Chapter Text
They had been soulmates since 2019. It had announced itself quietly at first, matching marks blooming on their shoulders overnight, small blue centaureas. The flowers never faded. No matter how many races passed, no matter how many miles stretched between them, the marks stayed vivid and undeniable. And then there was the zap: that sharp, electric pull whenever they touched, a jolt so sudden it stole the breath from Max’s lungs.
They always hid their marks. There hadn’t been a soulmate pairing on the grid since Prost and Senna, and everyone remembered how that story had ended, brilliant and disastrous, devoured by pressure and spectacle. If the media found out, they wouldn’t just be curious. People speculated, of course. They always did. Some whispered about Nico and Lewis, dissecting glances and body language, but nothing ever stuck long enough to ignite into truth.
Max and George stayed quiet.
Max had always wanted a soulmate. Not just in the abstract, romantic sense, but desperately, with a kind of childish certainty. Someone destined for him. Someone who wouldn’t leave, who wouldn’t hesitate, who wouldn’t flinch when things got hard. Someone who would love him without conditions. What he got instead was something messier and much more complicated.
Being with George wasn’t easy. They were too similar where it mattered most, both stubborn, both proud, both used to being right. Their clashes were inevitable. Arguments flared, sparked by nothing and everything: timing, priorities, unspoken fears. Sharp words flew. Doors slammed. Silences stretched so long they felt like punishments. Yet none of it ever dulled the truth at the center of Max’s chest. He loved George. Loved him so deeply it ached, gnawing pain he carried with him everywhere, as familiar as the weight of a helmet or the pull of G-forces through a corner.
At the beginning, George had demanded that their bond stay closed. Max had agreed immediately. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t argue, even as his chest felt like it was caving in on itself. He told himself it was fine. He told himself this was manageable. He learned to live with it because he had no other choice.
After all, pain was something he understood. Pain was something you pushed through, something you ignored until the chequered flag fell. A little heartache couldn’t stop him from winning.
Distance helped, in its own cruel way. Whenever George was back in England, the bond dulled just enough for Max to breathe properly again. The constant pull eased, the phantom ache softened into something bearable. The silence was easier than the tension of half-connection, easier than feeling George so close and so unreachable at the same time.
There were only a handful of times George allowed them to open the bond, usually during sex, because sex with a soulmate was intense. It stripped Max raw. It was overwhelming and all-consuming, a mix of sensation and emotion that left him shaking. In those moments, everything felt right. Everything felt inevitable. And afterward, when the bond closed again, the emptiness was almost worse than before.
It was everything Max ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have.
So Max had a soulmate who didn’t want him, neither romantically nor platonically.
He tried to move on. He really did. He went on dates, let people get close, and tried to convince himself that the effort could substitute for destiny. But nothing ever stuck. People drifted in and out of his life. Eventually, they always found their own soulmates and drifted away with soft smiles, polite apologies, and the quiet certainty that they had found something Max hadn’t. Each departure left behind a little more empty space.
After losing the championship in 2025, the ache in his chest deepened into something unbearable. It settled into his bones, heavy and relentless. He told himself it was okay. He told himself he’d get over it. He told himself the same lies over and over until they lost their meaning.
At first, he turned to sleeping pills. They worked for a while, dulling the edge of his despair, dragging him into dreamless hours where he didn’t have to feel anything at all. But soon one pill wasn’t enough. Then two. Then more. Even then, the relief was fleeting. Painkillers followed. They didn’t heal the heart, but they numbed the body just enough to make life bearable.
One night, unable to sleep despite everything, he found himself scrolling aimlessly, eyes burning, thoughts spiraling. That was when he read about it.
Prolonged bond deprivation.
The words sat heavily on the screen.
Symptoms: persistent sadness, fatigue, changes in sleep and appetite, a constant feeling of coldness.
Max scoffed softly. He felt stupid. What was he supposed to do, call George and beg him to open the bond? Admit how badly it hurt?
He wasn’t that pathetic.
Actually, Max didn’t have to do anything.
George showed up on his own.
