Archive of Our Own

Nothing special is happening — just reviewing data with the team, having some fresh air, making sure Isack remembers he is in the Red Bull Racing garage and doesn’t wander off back to the Racing Bulls — so he isn’t exactly sure why his head snaps up suddenly. He stills, gaze unfocused as his other senses make sense of the alert some part of him brings up. The mechanics and engineers are around him, talking, walking, never a moment of quiet but there is something. Somewhere.

His ears ring as he disconnects from the conversation, vaguely aware of the slight electric feel in the air as the sky darkens its gray, the hairs in the back of his neck stand as a wave of sweat hits his body. It cools into his fireproofs — still damp from free practice, still clinging disgustingly to his body — and it makes it almost constricting.

Less than the sudden something he still can’t pinpoint.

Finally, he excuses himself, muttering a half-hearted apology before jogging off in who knows where. Their voices don’t register behind him, though he picks up on the seconds where the world stops, watching him sprint out of the garage and the familiar chaos. Every step electric, all eyes on him as the air stills — he stops at the pit lane, looking out to the track, then back to the garage.

His team suddenly feels alien, despite logic reminding him they are his people. Not quite a pack, but the closest thing to it he has after almost ten years with them. By all means and purposes they are his people in all the ways that matter — but right now, they are just people, only familiar shapes and silhouettes.

Safe scents.

That — Max halts at.

He looks at them, and they look back, but it doesn’t satisfy the little voice in the back of his head. His omega instincts, if it were physical, would be shaking his head. And when he tries to open his mouth to reassure them, no sound comes out.

Though something else catches his attention.

A scent — faint in the air. Almost tickling his nose. His head snaps to the left, sensing the buzzing of the other team’s crew — until another whiff trickles its way to his nose.

Sweet. A little bubbly. And unmistakeably familiar.

Familiar, extremely so — something he can taste even in his sleep.

Max moves before his body registers the decision, unsure where he is headed to but he moves regardless. Qualifying slips from his mind, all the data and the thrill of racing left in the dust behind his shoes.

He passes by the Mercedes’ garages, a foot or two into the McLaren’s before his body halts, snapping back to the Mercedes.

To George’s garage to be exact.

He sees familiar faces, hears voices, conversations that quiet when he approaches. His nose guides him, his eyes only serving to make sure he doesn’t run face first into something. Someone greets him, and someone tries to grab his arm to stop him from barging in — Max yanks his arm free, marching right into the competitor’s garage to the back.

It’s all buzz and noise, colors he doesn’t register, until his eyes land on George. On Kimi beside him, on papaya suits that belong there as much as he does — that is to say, not at all.

George notices him immediately, eyes trained on him as someone grabs his arm firmer.

“Let him,” George says, and Max only registers the person beside him when he turns his head. His gaze drops to the arm on him, watching the fingers uncurl before the body steps back. The Mercedes uniform greets him alongside a strict face. Both turn back to George, waiting on his word, and he dismisses the staff with a friendly smile.

Max tries not to look around too much, sticking his attention to George.

George looks at him with a raised brow, and then the others look too. Kimi tilts his head, hand jumping then hesitating to wave. Oscar is to the side, eyes widening slightly with surprise but not much else.

The important one — the one Max is oddly attentive to — is Lando. His body is still clinging to George’s front, head turned just a little to look at Max. Wide eyes that squint and furrow with confusion, mouth opening and closing with unformed words.

It irks Max for some reason, so he looks back to George.

“Can I help you?”

Max walks over, shoulders straight and fists clenched to his sides. His lips sealed into a tight line as his eyes refuse to leave the blues looking at him curiously. Something itches in the back of his mind, like some switch should be flipping but isn’t so he is left moving with unknown purpose.

A wary burst of tangy sweetness makes him stop for a fraction of a second, then he moves faster, with more purpose, stopping just a couple feet from him. George tilts his head slightly as his lips curve into a simple smile — then another burst of sweetness, teasing this time.

“Is that you?”

George purses his lips in a thoughtful pout, but the corners of his lips keep twitching, unable to keep away the smile from them. His eyes twinkle with mischief, that sort of sparkle he gets before an interviewer asks the question he is leading them into.

“Is there a problem?” George asks, sickly sweet and faux worried.

It makes Max’s temper flare, just a little before it is swiftly doused by another burst of pheromones. The sudden nothingness leaves Max breathless like getting the air knocked out of his lungs with a punch — and George, the fucker, dares to flash a smirk before frowning with worry.

He takes another step forward, dull nails digging into his palm, jaw set.

Lando hugs George’s sides tighter even if his body tilts away from Max. It makes him scoff — the brave front with the cowardly action.

George’s right hand is lax on Lando’s lower back, rubbing his sides almost soothingly. Max flinches, twitches to act. Something about that makes Oscar straighten from where he is leaning, and Kimi, reacting to everyone else, takes a half-step forward even though nothing about his hesitation says he will jump in.

“Or did you come around to cause problems?” George continues, poking as he plays the oblivious role.

The garage is suddenly sterile — stagnant — as the five of them wait for someone else to react.

The Mercedes staff notice, too, and Max is only aware because George’s eyes leave him for a second to look behind him. Not like a warning, but a simple reminder as his eyes promptly return to Max. It reminds Max how exposed he is — the morality of invading another team’s garage aside — he becomes hyper-aware of how unsafe the situation is. These are George’s people, he doesn’t belong here.

That makes something ugly twist inside him.

“I think you two should leave,” George says, and it’s obvious how much everyone is waiting on his word. Because Oscar, who has been fixed on Max, breaks eye contact and looks at him — he says nothing of substance, just a nod of the head before stepping in, hand firm but gentle on Lando’s shoulder. Lando sighs, looking trouble between Oscar and George, and only really begins to pry himself from George when George mumbles something to him — Lando nuzzles into George’s collarbone, nose buried into the collar of his fireproof before sighing, letting Oscar guide him away.

George doesn’t see them out — doesn’t even bother looking at them as they go, heads down politely.

“You too,” George says, briefly looking at Kimi with a reassuring smile. “Get ready for qualifying. See if you can find anywhere to find pace.”

“Are you sure?”

George hums, giving a sure nod. And after a quick dap and hug with Max, Kimi is out, making his way back to his side of the garage. It leaves George with Max. Max with George. Alone — minus the dozen or so Mercedes staff still around, still attentive.

“Well, welcome to my humble abode, how may I be of service today?” George leans back, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. He tilts his head, his hair cascading to the side.

Max doesn’t say much, simply moving forward until he is standing right in front of him. Their shoes touch, and Max can feel the tail-end of George’s exhales glide down his chest — it’s cold yet scorching by mere fact that it comes from him. George’s smile widens when he reacts to it with a flinch.

“Lion got your tongue?” He purrs. “Really though, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you were an alpha getting territorial back there. Can’t be doing that wherever you want. It’s bad manners.”

And despite his words, and less than subtle attempt to rile Max up, as soon as George opens his arms, Max is falling into them. The space between them is squeezed out, Max melting into him like he has always done this — like he belongs there, in his arms, soaking up the warmth and breathing in the pheromones.

“Funny scent,” George mumbles when Max’s brain slowly shuts off, secure in George’s arms wrapping around him, holding him together as he lets go, “very chemical in its nature. But Lando says it smells like Monster. Yuck.”

Max scrunches his nose, buried into George’s collarbone, and speaks right into his fireproof stubbornly, refusing to part.

“He’s wrong.”

“Is he?” George prods, and he has a hand reaching up, tangling fingers in the sandy blond hairs, almost absentminded. He doesn’t hesitate once Max is there — Max doesn’t register the intentionality of it.

“Red Bull,” he mutters, a tad bitter and a bit proud.

George makes a face Max can’t see, so he clicks his tongue instead.

It’s addictive — the slow release of pheromones, the sweetness gradually coating Max’s tongue as if fills up his lungs. It confuses him a bit, too, because he can taste the Red Bull perfectly but it’s missing the bubbly texture. And no matter how hard he tries — to say none at all — he can’t find the taste or smell of anything else.

“Bit annoying,” George continues, low and almost sultry, and that has a too big effect on Max as he shivers under his hold, “just go ahead and give me the least appealing scent in the world. Works great for matchmaking.”

Max isn’t sure he replies, but he is sure he stops registering the words because George stops talking at some point. Leisurely runs his fingers through his hair, occasionally rubs his back before settling back on his lower back. His body is warm though Max’s burns, melting slowly against him, blindly following the touch that makes his skin burn. When he breathes out, his shoulders slump and his defences become non-existent.

It takes too long to come back from it — drunk on George’s pheromones, so drunk Max forgets his almost violating actions regardless of George’s openness. He takes control of his lungs, deep inhales and long exhales, willing his heart steady as his mind begins to fill with awareness and thoughts. Fuzzy at the edge, still, but when he grabs a fistful of George’s fireproofs, George’s own hands stop moving and carefully settle around his hips — not soothing, not lulling, just holding him until he finds his footing.

Shame doesn’t come as quickly as it should. But Max pulls away, staring down at the Petronas logo staring back at him. Space grows between them, and Max comes to the realization that he is right in George’s space, tripping over himself to step out from between his legs though George’s arms doesn’t let him get too far.

