue and unreadable.
“Yeah. He’s upset he couldn't join us. But he’s too young for the US clubs anyway,” Lando answered, a buffer against potential awkwardness. Probably for the best.
“I wasn’t objecting,” George said, hands raised in surrender, his staring contest with Max uninterrupted. God, but the man looked unfairly good post-race. All kinetic energy banked, radiating a tired, focused intensity. He looked like he needed a proper, mind-blowing shag. No wonder Kimi was making a fool of himself around the guy.
George’s investment in the Kimi Situation was largely academic curiosity, and if he managed to convince the boy to get a decent haircut by Charles’ mom, that was just a nice side effect. Max didn’t strike him as the type to prey on nineteen-year-old rookies. Too much hassle.
“He slept at my hotel last night,” Max offered, the words dropping into the space between them. His eyes never left George’s. Oh.
“Max, for fuck’s sake, he’s nineteen. Please don’t tell me you’re sleeping with teenagers now,” Lando groaned.
George raised a single eyebrow, a telepathic telegram: Yes, Verstappen. That would be exceptionally low, even for you.
“God, no,” Max grimaced, downing his drink. “He’s been hanging around more. Looked miserable. Seemed… needed to keep an eye on him.”
“He might get the wrong idea,” George said, finally breaking the stare to examine his own drink—something pink and sparkling that Lando had deemed appropriate. Real mature. A flicker of something suspiciously like relief warmed George’s chest. Max was, at core, a responsible adult. Not that George had doubted it. And not that he would ever voice such a sentiment aloud.
Max patted his pockets. “Got any cigs?”
Lando produced a joint. Max took a long drag, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “What do you guys want to eat?”
“I’m hungry. Are you closing the tab? I’m ordering the most expensive steak they got,” George declared.
“I’ll be right back,” Max announced, lurching to his feet. He swayed, and his hand landed on George’s shoulder to steady himself. A jolt, sharp and stupid, shot through George at the contact.
“Fuck, you’re pissed,” Lando laughed.
“Wrong. I’m fine,” Max snorted, his gaze drifting to a snotty twink at the bar.
“He’ll tell you off,” Lando sang. “You look stupid when you’re drunk.”
“Eh. Worth a shot.” Max’s eyes slid back to George, blurry but intent. “George? Do I look stupid?”
George looked at him. At the stupid blush across his cheeks, the stupidly long eyelashes, the stupid intense eyes, the stupid sharp cheekbones and the atrocious, perfect stubble.
“No,” Max almost blushed, like he was handed a compliment. George continued: “It’s not just when you’re drunk. It’s your default state.”
Max answered with a universally eloquent gesture and took off into the twink’s direction.
Lando turned, a shark scenting blood. “You’ve been quiet. Spill. What’s the gossip from the Merc garage?”
“Oh, not much,” George enumerated on his fingers. “Paperwork. Upgrades felt promising. The usual thrilling fare.”
“You know what I mean, you muppet. Personal life.”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Lando.”
“So, nothing juicy.” Lando’s grin was feral. George didn’t know if he should act offended or leave it at that. “Fine. What’s the deal with Kimi and Max, then?”
George dropped his head into his hands. “I think the kid’s starstruck. Maybe developed a… tendre. Mortifying, but understandable. An older, successful driver pays you attention? Easy to misinterpret. Max is being surprisingly decent about it.”
“Did you have a crush on Lewis?” Lando asked, the grin widening.
“God, you’re the most ridiculous person on the grid.”
“Yes or no, Georgie?”
“…It was a professional admiration,” George stated, with immense dignity.
“Sure it was.”
“Kimi, meanwhile, asked me what kind of underwear I think Max would like on him. The youth have no shame.”
Lando cackled. “Beautiful. Wish I had a teammate I can ask things like that.”
“Oh, Oscar would appreciate it. Especially if it's about underwear he would like on you.”
“No doubt. I'm irresistible to him. Like an Oscar-cryptonite,” George highly doubted that, but he decided to let it slide for now. Lando continued: “What does Toto think? On the Kimi thing?”
“I hope he finds out and they bond over a three-hour crying session about their mutual, tragic crush on Verstappen,” George snapped. A hand landed on his shoulder, exactly where Max’s had been earlier. A thumb began to rub a slow, deliberate circles into the muscle. George’s breath hitched.
“Shame it’s the two Mercedes guys I don’t give a fuck about, eh?” Max’s voice was a low whisper directly into George’s ear, designed to vibrate straight down his spine. George felt a hot flush creep up his neck.
“Who would you prefer?” Lando grinned, enjoying the spectacle.
“Marcus. Great guy. Shame about the hair, though.” Max deadpanned, his free hand plundering through George’s own hair. Lando snorted. George was now approximately the temperature and colour of molten lava. Then, as suddenly as it came, the contact vanished. The absence felt louder than the touch.