The sudden chime of the doorbell sliced through the quiet apartment. Max startled so badly he nearly dropped the mug he’d been clutching for warmth. It wasn’t that late, not really, but he hadn’t been expecting anyone. He was curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, knees pulled to his chest, the fabric doing little to keep the cold from seeping into his bones.
He considered ignoring it. Pretending he wasn’t home.
Then one of the cats padded toward the door and began meowing loudly, offended. Another joined in, claws scratching faintly against the wood. The sound grated on his nerves until irritation finally outweighed exhaustion.
“Traitors,” Max muttered as he pushed himself upright.
His limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. Every step toward the door took more effort than it should have. Halfway down the hallway, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and froze. Pale skin, tired eyes, red-rimmed and dull. Dark circles he couldn’t hide no matter how much sleep he pretended to get.
He swallowed.
Running a hand through his hair, he tugged absently at the hem of his hoodie, straightening it, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. He didn’t know why he bothered. He just knew he couldn’t open the door looking like this.
“Max, I know you’re home.”
George’s muffled voice came through the door.
Max’s heart rate spiked instantly, the bond twitching like a live wire beneath his skin. He took a few steadying breaths, counted them like he did before a race start, and unlocked the door.
George barreled in the moment there was enough space, brushing past him with barely contained urgency. The door clicked shut behind them. Max turned and there George was.
Standing far too close. Shoulders rigid, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something that looked like panic beneath the anger. His gaze flicked over Max’s face.
“Open the bond,” George demanded.
Max stiffened instantly, instinctively pulling inward. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. The walls he’d built were the only thing keeping him functional. If George saw what was inside…
“No,” Max said automatically, then forced himself to soften it. “Why?”
His voice sounded calmer than he felt. He didn’t understand the sudden insistence. Maybe George was just…lonely. They hadn’t had sex since Singapore, and it was mid-January now. Maybe George was finally feeling the same symptoms. Max glanced at him, quick and searching, but George looked fine, healthy, solid.
“Max.” George stepped closer and placed his hand on Max’s shoulder, directly over the mark.
Max gasped, a broken sound tearing from his throat as his knees buckled beneath him. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, every nerve lighting up at once. He barely managed to stay upright, fingers clutching at George’s sleeve.
“Please,” George said, desperate. “Open the bond.”
Max hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then gave in, just enough to let George in.
George didn’t hesitate, he poured through the opening immediately. Max tried to hide the pain, shove it down, bury it beneath his pride, but George found it anyway. He gathered it up and took it into himself.
Max fought it, his body shook as he tried to pull back, but it didn’t last. Warmth flooded his chest, easing the ache he’d been carrying for so long. Along with it came George’s emotions in a crashing wave: worry, suffocating guilt, love and raw adoration that left Max breathless.
He gasped as the relief tore through him. His vision blurred. The last thing he felt was warmth before everything went dark.
When Max woke up, it took him a moment to understand where he was.
Soft sheets and a familiar presence pressed against him.
He realized he was in bed, wrapped tightly around George’s body, his legs tangled with the Brit’s as if they’d been made to fit that way. Instinct took over before thought. He curled closer, seeking heat, nose pressing briefly into George’s shoulder.
“Why are you here?” Max asked sleepily, the words slurred with exhaustion.
George’s blunt nails scratched gently through his hair. Max moaned softly without meaning to, melting into the touch.
“I opened the bond yesterday,” George said after a moment. His voice was thin, strained, like he’d been holding himself together by force alone. “I could feel the pain leaking through even when you had it closed.”
Without thinking, Max reached back through the bond, fingers curling around that pain and pulling it away from George. A sharp bolt tore through his body, making him gasp and shake violently.
“Are you fucking stupid?!” George snapped, instantly yanking the pain back from Max and sealing him in warmth so tight it was almost suffocating. Max sagged into the mattress, muscles going slack. “I swear to God, my soulmate is a fucking idiot.”
Max smiled faintly at that. The words should’ve stung. Instead, they felt like proof. Like care.
He wanted to say something back but sleep claimed him before he could.
The sun wakes Max up.
He groans softly and squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away from the light on instinct. Why is it so bright? He never lets it get this bright. The curtains are always drawn, a deliberate cocoon against the world.