George smirks, even if Max doesn’t see it.

“Forget that happened,” Max hisses. A hand lands under George’s rib, the other on his arm, resting on his forearm to keep him from reeling him back in. The thought sparks a heat fast on his face, patches of pink blooming on his face and down his neck.

“It’s not like you are the first nor only omega to do that,” George muses.

Only omega — Max replays that, muttering it back to himself.

“Either way,” George continues, oblivious or dense, “who cares? If you want to make a big deal out of it, be my guest. I certainly don’t give a shit.”

Max shoves him back by the shoulder, sudden enough that the back of George’s head hits the wall behind him. The thud is loud — enough that people notice — and Max jumps out from his grasp, opening and closing his mouth with an apology he doesn’t mean. As George raises his brow at him, Max turns on his heels and marches right out without saying anything else.

The whispers, the looks — nothing he is a stranger to.

But the sudden hollowness inside him, the gnawing feeling in his stomach — that is new. Unfamiliar. Terrifying.

Max buries himself deep in the Red Bull garage, pushing everything down to the very back of his mind, forcing himself to look at data and numbers and strategy. He forces the wheel into his muscle memory, replaying every corner as he follows along to the circuit before him — he breathes shallowly, stops blinking, his body confused and distressed.

He confuses racing and running away.

He stares at his bottle, taking a tentative sip to get a sense of control over something, and instead he only tastes George.

⛐

Max doesn’t necessarily stop trying once he makes it to Q3, but he slots himself in provisional P3 — and his brain just disconnects against his better judgment. He keeps driving, his hands stay on the wheel, and his mind is everywhere but the car. The track and the stands blur around him — messy corners, lifting too early, slight over-corrections — and though he doesn’t spin out, the car is practically scoffing at him.

GP makes mention of it — Max isn’t sure what he says to keep the radio silent for the rest of the race. Through the final laps, until he actually secures P3 and he stops at the parc ferme.

It’s Lando ahead of him.

George ahead of both.

As he puts his things down, Max is too aware of them. Uncontrollable. Against his will. He is too aware, too present — George laughs at something, Lando leans a little too close. Familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

Max goes to congratulate them, and they are professional enough to pretend earlier didn’t happen. All smiles, all niceties — they even walk to the post-race interview together like they are a united trio.

Max digs the heel of his palm into the side of his thigh hard, trying to smother out the blazing heat embedded in his skin after George held his hand a second longer than necessary.

Though his rationality prays to delude himself into thinking it’s all in his head, George side-eyes him cautiously, catching Max’s eyes all too easily.

And the asshole smirks.

Max wraps his fingers around his wrist and squeezes hard, clinging to the pain to ground himself. He anchors down then immediately drifts when George sways beside him, quiet words thrown between them as neither pay attention to Lando’s interview.

The attention makes his head spin and he loses his footing, and as much as he wants to ignore him — to hiss at him or something — he remains still, taking his words in. His scent — he wants to drown in it all.

The air permeates softly, enough that Max can’t bring himself to pull away.

So when the time comes and they inevitably have to prepare for the post-quali conference, Max has to pry himself off as George stays back.

⛐

Max almost regrets making it to P3, suffocated in place beside George again.

However, when it comes down to it, with every glance to the side and every whispered word when he is answering a question, he is glad to be there.

His grip on the microphone is too tight, shoulders too tense, and his jaw clicks when he talks — he faces forward to not punch George. He doesn’t register words, only the sound of them, only the laughs and how endless the noise is. And he doesn’t miss how George leans towards Lando to make the gossip easier, and he can’t ignore the fact that George is leaning away from him to be closer to Lando.

More than having George’s attention, he finds out, he dislikes it more when his attention is not on him.

“You are doing the thing again,” George whispers, practically throwing his body towards Max when someone asks Lando about starting P2 in Silverstone after a win the previous year. It makes Max feel like a ragdoll — something to pick up when George is bored, when Lando isn’t there to be starstruck and glued to his side. Max doesn’t look at him as he sets his jaw, cap down as he glares above his knees. It doesn’t deter George, stubborn as always, “Can’t exactly ignore someone right beside you, can you.”

Max scoffs a warning staggering on threatening.

“It’s cute how easy I can rile you up,” George mumbles, even has the decency to cover his mouth with the back of his hand to hide the smirk from the cameras. Neither has to look to know — the feeling never really stops, knowing someone is always watching.

A stupid blush appears in the shadows of Max’s face, tugging his cap further down as he wills himself still. Like he can make George stop existing if he breathes just right — if he times it with one of this drumming heartbeats — maybe he can erase him from existence. Put him somewhere else away from his person, away from the life he has.

But Max finds himself taking it all back when he confronts the reality that it means George will be gone.

Irritating.

George pushes his shoulder into the couch, cheek into his fist, eyes set on Max and his scowl. It doesn’t have to be by choice — Max labels it a choice regardless, exhaling shakily when he wins this against Lando.

“Drop by again if you feel like it,” George throws a curve ball, extending the invitation in all but screaming at the top of his lungs. Max hears the smile, and he can picture it — cheek squashed by his fist, crooked with an inevitable smirk, and the lines around his mouth that change even the shape of his eyes. His voice is soft, secretive between them as Lando is wrapping up his blabber, signaling his readiness to slip back into that professional mode.

Max not answering — not playing George’s games — has George hooked.

His gaze sharpens, his shoulders turn the slightest bit more under guise of making himself comfortable — he taps his knee with the side of the microphone, his index gliding down the handle, and he kicks up his foot before planting it back on the same spot like he hasn’t moved at all. But he has, shifting into something more permanent like a predator hunkering down, patiently watching its prey before pouncing.

It’s seconds — fractions of seconds where Max forgets to how to breathe — nothing that should raise heads unless they are looking.

And that is the thing, too, someone is always looking.

“Question for Max—”

When he looks up, the world shrinks into the microphone in his hand, on the weight of it as he tips his bottle left and right by the base. He zeroes in on the question, pulls out the tabs about the typical Silverstone weather and his starting position, grabbing tightly onto strategy and the fact that he has strong cars in front of him tomorrow.

He forgets about alphas and omegas when he answers.

Any other day he would have dismissed the question, turned his nose up and give a sentence response — but today the boring is an excuse, and more than that, its a step or two short from complete salvation.

Not that George plays fair — that, Max knows.

George is quiet beside him, not returning to Lando, and almost adoringly refusing to sweep his attention elsewhere. He is eerily still, watching and listening like Max is revealing strategy plans.

Red Bull mists in the air around him, making him stumble through his words as he fights off breathing in the pheromones — what a cheap trick.

Max rushes through the last of his nothingness answer, slamming his fist down into the couch as subtly as he can as a high-pitched ringing worms its way into his ears. Spit gathers on his tongue when he forgets to swallow, chest aching when he refuses to exhale, and sweat sprouts on his back from the exertion of not storming away.

Or throw himself into George’s pheromones like a bitch in heat.

The sweetness is sickly and sticky, coating his nose and his tongue when his body finally breaks against biology. Artificial and fake, yet Max inhales involuntarily, weak to his own nature.

A small mercy appears in the form of a question to George.

George rambles about pole, about what it would mean to win his home race and continuing to build the championship lead — he smiles for the camera, always charming, always put together for the lenses and lights. When he laughs, people laugh with him — the room, Lando on his other other, and Max can even hear the laughs and the giggles from those who will be watching the clips and reading the transcripts later. Everyone is wrapped around his fingers, attentive to the alpha, hopeful for a new winner, delighted to see him fall twice as hard too.

Max chews on his straw, lips dry wrapped around it, lightheaded but refusing to drink. Although he knows it’s water, a part of his mind is convinced it’s Red Bull — and another part of him wants to drink, to taste George, to imagine and compare the real thing to George’s physiology.

The shame wrecks through his mind imagining teeth sinking into George’s scent glands, licking and biting and sucking the leaking pheromones, getting drunk on a scent he never even realized was an option. His face is red behind his bottle, under his cap — his body burns under his fireproofs, heated up by the lights and the cameras and completely humiliated by the fact that someone has to know. Someone has to know by now.

He is so desperate for something he has had for less than ten minutes, utterly hooked on his favorite drink made human. Heat pools between his thighs when he crosses his legs, burning as he curses his omega — gasping at the image of a body between his legs, his hand and his mouth still too preoccupied touching and grasping and biting sensitive skin — nearly losing himself to the thought of giving himself up just to have him.

Him.

George.

When George brings up Lewis and Lando winning Silverstone in the previous years, he laughs again, warm and giddy — and it’s not enough to snap Max out of it.

Away from the mortifying hopelessness of wanting George.

And when another burst of pheromones practically yanks him by the chin, forcing him to look at George even if he can’t process what he is saying, merely aware his lips are moving, Max sinks into it. Wanting.

George smiles at him, practically cheering for an exciting race tomorrow.

