Chapter Text
Max wakes up slowly, watching as the light filters through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. There's a familiar warmth pressed against his side. He moves carefully, making sure not to wake the man next to him, and shuffles around until he finds a more comfortable position to lie. Once he finds it, he slowly pulls his boyfriend towards him.
George stirs faintly at the movement, a low hum slipping past his lips as he instinctively shifts closer. His forehead brushes against Max’s neck, nuzzling into the curve of it, his breath feels warm and even. His arms wrap around Max’s waist, clinging tightly as if needing him as close as possible.
A smile finds its way onto his face, his chest filling with warmth and affection at the sight. He runs his fingers through George's hair, letting the soft strands slip between his fingers. George mumbles something unintelligible against his skin, and Max can't help the loud snort that he lets out before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
For a moment, everything feels still, just a tangle of limbs and quiet breaths. Max lets his eyes roam George's face, moving his fingers to trace his allowing himself to admire his lover.
George makes a sleepy noise, pulling back slightly to squint at him.
“You’re staring,” his tone is accusing, but Max can see his lips are twitching, as if he's trying to fight a smile.
Max raises his eyebrow. “I’m admiring my boyfriend, or is that not allowed anymore?”
George rolls his eyes in response. “I'm going back to sleep.” He mutters, attempting to bury his face back into the crook of Max’s neck.
He huffs out a laugh, wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend. “You’re impossible.”
Max lets his eyes close again, wanting to preserve this moment for a while longer. The room grows quiet again, he's unsure of how much time passes. Eventually, George shifts again, stretching out before settling back against him.
“You feel warm,” George mumbles sleepily, voice laced with drowsiness.
“Yet you’re still clinging to me,” Max teases. “Besides, I'm not warm, you just happen to run cold. It's like sleeping next to an iceberg.”
“May I remind you that you were the one who decided that you wanted to cuddle, and it's not my fault you constantly hog the blankets,” George protests, lifting his head enough to glare half-heartedly at him.
“Only because you steal all the pillows,” Max counters, grinning when George’s jaw drops in mock offense.
There’s a beat of silence before George finally lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I hate you.”
“And yet,” Max says smugly, leaning in close, “you’re still here.”
“That’s because I wouldn't want to pass on the burden of dealing with you onto someone else, it seems that's my cross to bear.” Max knows better than to be offended by the remark. Instead, he finds humor in it, noting the sarcastic tone George’s voice had taken.
“Then I'm glad it's you and not someone else.” He leans down to press a kiss on his temple. George opens his mouth to speak, but Max doesn't let him, pressing another kiss, this time to his left cheek. He presses another one to his jaw. Then another on the tip of his nose, making George’s face scrunch up.
He feels him reach up, cupping his face with his hands, a soft smile on his face as he pulls Max towards him, only stopping when their lips are close enough to touch. They stay like that for a couple of seconds, just staring at each other, before leaning forward to finally close the gap.
The kiss is slow and deliberate, he doesn't feel the need to rush it, only caring about the steady warmth of George’s lips against his own. Max sighs softly into it, feeling George’s hand brushing along his jaw, fingertips lingering as though he's trying to memorize every detail.
George hums, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss, but not pushing for more, already feeling content.
When they finally part, George doesn’t move far, just rests his forehead against Max’s, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.
Before either of them can speak up, the bed dips suddenly with a heavy thump. Both of them turn as their cat sassy struts confidently across the sheets, tail flicking like she owns the place, wedging herself neatly between them, pressing against George’s chest with a loud, demanding meow.
Max stares at the cat, annoyed that they’d been interrupted. George laughs at his reaction, reaching down to scratch behind the cat's ear. She purrs loudly, curling up against George as if to prove a point. Max groans and flops back dramatically against the pillows. “Unbelievable. I can't believe I got replaced by a cat.”
George smiles up at him, clearly amused, before turning his attention back on the cat to scratch under her chin. “I wouldn't worry too much, you’re still my fourth favorite.”
“Fourth?” Max gapes at him, wide-eyed.
“We have more than one cat, remember? It would be rude if I only picked just one. Besides, you’re lucky to even be fourth. Because, unlike you, they don't hog the blankets,” George says, laughing mischievously at his reaction.
He carefully untangles from Max, kicking off the blankets before sitting up on the bed to gather the cat into his arms, cradling her like a baby. He stands, carefully stretching as to not bother the cat, and then pads barefoot across the cool floor towards Max’s side of the bed.
Max sits up, staring at him in disbelief, “You are unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head with an exaggerated pout. “Fourth favorite. Fourth!”
George smirks, scratching under Sassy’s chin as she lets out a purr. “Oh, C’mon Max, there's no need to act so wounded. Being in the top five isn't that bad.”
“You’re not the one competing with your cats for his boyfriend's affections.” Max deadpans.
George laughs, the sound soft but genuine, before setting Sassy down at the end of the bed. She immediately curls up, satisfied with having ruined the moment. Then George leans forward, placing his hands on either side of Max’s thighs as he looks him over with a teasing grin.
“Don't worry,” he says, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. “You might be insufferable half the time, but you’re hard to replace.”