He lifts a hand to shield his eyes and turns to the right and bumps gently into George’s thigh. The contact stops him cold.
Max exhales slowly. He stays still, half-awake, half-afraid that if he moves too much the moment will shatter. The warmth beside him is solid and he lets himself enjoy it for just a second longer, before his thoughts can catch up and complicate everything.
“Look who is finally awake.”
George’s voice is soft, fond in a way that makes Max’s chest tighten painfully. He opens his eyes properly this time and looks up. George is sitting upright against the headboard, hair still a little messy, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His phone rests loosely in one hand, forgotten the instant Max stirs. George’s attention is fully on him.
The sight alone makes Max’s chest ache in that complicated way, love tangled with longing.
“Why are the curtains open?” Max mutters, squinting up at him. “You’re ruining the depression-core aesthetic.” He exaggerates a pout, hoping the joke will keep things light, keep them easy.
It doesn’t work.
The tension doesn’t disappear. Instead, guilt flares through the bond. Max feels George react, closing himself off just enough that the bond dulls, that Max can’t quite reach it anymore.
Max pretends not to notice.
He shifts closer, wraps an arm around George’s hips, and presses his face into George’s side. He breathes him in, grounding himself in the familiar scent. It’s stupid how much it helps. How quickly his body relaxes just from being this close.
Why is it always so hard with George? Why can’t they ever just exist without everything weighing so much?
“You slept for twelve hours,” George says quietly, fingers slipping into Max’s hair. He scratches gently at Max’s scalp. “I figured you needed it.”
Max hums faintly, eyes drifting closed again. He still feels tired but not the kind of tired sleep fixes. This is deeper, heavier, like exhaustion etched into his bones. It lingers even as the warmth seeps into him.
Then panic hits.
“Twelve hours?” Max’s eyes fly open. “My children–”
He jolts upright without thinking, only to sag immediately as black dots explode across his vision. The room tilts. His head feels thick, fuzzy, disconnected from his body.
“Hey.” George’s hand is on him instantly, steady and sure. “Easy. Don’t worry. I fed them all.”
Max lets himself melt into the mattress, breathing through the dizziness until the world steadies again. His heart slowly stops racing.
“And,” George adds, tone carefully casual, “Alex invited us to dinner.”
“Us?” Max asks, confused as he looks up at him.
“Yeah.” George’s hand settles at the edge of Max's hairline, thumb brushing there absentmindedly. “He and Lily got engaged. They wanted to celebrate.”
“Oh.” Max blinks. “Since when?”
He frowns slightly, trying to remember the last time he’d checked anything. “I haven’t really been on social media lately. To be honest, I don’t even know where my phone is.”
George lets out a small, fond laugh. “Yeah, I know. I tried to call you.” He hesitates, jaw tightening just a little, before adding, “You should call your mum too. She asked me if you were okay.”
Max groans and drops his face into the pillow. “I hate worrying her.”
He shifts carefully, pushing himself upright more slowly this time. His phone sits on the nightstand, plugged in and fully charged. The simple sight of it and the realization that George had taken care of that too, makes Max’s throat tighten unexpectedly.
He calls his mother.
He apologizes. Over and over. He reassures her just as many times, that he’s fine, that he’s safe, that he’s with George, that he’s being taken care of. His voice grows hoarse by the end of the call, emotions sitting thick in his chest. When he finally hangs up, he stares at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking rapidly.
Then he flops back onto the bed beside George, shuffling until he’s close again, until their sides touch. He seeks warmth without thinking, needing to feel George.
“What time is dinner?” Max asks quietly, voice rough.
“Uh, seven p.m.” George checks his phone.
Max glances at the clock on the nightstand.
1 p.m.
“Then I’ve got time,” he murmurs.
He curls into George without asking, fitting easily into the space George makes for him. This time, George doesn’t hesitate. He wraps an arm around Max and pulls him in. Max closes his eyes.
He lets himself drift back to sleep, clinging to the warmth, to the bond, to the fragile peace of the moment, holding onto it for as long as it lasts.
George wakes him two hours later.
Light spills through the curtains turning the room gold and soft. The apartment is peaceful in a way it rarely is, broken only by Max’s uneven breathing as he sleeps curled on his side.