⛐

Max must have made a face at some point, because the Red Bull staff are quick to pull him away, ushering him to a final meeting before practically locking him in the Red Bull hospitality. Surrounded by familiar faces and that soothing mix of scents — it’s enough for Max to finally breathe out until his shoulders slump, and maybe he had just been weird overall.

Logistically, he knows the reason, which comes with a face and a name. And punishingly, he also knows the Mercedes hospitality isn’t all that far from his.

Less than a five minute walk, and even less if he runs. Which is not something he will ever do for someone other than his team after a race win. After a championship win. Limitations very few outside of F1 and the general hecticness can afford.

But he could run to George, if he wanted to, and that is a thought idiotic enough that he waves off concern before locking himself in his room. Where there are no stupidly handsome alphas with their stupidly addicting yet strange scents. Max can still scoff at it — he can still be shocked with disbelief — the fact that of all people, of all the people in the world, it has to be George who parades the smell of energy drinks.

And in another life — unlikely — Max could have taken some blame. In another life he could have widened his taste and drank more than Red Bull on a daily basis. Unfortunately, short of getting tested, he is certain Red Bull has replaced his blood. He calls it an advertisement's dream, others claim it has rewired his very DNA.

So in the end, it’s still George’s fault and he is more than content to pin all the blame on him. On the basis of seniority — seeing as he had been in Red Bull’s radar longer than George first presented as an alpha.

Officially, anyways, but those are minute details.

The bigger elephant in the room is still the fact that once Max walks from the locked door to the bed, he is brutally reminded of the heat on his inner thighs. A furious blush climbs up his neck to his face as he clamps his legs, a disgraceful squeak escaping his lips when he realizes he has to confirm. But the mortifying dread of seeing physical and visual proof keeps him in place.

Absolutely no one could know.

He didn’t even want to know himself.

Everything clings to his body like a film, the air and his sweat sticky. Max pulls at the collar of his fireproofs, panting shaky breaths as his other hand grabs his phone, checking the time with a pained groan in the back of his throat. It’s late enough that he could slip into the team van and go straight to the hotel without cleaning himself up any further — he craves that, too, the privacy of a locked door and the security that he will be unreachable for a couple hours — and more than anything, he wants to get away.

The back of his neck itches as he becomes too aware of the scent patch. It does its job to mute his pheromones — momentarily horrified that they could have leaked and the people around him knew — but he still rummages through his bag, pulling out new patches. They are cold against his fingers, offering brief relief before he rolls the rectangle sheet against his knee, then rolls out the other side. Clumsily, he peels the backing, carefully laying the patch sticky-side up on his thigh.

His nails scrape his neck when he reaches behind his head, practically ripping the old patch without hesitation — and, immediately, the air around him colors with a citrusy scent.

Zesty and sharp before it pours out as something more concentrated, consuming the air like acid eating metal.

Max doesn’t bother cleaning up his gland, slapping the new patch to suffocate the spilling pheromones. Another wave of sweat washes over him, and he has to close his eyes, overworked to remember how to breathe.

Stuttering inhales and too long exhales until he finds a reasonable rhythm.

Slow, tempered until his heart calms down enough to be hidden away from his awareness. Down his temple and his throat, pushing the beats down until they are nothing on his radar.

He scrunches up the used patch and tosses it on the bin alongside the backing. His legs are wobbly but they take him around the room, and his fingers twitch but still grab the towel he uses to wipe the sweat from his face and around his neck. A faint lemon smell sticks to the fibers, and no doubt his fireproofs will reek of lemon too once he takes them off.

The suits do a decent job of keeping the pheromones in, but they also create a ticking bomb with the sweat gathered.

As he throws his bag over his shoulder and snatches up his phone, Max finally drags himself out of his room into an almost empty hospitality. He waves at the staff remaining, giving thumbs up to the good job’s and the good luck’s thrown with proud smiles. His team straightens when he steps out into the chilly night, and with a nod, they are all off.

Max convinces himself he is listening and engaging in the conversation around him, nodding when he should and laughing when the others do. Rupert pats his back, squeezing his shoulder, saying something about an early night to get the most rest.

But the truth is, Max isn’t paying attention. His mind keeps drifting with every distant shout, distracted with every laugh they pass by — and traitorously, he looks ahead, letting his eyes land on the Mercedes’ hospitality. Much like his own, the people are closing up and getting ready to end the day. The lights are on, the people are still walking around, so there is a chance George is still around. Nitpicking. Psyching himself up. Existing.

When they inevitably walk by, Max can’t — and doesn’t — stop himself from stealing a peek. The windows are big and looking inside isn’t hard.

Maybe he should’ve been paying more attention to things outside of George and his stupid pheromones, then he would have been aware that apparently, since his move to Red Bull Racing, Isack has become Kimi’s competitor guest of choice.

The pair are lounging in a two-seat couch, legs tangled in each other. Fred leaning against the backrest while Doriane is sitting on the armrest behind Kimi. Talking, laughing, making each other appear so much younger.

Max frowns.

Unsure if it’s the fact that Isack is nested with competitors in the rival’s grounds, or the fact that it looks right.

They walk past the sight, the quartet disappearing behind plants and walls, replaced with uniformed personnel wrapping up for the day.

“Isack hasn’t presented, has he?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking the whatever conversation that had been happening during his wandering thoughts.

Rupert shakes his head, raising a brow as the others glance to the Mercedes place, like they all knew Isack went there and didn’t bother telling Max — which irritates him some. He should be told about his teammate’s whereabouts, not only on the basis of Isack being new to the team but also because — and though it kills him to admit it — he worries about him.

Blame his omega side.

“Hasn’t,” someone says with a short hum, “though he could present early. What is he? Twenty-two, twenty-one right now?”

“Twenty-one. The average is twenty-three, but anything could happen. Could take him longer than that for all we know.” Someone else adds.

“Is there something we should worry about?” Rupert asks, directly looking at Max, blocking him from simply sweeping it away under random curiosity. “If so, we can fetch him and sort it out now.”

Max shrugs, putting a nonchalant facade as he snatches up his pass from his pocket to exit the paddock. “It’s nothing. Just wondering out loud.”

Rupert gives him another look, unconvinced, but just shakes his head.

Once they get in the van, Max buries his nose into his phone as he sinks into the comfortable rumble of the car. His eyes unfocus as he swipes through his messages, until he lands on Isack’s chat.

Isack Hadjar
will be going back to the hotel with kimi
later
dont know if the team told you
did you know they re staying in the same hotel ?

Max stares at the messages, looks at the time, then re-reads them. He swipes into Victoria’s chat, sending a quick thank you for her cheers, then instinctively opens Isack’s again, thumbs typing a message before he thinks it through.

Max Verstappen
just saw
it’s cool
don’t stay out too late

The last message flusters him a little, this own words teasing him on his screen. The seen icon appears before he can take it back, and the reply bubble pops up before he can think to shove his phone in his pocket.

Isack Hadjar
with george breathing down our necks? nah you were right about him
his way or the highway :p

Max Verstappen
i didn’t say that

Isack Hadjar
no???? that wasnt you??
sounds like something you would say

Max Verstappen
what are you trying to say

Isack Hadjar
nothing
do you want to come dinner with us
kimi, doriane and fred
and george
too

Rejecting the invitation wouldn’t be anything new — he had turned down offers plenty of times before to the point he didn’t even need to give an excuse anymore, even less the night before a race — but something about rejecting this one makes him hesitate. Maybe it’s because Isack, a rookie, is asking, or maybe it’s the fact that another rookie will be there too. Or — and he hates to consider this — maybe it’s the fact that it’s George who is giving him pause.

Although he can’t be sure this is George’s idea, he doesn’t put it past him.

This is the exact situation George knows how to play, and more often than not, George always has the right cards for the situation.

Isack Hadjar
no presure
just if your not plannin to eat yet
we can go all together

Max Verstappen
where?

Isack Hadjar
dont know yet
waiting on geroge to finish his meeting
30 mins ?
wil send address as soon as i know
if you want
to come

Max swallows and sends an 'okay’.

He knows it’s a bad idea, putting himself at George’s mercy like this — even with others around — he knows that is inviting problems for himself.

Still, his water already tastes like Red Bull when he finally caves.

He stares at the logo, tracing the outline of the bulls, rounding the sun, fixated on the shadows and the reflection on the surface as they drive past streetlights. Between blinks, the logo becomes unfamiliar yet it remains ingrained in his mind. Burnt behind his eyes. The taste melts into his saliva, coating his tongue, his throat, soaked up from his insides all the way to his blood and maybe his DNA.

It’s extreme, logically, but now he knows it could be in his DNA. Just not his, but his rival’s. His competitor. An acquaintance. A friend, once.

As Max enters the hotel lobby and heads straight to the lifts, he catches his reflection in the mirror walls, and he wonders about a figure walking by his side. Not someone wearing the same logos, but someone who walks a path similar to his — someone who reflects him more than he thinks.

It’s nothing short of a cruel joke, Max decides, and that is something he believes George thinks true too.

They are professional, they get along enough to not warrant a headline every interaction, and they are going to get dinner later that night. Simple. Uncomplicated. Nothing he should be overthinking about to this degree.

