Archive of Our Own

Alex remembered Max told him he thought he’d die in a racing car. 

It was 2020, that hot sweltering summer, that back to back race in Silverstone, the official grand prix, and the Seventy Years Anniversary Grand Prix. Last week, it was Hamilton winning, Verstappen second, of course. This week, Max won for the first time in 2020. Blisteringly fast, glistering like gold, the Dutch-Austrian anthem blended into a symphony made for Max Verstappen only. He smiled down like Silverstone was his, the legendary circuit where Formula One was born, as if Maggots and Beckets, as if Copse and Chapel, as if they twisted to perfection for his content. A completely deserved win, Max roared ahead where the Mercedes had faltered. He had stood in the garage on Saturday, a hand on his hip, scribbling out notes for the set-up hurriedly a few hours before they had to go out for qualifying. Christian had glanced at Max’s proposition and told him matter-of-factly that he wouldn’t qualify higher than P4, if that, with that kind of set-up. Max had only smiled, a wry little thing, and pushed through. It paid off. The Mercedes, no lesson seemingly learned from last week’s three-wheeled victory, blistered their way to the finish. His teammate had jumped three spots with smooth slick tyres and ran along the track fast like running water. 

The podium was specially made, enlarged with the images of the drivers that came before, the pictures of the greats they all worshipped. Max had nine wins. Lewis had nearly ninety. They collected their trophies under the smiling depiction of Fangio and the collage of other greats and Max looked like he already belonged. All drivers are made more beautiful drenched in champagne, but Alex thought that Max’s shine, that eager blinding shine, was the brightest of them all.

Alex was genuinely overjoyed for Max, watching him stand on the podium again, of course. But from P5, it was an easier pill to swallow than last week’s P9. It wasn’t an easy race, scrambling for positions and scraping through the track, glaring down his own front wheels and wondering why they were ripping themselves up. He felt sick, stuck behind Pierre, felt sick because he had something to prove. The AlphaTauri is a demon in Alex’s mind, a taunt on the track. He’d rather finish behind a Haas than an AlphaTauri because at least it wasn’t him failing, failing where someone else might’ve done better. Max chased Lewis’ gearbox whilst Alex snapped at Pierre. At least this race they both got past.

They were sitting in Alex’s hotel room, stuck indoors because of the small inconvenience of the raging global pandemic, both taking tiny sips of a bottle of vodka slowly passed between them. Probably not the wisest idea in the face of the, again, racing global pandemic, but there were things that they bothered to care about and things that they didn’t. Anyways, the way that Max stood beside Alex in the garage, his breath thin down the back of Alex’s throat, or his fingers on Alex’s wrist to grab his hand to point at a data-point Max found important, they would’ve shared the illness already.

Silverstone was always special to Alex. Despite the Thai flag he ran under, Silverstone felt like his home race in some inexplicable way. Probably because he grew up here, maybe, but there’s a difference in the way you race on a track you’ve watched with adoring eyes all your life, walked along the sidelines and felt the grass crunch beneath you. Alex saw it in the way Charles’ eyes misted in Monaco, or how George’s expression softened in Silverstone, or how a tiny smile snuck onto Max’s face, unbidden, whenever Zandvoort came up in conversation. Alex grew up watching Silverstone with an excited, almost patriotic, feeling. He was never a football fan, didn’t understand the boys in class who had the World Cup playing on the BBC from a hidden iPod, their faces drawn in anticipatory excitement, England flags painted on their eyelids. Alex watched Lewis Hamilton win in Silverstone in 2008 and finally understood, standing afore the television with God Save The Queen, the tricoloured crowds, and Lewis’ grinning face, the way he had draped the flag of their nation on his shoulders, Alex finally understood.