George brushes his knuckles along Max’s arm, then up to his shoulder. Max stirs but doesn’t wake, brow furrowing faintly as if even sleep can’t quite give him rest.
Max hasn’t showered in at least two days. George can tell. It’s not awful, not really but it’s enough to set off concern in his chest. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought hovers between them anyway, echoing softly through the bond.
Max knows. He always does.
He keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, because as long as he does, George stays. The bed stays warm. The apartment doesn’t feel so hollow. The idea of being alone again, of the door closing behind George twists something tight and painful in his chest. He needs this. Needs to soak George in.
He can feel George’s heavy gaze on him.
“Come on, stinky,” George says finally, voice soft with amusement as he tugs lightly at Max’s hand.
Max groans and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. He hears George’s quiet laugh and feels fingers squeeze his hand.
“You have five seconds to get up.”
“Hey!” A small, undignified squick escapes Max’s mouth as George’s fingers dig mercilessly into his side. He immediately regrets it.
George just laughs and before Max can gather a proper protest, George scoops him up.
“Unfair,” Max mutters, half-hearted, arms instinctively looping around George’s shoulders.
“Absolutely,” George agrees as he carries him down the hall.
The bathroom door swings open to warmth and steam. The lights are low, golden and soft, and the air smells faintly of soap and something herbal. A massive bathtub sits waiting, already filled with warm water. Max goes quiet at the sight of it.
He hadn’t known how badly he needed this. Not just the bath but the care.
George sets him down gently. Max closes his eyes and breathes in, steadying himself as the bond blooms the way it always does when George takes care of him like this. It makes Max’s chest ache in the best and worst way all at once.
“Do I have to undress you too?” George asks, eyebrow raised, tone dry.
Max opens his eyes, looks up at him and does absolutely nothing.
George stares for a beat, then groans. “You’re impossible.”
He tugs Max’s shirt over his head, then his shorts, then his underwear. Max stands there naked watching as George undresses too. His breath catches. He wants to touch him, needs to. His body moves before his brain can intervene, his hand coming to rest against George’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his palm.
George glances down at the hand, then back up at Max.
“Yeah, yeah,” George says. “Get in the bath and you can touch me all you want.”
He nudges Max forward before he can argue.
Max sinks into the water with a long, helpless moan. The heat seeps into his muscles, unwinding tension. His shoulders sag, jaw unclenches. The ache in his bones eases, inch by inch.
George climbs in opposite him, water sloshing gently over the sides. The tub is easily big enough for both of them. Being rich has its perks, Max thinks distantly.
Max stretches out, eyes closed, letting the water cradle him.
“If you fall asleep,” George says, voice cutting gently through the haze, “I’m gonna throw you in the harbor.”
Max cracks one eye open, lips twitching. “Naked?” he asks.
George nods solemnly. “Imagine the headlines. Max Verstappen found naked in the Mediterranean Sea. A chance for George Russell to keep his seat?”
Max laughs. The sound echoes softly off the tile, and for a moment, everything feels lighter. He reaches for George’s hand and tugs him closer, water splashing around them.
“If you kiss me right now,” Max murmurs, foreheads nearly touching. “I promise I will never go to Mercedes.”
George huffs out a laugh. “I will hold you to that.”
He leans in.
The kiss is slow, no urgency to it. Their bond flares bright and wide, an overwhelming rush of love, desperation, and adoration wrapping around them both.
Max gets lost in it. In the simple fact of being held, right here, right now.
After George cleans him, he even works conditioner through Max’s hair. His fingers move carefully, unhurried, massaging the product in with gentle pressure. Max keeps his eyes closed the entire time, breathing slow and shallow. He lets himself be handled, lets George care for him. The warmth of the bond hums constantly between them.
For a little while, Max doesn’t hurt.
When George finishes, he rinses Max’s hair thoroughly and shuts the water off. He reaches for a towel and wraps it around Max’s shoulders before Max can even think to do it himself, then George lifts Max up.
“Mate” Max starts, the protest weak and automatic, more reflex than resistance.
“Don’t,” George says, adjusting his grip without effort. “Stop fighting me.”