But Max’s likes don’t erase the fact that George must dislike his scent. Being associated to something he has no stakes in. He could be a sponsor’s dream, if he cared for that. Lewis might have, Lando certainly, and Max, Max probably would have chosen it had that been an option.

And Max likes it, which is the first problem.

The second problem: he doesn’t mind George that much.

When he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, he can picture George looking at him. Lopsided smile, sparkling eyes, all his sharp features and his stupid hair. He can hear his laugh, burst of chuckles and giggles behind his hand. They had their bad moments, just like everyone else in their field of work, but they had more neutral moments — times where nothing grand happened and they merely talked about the unimportant. Times where arguments were childish bickering and teasing, and smirks where softer more than victorious.

He thinks he could get along with him — and that is a recurring problem.

His phone buzzes in his pocket when he makes it to his hotel room, keycard thrown on the table alongside his bottle while his bag slides off his shoulder into the chair. He kicks his shoes off and rolls his shoulders. And perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking about George when he starts stripping, because imagining hands on his body is far easier than he thinks. Because even when his own hands stop, he feels shadows and echoes of touches from someone who has never touched him.

The hotel starts cold but immediately burns up, the heat wraps around his naked upper half while his hands stop at his hips. A whiff of lemon swirls around him when he drags himself to the ensuite, kicking his fireproof and pants off as he stands in the shower, blasting himself with cold water to drown his hormones and pheromones. He whimpers but forces himself under the water and only relaxes as it slowly warms up. Waves strip him of sweat layer by layer, taking his pheromones with it too after he rips off the scent patches.

He exhales with relief when he peels the patch on the back of his neck, sighing when warm water glides down it. Then he peels the patch on his left shoulder-blade, the side of his right arm, inside his left thigh, and finally the patch on his right calf above his ankle.

The lemon scent strengthens, ripe and slightly sour but fresh and comforting in the way biting a lemon isn’t. There is sweetness floating around too, only becoming sweeter when he lets the water run down his thighs. It mixes with the dampness already there, bringing his mind back to his shameless thoughts. The muscle is tender, getting slightly blushed when he rubs the front a little harder than needed.

Max deliberately avoids any sensitive area, even if his fingers inch when he fans his hand. The tips of his thumbs brush shy of the inside his thighs, slipping on sleek skin — he hates it, how his body betrays him with its honesty, and even more because he knows the reason.

It has a name and a face — a beautiful one, at that.

As a punishment, he drops his head under the water like it could wash his thoughts away. Like it could wash the touches, the warmth on his body. The slight discomfort — and, more importantly, the want.

A craving. A craving of George.

When it comes down to it, that’s all it is. He wants George, his omega wants George, for his scent. He wants to get drunk on it, he wants what comes after.

And when he finally accepts it, he shoves himself under the stream of water again, switching it to the coldest setting as he blindly reaches for the body wash. Neutral with a faint touch of oats, lathering up quickly in his hands, and when he presses it to his skin, his nose immediately picks up the sharp sterile smell neutralizing his pheromones.

It doesn’t go down nicely on his skin but it doesn’t burn like other body washes do, even if he is used to the sharp bite and the hisses. The cold water makes him shiver so he goes back to warm water, rinsing himself properly. He is careless through his body, gentle on his glands, harsh on his thighs, and shamefully careful with his ass and his dick. Then haphazardly squeezes out some shampoo for his hair, raking his fingers through his scalp before sucking it up and slowing down — in the back of his mind it feels like he is getting ready, but he isn’t, even if he technically is.

At the end, as he steps out onto the mat and wraps a towel around himself, and he concludes that showers don’t help.

Max stares at himself on the mirror, white knuckle gripping the edge of the sink. His reflection mocks him, red and pink all over his body, hair sticking in every direction. The lemony smell conquers again, pushing through the neutralizing layers. It’s sweet, faintly, enough that he is aware and just enough that he knows the scent patches might not be able to hide.

Before he can think about it too long, his phone rings on the other side of the door, so he throws a towel onto his hair before stepping out, grabbing it from the table.

A couple messages, a missed call, and an incoming call.

George.

He picks up.

‘There you are,’ George says immediately after a sigh, his smile loud on the other end. ‘Thought you might’ve slipped on the bathroom floor and left us too soon. That’s one way to get out of a dinner invite.’

Max rolls his eyes, but he paces. “What do you want?”

‘Isack sent you the address, right? We’re about to head out ourselves, took longer than I was told.’

Max hums, eyeing his luggage and thinking about what to wear while he tries to listen to George’s background. Footsteps on concrete, group laughter, distant sounds of equipment being dragged on the concrete ground — a quiet night on their end.

‘So, since you weren’t responding to my message, I decided to call.’

“I was in the shower.”

There is a small pause, then a quiet laugh. ‘So I wasn’t far off about slipping in the shower. That would look terrible on me, joking about that and then having it suddenly happen.’

Max rolls his eyes again, even as a grin makes its way to his lips. It’s easy, when they talk about dumb things. When they have nothing to fight about, nothing to prove on track — it makes wanting so much harder to ignore, too.

‘You’re kinda close to the place, and I know it’s a hassle, but can you drive in? Might give us a little more freedom if we don’t have to rely on team transport.’

“Sure.”

‘Okay, thanks. We’ll get there in twenty, if that works for you.’

“Yeah.”

There is another pause, then George speaks again, a little softer and quieter like whispering between them.

‘Have you chosen what to wear yet? Are you gonna dress up for me? I’d hate to see you wearing team merch for this.’

Max feels the blush melt back into his body, from his face to his ears down his neck to his shoulders. Even his chest blushes, making something twist in the pit of his stomach at how casual, how flirty George sounds.

It makes him hopeful in ways that shouldn’t be so easy.

His reply is a little breathless even if he tries for harsh, “Why the fuck would I dress up for you?”

George chuckles, like he did during the post-quali conference, teasing and absolutely delighted. It’s Max’s fault, really, for falling for his hook, line and sinker like a fool.

But it’s soft, fond. It confuses Max as much as it makes his heart flutter.

‘Why not? I’m inviting you to dinner. It’s the least you could do.’

“Then I’m not going.”

‘Going back on your word? Isack and Kimi will be devastated.’

“Not hungry anymore.”

George grins on the other end, and it drives Max mad that he can pick up on it so easily. ‘Alright then,’ he giggles, ‘then tell me your hotel room so I can send some dessert to apologize. Since my initial offer offended you.’

“No.”

Then it’s quiet again, whispered despite the world between them already disappearing. Narrowed down to the line between them, the world found in their phones. It’s intimate in the way George intends, pulling the rug from under Max’s feet without ever giving a warning, because Max listens.

Because Max waits. He doesn’t hang up, doesn’t call him out on his shit, he stays put and follows along.

Because this is easy — pulled away from the track where another version of them exists, a version that texts each other, calls each other, invites the other to dinner, a version that flirts through the phone.

‘Why not? Scared I’ll show up to your room?’

Max stops breathing.

The idea intrigues him as much as it scares him.

“You wouldn't.” He says as firm as anticipation lets him. As if everything is already decided and all he can do from that point onwards is wait. He drags his feet to the bed, sitting on the edge quietly as his legs wobble.

George laughs, not meanly or teasingly, instead it's softer with a quiet amusement. There is conversation and laughter around him, the familiar sound of seatbelts and an engine, the road solid under wheels. George shuffles around, the rustling of his clothes loud, his breathing so close Max can imagine it down his neck, sending shivers up his spine.

‘Are you saying that because you don't think I can? Or…’ George trails off, letting his challenge settle between them. George waits, too, patiently like he already knows Max will walk right into his trap. His arms. Every bad decisions regarding him is shaped the same. ‘Or could it be that you don't want me to?’

Max closes his eyes, digging nails into his knee as he tries to keep his breathing steady. His heart pounds in its place, loud enough that George might even be able to hear it, sending blood rushing into all the corners in his body. His hand shakes when he lets out a stuttering breath, phone firm in his hand but not grounding. It reminds him George is on the other end.

It reminds him George could be here. In his hotel room. Within the same walls.

If he allows it.

“If you have nothing important to say, I'm going to hang up.” Max manages, staring at the carpet before his feet. He's still naked with only a towel around his waist, hair dripping into his chest and back, still unsure what to wear or how he can face George after all this.

George clicks his tongue, snappy enough that Max jumps startled.

‘Alright then, I'll see you at dinner. Call if you can't find the place.’

“Right. See you.”

The phone burns once the call ends, or maybe it's his own face. Max drops it beside him regardless, lightheaded from all the blushing and lack of water. He wants to scream into his hands or his pillow, punch George, grab him and never let go, punch him again — he can't make up his mind, but still forces himself to rummage through his luggage to find something without the team logo.

Not because George asked.

He tells himself that, even as he makes sure there are no wrinkles on his shirt.

⛐

Dinner is nothing fancy, just another burger shack that looks like it hasn't changed in decades. Loud with music from earlier in the century and rowdy with locals watching some game. It's charming the way hangover food tastes like, which isn't exactly the vibe Max would tack on George.

Until he hears it's his favorite place, that is.