That earns him a pillow square in the face. He laughs through it, falling back onto the bed with Max looming over him, mock-annoyed but clearly fighting back a grin.
George catches his wrist before he can grab another pillow, tugging him down until they’re nose-to-nose again. The amusement softens in his eyes, and he whispers, “You know you’re my favorite, right?”
The teasing in Max’s expression melts into something warmer, something softer. He presses their foreheads together, his voice quiet but sure. “I know.”
George smiles, wide and a little sleepy, before pulling him in for a quick kiss.
From somewhere in the living room, another cat lets out a pointed meow, as if to remind them about the task at hand.
Max groans. “I swear they do that shit on purpose.”
George only laughs, stretching his arms above his head as he stands, hair sticking up in every direction, giving him that messy look Max secretly loves. He scoops Sassy up again, tucking her under one arm as he makes his way toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Max asks, dragging himself out of bed with a groan.
George glances back at him with an amused smile. “Feeding your competition. If I don’t, they’ll scream the house down.”
Max narrows his eyes but goes after him anyway. “So, I’ve been downgraded to competition?”
George smirks, reaching the living room and setting Sassy down as the other cats appear, meowing like they haven’t been fed in years. “If the shoe fits.”
Max turns on the coffee machine before leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching George crouch to scoop food into bowls. Finding something strangely endearing about how careful he is, murmuring soft little comments to the cats as though they actually understand.
Once he’s done tending to the cats, George moves over to the kitchen, opening the fridge to get some ingredients. They move around the kitchen in sync, something they’d perfected over the years.
George stands by the stove preparing eggs and bacon, the soft sizzling from the pan filling the room, mingling with the sounds of soft purrs coming from the other room. Behind him, Max stands by the counter, moving with sleepy precision as he prepares the toast.
Max is by his side a minute later with a steaming cup of coffee, their fingers brushing together in the exchange. George glances back with a lazy smile that makes his chest warm all over again.
Max wishes this moment could last for—
The sound of an alarm cuts through the warmth, jolting him awake. Max startles, his eyes snapping open to the dim light of his hotel room. He sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.
The sound of the alarm is still ringing in his ears, sharp and disorienting. The world around him feels wrong, too quiet, too empty. Max blinks hard, trying to steady his breathing, his eyes scanning the room. His bed is empty, the sheets on the other side untouched and cool beneath his hand when he reaches for them. He sits up slowly, feeling like he’s missing a piece of a puzzle he doesn't even remember starting. His mind scrambling to make sense of the lingering warmth, the echo of a voice that feels too familiar to ignore.
It hits him all at once, like a punch to his gut.
The kisses, the warmth, and George.
The remnants of the dream cling to him, leaving only an echo of memories in its wake, George’s voice, low and teasing, with a flicker of affection. The feeling of hands on his face, holding him like he was someone that deserved kindness, and gentleness the world had never given him. That lazy smile that still feels burned into his memory.
Max scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “What the hell,” he mutters under his breath.
He swings his legs off the bed, elbows resting on his knees, trying to shake the feeling from his head. Of all people to dream about, it had to be him.
George Russell.
The man that he’s supposed to hate, who got under his skin every single weekend and whose mere presence makes his blood boil.
Why the hell was he dreaming about George of all people, like that?
He sits in silence, breath somewhat uneven, heart still pounding for reasons he doesn't understand. Whatever that dream was, it hadn’t felt like hate.
“God,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. “What is wrong with me?”
Max presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to block out the flashes that won’t stop coming; the sound of George’s laugh echoing in his head, the look they’d shared right before they kissed, the feeling of being wanted.
He stands abruptly, the motion too sharp, and defensive. before making his way towards the bathroom; opening the door with a little more force than necessary, trying to drown out his thoughts.
“It’s just a dream,” He says as he opens the faucet in the sink to splash water on his face. “Just a stupid dream.”
The words ring hollow because the truth is, it hadn’t felt stupid. It felt real.
He leans against the counter, looking up to stare blankly at his own reflection in the mirror. He tells himself it doesn't mean anything; dreams don't mean anything.
The other part of his brain disagrees. It tells him you don't wake up sweating and disoriented because of someone you supposedly hate. You don't dream about holding them like that, about wanting them, yet here he is, standing in his hotel bathroom, heart still racing from the memory of George Russell's lips on his.
Max curses under his breath. “Brilliant," he mutters. "I’m going insane."
The sound of the dream lingers; George's laughter, warm and close, curling in the back of his head like an echo he can't quite silence.
He tells himself it'll fade, says it so many times that it starts feeling more like a prayer than anything. Max tries to convince himself that it'll be gone by the time he sees George tomorrow, but a part of him, the one he refuses to acknowledge, knows it won't.
They’d been friends once, or something close to it (at least the closest Max had ever gotten to it).