The three of them – George, Alex, Lando – had celebrated last year’s Silverstone (no points, no points, and no points) by hiding in Alex’s hotel room, passing between them cans of beer and stories, laying on the carpet, the bed, the sofa, riding the high of finally making it into F1, together, finally racing across the legendary track. Back in their rookie year, when they were barely fighting for points, much less podiums, but none of that mattered because they had already achieved their dream. (Oh, when things were simpler) Alex had confessed that night, around three in the morning, about being moved up to Red Bull after the summer. He remembered giggling at George’s shocked expression, Lando frozen mid-drink, and the bubbly can crashing to the ground, spilling all over the carpet. Alex thought, if he wanted to freeze a moment of his F1 career into a photograph, it would be that moment, more than the podium he did eventually gain in the Red Bull team. He wanted that moment bathed in a soft buzz and the excitement of his friends. George had said that night, whilst they tried (and failed) to mop up Lando’s mess, that Alex would be the next Max Verstappen. He, of course, promptly decided to shove George into Lando’s mess, saying he was older than Max, thank you very much, and did not need to have Max’s name said in such admirable tones. Lando had laughed, and only decided to laugh harder when George decided to retaliate with a vengeful spray of a Red Bull can, shaken to foamy perfection. 

Alex hadn’t won his first ever race with Red Bull, unfortunately, but, you know, it was Max Verstappen.

Alex, George, and Lando had already planned to celebrate another Silverstone race in Alex’s hotel room, like last year. But then Max had gone and won the race, of course, but it didn’t matter anyways because the title was as good as Lewis’ the moment they arrived in Bahrain for testing all those months ago, and Alex had asked Max, after the podium ceremony in the packed media pen, him sticky with champagne and joy, if he was going out to celebrate. No, was the obvious answer. Max only pointed that out plainly and predicted a night with a page of telemetry, and Alex had invited Max to their unofficial Silverstone party. One thing led to another (ok, it was one thing, basically), and Max had invited Charles who was standing nearby, in P4, who asked if he could bring Pierre. Alex would not be that cruel to say no.

peeps of 19

lando

alex what rm are you in

and what time should we come by

george

stuck in debrief right now the car is Not Great

coming over after dinner w trainer

we are Not getting as drunk as last year

caps, very serious

room 927

um

i might’ve invited max

george

verstappen?

no shit mate

and

charles and pierre too

lando

karting reunion! 

dw the more the mirror

merrir

merrier

george

alex, max, and pierre

interesting combo

augf

i hadn’t even thought about that

max likes pierre, right?

lando

no idea mate

cant wait!

>:D

They waited on the others and ate their trainer approved dinners to pass the time, trading the not trainer approved bottle of vodka between them, sitting cross-legged on Alex’s bed. The Silverstone race replayed on the hotel television, muted, at Max’s bequest. Alex thought about how weird it was how many familiar faces from karting made it into F1. Of course, him and George and Lando were practically glued to each other, crawling through the feeder series in tandem, whilst Pierre and Charles, not technically the most familiar faces from his karting days, had already snuck into the enviable paddock early. And Max, of course, who had made his F1 debut before the majority of them had even made it into single-seaters. 

Max stared at the TV, his food growing cold beside him, taking tiny sips from the vodka bottle whenever he blinked, his eyes tracing the racing line on the Sky Sports broadcast. 

Alex got on with Max surprisingly well, to be honest. Not that he didn’t expect to, but, well, Max was never the social type. He had evidently changed between the half decade since they had last talked properly before they became teammates, and he and Max could probably be something called friends. Max, for all his brashness, was loyal to a fault, if only under some myopic vision of his teammates, but he was supportive, in his blunt, understated way. Kind in the way Alex knew he wouldn't play paddock politics, understanding of the vastness of the Red Bull expectations. They would sit before each race in Max’s driver’s room and play a game of predictions, trying to guess the happenings of the race. Not in positions or penalties, of course, but who would run wide turn eight, who would complain on the radio about track limits, which team was likely to fuck up a pit stop. Something to brush off Alex's pre-race nerves.