“Burgers?” Max questions, eyeing the menu then glances at George. “That's… not like you.”

“Oh, c'mon. Carlos can like burgers but I can't?”

Max flusters a little, burying his nose in the menu. A flimsy laminated sheet that sticks to his fingers. “Carlos is Carlos,” he says, insisting a point he can't back, “you… You are you.”

“Me?” George questions, eyebrow raised with a pointed look.

“Well,” he says, waving the plastic sheet then points him up and down, finding a little bravery in bickering to smother the everything else, “you're fit. Chiselled abs and all that. All about that healthy lifestyle and plants and whatever. It's like all you eat is salads.”

George laughs, baffled as he swats the menu with the back of his hand. Max tuts before placing it down, straightening it before looking at him. Eyes locked together — a challenge in both.

Two tables down, a crowd cheers with spilled beer at a team goal. And a booth down, Doriane and Isack are speaking French, Kimi in Italian and Fred in Danish, almost in competition to how little sense they can make before they start arguing. It feels like that, for Max sitting across from George — like they are speaking different languages while trying to navigate an explosive terrain.

Max ignores that he is alone with George in the booth, ignores that if he reaches out he could touch his face or kick his leg, and he has to ignore that this thrills and scares him equal measures.

“I'm not fit because I want to,” George states, to which Max scoffs at with an eyeroll. “It… just happens. If you are looking for the real culprit, then look no further than the weight limit. And following that, my height.”

“You're the only one of the tall drivers who is obsessed with shirtless selfies.”

George gives him a baffled look. “And you have been keeping up with the others enough to be so sure?”

Max snaps his mouth shut, jaw clicking as George's squints at him. Something about the way he says it makes Max think about his answer, and something about George makes Max wants to push as reckless as he does on track.

George can take a hit.

“Sure, tell yourself that.”

George's eyes narrow a bit more, the lightheartedness of his grin vanishing before he sighs, tapping the table as he leans back, stretching his arms over his head. When he looks over his shoulder at the other table, Max gets a glimpse of his scent gland — or, well, of the scent patch covering his gland. It's at the base of his neck, hovering above his collarbone, sitting uncomfortable right where his collar brushes against. And subconsciously, Max breathes in though he doesn't find whiff of his scent.

Only beer and grease and salt. Not very appealing, even if it had been days prior. It reminds him that they are supposed to be eating, something casual, nothing to overthink — but George is looking at the distance between their tables, and Max is all too aware of the distance between their conversations. It’s just George and Max, Max and George, together in a booth waiting for their burgers.

It’s not that simple.

Max tugs his t-shirt, a sigh halted when a shoe taps the side of his ankle. It hooks around his ankle, tugging playfully, testing how far he will be pulled. He stops breathing for a second, waiting for it to brush off like an accident from a too small table but it stays. George stays. And Max doesn’t know what to do about that.

“You’re staring.” Max accuses when he finds George’s eyes, his smile, the lines of his face and his hand loosely fallen on the table between them. He still thinks about George’s foot beside his, a touch so light yet present. Though it’s his attention anchoring him down.

The corners of George’s lips twitch, still smiling, wanting to smirk like he knows what he is doing. He draws his hand back slowly, perched at the edge of the table where his other arm rests. He leans in slightly, teasingly, but not in the way where he will pull away. Intentional. As everything he does.

George presses his cheek into his fist, head tipped to the side, squishing his smile and bringing up a sparkle in his eyes further. “So are you.”

And it’s true — that’s the problem.

Max drops his gaze to the side as heat makes its way to his face — petrified under George’s gaze. George chuckles, tapping his calf again. Then again. Beckoning in the way that has Max following.

There are thoughts that come in flashes, softened in warm lights and blurred with imagination. Phantom touches again, over the fabric of his shirt, even if he knows where George's hands are.

It doesn't mean he doesn't want them on his body.

Lazily, George pushes the menu between them, lodging it under Max's arm to get his attention. Delighted when he gets it, thrilled when Max stays put.

The lights are dim, creating shadows on their features. And it’s loud and it’s busy, but it’s so easy to narrow down the world to the person in front of them. George holds his gaze carefully yet attentive, a little sharp, just curious enough that Max can’t quite shake off. The intensity in those blue eyes, the quiet storm, the thrill of familiar challenge and simple familiarity — Max thinks of waking up to those eyes, and foolishly, he wants.

They flicker briefly, when Max’s lips part with words lodged at the back of his throat. George smiles, and it’s stupid how badly Max wants to kiss it off his face. It’s ridiculous how easy that could be, too, no more than a casual lean forward that he knows George will meet.

And that’s the issue, too, the fact that George will go if Max says so.

And that, too, is why Max falls back onto his seat, haunted by visions of Lando hanging off on George’s side. There is competition he can’t match — competition that makes him a loser before he even has the chance to try.

He thinks of George going back to Lando at the end of the day and something cracks inside him. He thinks of George toying with him, of luring him in, then he thinks about George letting Lando take in his scent, feeling secure in his arms and his space while no one bats an eye. And it’s childish how much Max wants that, how sudden he finds himself wanting glimpses of a life he had long given up for.

Their lives revolve around racing. It revolves around winning. Maybe Max found his match.

Max gets along with Lando well enough, they are friends. So when George reaches out to touch his hand, he jumps back like mere thought of contact burns.

“Just who do you think I am? Just another of your sluts?” Max hisses, and finally trips George off his confident stride. Wide eyes and lips parted with immediate backtracks that die on his tongue — he loses ground, enough that Max can finally find his footing. “You think that just because you’re an alpha—”

Curse his timing.

Even George looks momentarily startled when a server appears, their burgers and drinks on their tray, immediately breaking the building tension.

It’s a minute at most before they are alone again. But that minute is long enough that when George returns his attention to Max, Max is already deflated. Shoulders slumped on the backrest, head thrown to the side, brow knit into a tight frown as his lips twitch a thin line.

He is pulling his collar again, then he rolls the fabric between his fingers. His eyes are slightly cloudy, slightly hazy — and if George concentrated long enough, maybe he could pick up on the peak of pheromones. Like a wedge of lemon in Max’s gin and tonic, going down quietly but knowing instantly if it’s missing. Subtle, drowned in all the other smells around.

It’s not sharp, it’s not loud — it’s barely there under the scent patches.

But that’s the thing about George, lately, he notices.

“Am I upsetting you?”

Max scoffs against the fry he brings to his lips. There’s a wavering scowl in them with a pale yet conflicted sadness in the small twitches and indecisiveness. It’s rare, seeing Max like this, taken fully from the track and practically left to sail unknown waters. Someone usually so sure and confident suddenly unable to trust where his feet stand.

It makes him vulnerable, in ways that maybe George doesn’t deserve.

It makes him honest, too.

“You are.”

They eat in silence instead. Not intentionally, but Max picks at his fries, gaze turned away from George even though the alpha remains in his peripheral regardless. Like he can’t escape him short of leaving the establishment and going back to the hotel, to the safety of his own room — solitary but safe. No George, no alpha pheromones, nothing that messes up with his mind.

The place is loud still, a world with life continuing to play around them. Max cuts himself from the noise, from animated conversations and an air that makes his skin feel greasy. He focuses on the salt on his fries, on the burst of heat on his tongue, unable to distinguish where batter, oil and potato starts and ends.

George eats when he says nothing — when neither continues the conversation — and he straightens, too, pulling his limbs away from Max.

Max misses the connection, an anxious feeling prickles under his skin when he thinks of the distance as rejection. His jaw works chewing on the fries until it turns into mash — swallowing doesn’t come naturally until he forces it down, trying to claw himself out of the pit of anxiety and worry and sadness.

He stares at the contrast of colors when he drops a fry in the mayonnaise. The yellow sunk on the white, the shadows of the swirl of the condiment and the salt grains. He could pick it up and have it, he just has to grab it and have it.

He doesn’t, but he could. That is just as worse.

Max picks up his burger and takes a bite of it — the tomato and lettuce and sauce and cheese mix with the beef patty and bacon — and it’s good. It’s good — Max understands why the place is so busy, why people keep coming in, why people order — he understands why George likes the place, the food, the atmosphere regardless of how disconnected from them it feels.

It’s not so much that the fires dies inside him — Max still looks up when George moves, looking at him when he looks to the other table, and he doesn’t pay attention to the conversation but it happens — but it’s like he tempers the fire, not by choice, but because he doesn’t know what to do with it. All his life he has had to prove everything by being the best, the fastest, ruthless — by being a winner — because that is all that matters at the end of the day.

He sees Lando between blinks, fitted in George’s space, arms wrapped around him. Not possessive, not trying to prove anything — just there, winning by sheer fact that he is there.

And he thinks of George, holding him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s right, just another day. Their closeness built with years, shared smiles and comfort, a quiet yet imposing closeness and inherent trust. Max can’t compare to that.

He can’t win against that.

Yet his eyes still find him, still follows him. He stares at glossy lips, stares at the grains of salt on the corners of his mouth — he barely looks away when George licks sauce from his fingers.

They don’t exchange words, the silence typical between them. It seems there is only so many words they have allotted to each other, and when they run out of them, silence catches up to them easily.