Max wasn’t really allowed to have friends as a kid, not when every hour was consumed by karting, traveling, and expectations that left no room for softness. He wasn’t allowed much at all growing up. Not rest, not mistakes, definitely not feelings. His father had taught him early on that things like feelings were nothing more than a sign of weakness, a liability. Attachment meant distractions. Relying on others meant giving them the power to slow him down. He built himself into someone self-sufficient, sharp, and untouchable. He spent years thinking that it was what he needed, what he deserved. He didn’t need anyone. He needed to win. Winning was the only thing that really mattered, the only currency that bought his father’s approval, and anything that didn’t directly help him get there was expendable. It was a sacrifice, sure, but it was one he was willing to make. He would make his parents proud no matter what it took. Friends were a luxury for drivers with less to lose.
Somehow, George had slipped through the cracks. He was annoyingly persistent, loved to talk his ear off if given the chance, and wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how many times Max tried pushing him away. He’d brushed it off at the time, dismissed it as something temporary, something he wouldn’t let himself depend on. George would decide he wasn’t worth the effort and find someone else to annoy in a week. He hadn’t, instead he pushed, and pushed until he became someone Max found solace in.
When he was with George, he didn’t feel as alone as he’d convinced himself he was.
George always seemed to understand what he needed, even before Max did. He remembers hiding away in corners of the tracks, discussing strategy, joking with the younger about stupid things, and bonding over their shared love of football. He remembers the quiet moments too. Evenings spent in tracks long after races had ended, George sitting beside him when Max was too angry or ashamed to speak after a loss. No pep talks, no forced jokes, just a quiet presence by his side. A kind of gentle steadiness, Max hadn’t known what to do with back then.
He can’t remember when things between them had started to shift, can’t remember the exact moment they went from being friends and drifted into something colder.
One day, they were side by side, competitors, then teammates, then nothing. Their paths had split fast. Max jumped straight into F3, while George was still grinding his way through F4. The gap between them widened with every promotion Max got, every new series he stepped into. By the time Max moved up to F1, George was still making his way up the junior categories, busy trying to survive in his current team while also trying to figure out his next step.
Within a couple of years, George had turned into someone who belonged to an old chapter in Max’s life, someone he filed away under before everything else. Before the version of Max that existed now, and maybe that should’ve been the end of it. Maybe that’s all it was supposed to be.
Max remembers seeing George again after years apart, in the paddock, surrounded by cameras, engineers, and PR people. George had grown taller, sharper, polished in a way that made it impossible to pretend he was still the quiet kid from the karting paddocks. He looked like he belonged there. Like he’d earned every step he took.
Max nodded at him, curt and neutral. George had smiled back, polite but stiff. Two strangers wearing the faces of boys who had once known each other.
What followed hadn’t been much better.
They tried easing back into something like friendship, but things weren’t as simple as they were when they were kids. For nearly three years, they managed to keep things civil, even warm at times. It fell apart the moment George joined Mercedes. Their rivalry had grown teeth the second they started fighting for the same spaces on the track. A bad overtake here, a passive-aggressive comment to the media passed off as a joke, and suddenly years of silence had turned into something brittle and competitive, tangled with pride neither of them knew how to back away from.
Max told himself it didn’t matter. George was just another driver, another threat, another person he couldn’t afford to let close.
And then Qatar happened, less than a week ago.
Nothing had felt simple since the steward’s meeting.
The one place Max had fully expected George to step up, not for him, but because George Russell is the guy who tears into FIA inconsistencies like it’s his sport. The one who complains when penalties are unfair, the one who stands up for rookies and backmarkers, the one who gives ten-minute speeches about safety standards and constantly tries to advocate for the drivers even when he’s mocked for it.
And this time?
Nothing.
George sat there silent, hands folded, eyes on the table instead of on the steward disputing Max’s version of the incident. No correction, no pushback, no trademark George moral outrage about fairness or clarity. Max had felt the betrayal hit like whiplash.
It wasn’t logical, he knew that. George didn’t owe him anything. Not his voice, not his defense. Not his presence at all, but the expectation had been there anyway, unspoken but rooted in the belief that George would do the right thing when it came down to it.
So when the stewards implied he’d slowed down and blocked George deliberately, and George had simply agreed, Max saw red.
Proper red.
It had been a long time since something cut like that. Since disappointment felt personal instead of professional. Since someone’s silence felt worse than any penalty. By the time they left the meeting room, Max could barely hear over the roar in his ears. He had cornered George in the hallway before he understood what he was even doing.
“You could have said something.”
George blinked, caught off guard. “Max, I—”
“Don’t,” Max snapped, sharper than intended. “You always speak up. Always. Except today. Except when it was me.”
George’s face shifted, hurt flickering through it too quickly to hide. “What was I supposed to do? It was clear, we both saw it. You were too slow on the racing line, you don’t get to blame me for this.”
“You didn’t have to see it,” Max hissed. “You know how they twist things, you know I wouldn’t—”
“Max,” George cut in, voice low, calm in that infuriatingly steady way he had when things were tense. “I wasn’t going to lie for you.”
Something snapped then, something stupid and ugly and rooted somewhere deep he hadn’t examined in years.
“I never asked you to lie,” Max bit out, stepping forward before he could stop himself. “I just didn’t think you’d act like everyone else.”