Max’ eyes tracked Charles’ red Ferrari which chased Lando through Brooklands, the duel conitinuing on for a few corners before Charles cornered Lando atv the end of the straight. The camera swept through the empty grandstands, the helicopter view followed them as Lando ran wide through the last corner, just enough that Charles is in range but not enough that there’s a gap for Charles to lunge for yet. Or, not one that Alex could see. Max seemed to disagree, however, and made a small noise in the back of his throat and scribbled something down in a notebook set on his knee. 

The commentators prattled on the TV as Lewis stayed out, the camera zooming in onto the horrific state of Lewis’ tyres, a bubbling blistery mess. Alex glanced at Max, who was looking down at his food instead, lost in thought. Lewis’ race dooming tyres evidently not interesting enough.

“I think I’ll die in a race car.” Max said, suddenly, voice light, and passed the half-empty bottle back to Alex.

Alex didn’t really know what to say, except, well, what the fuck, so he didn’t say anything, only gaped at Max, frozen. Alex didn’t need to, however, when someone had rapped quickly on the door, and Max got up to open it, placing the bottle on the ground and letting George and Lando and their definitely not trainer approved haul of alcohol in.

🌊

Lando smiled wickedly, and asked, “Who do you think would be the first to retire?”

Charles and Pierre had soon joined the contingent in Alex’s room, and after a round of congratulations (of varying degrees of sincerity) to Max for his win, they all ended up in a sprawled bunch in a circle, canisters of beer and the bottle of vodka shared between them. Max sat on Alex's bed over the covers, legs crossed and the notebook between his thighs, with Lando stretched out on the bedsheets lying behind Max, his head propped up on his hands, his elbow grazing the side of Max’s shorts. Alex huddled up in a chair that George dragged in from… somewhere, with George himself sat on the sofa parallel to the bed. Charles and Pierre ended up in an inevitable tangle on the carpet opposite the bed, leaning against the wall. It reminded Alex a lot of sleepovers, when he was younger during his karting days. During their karting days. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or the company, but Alex felt… really light. Happy. Content. Greeting Pierre was a tad awkward, a stiled grasp of his hand before Max smiled at Pierre, small, but sincere, and the tension was broken. Slightly. Anyways, Alex was happy. 

Not at Lando’s loaded question, though. Alex tried very hard to merely look at his own clasped hands. To be honest, he didn’t think he knew the answer either, but he was very interested in what the other drivers thought. 

Charles broke the slightly awkward silence, “Pierre, of course, because he’s the oldest.” 

He said it with a lighthearted smile, and the others returned it, laughing at Pierre as he scowled jokingly and shoved Charles’ side.

“Ay, calamar, je ferai en sorte que tu prennes ta retraite en premier lors de la prochaine course.”

Charles only giggled, though, and kicked his legs out in front of himself. Now Alex remembered why he didn’t talk as much to Charles and Pierre back in karting; they were too busy babbling in French to each other whilst the others had been regaled to use English to communicate. Max shared a tiny smile with Pierre, though, and honestly if Max Verstappen also knew French at this point, it wouldn’t even be a surprise. 

“Pierre’s saying he’ll make Charles retire first next race,” Max supplied, helpfully.

Lando asked the question Alex wanted the answer to. “Mate, when did you learn French?”

“No, no,” Max laughed, loose, “Pierre used to say it to me all the time.”

Alex tried to not flinch at the mention of Max and Pierre’s teammate ship, a brief jouney that Alex slammed shut. Something about what Max said made Charles laugh again, louder, this time, and he whispered into Pierre’s ear. Max stared down into his can of beer, though, voice soft.

“I think I’ll retire first.”

Alex thought back to the conversation at the beginning of the evening and treid not to shiver. Lando, oblivious, clapped his hand on Max’s thigh from where he was lying behind him on the bed.

“No way, mate,” Lando said, disbelieving, “Don’t you have more race wins than all of us combined?”’

George tried to swat at Lando’s legs from his spot on the couch.. 

“Max and Charles are the only ones who've won a race, idiot.” George supplied, unhelpfully, before he wrinkled his nose at Lando's inebriated state and stood up, stretching, headed towards the minifridge for bottles of water. 