But George still looks with intentional glances, following his hand pulling dragging his can closer. Max exhales into the opening of his can before he tips it over his bottom lip, not performing or putting an act, but there is always an audience. He feels it like a humid air, sticking to his body as bubbles spark on his tongue and down his throat — he feels the attention pressing as he swallows, Adam’s apple blobbing, sharp eyes following the lone drop of condensation from the can slide to the corner of his lips down his chin.

Heat licks his neck — George licks the side of his finger.

Max pulls back when their eyes meet with a hunger beyond the food between them, acting like nothing happened at their table, and Max swallows the last of anticipation and dread he has left.

He finishes his food and wipes his hands and mouth, still choosing to go to the bathroom to wash up properly. He pretends to not hear George calling out after him — it’s loud with music and the game, even if it’s all muddled up sounds compared to the certainty of George’s voice — and disappears in the crowd.

He doesn’t have time for this, he reminds himself once in front of the bathroom mirror. He washes his hands then splashes water on his face, letting droplets cascade down his face. The scent patch on his wrist stares at him, how easy it could be to take it off and let his biology take over.

Immoral. Wrong. It will make an opening that doesn’t exist — it’s how he can still win.

His reflection looks alien, someone else standing before him on the other side of the mirror staring back at him. Saddened and confused, and once he picks up on the exhaustion in his face, he feels it in his bones.

There is some pink around his neck, peeking from his collarbone, mostly around his scent gland. He traces the outline of the patch, trying to find himself in the eyes staring at him.

This wouldn’t be happening if he weren’t an omega — being an idiot over an alpha and his pheromones because of his nature. Because said alpha may have someone else, multiple someone elses already. It reminds Max that he doesn’t know George at all, not anymore, he doesn’t know alpha George like he knows driver George.

Even then, he can’t say for sure he knows that — or any — version of him either.

What he can say for sure, as focus returns to his eyes and his jaw clenches until it hurts, is that he has better things to focus on. He exhales the doubt and confusion, pushes out the sadness and hesitation that shake him from inside, and he inhales the sterile pungent smell of his scent patches. Of the bathroom soap. The sharp cycling air from the vents.

He grips the edge of the sink as if it were the wheel, attention sharpened to the data in his mind.

Screw George. And screw his fuckboy attitude.

Max has a race to win.

He doesn’t have time for the bullshit his omega wants.

⛐

“Did you and George have a fight?” Isack asks, and it startles Max out of his thoughts. A breeze picks up around them, just light enough to not be a problem — easier to ignore than the look Isack gives him.

Max shakes his head, because they didn’t fight. Not really. Even if it feels like they did — especially when he looks ahead and sees Kimi walking up to them, Fred and Doriane behind them, all holding ice-cream cones despite the how late it is, with no George in sight.

Isack doesn’t buy it. And after exchanging a look with Kimi, it’s clear no one does either.

“I mean,” Isack drags, playful but leading, “you and George are always fighting about something, no?”

Max sighs. And kinda regrets accepting to go on an ice-cream run.

He remembers the brief surprise on George’s face at the suggested idea, and he remembers the puzzled look on George when he accepted to drive them. And he remembers the blink-and-you-miss-it stalling at the door of the van, the stupid played up chastising about staying out late despite having a race the following day, and he remembers the way his resigned smile wipes off when the door closed.

For the second when their eyes met, Max challenged him. George looked like he wanted to be the one who stayed, like he would have stayed if Max said so, if Max had told him to.

But George didn’t stay, and Max decided that it was all in his head.

“Is this about yesterday’s thing?” Kimi asks.

“No.”

Looking around, Max knows the others know whatever Kimi knows. They don’t say it, but they avoid eye contact, and really, he can’t hold it against them for gossiping about things.

“It… It’s not a big deal,” Kimi continues, even though Max doesn’t really want to have this conversation with him, or any of them. Or anyone, for that matter. “George doesn’t mind.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, okay?” Max cuts, a bit too final, enough that Kimi opens and closes his mouth unsure if he should apologize. He sighs, again, too tired to explain or listen, much less to think about any of this further. He is over it, done with it — he doesn’t have any more to spare to George if it’s not about winning the race. “Finish your ice-cream and let’s just go, alright?”

Kimi gives him a meek nod. The other three also nod. And it’s almost painful how bad it makes Max feel — like suddenly they are much younger than they already are, just a pack of pups being told off — and he hates it. Because Fred and Doriane shouldn’t have come with them, because he should’ve given George the keys and let him drive them because they are clearly closer to him, because this whole thing is just another big sign to his omega nature that is starting to get on his nerves.

And he hates it most because, aside from Isack, he is still too aware that they are from George’s pack. Because no matter how much Kimi looks up to him or how much time they spend together, Kimi is part of George’s pack by virtue of being a Mercedes driver.

And Lando is part of George’s pack. And Max isn’t.

His resolution crumbles.

He cares, he cares way too much.

He thinks he should have punched George — that would have sorted things out much quicker than suddenly babysitting George’s pups only to be reminded how much of an outsider he is to him.

The fact that he has to drive back at some point, to the same hotel where George is, doesn’t help.

⛐

Midnight rolls around and Max can’t close his eyes long enough to fall asleep. He breathes out into his pillow, face squished into it, a wave of sweat washing over his back. It settles between his skin and his shirt, the room unbearably hot and his mind endlessly roaming with no stop. The air stale with his pheromones, overwhelming his nose with the smell of lemon that is both too sweet and too sour.

It’s another handful of minutes before he pushes himself up, staring at his pillow in the darkness. The sheets slide off his back when he sits offering a momentary touch of cold before the heat returns, and every exhale only brings another wave of sweat onto clammy skin. He rubs his face, then sinks his fists into the mattress as his head spins, and short of punching his pillow or the wall, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He eyes the tablet on the nightstand — he thinks of the data, of the race, of everything important that he should occupy his mind on rather than the buzz in his head — but merely reaches for his bottle to soothe his dry mouth. The water has a sweetness to it again, with the slight tanginess and sharpness all too familiar from energy drinks. Closer to an aftertaste this time around but there.

His memory and senses play with him. His own pheromones mixing up with phantom pheromones — the lemon zest mixing with the energy drinks. And it’s in his head as much as it is on his tongue, coating his spit and refusing to go down his throat. Another sip of water goes down, though all he really tastes anymore is Red Bull and it’s maddening in a way he never thought possible.

Although his eyes adjust to the darkness, he still switches the lamp on, letting his bottle roll on the bed against his thigh.

The momentary touch of coolness draws a sigh from his lips. Only highlighting how hot his body has been getting lately — how quickly — never really cooling down enough to be at peace. In a brief second of panic, he looks at his phone — squinting against the bright light — and checks his heat cycle.

Still a week and a half.

Still not good when he has an alpha in mind.

Max shudders at the thought of spending his heat with an alpha. But he pauses at the thought of spending his heat with George.

A blush spreads across his face and down his chest — the blood rushing further down than he wants, pooling at the pit of his stomach and settling between his legs. He exhales shakily, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, absolutely frustrated yet unable to actually stop himself.

Unable or unwilling — that’s just another dilemma on the growing list.

With a heavy body, Max drags himself to the bathroom. The carpet is cool against his feet, but the freezing tiles on the ensuite send shivers up his spine. The lights too bright, his body exhausted. He splashes cold water on his face in the hopes to clear his mind or cool his face, though nothing comes of it as he stares at his reflection again.

There are small shadows under his eyes, his skin to pale and fragile, and his hair still a mess from the pillow and sweat. He rinses the sugary taste from his mouth. He finds no purpose in his reflection so he dries his face and turns the lights off, flopping face first back on the bed where the sheets scrunch up and dig into his sides uncomfortably. Everything slightly damp and still too warm, his mind and body too wired.

When he moves his arm to grab his pillow, he knocks his bottle onto his phone, and in a moment of weakness, he unlocks it.

He finds George’s name.

And he sends him his room number.

His screen meets the mattress without waiting for a response. He doesn’t know if George is even awake, but he doesn’t really care if he is or not — if George is awake and sees it, good; if he isn’t, then he can ride that ‘rejection’ for the rest of his life.

His phone buzzes but Max doesn’t check. Then his phone rings and he doesn’t answer that either. A small chuckle leaves his lips thinking about George’s offended expression, the bewilderment in his eyes — everything about George’s expressiveness is funny, which he can admit in his slight delirium. Lemon swirls around him, sweeter when he thinks about him.

Time passes leisurely, cradling Max gently into a light slumber. Yet, before he can fully let go of the awareness of his pheromones and his limbs, knocks come from his door.

Max groans into the sheets as his phone lights up with more messages. Max finally drags himself off bed when his phone rings again, padding sleepily to the door — his reactions are halved so his body is nearly thrown back when the door swings open as soon as he unlocks it.

The incoming rush of adrenaline dies when George crosses into Max’s room. Overwhelmed by the pheromones shutting his train of thought. The sweet citrus, fresh and refreshing — he holds his breath for a second before letting himself indulge — his attention shifting to Max holding onto the door with bleary eyes and a surprised little grin.