George’s eyes hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Max said through clenched teeth, “I wasn’t expecting you to screw me over too, but I guess that was my mistake.”
George recoiled as if burned.
“I suggest you stay out of my way, Russell. Before I put your head into the wall. The next time you pull some shit like this, maybe it’ll be your car instead.”
Max regretted it as soon as the words came out of his mouth. The look on George’s face, shock first, then something worse, a mix of fear and betrayal, lodged itself under Max’s ribs.
George didn’t yell, didn’t flare up like Max expected.
He just took a long look at Max, expression unreadable. “Don’t worry, Max,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
Then he walked away.
And Max stayed standing there, pulse hammering, stomach dropping, realizing exactly what he’d done, who he’d just become in that moment.
A monster.
Someone who bites when he feels cornered, who punishes people when things don’t go the way he wants them to, someone who pushes away the one person who’d once shown him something gentler than he knew what to do with.
He’d spent years trying not to be that version of himself again. In just a few minutes with George, he’d slipped straight back into it.
The rest of the night passed in a fog. Every time he blinked, he saw George’s expression, feeling like he’d broken something between them.
The paddock in Abu Dhabi feels blinding under the morning sun, too bright, too open, like every corner holds something waiting to sting.
Max walks in with his usual pace, chin high, expression unreadable. Photographers are already lined up along the walkway, reporters huddled over voice recorders, hovering impatiently. Max walks through it all like someone running in the wrong direction on a conveyor belt, everything around him moving too fast, and too loud.
His head is still stuck in that hallway, in that look, in the words George had said, and stuck in that dream world his mind had built yesterday.
He tells himself it's stupid to feel like this over someone he couldn't care less about. So why does his stomach twist when he spots George across the paddock?
He’s standing with Alex, Lando and Oscar near the entrance to the media pen, all of them laughing about something stupid. Lando gesturing wildly, Oscar smirking, and Alex shaking his head. George is smiling, bright and easy in a way that looks perfectly normal from far away.
But Max sees it the moment George thinks no one is looking. He's too stiff, shoulders tense, posture nearly perfect, his smile too sharp around the edges. George’s hand curls around his water bottle just a fraction too tight. His jaw clenches for half a second before he remembers to relax it again.
Max freezes mid-step, something in his chest lurching unexpectedly. And then George’s head turns. Their eyes meet only for a second but it’s enough to throw him completely off kilter.
There’s something raw in his eyes. George looks wary, almost resigned; as if he’s bracing for Max to walk over and follow through on the threat he spat in anger after Qatar. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t smile, doesn’t scowl either, George just jerks his gaze away like the sun has suddenly hit him in the face. It’s barely a movement, more like a twitch, but it cuts like a blade.
It shouldn’t hurt the way it does. He has no right to be hurt. He’s the reason things are like this. He’s the one who lost his temper. He’s the one who said things he can’t take back.
Still, it aches.
An awful, dull, stupid ache right behind his ribs.
He watches as George turns back to the group, nodding along to whatever Lando’s saying even though he clearly wasn’t listening. He doesn’t look back again. The weird part is that no one else seems to notice. Not Alex, who’s known George forever. Not Lando, who notices just about everything. Not Oscar, who watches people like a hawk.
Max keeps walking, forcing his expression back into its usual blankness, but the feeling refuses to settle. He keeps his head down, jaw clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to grind that dream and George’s expression out of his skull.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
He repeats it in his head until the words stop meaning anything.
Later, when he’s on his way to the media pen, finally done with recording videos for the social media team to use later, he corners Alex.
“You’ve been around George all morning,” Max says, trying to sound as casual as he can manage. “He's acting weird, don’t you think?”
Alex blinks at him. “George? He’s fine.”
“Is he? He looks different to me, definitely acting weird.”
Alex laughs like Max is being dramatic. “Mate, the only person acting weird is you. You’re probably just reading too much into it because of your little argument last week.”
Max snorts, little argument. As if threatening to put his head into a wall could be considered something small, even if he’s spent the last week pretending otherwise.
Alex claps him on the shoulder and leaves like the conversation is over.
It isn’t. Not in Max’s head, because he's not imagining it, he knows he isn’t. Something is wrong, and it’s his fault.
The thought irritates him, makes him feel restless in a way he hasn’t been since the night of their argument. He heads into the media pen, his patience already hanging by a thread.
The first journalist wastes no time.
“Max, George Rusell spoke earlier and said you threatened to quote “put his head in the wall”. He called it bullying. Do you have a response?”
The question lands harder than it should. The interviewer takes this as his chance to shove the microphone closer, wanting to make sure he catches whatever Max is about to say.
The tension under his skin snaps taut.
Of course George had said something.
He hates that he’s going to have to stand here and talk about this.
He forces his expression into something neutral. “George exaggerates,” Max says first, voice clipped. “He always has. He takes one thing and makes it ten times worse.”
The journalist continues, relentless:
“He also said people have been bullied by you for years, and that you can’t handle adversity—”
Max laughs, the sound comes out sharp, and humorless.
“Yeah, well, he would say that. That’s his side. He wants to look like the hero who ‘stands up to me.’”