Max’s gaze followed George across the small hotel room, him tiptoeing across the pile of Charles and Pierre on the carpet and a slightly slurred wander towards the minifridge. George uncapped one of the bottles and drank from it, throwing the other at Lando, which missed, and Max turned to swipe the bottle on the bed, uncapped it in a flash and proceeded to splash a bit of water all over Lando’s face. Max felt more different, right now, freer and a little bit childish, in the way Alex had never properly seen. People said it was the influence of Daniel Riccicardo, Red Bull’s other prodigal son, the wide-smiling late-braking Australian, but Alex would rather not think about Daniel Ricciardo at all if he could.

George leaned against the counter, before he asked, slowly, “Who do you think’ll be the first to be world champion?”

Max, Alex’s mind supplied, almost instantaneously, and so did Lando and Pierre had thought, voicing his thoughts simultaneously. A humbler man would’ve refused, would’ve said Charles had as much of a fighting chance in the Ferrari, would’ve said to wait and see. But Max was Max Verstappen, and he didn’t say a thing to refuse, only watched George from his spot on the bed, who didn’t say anything either, silent. Alex couldn’t tell if they were silently communicating, or if George was trying to unsuccessfully get a read on Max.

Charles made an indignant noise, “Pierre, so little faith!” 

Pierre snorted inelegantly in response. 

“Mate, doesn’t Max have ten more wins than you?” He answered with a laugh and knocked his shoulders against Charles, their knees touching from where they’ve both sat on the ground. 

It’s nice, Alex thought, to still preserve such a close friendship in the cutthroat world of racing. The less nice part of himself wondered if it’s because Charles was fighting for podiums, whilst Pierre was fighting for points. He wondered if he’d be able to sustain such close friendships the longer he stayed in Formula One. Alex wondered which side he’d be on, if he did. 

“Seven,” Charles replied, almost instantaneously, because of course that’s something he knew off the top of his head, and Alex laughed out loud. 

Max and Charles had always been a little different, of course, top of the pack, or, as close as Charles tried to get to Max. The rest of them had to snap up the rest for scraps (not too horridly, Alex thought, considering how they all ended up in roughly the same place. He still thought back to 2018, losing out on the Formula two championship, but ending up top three, following George and Lando, a sweet memory)

George didn’t say anything, though. It's funny, he was the best of the three of them all through the junior series, the one with the most accolades and excitement going into his actual racing career, and yet, here he was, languishing in the worst car on the grid. Alex tried to not think about it too much.

Pierre shoved Charles with a laugh, and said, instead, voice bubbly, his French accent thickened with alcohol, “Fine, fine, who do you think will be champion after Max?”

“Charles.”

“Myself, hopefully.”

Max and Charles spoke at the exact same moment, and Pierre cackled loudly at their diametrically different expressions of vague annoyance and smug smile respectively when they realise they’ve done the same thing as the other. Max gave Charles a humorously unimpressed expression.

Lando pouted at the pair of them, “Mate, that’s just cruel.” 

Max turned around to laugh breathlessly at Lando before he propped his head on his hand and thought for a second.

“George.” 

George blinked, shocked. 

“Me?”

Alex was surprised too. Not that he doubted George, obviously, but it’s unlike Max to be so complimentary. 

Alex laughed, though, and pointed out with a smile, “He’s driving a Williams, Max.” 

That earned him a scowl from George, which turned into a yelp-laugh when Alex balled a napkin and narrowly missed his face, it hitting against the window in a soft pathetic olision.m

..

“Yeah.” 

Max set his can of beer down, which Lando swiped immediately, and gestured with his hands, explaining in his distinctly blunt way. 

“That Mercedes seat is as good as George’s, anyways, I doubt they’ll be keeping Bottas after next year, when his contract ends, and they’ll want someone to replace Lewis. He’ll probably win this year, and maybe next year, but we’re, well– Anyways, in like two, three, years, Lewis will of course not be as on form as he was when he was younger, and if Mercedes is still doing well, obviously George is the likely outcome.”

