Chapter Text
He would be caught dead before he admitted it, but George liked the attention. He knew he was handsome, he knew that people’s mouths watered when he wore those barely-cropped shirts on the runway or when the newest pair of trousers fit him in all the right places. He had been a model since he was 18, signing early with a small indie brand and a horrendous haircut. But now, he was 26 years old preparing for Paris Fashion Week with one of the biggest brands in all of Europe. Tre Leoni was the luxury brand of the past eight or so years and everyone knew how difficult it was to get a spot on their runway. George was absolutely elated when his agent called, telling him he was going to be the brand's Fashion Week opener. The issue however, arrived when George was sent to meet the designer. Max Verstappen. In retrospect, maybe he should’ve seen it coming, other models had told him that the man was not one for pleasantries and courtesy. He had not responded to any of George’s customary rambling, even about the history of designers! Instead the man worked quietly and precisely, measuring around George’s half-nude body with practiced professionalism. He only spoke when he needed to instruct the man to move and he never met his eyes. It irritated George to no amends.
“So what? You just woke up and decided you wanted to be Viktor Horsting?” He quipped as he turned carefully for the man. It had been nearly an hour and the designer had said a mere few sentences.
“For how much you think you know, that’s the only Dutch designer you can name?” The dirty blond raises his eyebrow, the rest of his face staying stone cold and calm. “I’m more of a Rolf fan anyways.”
Rather than being grateful the man had finally caved to George’s neverending questioning, the curly haired model was latched onto one key part of the dutchman’s playful banter. With a scoff, he rolled his eyes, “What I think I know? I’ve been working as a model for eight years, I have a clue what I’m talking about."
Max simply hummed, slowly shimmying the fabric off of George’s shoulders. They continued like that for twenty or so moments, George’s misplaced knowledge and Max’s partially annoyed and partially focused hums.
“You can go now, I got the measurements I needed.” Max stood starting to tidy his sewing bag.
“What?” George coughed, reaching for his slacks. “Don’t you need to do more outfits? I have three in the show.”
“Yes, George, I designed the show.” Max rolled his eyes, as politely as one could. “Tommorow, same time. I am not a miracle worker and you are not my only model.”
Of course, George thought, he was going to have to deal with the calloused man in front of him for weeks on end.
Before he could form an answer, Max had already finished his packing and was moving towards the door. “Tot ziens, George, Zie je morgen” (Goodbye, George. See you tomorrow.)
“I don’t know, he sounds like he’s just being professional to me.” Alex sighed as he and George sat in the latter's dining room, a glass of wine for both of them. “You’re reading into this too much.”
“He said that I didn’t know anything!” George lamented, one hand resting on his hip in the way that only George does. “And then he spoke some foreign language at me.”
“He’s Dutch, George.” Alex deadpanned, “He was probably speaking Dutch, and not to be the devil’s advocate but, you kind of don’t know anything. I mean, Viktor Hosting? Really? That was the best you could do?”
“You are the worst friend in the whole world, Albono.” The man groaned, but he couldn’t escape the upturned smile upon his own face. “Why do I even put up with you?”
“I brought you wine.” The thai-man summarized. “Among other things.”
“What do you think he said?” The man questioned, resting his chin against the palm of his hand. “When he spoke ‘Dutch”?”
“I don’t speak Dutch, how would I know?” his friend smiled. “I’m sure he was just saying goodbye.”
“Zee-yah-morken.” George butchered, “That’s what he said. Tah-zeen, zee-yah-morken.”
“There’s no way that’s how you say it.” Alex scoffed, taking a long sip of his wine. “No wonder he doesn’t like you.”
Their night continued in the way so many before them have, a few glasses of wine, a few stories from ‘back in the day’, and one too many drunk photos. He and Alex had been friends since primary school, and while the thai-man continued their F1 dream from all the way back in karts, George had left it behind after an accident a few weeks before his 16th birthday. George acted as Alex’s WAG on race days, and the other doesn’t bring up the fact that the young man should be with him on track.
“Oh, shit.” George finally giggles out, breaking the two from their active fit of laughter. “I don’t know if he saw it.”
It didn’t take long for Alex to know what the man was referencing, the accident, the one the George only mentions when he’s drunk. Alex was there when it happened, he helped George, and he knew the scar right above the man’s tailbone like it was the back of his hand. It was a small incision, but the more they found the more they had to open up in surgery. Now, it was a faint line, but back then, it was red and angry.
“You can barely see it now, Georgie.” Alex reassured, he knew it was the appearance aware man’s biggest insecurity. “Even if he did, I’m sure it’s not an issue.”
“He thinks I’m weak.” The drunk man spoke, “I’ll have to fix this.”
“No, he thinks you’re stupid. And if you try to ‘fix it’ you’ll just prove his point.” The racecar driver emphasized. “You’re a brilliant model, and he knows it.”
“He’s so annoying.” The curly haired man puffs, backing down from his previous adrenaline based anxiety.
“I know, Georgie.” The man patted his thigh gently.