He can feel Annas staring at him, where she's standing on his left, can hear her in his ear. A quiet, unspoken warning.
“Do you regret anything you said in Qatar?” someone else asks.
“No,” Max says immediately. Too quickly, far too honest. He doubles down, tone biting. “I meant everything I said. Frankly I don't think I've ever seen someone actively trying to get a penalty given to someone and lying about what I was doing.”
The journalist leans forward in interest, throwing another question his way.
“George said you think you’re above the law. Do you feel that your behavior crossed a line?”
He stiffens.
“Not at all,” Max says, jaw locked. “If anything, maybe I should’ve said more. Truly, I’ve lost all respect for him. That’s all there is to it.”
He knows how it sounds. He’s projecting more anger than he actually feels, knows he’s performing because the alternative is admitting how badly all of this is messing with his head.
But he can’t stop.
He pushes through the remaining interviews, barely listening, defaulting to irritation and ice as they drag out the argument between him and George, because anything else would break him open in front of everyone.
By the time he steps out of the pen, his pulse is hammering, his throat dry, the entire interaction buzzing under his skin like static.
He walks fast, letting his publicist guide him through the paddock. Every word George said on camera twists inside him, like new wounds on his skin. Underneath the anger, the defensiveness, the pride, he knows the truth.
George isn’t lying.
And Max hates it.
Hates that he can still picture George in the paddock this morning, looking at him like he expected Max to hurt him again.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s confused with what George is to him now. Whatever it is, he can't shake it.
Media day always drags, but today feels like a punishment.
Max finishes one of his last media obligations, a sponsor video he barely remembers filming, and cuts through a quieter side of the paddock, tired of cameras being shoved in his face and getting asked the same questions over and over.
He rounds the corner near the back of the hospitality units, and freezes.
George is there, walking briskly out of a meeting room tucked behind the Mercedes motorhome, scrolling through his phone like he’s trying not to look up. The second his eyes flick up and land on Max, his whole body goes stiff, and then he turns sharply in the opposite direction.
Not fast or dramatic, just unmistakably deliberate.
George was avoiding him.
Max’s feet move before he tells them to.
“George.” It comes out harsher than he intended, low, rough, something pulled from too deep.
George stops mid-step but doesn't turn around. His shoulders rise with a breath, then fall slowly, as if he already knows this won’t end well.
When he finally pivots, it’s only partway. Enough to acknowledge Max, but not enough to invite him closer.
“What?” His tone is controlled, clipped.
“You’re avoiding me,” Max says. No point pretending they both don’t see it.
“I’m not avoiding you,” he says, too quick. “I’m staying out of your way. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Max scoffs, heat rising too quickly in his chest. He hadn’t planned to be angry but the words hit him wrong.
“Oh, really?” he snaps before he can stop himself. “Is going to the media about our fight your way of staying out of my way?”
For a second, something flickers across his face, hurt and startled, before he schools it away. His feelings are so clear Max feels it in his chest. When he speaks again, the hurt is buried under something brittle.
“Right,” he says, tone cutting now, sharp enough to slice the air. “Because you never say anything to the media. My mistake.”
Max’s throat tightens.
He wants to say: I don’t want you to be scared of me, I didn’t want it to go this far, or even I’m sorry but the words jam behind his pride, refusing to move.
He stands there silent, rigid, jaw locked because if he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to control what comes out.
George mistakes the silence for confirmation. His expression flickers again, something small, defeated, quickly smothered.
“Don’t worry,” he says quietly, almost controlled enough to pass for steady. “Message received.”
He turns away, walking off down the narrow service path between the motorhomes, back straight, pace too even to be natural.
Max doesn’t follow.
He just stands there, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, heart hammering too close to his throat, watching George disappear behind a stack of equipment crates.
His chest feels like something inside it just caved in.
Hours later, after meetings drag into the evening and he’s finally back in his hotel room, Max closes his eyes and immediately sees George’s expression again; that flicker of something unguarded before he shoved the mask back on.
It follows him through the silence of the room, through every attempt to focus on data sheets, through every distraction he tries to throw at himself.
Eventually he gives up, lying on the hotel bed in the dim light, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers it doesn’t have.
He tells himself to forget it. Forget George. Forget the look. Forget all of it.
He can’t.
The echo of George’s wounded eyes follows him like a shadow he can’t outrun.
— ☆ —
The next two weeks pass in a blur, the kind that barely feels real.
Max throws himself into work at the factory, his days are full of simulator runs, briefings and analyzing data from the end of season testing he could probably recite in his sleep. He also goes through mind numbing amounts of sponsor shoots, and PR team events, all of it mechanical and calculated, so carefully prepared he barely needs to think.
It should be easy.
It usually is, but he finds his mind drifting at the worst times; between laps on the sim, during minutes spent in waiting for engineers to load the new software, while a photographer adjusts the lighting, and halfway through important interviews.
He thinks of George more than he’d like to admit. Not on purpose, or with clarity but almost like flickers.
The tension in his shoulders when he spotted Max across the paddock.
The wounded look on his face when Max had confronted him.