Max scoffs softly but doesn’t argue. He lets himself be carried down the hall, cheek resting against George’s shoulder. When they reach the bedroom, George gently lowers him onto the bed, hands lingering for just half a second longer than strictly necessary.
“I assume I also need to pick your clothes?” George sighs, eyes roaming over Max’s body.
“You would criticize my choices anyway,” Max mutters, rolling his eyes. “So I’ll give you a free hand.”
George hums thoughtfully. “I will make you look presentable, princess.”
Max glares at him. “You’re lucky I’m emotionally fragile.”
George just grins and turns toward the closet.
Max listens to his footsteps fade and lets himself sink into the mattress. The room feels too big without George in it, the air colder already. He stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to go. The thought of leaving the apartment, of being perceived, exhausts him. Worse still is the knowledge of what comes after, of closing the bond.
Because he knows what follows.
The hollow ache. The creeping cold. The loneliness.
But Alex wants him there, apparently and George expects him to go. Max exhales slowly and closes the bond. The warmth drains almost immediately, his body shivers. He’s naked, still slightly damp, and suddenly very aware of it. The ache blooms in his chest, spreading like a bruise he keeps pressing. Max clenches his jaw and reaches blindly for the bedside table. His fingers fumble through the drawer.
Empty blister packs rattle softly. He really needs to clean it. At the very bottom, he finds one lone pill.
“Shit,” he murmurs.
He pinches it between his fingers. Just one. His thoughts spiral quickly. One would take the edge off. One would make tonight easier. He raises it…hurried footsteps snap him out of it.
“Max.”
George emerges from the closet, already dressed, wearing something so George. Max wasn’t aware that he had George's clothes in his wardrobe. The thought is distracting enough for the pill to slip from his fingers.
“What are you doing?” George asks, worried..
George is staring at him, jaw tight. He sets the clothes down carefully on the dresser, then crosses the room in two strides and sits on the edge of the bed.
“I…uh…” Max stumbles.
“Is everything okay?” George asks quietly.
His hand presses flat against Max’s chest, right where the ache is worst. The contact burns, lighting every nerve. Max’s breath stutters.
“Why did you close it?”
Max stares at him, mind blank. That’s the problem. Around George, his thoughts scatter. Maybe that’s what being soulmates does to you. Maybe it rewires your brain so the other person becomes the center of gravity.
“I’m sorry,” Max mutters finally. “I thought you would want it closed, since we’re going out.”
George’s face goes unreadable for a moment. His lips press thin. His eyes flick, just briefly, to the fallen pill on the floor. Max’s stomach drops. Then George exhales and his expression softens back to neutral.
“No,” George says immediately. “No, keep it open.” He takes Max’s hand, cupping it between both of his, giving it a small squeeze. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
Max swallows hard, throat tight.
“Come on,” George adds, tone lighter now, casual. “Put something on or we’re going to be late.”
Max nods. He opens the bond again. Warmth floods back in, chasing away the cold, easing the ache until he can breathe properly. His shoulders sag with relief. George smiles at him relieved and stands, leaving the room to give Max space.
Max stays where he is for a moment, staring up at the ceiling.
He dresses in silence. The clothes George picked are simple: a soft navy hoodie, worn jeans. When Max catches his reflection in the mirror, the dark circles under his eyes are still there, but the hoodie makes his eyes stand out. It isn’t that bad, he decides.
Maybe tonight won’t be either.
Max finds George in the living room, sitting on the couch like he belongs there. Sassy is sprawled shamelessly in George’s lap, belly up, legs splayed without a hint of dignity as George scratches her, Jimmy is pressed into George’s side, eyes half-lidded and blissed out. Both cats are purring so loudly it’s almost comical. Max stops in the doorway. He stares. Then he sighs, long and heavy, like something inside him has just given up.
“Traitors,” he mutters under his breath.
Every single one of them.
Sassy flicks an ear at the sound of his voice but doesn’t even bother opening her eyes. Jimmy glances at Max once, unimpressed, then deliberately presses himself deeper into George’s side as if to make a point.
Max exhales sharply through his nose, deeply and personally offended by this. He stands there a second longer, watching George’s hand move automatically, comfortably, like petting Max’s cats is something he’s always done.