***
They ate the steaks Max brought and drank all the pinky sparkly liquor—the worst pairing to the steaks, by the way. Max’s touch constantly lingered on George, first innocently half-hugging his shoulders, than making its way to his lower back. George stood, a study in forced nonchalance.
“Need another.” He crossed the room, a man fleeing the scene of a minor, personal crime.
At the bar, he pointed blindly at a colourful bottle. The bartender supplied a glass. George didn’t touch it.
The problem was thus: Max’s ‘advances’—if one could call that chaotic, confusing energy such a thing—were becoming as subtle as a sledgehammer. George, a man who prized his career, expertly dodged them. Max, with his four championships, could afford not to care about complications; George could not.
But some nights, like tonight, the veil between prudent avoidance and spectacularly bad decisions felt tissue-paper thin. He was teetering on a very dangerous edge.
He downed the drink. He should return to the table, lest he look upset with Max and Lando (he was, but that was irrelevant). Instead, his feet carried him toward the exit, his spine prickling under the weight of a familiar, sharp gaze.
His eyes caught on a woman by the door. He’d slept with her a few times last season. Names were a detail his brain often vetoed, but he was partly sure she was from Ferrari’s team. She was a known entity, a solution—or a distraction from the problem currently burning a hole in his back.
She noticed his look. “Hi, Georgeous.”
Blimey. What a nickname.
“Hey. Busy tonight?”
“Not for you. Never. Are you bored?”
“Something along those lines,” he admitted. He craved something wild and unhinged, especially after Lando’s remark about his “non-juicy” personal life.
She smiled, tangling her long fingers with his. It sparked nothing. Depressing, really.
“Let’s go, sweety.”
The night air was a cold slap. He hailed a cab. Her commentary on his hotel room (“Fucking dreamy”) washed over him. Her hands on him were soft, expert, and utterly meaningless.
“What would you like tonight, George?”
Not this. Someone stronger, sharper, someone who could break him in half and instead chose to linger around his garage, breathing down his neck.
“Let’s find out,” George exhaled, pulling her to the bed.
***
Afterwards, she lay back on top of him, kissing his neck. He imagines a different pressure, a scratch of stubble. This is pathetic.
“Sorry. I need you to get out.”
“But…” It’s not like she expected to spend the night here, right?
“Really sorry. Have an early flight this morning. I’ll call you a taxi.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, but there was no real accusation in her voice, only disbelief. “You do know I’m from your logistics team, right?”
He shrugged. He didn’t and right now, he truly didn’t care.
Alone, the silence was accusing. He took out his phone.
Annoying Arsehole
You still up?
The reply was immediate.
Annoying Arsehole
who is this?
Oh, for God’s sake. Had he completely misread every signal?
Annoying Arsehole
Blimey. Do you never save numbers?
oh hi George
miss me already?
thought you were half-dick into a stranger by now. changed your mind?
George stared at the last message. Crude. Unnecessary. Absolutely typical.
Annoying Arsehole
wanna call?
He groaned. This was a bad idea.
Annoying Arsehole
Yeah.
His phone rang within seconds.
“Hey, mate.” Max’s voice was wrecked, hoarse with fatigue and smoke. It was a direct line to George’s nervous system. “What are you wearing?”
“Max, I will hang up.”
“What’s the point of a 3 a.m. call if it’s not phone sex?” Max accused, his tone all dare.
Against all better judgement, George’s hand drifted down his pants. This, for the first time all night, felt horribly, inevitably right.
“…We shouldn’t,” George sighed, the hypocrisy thick in his throat.
“Are you touching yourself to my voice right now?”
“…No.”
“Good. Otherwise I might get ideas. And I have plenty already, in case you were wondering.” A pause, then a softer, gruff sound. “What do you want, George?”
He exhaled, softer than he wanted. “Wanted to hear your voice. Not for… stroking purposes.” Okay, maybe a bit for stroking purposes, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “And wanted to know you didn’t take some rando home.”
“Double standards,” Max noted. “But no. Didn’t find anyone tall and British enough.”
A dumb, unbidden smile touched George’s lips. He was glad Max couldn’t see it.
“Kimi’s still at mine, though,” Max added, casual as a landmine.
“Why?”
“Dunno. Kid didn’t want to be alone. Are you jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“God, no.” A beat of silence. “Would be nice, though. Seeing you all hot and bothered over me.”
“I am never hot and bothered over you.”
“Sure, baby.” Max yawned, the sound stretching down the line. “Okay. If you’re not in the mood for phone sex, I’m hanging up. Thanks for letting me know you got home safe. Sleep tight.”
“Night, Max.”
The line went dead. George lay in the quiet dark, the echo of that hoarse sleepy voice hanging in the air. This was not new. They had skated this edge before, drunk and honest in ways that daylight wouldn't permit.
And yet.