That flinch, barely there but noticeable enough to hurt.
The way he’d told him, "I'm staying out of your way, isn’t that what you wanted?”
It lingers on his skin like an itch that refuses to go away no matter how many times he scratches. His brain refuses to calm down despite multiple attempts of convincing himself he doesn’t care.
He sees the people around him talking, hears them, occasionally he even responds, but sometimes he’s still there in the paddock, watching George walk away.
He hates that he can’t stop.
By the time Christmas comes around, he’s exhausted in a way no one else sees. He flies to Monaco just long enough to pack a suitcase, and wrangle the cats into their carriers before catching a flight to see his family.
His sister is delighted. His nephews and niece rush to him, letting out a noise halfway between a giggle and a scream. His mom hugs him too long and steps back to give him a once-over, fussing over him after proper inspection, it makes him feel like he’s a kid again.
Max tries to act normal (emphasis on tries). He plays with the kids, follows his mom on her morning walks, lets himself be roped into building lego towers and even into helping to cook. The usual holiday activities that help him feel grounded post-season.
It doesn’t help the way they usually do, sometimes in the middle of lunch or dinner, he’ll zone out. During a game with the boys, his mind will slip somewhere else. Or while drinking coffee with Victoria, he’ll suddenly remember the exact shape of George’s expression, and it’ll ruin his mood for a good half-hour.
Victoria corners him on the fourth day, clearly tired of his mood swings. She sits on the couch across from him with her arms crossed, head tilted, studying him like he’s a puzzle she needs to solve.
“You’re being weird,” she says simply.
Max scoffs. “Pretty sure you’re imagining it, Vic.”
“Max,” she says, in a tone that says don’t insult my intelligence, and gives him a look that feels like a slap to his defenses. “You’ve been in a weird mood these past few days, something is definitely bothering you. Honestly I can practically hear your thoughts from across the room.”
He shrugs, hoping the gesture will pass as something casual. “Nothing is bothering me.”
Victoria stares at him, patient and unmoving with a look that says try again.
Max shifts uncomfortably, picking at a loose thread on his sweater.
“Do you think it’s weird to have a dream about someone you hate?” He says looking at the floor.
Victoria blinks once, then her mouth twitches into a smirk so devious he immediately regrets saying anything.
“Like a sex dream?” she asks, mockingly.
“What? No. Ew.” Max makes a face. “Get your head out of the gutter! It’s not like that.”
Her smirk widens. “So what kind?”
He rubs the back of his neck, a blush creeping up his neck and up his ears. “I don’t know. A… romantic one? I guess?”
She freezes, a single second passes.
Her smile grows like she’s just hit the jackpot. “Is it about George?”
Max physically jerks back. “Why the hell would you assume it’s about him?”
“Well, for one, you said someone you hate,” she says grinning. “And you’ve always been weird about the guy. Even when you were kids. Not to mention, he’s one of the few people who actually gets under your skin. Just last year I called you and before I could even get a word in you started ranting about how much he annoyed you, and spent a good ten minutes talking about it.”
Max stared at her like she’s cursed him, because she got it in one.
In one.
Victoria waits, clearly expecting him to deny it.
He opens his mouth, and somehow the truth spills out instead.
“It’s just things have been weird between us,” he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face out of sheer exasperation. “We haven’t exactly had a good relationship over the years but we knew better than to cross specific lines, then I did something stupid in Qatar…he made me so angry that I ended up threatening him, and then I had that weird dream right before Abu Dhabi. I'm still confused on where that even came from, but I made everything worse. And I don't care. I mean I do, but I don’t. And we’re— well I don’t know what we are— and he looked at me like he thought I’d actually hurt him, and since then I— I can’t— I don’t—“
He’s rambling, he knows it but he can’t stop.
His sister just watches him with soft understanding in her eyes that makes it worse.
When he finally stops, the silence stretches on for a few minutes.
Then Victoria breaks it, tone all too gentle, “Max, have you ever considered that your feelings toward George aren’t what you’ve convinced yourself they are?”
He frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Maybe you never hated him,” she says. “Dad never really made it easy for you to have friends. George was one of the few who could look past your attitude, and see you for who you actually are, not who dad wanted you to be. And when he wasn’t in your life, it left a gap you didn’t know how to handle.”
Max swallows, throat suddenly tight.
“Now you’re both older,” Victoria continues, “Things have changed, and suddenly you’re realizing that whatever happened between you isn’t so simple.”
He opens his mouth, ready to deny it, but she holds up a hand to stop him.
“And if this is eating you up this badly, “she says, “then you should consider apologizing, maybe try to start over. You don’t have to become best friends, just stop hurting each other.”
Before he can answer, Luka runs in with a half-finished coloring page, demanding attention. Victoria scoops him up in her arms, kissing his cheek, and disappearing into the hallway.
Leaving Max alone on the couch, staring at the wall, wondering what the hell she means.
He hates George.
He does.
…Right?
Except the longer he sits there, the more forced the word starts to feel, like he's trying to convince himself of something that doesn’t fit anymore.
He shakes his head, brushing it off.