Alex squinted at Max, trying to make sense of his teammate. He doesn’t really know how to react, and his vodka dulled brain is not helping. Max is notorious for being meticulous, but still. And even if it was a likely conclusion, it is incredibly unlikely to be expressed by Max Verstappen, where his highest compliment is usually decent. Charles and Lando seemed to have reached the same conclusion as Alex, both sporting a respective confused and shocked reaction. George, however, seemed to be genuinely lost for words.

“Not after I win five, of course.” Max said back with a teasing smile, and Charles groaned, chucking a fallen towel at Max, who only threw it back. 

Poorly, and hit Pierre, who grabbed his bottle, and, well. Alex scampered away as Lando, the not-so-innocent casualty, is drowned in water. George didn’t seem to join in the carnage, though, and leaned against the counter with his lips pressed together, staring at Max who's trying to protect his precious notebook from the water fight whilst simultaneously nudging Charles’ into Pierre’s line of fire. George watched Max like he wanted to understand him, and his brows furrowed like he didn't. 

Whatever, not Alex’s problem. He stole the water bottle out of George’s hand, shook it like whatever champagne he hadn’t earned yet, and poured it down Lando’s unsuspecting back

🌊

Max lapped Alex in Spain.

Alex’s only defense was that Lance, P4 in the Racing Point, was also an entire lap down, but Valtteri Bottas was only 44 seconds off Lewis, and not the entire lap down. 

The RB16 was shit. That’s literally what it is. It oversteered like crazy and skidded on the knife’s edge of the racing line, the thin glacial path turned into a swinging unsteady tightrope. Alex qualified seven-tenths slower than Max, but somehow Max managed to end up P2 on the podium. Stuck in the no man’s land of twenty seconds in front, and twenty seconds behind, but Max was there, close enough to have drenched Lewis in champagne and basked in the glory of Lewis’ shine. Alex was in P7. 

A video of Max lapping him came up on his Instagram page, when Alex was uploading a post with a faux-cheery tone over the events of the day. Someone commented that it reminded them of Malaysia, 2013. Alex wished it was Malaysia 2013, he’d take a Multi-21 in a heartbeat because at least Mark Webber was within spitting distance of Sebastian Vettel instead Alex was an entire lap down. No need for team orders. 

Alex just couldn’t understand it. Max made the Red Bull seem drivable, made it almost comparable to the beauty that was the W11. It was the second fastest car on the grid, it was going to challenge for a championship soon, et cetera et cetera, Alex was just driving to survive.

Being in Spain didn’t help at all. It’s Spain, where Max got his first ever win in his first ever race with Red Bull. Alex didn’t like the car. He felt like he was sinking into the navy blue folds of the Red Bull colours, getting swallowed, getting sea-sick in the ocean that was Formula One, drowning in the pressure of being in the team in P2 in the constructors. 

Someone knocked on his hotel room door, and Alex didn’t need to open it to know it was George. It was George, of course it was George, with his familiar three patterned raps on the steady wood. It was George, who had an even more miserable race in a car that didn't deserve him at all.

Alex crawled out from underneath the covers from where he had been sulking and pulled the door open, and George walked in like the room’s as well as his, in his soft plaid pajamas, sat on Alex’s messy bed with a Thermos of herbal tea and a kind expression.

“Want to talk about it?” 

Alex didn’t want to talk about it, actually, didn’t want to even think about the race at all, or the team, or everything with the stupid Red Bull car, but George only meant well, knew too well the crushing guilt of a pointless race, and it wasn’t George’s fault that the car was a possessed beast.

Alex walked over and threw himself into the covers face first, hitting the bed comically like a plank of wood that had been knocked over. He turned his head up to face George, who sat with one leg on the bed and the other dangled off the side, and Alex’s nose was close enough to rub into George’s knee, smell the mint scent of his bodywash. He looked up to find George, who smiled down at him softly with a soft expression. George laid a comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder.