Finally, Max moves. He hesitates before sitting, then lowers himself onto the couch next to Jimmy, close to George but not too close. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him but far enough that he can tell himself he isn’t clinging. He folds his hands together in his lap, fingers interlaced tightly, jaw set.
“I ordered us food,” George says casually, eyes still on the cats.
“Why?” Max frowns, glancing sideways at him.
“When was the last time you ate?” George asks.
Max opens his mouth. Then close it. He looks away, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.
George hums quietly. “Exactly.”
“We’re going out later,” Max protests, already aware this isn’t convincing. “I was going to eat then.” He shrugs. “I’m not even hungry.”
The words sound reasonable in his head. If his body doesn’t ask for food, why force it?
George exhales slowly through his nose, clearly choosing his battles. He doesn’t argue, he just goes quiet. The bond flickers with annoyance and Max freezes for half a second.
It’s subtle. So quick George probably doesn’t even notice it himself. He’s still scratching under Sassy’s chin. His throat tightens. He swallows hard and closes his side of the bond just enough to water everything down. He shifts uncomfortably.
Then he slides down the couch, stretching out along the cushions, turning onto his side and pulling a pillow into his chest. He stares up at the wall.
That’s the confusing part.
Most of the time, George didn’t stay. Not like this. Not after sex, not after the tension burned off and reality crept back in. There’d be a kiss, a soft smile, then George would leave and Max had learned not to expect more.
But now George is here.
Cats in his lap. Food on the way. Touching Max like it’s natural. Like it means nothing or worse, like it means everything.
Max turns his face away, swallowing the familiar tightness in his chest. He squeezes the pillow harder, knuckles whitening. At some point, George’s hand drifts down, resting against Max’s shin. His thumb rubs absent circles through the fabric of Max’s pants.
Max huffs quietly, breath shaky. Is this pity? Obligation? The bond pulling at George whether he wants it to or not?
He doesn’t know which answer scares him more. He stares at the wall, unmoving, until the doorbell rings.
The food arrives as the sun begins to dip low in the sky. Golden light pours through the windows painting everything in soft oranges and pinks. They eat at the table in silence. The cats circle nearby. Max barely tastes the food. He eats mechanically, fork moving on autopilot, until his stomach finally signals full enough. He pushes the plate away and leans back, suddenly exhausted.
He can feel George watching him. Not staring, observing, in a way that makes Max itch.
He ignores it, he returns to the couch and immediately pulls out his phone, scrolling as if something urgent waits there. Dozens of unread messages. Missed calls. Team notifications. Family. Friends. He doesn’t open any of them.
Max lays back down, phone glowing uselessly in his hand, pretending not to notice George’s eyes still on him.
Max scrolls through his phone until it’s almost time to leave. He’s half-curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked up, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. It’s defensive without him meaning it to be, a posture he slips into when everything feels like too much.
George, on the other hand, can’t sit still. He paces. He hovers. He checks his phone, then checks Max, then checks the time again. Every few seconds his eyes flick back to Max like he’s afraid Max might disappear. It’s obvious and exhausting.
“Jacket,” George says finally, holding it out to him. “It’s colder than it looks.”
Max sighs, drops his phone onto the cushion, and takes it. He shrugs into the jacket without comment. The fussing annoys him more than it should. He knows George means well but it doesn’t stop the irritation from sparking in his chest anyway. Hurt flickers across George’s face before he can stop it and Max feels it echo faintly through the bond before Georgw pulls it back.
They don’t talk about it.
The elevator ride down is quiet. They stand close, shoulders brushing. Max is painfully aware of George’s presence, the warmth at his side, the steady thrum of him through the bond.
In the parking lot, Max reaches into his pocket and tosses the Porsche keys toward George without looking. George catches them easily, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“I’m not really in the mood for driving,” Max says, mostly to himself.
George pauses, then steps closer, amusement. “Not in the mood for driving?” he repeats. He closes the distance deliberately, crowding Max just enough that when Max instinctively tries to step back, his back meets the cool metal of the car door. Max’s breath hitches. “Who are you,” George murmurs, voice low, “and what have you done with my Max?”