He helps his mom with lunch, then he plays with his nephews and niece, and pretends his brain isn’t looping back to the same problem over and over.
That night when he's lying in bed, the house quiet except for distant laughter from the living room, he thinks about Victoria's words again.
He thinks about their karting days, Max trying to find ways to make George laugh, the bickering, and the silent comfort.
He thinks about the lonely climb up the ladder, the distance between them growing further and further apart.
He thinks about their pettiness through the years.
He thinks about Qatar, about Abu Dhabi.
About how much it hurt to see the fear in George’s eyes.
Somewhere between the memories and the exhaustion, he admits silently to himself that he doesn’t want things to stay like this.
He wants—
He’s actually not sure what he wants, but he needs something to change. Before he can talk himself out of it, he makes a decision.
The next time he sees George, he's going to apologize.
He won’t allow his pride to get in the way, or let himself find excuses.
For once, Max will be honest.
No matter what it ends up costing him.
Max flies back to Monaco two days after New Year’s, the cold Dutch air still clinging to him even after he steps into his apartment. Silence hangs over the space, the kind of stillness only an empty home has, broken instantly by the two carriers that start rattling in his hands.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters, setting them down.
The moment he opens them, the cats spill out like he’s released compressed chaos. Jimmy darts straight under the couch, donut weaves around his legs, sassy hops onto the kitchen counter, meowing loudly, as if demanding to be fed.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll feed you in a second," Max sighs.
He drops his suitcase by the wall, then picks up their bowls from the floor, cleaning them before pouring food for the three of them. He sits on the couch once he's done, letting his head fall back against the cushions, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he tries to empty his head but almost immediately failing.
The grid dinner isn’t for another two days, which means he has exactly forty-eight hours to figure out the most effective approach on how to apologize to George without making things worse.
The night of the dinner, he stands in front of the mirror, trying (and failing miserably) to practice an apology without sounding like he’s trying to start another war between them.
“You don’t need to sound so defensive,” he says to his reflection. “Just be normal for once and try not to sound aggressive.”
His reflection stares back blankly. The collar on his shirt sits crooked, he fixes it and tries again.
“George, I regret how the situation escalated.”
He shakes his head, it sounds too close to a rehearsed PR statement.
“I’m sorry, I was just angry. You know how I get.”
He winces. That would definitely start another argument.
“Look, about what happened in Qatar and Abu Dhabi…I shouldn’t have said what I did. I want to fix this.”
Better, sort of? Maybe. He can’t tell anymore.
A small meow makes him look down, one of his cats stands at his feet, tail flicking slowly, staring up at him like Max has lost his mind.
“Not helping,” Max mutters, grabbing his jacket.
The restaurant is warm and loud when he arrives, chatter spilling through the entrance. Max arrives early enough that only a handful of the drivers are there. Lando waves him over instantly, patting the seat to his right. Charles is already sitting on Lando's other side, leaning back against the chair with a drink in hand. On Max’s left, there's one empty chair separating him from Checo, who gives him a nod in greeting.
He sits, trying to look casual but failing.
More drivers arrive, filling the table. The seat beside him remains empty, and the longer it stays that way, the more obvious it becomes who it’s meant for. He doesn’t need to look up to know whose idea it was, if the snickers from his right are anything to go by.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Lando mutters under his breath.
“He’s going to kill you,” Charles murmurs back.
“He won’t, he’ll be too busy killing Max.”
Max clenches his jaw, staring at the bread basket like it personally offended him. He ignores the way his stomach twists at their words.
George is the last person to arrive, the conversation dipping slightly when he's spotted, not silence but enough for everyone to listen to without looking like they are. His eyes move slowly around the table, before landing on the empty seat beside Max. He freezes for barely a second.
His eyes lift and meet Max’s.
Max forgets how to breathe.
George's expression goes carefully blank, like he’s wiping something off his face before anyone can see it. Max’s stomach sinks, at the lack of warmth in his eyes.
George walks towards the empty chair. Max feels something he refuses to call hope.
He watches as George reaches the chair, grabbing it by the top, and dragging it backwards; letting it scrape across the floor with a loud screech that can be heard through the entire restaurant. The noise makes at least three people flinch (Max being one of them). Lando snorts into his napkin. Charles tries to hide a laugh but fails.
George drags the chair all the way to the opposite side of the table, wedging it between Lewis and Alex.
“Evening,” George says cheerfully to the group, not even sparing a glance toward Max.
Checo shifts a bit to make room for the other relocated seating. The adjustment pushes chairs down the line, leaving Checo now directly beside Max.
He forces himself to focus on his glass cup, his plate, anything besides that tight feeling in his chest, trying to keep his breathing even.
Dinner stretches out through courses, conversations flickering around him. They talk loudly, laugh too much, and tease each other like they haven’t spent the entire year trying to tear one another on track. Max joins in on the conversation occasionally. He talks to Checo about what he was up to during the holidays, watches as Lando and Charles argue over something stupid, and even jokes with Oscar who is a couple seats over.
His eyes betray him, drifting across the table to glance at George who is laughing at something Lewis said, head tipped back slightly. He gestures with his hands when he talks, animated in a way that Max hasn’t seen in months.