George didn’t do physical affection, so Alex supposed George found his predicament pitiful enough, but he leaned into George’s touch anyways. Max was different, he wasn’t affectionate, not often, but he clung onto people like a lifeline, tapped his feet against other drivers in interviews, touched his elbow against Alex’s in debriefs, held tightly onto his competitor’s waists on the podium. No love in the glance of Max’s fingertips against Alex’s thigh as they poured over telemetry from free practice, his hand hanging between them, tethered like a lifeline. No love, Alex told himself, but Max’s desperate need to feel grounded in the moment.

Ugh, Alex didn’t want to think about Max right now. He groaned audibly, and George laughed, a light chiming tone. 

“At least you can blame the car, you know?” Alex complained. It’s a weak complaint, and probably a cruel one, but all of Alex’s races had either been a midfield struggle or management hell, and he needed an excuse. “Like, yeah, you’re not in the points, not because you’re a bad driver, because the Williams is a fucking shitbox.”

“That Red Bull isn’t easy to drive.” George pointed out, always the comforting, if not a little biased, voice of reason.

“It’s… ugh. It’s fast.”

George waited patiently for Alex to continue, which he did.

“It’s fast but it’s, like, too fast. Does that even make sense? I don’t know how Max is putting it on the podium, I’m just glad I didn’t put it into the fucking wall. Everyone’s talking about how terrible it must be for Red Bull to disappoint Max, that he doesn’t get to be the youngest WDC as well, but fuck, I can’t complain when he’s putting the Red Bull on the podium!”

Alex sighed again, and leaned forward that his forehead bumped up softly against George’s knee. George didn’t say anything, didn’t have to, but again, what could be said?

“It feels bad, you know?” Alex began, voice small. “Like, I was never the fastest in F2, that’s okay, I made it into F1. And Red Bull? I mean, I didn’t think I’d make it into the senior team, but that’s great. It’s just… it feels like the world’s discovering that you’re a fraud. I mean, look at you and Lando, you guys had so much hype going into F1 and I only signed my contract two weeks before I got into the car.”

George frowned at Alex’s self-depreciating language, his hand warm against Alex’s back.

“Alex–”

George was rudely interrupted by the doorbell going, the blaring ringing noise echoed in the dim room. Alex pushed himself up reluctantly with a groan and George’s hand slid off his back. He shivered in its absence. 

He opened the door to find none other than Max Verstappen at the doorway, which, honestly, is just Alex’s luck right now.

“Who is it?” George called out from where he was seated on Alex’s bed, and Alex could visibly see the surprise in Max’s face, though it was quickly crushed into an expression of normalcy.

“Can I– can I come in?” 

Max’s voice was small, and Alex had half a crazy mind to just leave him standing in the hallway, but he wasn’t an impolite person, and Max was still his teammate, and technically he hadn’t done anything wrong. Alex stepped aside to let him in, and hoped his expression wasn't too tight. 

“Lando’s wondering if you– oh, hey Max.”

George was fully perched on Alex’s bed right now, hugging his knees with his phone dangling loosely from one hand. If he was overly surprised to see Max, especially considering what Alex was ranting about, he didn’t show it. Max didn’t look awkward, not the immense awkwardness Alex felt with Max standing in the middle of his hotel room, but he didn’t look uncomfortable in the way he’s always been self-assured, to some extent, even when he was just seventeen.

Still, the silence was incredibly awkward to Alex.

“I…” Max began, before trailing off, “I just wanted to say your race today was good. I mean, obviously the car is not there right now, and there could be a lot more improvements, especially with cornering, but it’s not…you.” 

Max finished lamely, his hands hanging to his sides, and Alex didn’t know if he was offended or flattered. George seemed, well, a little bit shocked, but he hid it well, cocking his head to the side as if that would give him a better perspective on the enigma that was Max Verstappen. Horrifyingly self-assured to the point of egotism, yet. 

Even Max was not immune to the awkwardness of social situations though, and he rubbed a self conscious hand over the back of his neck. Alex suddenly noticed that Max was still in full Red Bull gear.