Max rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He exhales slowly and presses a hand flat against George’s chest, right over his heart. It’s a mistake. George’s pulse jumps under his palm and the bond flares warm and hungry in response. Heat floods Max’s chest, stealing his breath.
The next thing Max knows, George is kissing him.
It’s not gentle. George presses him back against the car, his hand fisting in the fabric of his hoodie as he deepens the kiss. Max makes a soft, helpless sound into George’s mouth, fingers tightening in George's hair. God, he wants more. He always does.
“Tell me to stop,” George mutters against his lips, “or we’re going to be late.”
Max laughs weakly, voice rough. “You want to have sex in the parking lot?” He leans his forehead against George’s, chasing the closeness even as George hesitates. “You’re insane.”
George pulls back just enough to look at him. “Not the weirdest place we’ve done it.”
Then he steps away before Max can argue, before either of them can make a worse decision. The absence hits immediately. Max scowls at the empty space for half a second before forcing himself to move.
He climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door, watching George circle the car. As they pull out of the parking lot, Max lets himself relax into the seat, jacket pulled tight around him, the bond humming softly between them like a held breath.
The restaurant is exactly what Max expects: expensive, elegant, so Monaco. George’s hand rests on Max’s lower back as the host leads them to their table, the touch makes Max acutely aware of every step he takes.
They congratulate Alex and Lily first. Max pulls them both into a quick hug, warmth blooming genuine and bright in his chest. He really is happy for them. Engaged. Celebrating something good, something certain.
Charles is already seated with Alexandra, and Lando sits beside them. Max’s stomach tightens. He keeps his face neutral, polite. He doesn’t want to be dramatic. Still, he hadn’t wanted to see Lando tonight. The 2025 season left too much bad blood between them, too many words spoken when tension was high.
“You look like shit,” Charles greets him cheerfully.
Alexandra waves with a polite smile.
“What happened to ‘hello’? ‘How are you?’” Max says, doing his best to look offended.
Charles just laughs. Max leans in to hug him, then Alexandra. It still amazes Max that after years of nearly killing each other in karting, he and Charles somehow ended up friends.
Max nods once at Lando. “Hey.”
They sit down. George’s hand slides from Max’s back to his thigh, thumb pressing lightly—a quiet reminder. I’m here. We’re here.
Dinner is…nice. Surprisingly so. Laughter flows easily. The food is incredible, beautifully plated, but Max barely touches it. His appetite still hasn’t returned. George notices, of course, gently nudging another bite toward him, murmuring, “Just a bit more,” like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. Max forces a few mouthfuls down for George’s sake.
The celebratory champagne burns as it slides down his throat, making him cough. George is immediately there, rubbing small circles into his back. Instead of comfort, it makes Max’s chest ache.
Why can’t he have this properly? Why does it feel borrowed, temporary?
Why can’t I be enough? the thought whispers.
“So,” Lando says suddenly, clearing his throat. “You two are soulmates, right?”
The table goes quiet. Lando’s gaze burns into Max, clearly curious. George’s grip on Max’s thigh tightens, fingers digging in just enough to be noticeable.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Charles says, genuinely surprised.
Lando looks around, stunned. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” His eyes snap to George. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
George stays silent so Max steps in.
“We are,” Max says evenly. “But we’re not together. Got it?”
He hopes that’s enough.
“Oh.” Lando looks down, then back up. “So… you’re still available?” He hesitates. “We could go out. Like that one time?” He smiles, hopeful.
Max blinks slowly. That night resurfaces, too much alcohol, laughter turning into hands, heat. Waking up next to Lando, naked and disoriented, had been…something. The bond flares with jealousy. George doesn’t even try to hide it. Max glances at George, and if looks could kill, Lando would already be dead on the floor.
“Oh shit,” Alex says, eyes wide. “You and Lando fucked?”
“Oh mijn God,” Max mutters, dropping his face into his hands.
“Max! You didn’t tell me?” Charles sounds offended.
The table erupts in overlapping reactions. Max feels exposed, heat crawling up his neck.
“He is not,” George cuts in sharply, eyes locked on Lando. He wraps an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulls him close, possessive and protective. “Don’t you have your own soulmate?”