“You are unbelievable,” George musters, baffled with a smile as his mind catches up. He blinks like he can’t believe this is happening, then lets out a short laugh. “You are certainly interesting, Verstappen. You are something else.”

Max grins sheepishly, and George laughs again. He pries the door from Max, closing it behind him before just standing there — few feet from Max, unsure what to do with himself and him — though not breaking eye contact.

George takes a tentative step to him, and Max’s gaze drops down to the distance between them. Chuckling at George’s slippers, softening when George takes another step closer. Enough that he can feel his warmth. One burning up from biology, the other cooled from sleep.

The distance becomes smaller and smaller until Max has no reason to look at the floor, so he tilts his head up to meet George’s eyes. He finds a clearness and certainty in them — chiseled by restraint and colored by echos of hesitation neither can sweep under the rug cleanly — and he thinks they are a pretty blue even though they don’t look blue at all from the warm light in the room.

“Is that a compliment or are you making fun of me?” Max mumbles, his words ghosting over skin from the closeness.

George swallows with a wavering smile, hands moving to hold him but retreating at the last second, “Yes.”

George leans in, bumping noses playfully, but hovers out of reach with a small smirk. Smug but playful, just that spark familiar enough that has Max igniting with that trademark certainness and resolution. He has a fist on George’s collar, yanking him closer until their knees knock, his other hand thrown around the back of his neck. Holding him in place, even if there are very few other places George would rather be in right now.

George melts into his hold, his arms, shoulders slumping as a quiet sigh escapes him. The next closest thing to relief he allows to wash over him — though he still flinches when Max traces the edge of his scent patch. Max loses footing, too, stumbling until his back hits the nearest wall with George caging him in.

“What was that you were saying about me being an alpha and you being a slut?” George asks quickly like it had been keeping him awake all night, the weight of his words hot down Max’s collarbone.

Another spark. And his scent becomes sour, bitter like the rinds.

But Max doesn’t shove him away as he usually would. Instead, he tightens his grip on his shirt until he feels his nails digging into his palm through the fabric. He tangles his fingers into George’s hair, tugging sharp.

“You and Lando,” Max hisses with an odd sense of loyalty. George looks at him confused. “Aren’t you and him something? He was all over you.” Well, so much for loyalty.

“So were you, what’s your point?” George bites back with a frown. His hands finally move, pressed to either side of Max’s hips, pushing him flush onto the wall to force some space between them though Max refuses to budge.

“My point is—” he punctuates with another yank forward “—I don’t play second to anyone.”

It hits George, then. Like the first morning breeze when he steps out of his flat to go run. Not forceful or brash, but not soft or gentle either. Just there, present. Impossible to ignore even if he simply push through it.

His voice comes out a tad breathless, words mocking in a way that is too fond, “If I didn’t know better, I would say you are jealous.”

“Shut up.”

George grins, unable to bite back the tag-along small chuckle. “I’m flattered you care about my relationship status,” he whispers, leaning in until their cheeks pressed as he rests his chin on Max’s shoulder opposite his scent patch, “but that’s not something you should be too concerned about. Seeing as I am very much painfully single and all too ready to come running to your room like this. At the drop of a hat, even.”

Slowly, Max’s releases his shirt before gripping the crumpled fabric tight again. He feels George laugh against his fist again, rumbling right into his chest, and it’s all too intimate as George breathes against him — he tries to find the pattern, follow the rhythm, only to fall short with another chuckle. The thuds of his heart, the steady pulse — Max finds it easier, traces it faster.

“Any room,” Max deflects even as he soaks up the comfort of closeness.

Although George doesn’t hold him like he wants, by mere virtue of being there — it’s pathetic, really, but — Max is content.

“Your room,” George corrects. Not with the ‘alpha voice’ but simply George, the one who wants to have a title fight with Max. The one so sure that they would go head to head on equal machinery — and Max laughed about that, a handful of times, and dismissed it, but still applauded the certainty. The sureness. Like that, really, as if George is making a sure statement of the unknown. With finality, too. Opening the doors for anticipation and keeps Max seated long enough to wonder.

The air halts though time continues to tick in the form of heart beats.

Distantly, outside these walls, under a dark night sky and among quiet streets, there is a track waiting for them. Asphalt and rubber ready to burn, numbers, position, and a podium — a win — waiting for them.

It’s the time, the sweetness in the air — George traces up the muscles of Max’s neck with his nose, lips softly brushing the base where it meets shoulder. Max melts into the wall, clings onto him like the only thing he knows as his mind blinks nothingness. George smiles an option into his skin, something shy yet playful, testing the waters though his teeth remain behind his lips.

“Get on with it,” Max urges, finding the energy to push his body against George’s but still too floaty to stand on his own. George holds him up firmly, toppling both against the wall again as he laughs. Bright, joyous — still unable to grasp the reality like he could blink then none of this is happening. “George,” he warns, blush creeping up his neck as George continues to laugh against him.

“Is it so wrong that I’m taking my time to enjoy this?”

“Dickhead.” He barks with no bite.

That finally breaks Max, lips curving with a dumb smile as he tilts his head. George occupies the space perfectly, pressing kisses up and down the side of his neck, nipping the skin between his lips teasingly. He scoffs when George giggles, and he giggles when George kisses the underside of his jaw. Following down the path of his jaw to his chin, and hovering there for a second to let it all sink in.

All the heat, taking in the way Max’s body burns up from his touch, his kisses, his presence. And though Max will never claim that vulnerability with words, George still wears the reaction with a certain pride — just shy of a podium, behind a win, it’s comparable enough.

“There are so many things I’d like to do to you right now,” George whispers as he kisses under Max’s lips, holding the win out of reach for both of them. Max exhales, tilting his head back until it bumps with George’s but neither able to look at each other — a warning, a reminder, a self-imposed limitation that Max so readily wants to throw out of his hotel window alongside George if he doesn’t do something. And when Max whines, George drops his head into his shoulder, breathing in his scent, “You know I can’t.”

Dull nails scratch the back of George’s neck, drawing a groan from the back of his throat. There’s the distinct missing main gland that makes alphas stand out, but fingers roam, trailing shivers down his spine until he finds the patch, flushed on the secondary gland on his collarbone.

Max whines again when his nail scrapes under the edge as if it were his own, and he wants so badly.

“You are impossible,” George mumbles far too fondly for the way he clicks his tongue.

When he pulls away, the Arctic makes home in the space between them — sudden enough that Max is startled and unable to pull him back — leading Max to glare at George.

“Come on, before I change my mind and I take both of us out before we even have a chance to step foot back in the paddock.”

Max rolls his eyes, immediately flustering when George holds out his hand between them. He jumps to hold his hand, then stares at his traitorous hand for its eagerness, conflicted yet inexplicably delighted from a touch so simple he mentally kicks himself. But George doesn’t pull until he is ready, until his mind has caught up with the situation. He squeezes his hand when he is steady.

George leads them to the ensuite, switching the bight lights, chasing the coziness and the shadows out the door. There is a momentary clearness too, away from the condensation of pheromones in the main room.

It’s the first time they have a clear look at each other, that call-and-come tinted glasses off.

Max is in boxers and a tight shirt sticking to his clammy top. George is somehow wearing gym clothes, which baffle Max when he remembers the time. And he flusters when he remembers why George is even here in the first place. George leaves him standing at the door of the ensuite, staring at his back and how the tight shirt molds to his back and how it shifts and folds when he moves his arms.

The sound of the shower echoes under his heartbeat — which somehow found its way to his head and temple.

Before he can ask, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops as George pulls his shirt over his head. Toned muscles under slightly tanned skin, the image plucked straight from Instagram and directly dropped in front of him. And Max wants to touch, so badly he probably would have done had his body not been frozen on the spot.

“If I turn around and you’re not undressing, then we are going to have problems.” George laughs with no bite, looking over his shoulder with a smirk that Max can’t look away from. “Don’t tell me you need a hand?”

Max gulps.

And nods.

George doesn’t laugh then, only raises a brow before shaking his head. Still, he walks over, brushing lips along his cheek as his hands wrap around Max’s waist under his shirt. His thumbs press down the dip on his hips, drawing circles half on skin and half on the line of his boxers as Max’s own hands find a spot to settle on his forearms. Trembling slightly with shaky breathes, but holding his eyes with a sort of terrified trust.

He kisses his cheek, his nose, his brow bone and his temple, slowly guiding him to the shower, and when his fingers finally slip under the band, Max holds his breath.

And that’s when George finally kisses him.

A touch of lips on lips at first, then he presses their lips longer, peppering kisses as he tilts his head to accommodate. Max tenses then relaxes, chasing the feel of his lips that George is so ready to give. His hands jump to George's neck again, pulling him down to keep him in place — the kisses deepening as they burn and mold into each other.

Max steps out of his boxers after George pushes them down, pulling away long enough that George can pull his shirt over his head, dropping it with the pile. Then Max is charging again, wet lips crashing into him with a satisfied groan that melts into a moan as George’s hands roam his naked back. Tracing down his spine, rounding his ass and teasing his thighs.