Max looks for too long. George’s eyes sweep around the table, glaring at him when he catches him staring.
George looks away first. Max forces himself to stare at his plate again, cheeks warm in embarrassment.
It happens again later, this time it's Yuki who catches him sneaking another glance. Yuki raises both eyebrows, smirking as he leans in to mutter something to Pierre that Max pretends not to notice.
After that, Max glues his attention back to his side of the table, answering Checo's questions too quickly, nodding aggressively at whatever Charles is saying.
He doesn’t look over again.
Liar.
He looks once, maybe twice more. This time he makes sure not to get caught.
The rest of the dinner goes smoothly; the conversation flows easily, the food is delicious, and there's an underlying warmth from their years spent together. It serves as a good enough distraction.
Every now and then, Max catches the movement of George's hands when he talks, the shape of his smile, the way he leans forward when he talks to Alex.
Each time, Max feels that tiny twist in his chest, like a steady, uncontrollable pull toward the one person in the room he can’t stop thinking about.
The apology he practiced in the mirror sits heavy on his tongue, waiting to come out.
The dinner breaks apart slowly, in pockets of laughter and overlapping goodbyes, jackets pulled on as the night air creeps in. Max steps out last, phone in hand pretending to scroll through his notifications while his eyes try to find George. He’s standing just a few meters away with Carlos and Lando, posture loose, shoulders relaxed, smiling at something Carlos has said. It’s effortless, the version of George that exists when he’s not aware of Max at all.
Max stops just short of the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.
He also doesn’t want to lose his nerve.
So he lingers, hovering awkwardly near the entrance waiting for them to finish.
Max stands there for a few minutes, until the conversation wraps up. Carlos claps George on the shoulder, Lando stretches and fishes his keys from his pocket.
“You need a ride?” Lando asks.
George shakes his head without missing a beat. “I’ve got a taxi coming.”
“Alright,” Carlos says easily. “See you.”
They head off toward the parking lot, voices fading, headlights cutting briefly through the dark as they pull away. Max doesn’t move until the sound of the engine disappears.
George turns before Max can get a word out.
“What the hell is your problem?” he asks coldly.
Max blinks. “What?”
“You,” George says, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ve been staring at me all night. Do you want to explain that or should I take a guess?”
Max’s mouth opens, nothing comes out. The words he practiced earlier evaporate under the weight of being here, with George actually in front of him. His pulse stutters.
“I’m sorry.” he says instead, the words coming out rushed.
George frowns, staring at him like he’s just spoken another language. “You’re what?”
“I’m sorry,” Max repeats, quieter this time, as if saying it too loudly might break something.
George lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Since when do you apologize?”
Max swallows. “Since I realized I was wrong.”
George studies him, skepticism plain on his face. “Well that’s a first.”
“I know,” Max admits. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “But I mean it. I should’ve never said what I said in Qatar, or to the media. I was angry and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair. The threats, the way I handled it, I crossed a line and I regret it. All of it.”
George goes very still.
Max keeps going, hands fidgeting at his side, words tumbling out more easily now that he’s past the worst of it. “I don’t want us to be stuck like this, constantly at each other’s throats. I’m not proud of who I was in that moment, and I don’t like what it's done to us.”
“Us,” George echoes softly.
“I’ve had time to think,” Max says. “And, I miss when things were different between us. When we were younger, I know things won’t ever be that simple, but I want to try. I want to start over. If you’re willing.”
George studies him for a long moment, eyes carefully searching Max’s face like he’s waiting for a catch, weighing sincerity against their history. Max doesn’t look away. He lets George see all of it, the nerves, the uncertainty, and the way his jaw is tight like he’s bracing for impact.
Finally, George exhales. His voice comes out quieter when he speaks. “Okay.”
Max blinks. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” George says slowly. “I accept your apology, and…we can try starting over.”
Something in Max’s chest loosens, the tight pressure easing just enough to breathe.
“Thank you,” he says, voice rough.
George nods, then hesitates. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“That’s fair.” Max pauses, then adds, awkward but hopeful. “Can I get your number? I was thinking maybe we could hang out. While we still have time.”
George lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t you already have my number from the drivers group chat?”
“Not saved,” Max admits. “I’m terrible at things like that.”
That earns him a small smile from George.
“Hand it over.”
Max pulls out his phone from his pocket and hands it over as told. George types in his number quickly and hands it back, then produces a set of keys from his pocket.
Max tilts his head. “I thought you said you were waiting for a taxi.”
George’s mouth twitches. “I lied. I needed an excuse to stay out here and talk to you.”
A surprised laugh escapes Max, tension finally cracking.
“That’s smart.” he admits.
They stand there for a beat longer than necessary, neither of them quite ready to leave.
“I’ll text you,” Max says.
“Yeah,” George replies. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Max lifts his keys in a small, wordless farewell before turning towards where his car is parked.
As he drives off, the knot in his chest finally loosens, replaced by something unfamiliar but welcome.
Things between them weren’t perfect just yet, but now there would be a possibility for something better.