Lando grimaces. Touchy subject. Max knows. They got drunk over that once, the shared pain of having a soulmate who didn’t want you.
“Okay, George, calm the fuck down,” Alex snaps.
The bond detonates with guilt and shame. George stiffens, mutters a quiet apology, and abruptly stands, leaving the room without another word. Max exhales shakily as every pair of eyes turns to him.
“I’m so sorry,” Max says to Alex and Lily. “I–”
A sharp pain rips through his chest.
Fuck.
George cut him off again.
His hands begin to tremble. His breath comes too fast, too shallow.
Okay. Deep breath, Max.
He pushes his chair back.
“I need some air,” he says hoarsely.
He needs to leave now.
Max barely makes it to the parking lot.
The cool night air hits him like a wall doing nothing to cut through the pain ripping through his chest. By the time he reaches the car, it’s unbearable, like something is clawing its way out from inside his ribs. His vision spots at the edges. He fumbles with the door handle, misses it once, swears under his breath, then finally manages to wrench it open and collapse into the passenger seat. The door slams shut with more force than he intends.
His hands are shaking as he leans forward, forehead nearly hitting the dashboard, breath coming in short, broken pulls. He twists toward the glove compartment, fingers slipping as he yanks it open.
Painkillers.
Please.
His heart pounds harder, panic layering over the pain until he feels like he might actually shatter. Then, there, a single blister pack shoved to the side.
His fingers are clumsy, barely cooperating. He drops it once, fumbles again, teeth bared as he presses the pills out one by one. He doesn’t count. He doesn’t think. He just swallows as many as he can manage, dry, gagging when one sticks to his tongue, throat burning as they scrape their way down.
He slumps forward, forearms braced on his knees, head hanging low resting against the dashboard. His chest heaves as he breathes through clenched teeth, waiting. Feeling everything.
Slowly the pain dulls. It doesn’t disappear but it eases enough that he can sit up without crying out, enough that the world stops tilting so violently.
The drive home passes in a haze. His hands stay locked on the wheel, knuckles white, jaw tight. He doesn’t check his phone. The silence presses in. The ache in his chest lingers but it’s different now, deeper, tangled up with something that has nothing to do with the bond anymore.
This is my fault, he thinks distantly.
It always is.
By the time he reaches his flat, his legs barely hold him. He fumbles with his keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. The moment it shuts behind him, sealing him off from the world, his strength just leaves. He sinks to his knees. His breath stutters. His hands curl uselessly against his thighs. Tears spill over before he can stop them, hot and humiliating, blurring everything. Then he’s sobbing.
The pain flares again, it feels like his heart is splitting clean in two. Max drags himself forward, palms scraping against the floor as he tries to reach the couch. It feels miles away. His arms shake, muscles screaming in protest. He doesn’t make it.
When Max wakes up, it’s still dark outside. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His body feels wrong, like it doesn’t quite belong to him anymore. His head throbs, his chest aches in a dull.
He groans softly and pushes himself up from the floor. The room tilts, then steadies. Somewhere behind him, soft paws patter anxiously. His cats circle him, tails flicking, brushing against his legs.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs automatically, though his voice comes out rough and unconvincing.
He staggers toward the bedroom, one careful step at a time. When he flicks on the light, his eyes burn at the sudden brightness but that’s not what stops him.
There’s a suitcase on the floor. Open. Max freezes.
He stares at it like it might vanish. Inside are neatly folded clothes, a bottle of perfume he knows too well sits tucked into the side pocket. Its scent faint,comforting in a way that makes his chest ache and at the bottom of the case is a teal hoodie.
George’s.
His throat tightens. Guilt prickles at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t touch it. It feels invasive but the ache wins.
He undresses right there on the floor, movements slow and clumsy, limbs heavy with exhaustion. When he pulls the hoodie over his head, the fabric envelops him. It smells like him too. It feels like being held.
Max crawls into bed without bothering with the covers, curling in on himself as the cats jump up beside him, settling close. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of the hoodie and presses his face into the pillow, breathing George in like it might fix him.
Max closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him again, clinging to the only comfort he has left.