The lemon pheromones become a mist as they inch closer to the shower, sharp yet fruity while Max kisses the damn Red Bull taste from George’s mouth. Max can’t even spare a thought to his own scent as he sinks into George, still finding a way to demand more of him in this state.

After George kicks off his own shorts and boxers, they stumble under the warm water, letting it rain down their heads and body. It’s almost cold compared to the heat between them, though the wall is cold when Max crowds George into it — wanting, wanting, wanting.

Max pulls away with hazy eyes and parted, wet lips, breathing heavy even though his head is spinning. George drops his head back to the wall, stupid fond as he peels back the scent patch on his collarbone.

“Have at it,” he says, dropping the patch to the floor as water slides down his front. It makes a path from his cheek jumping to his collarbone, down his chest and abdomen — Max’s eyes follow, pupils blowing wide when he inevitably sees his dick — and George laughs. “And that’s what the shower is for.”

Max doesn’t find the words to reply, eyeing George’s half-hard dick and his chest, then he looks at him then his scent gland. His mouth waters.

He swallows but spit pools in his mouth faster than he can get rid of it.

Eventually, he finds his voice to muster a small comment, “No marks, right? No one can know.”

George smiles, rolling his shoulders and flexing the muscles under Max's hands before slumping, making himself comfortable as Max steps into his space, legs tangled together.

“True be told, Max, I don’t give a shit what you do.”

It doesn’t take another invitation before Max is kissing and sucking the scent gland. It does take a minute for the taste to develop, but Max speeds it up by sinking his teeth, breaking skin so the pheromones can spill out. George groans above him, closing his eyes as he simply rubs circles on Max’s waist — he doesn’t fight it, simply letting Max, an omega, take whatever he wants. And Max moans, licking and drooling over the pheromones, letting the taste of Red Bull mix with the lemon of his own pheromones. He sinks his teeth a little deeper until the coppery taste coats his tongue along the mixed concoction.

Max’s hands find purpose all over George’s body, making a map of his body even if his mouth and mind are fixated on his scent. His hands round his shoulders, down his arms and forearms then up again so he can go down his collarbone and chest. He unlatches from the gland to lick his lips, entranced as he watches spit and blood trickle down from the wound. He licks it clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he savors it.

“Jesus Christ,” George slurrs when Max’s tongue rounds up at the base of his neck. And quickly after, wet, open-mouthed kisses lock onto his neck, drawing content hums and sighs from his lips. Max’s blunt nails lightly scrape down his sides, past his hips and down towards the outside of his thighs, chest flushed together. “Aren’t you an eager little thing?”

The reply comes in the form of teeth at the crook of his neck, not enough to pierce skin this time but still enough to leave a mark. George lets out a laugh, lightly pinching the handful of fat at his hips — Max flinches, whining before nuzzling against his neck.

His mouth covers the scent gland again, sucking lightly though not really to leave a mark. Max melts into his chest, lashes fluttering, pleased.

George a knee between his legs with innocence, merely to hold Max up even if their bodies involuntary roll into each other. Max presses into him, sliding up his thigh, and he's so intoxicatingly wet that George has to force his eyes shut and momentarily forget who is naked in front of him.

It's far too easy to imagine what should come next — far easier when Max turns his head to meet his kisses, willing to have whatever George gives, ready to take whatever he wants. George tastes his own blood in Max's teeth, and he has a taste of how sweet Max can be.

He teases Max's bottom lip, holding it between his teeth, just a little sharper with a highlight of what could be. A reminder of what could happen. Though he doesn't pierce skin and never draws blood, Max's pupils still widen, his gaze still goes hazy, and he lets go before lust finds center stage.

A burst of his pheromones are enough to distract Max, drawing his attention back to the scent gland. George closes his eyes with a laugh when Max's hot mouth is on him again, doing an awful job at staying still on his thigh though George doesn't make too much effort to stop him either.

The minutes tick by without real rush. George holds Max steady, and Max marks a canvas of George's chest with the frequent stop to kiss, bite or lick the scent gland. Their scents mix easily, weighing down their showers but quickly washed away by the water. George talks every now and then, a comment, an observation, a poke of the lion while Max practically purrs in his arms, not at all interested in holding up conversation.

It's better that way, regardless.

After a while, though, when George gets lightheaded and their fingertips begin to shrivel from the wetness, he fights himself to lightly push Max off. Max pouts, looking up at him with big, sad eyes that George has to look away from to not give into him.

Against Max's lack of collaboration, George pushes them under the water to rinse them off, biting back comments when Max spreads his legs slightly. He looks down at his own leg, mesmerized by Max's sleek being washed down by the stream of water. And he looks at Max's thighs, hand gentle between them, kneading the glossy muscle, rubbing the sleek off. Max lets out a content sound, somewhere between a sigh and something that sounds too close to ‘more’. George doesn't indulge, but his fingers slide up cautiously — too curious for his own good — just to feel the warmth.

It's slippery, obviously, though his mind hasn't processed that yet.

After they step out of shower, George dries Max with a towel before sending him off to dress up. Max doesn't move, however, staring at him like he will disappear if he looks away.

“You are being a big baby.”

Max stares at him.

So George quickly dries himself before picking up his shorts, rummaging through his pockets to pull out a scent patch. Max scrunches his nose when he sees it, pouting and whining when George sticks it on regardless.

Max glares at him.

“And I also, like, smell of you so live with it.”

Max sticks his tongue out at him while George picks up their clothes, ushering him out. George slips back into his boxers and has to go through Max's bags to find his clothes, rolling his eyes while Max sits on the edge of the bed, hugging the towel around his shoulders.

“You know,” he says, a normalcy returning to his voice, “this would be much quicker if you did things yourself. You are independent and all that, capable of many things. So accomplish if we don't count looking for your own clothes.”

George walks over and tosses the clean boxers and shirt beside him, walking away quickly before Max even thinks to get him to dress him.

He walks back to the pile of clothes — his heart doing something funny when he has to pick his clothes from Max's — merely grabbing his phone before dropping them back in the pile. Briefly, he thinks of a nest, wonders what Max would do, if Max will pick his things for the nest. It's too early for that, even if they went about it all in the wrong order.

The damp towel lays on the floor while Max climbs onto the bed, slipping under the covers with tired blinks. He looks sleepy without the troubled thoughts — George is relieved.

“Room for one more?” he asks, climbing on without waiting for an answer.

The lights go off and it's cold in the bed, slowly warming up with two bodies laying together. George lays on his back, inhaling and exhaling long, lulled by the sweet lemon that clings to his body and swirls in the air. Everything smells of Max — and he's not quite drunk on it, but he is overwhelmed in the best way possible, and he knows that once it all wears out he will miss it faster than he thinks responsible.

Max rolls over to his side, his body already warmed up even if his breathing is considerably slower. His nose finds way into George's skin, nuzzling until he's comfortable at his side, loosening even more when George wraps an arm around him. Not tightly, but heavy enough.

It's good, then, that George doesn't sleep with a shirt if all Max wants in his scent.

George knows that's not exactly it, but it's a funny joke so he believes that's the extent of it for the night. At least until after the race, after the checkered flags, when they don't have anything better to think about. Only then will they look back to tonight, in flashes and shots, blurred by their nature or whatever else. Racing is one of those things, George thinks, racing is just about one of the few places where he forgets he is an alpha and Max is an omega and that maybe this whole thing might have fucked their relationship for the rest of their lives.

Max raises and falls with every breath, going easy with it, and that's when George realizes Max is out already. Catching up on sleep. He eyes the time on his phone, disbelief that it's almost two in the morning but also relieved that it's not any later. Although he should sleep soon, his mind shifts to the weight pressing down on his side.

Not heavy or comfortable, and temperature is slightly warmer than he'd prefer, but of all the people in the world he could have, the fact that's it's Max he has.

And isn't that something.

Not only does he have Max in his arms, but he's scented by him. Their scents blended together — and though he knows it won't last too long, and though he knows it will practically disappear once their suits are on, he enjoys the moment as it is — temporary. The thought crosses his mind, to scent Max so it sticks, so people will know someone is courting him. So that people know there is someone Max has let close enough to scent, not mark though they could build up to that.

But that's commitment he hasn't discussed with Max.

Fourth time world champion Max Verstappen. His rival, the biggest threat to his championship chances, an unlikely mirror. George thinks about his place in Max's life, his hotel room, his bed — he wonders about that more biological side, being an alpha to Max's omega, how little it matters on track, how much it will haunt them out of track.

Carefully, George brushes his scent patch, though the featherlight touch still brings a muted zap up his neck. Max hadn't been gentle, and George hadn't asked him to be — it's a wound no matter how he slices it. He wants this, he comes to term with it quickly as Max squirms closer, he wants him.

Max is a champion — the best of the best out there on track.

But Max isn't pole in Silverstone, George is. And every race is its own little fight, and George has never been one to back down from a fight — much less letting Max in a Red Bull cruise by.

He wants the championship just as much.

Silverstone is not a championship decider, he knows, but a win he has is a win Max doesn't have. And as he closes his eyes, pulling Max closer, he idly hopes he gets to keep this regardless of what happens on track come morning.