“Did you come straight from the paddock?”

“Ah, yeah. There was media for the podium of course, and then GP wanted to talk about turn five. I stayed to finish watching Lewis’ onboard for the race, so.”

George interjected with a cheeky grin, “Not Lewis’ telemetry?”

Max turned to face George, shrugged. “No, well, telemetry is only useful to a certain point, right? I can see how fast and how late Lewis breaks but if the car doesn’t let me do that it doesn’t matter in the end. Like, Lewis takes the corner like,” Max simulated turn 10 with his hands, “...that, but I literally cannot because we don’t have DAS. Lewis is Lewis for a reason and obviously he is driving that car to the best it can perform, and I cannot rebuild the RB16 but I can improve how I drive, no?”

“Yeah, of course, yeah.” George acquiesced, nodded, and Max seemed to smile back minutely in return.

He was still standing in the middle of Alex’s hotel room though, and Max seemed to suddenly realise that fact, and fiddled with his zipper, tucked an invisible strand of hair beneath his cap. 

“I should go but… you did a good race, okay? Of course there are places to improve, but like, everyone has.” 

“I– Ah– Thanks.”

Max chewed on his lip, before he spoke. “You’re better than Pierre, I think. I don’t know, you work much better with the car than he did, and the field spread is crazy.”

Alex blinked, and nodded, a little lost for words. 

Max didn’t need another hurry, and turned around and walked through the door, leaving Alex gaping in the wake of his retreating form, the door shut gently behind him.

“Well that was interesting.” George quipped, “Max Verstappen coming here just to compliment you.”

“Compliment or condescension?" Alex shot back immediately, and George leaned forward, as if contemplating. “It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.”

“Both? Like, I can praise you because you’re lesser in calibre than me? But Max isn’t someone to just go up to people and sing their praises.” 

Alex scoffed at this goodnaturedly.

“Mate, I think you have a much rougher image of Max than he is. He’s nice when he wants to. Well, he’s reserved, but he’s not mean… per se, he says it how it is.”

“Correction, he says it how he thinks it is.”

George stuck a cartoonish finger in the air, and Alex laughed, leaning against the wall, the heavy oppressive feeling in his chest melting into the air between him and George. 

“Yeah, didn’t he predict you to a future WDC last week?”

“Oh, that.”

Now it was Alex’s turn to laugh at George’s bewildered expression, who scowled in return after realising he’s been distracted. George rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter anyways. You can take it like a compliment that the second-best driver right now thinks you did a good race and stop moping, or you can take it like condescension and pledge to beat him Nico Rosberg-style.”

Alex laughed, a genuine bubbly noise emerging from his throat, and he crawled back into bed, curling into a ball under the covers whilst George stretched his long legs on top, fitting together with the well-worn familiarity of years and years of living out of each other’s pockets, bleeding gasoline and eating bolts on the same asphalt tracks. Alex’s heart felt warm, and he tucked his legs close to his chest, relishing the warmth from George beside him. He felt lighter, now.

He looked up to find George smiling down at him with a fond expression, the steam from the tea floating up and curling around George’s face.

“Mate, I couldn’t Nico Rosberg Max Verstappen, didn’t you hear about his entire post race routine? That’s dedication."

“Maybe that’s why you’re losing seven-tenths to him in quali.” George replied, but his voice was teasing and kind, and Alex only smiled back up at him sleepily.

George yawned as well, slowly blinking tiredness from his eyes. Alex would offer for George to stay and sleep if George wasn’t already tucking himself under the covers, with the ease of a life-long friend. George rolled over to the other side, his breathing slowing and calming, and Alex checked his phone for one last time before he slept. 

Lando’s sent an image of Max to their group chat, presumably as a humorous joke. It’s funny, Alex supposed. Max’s hair was wet and limp, a bit of a mess and sticking to him in the most peculiar ways as an effect of the champagne which is rolling down his face, and Alex could almost taste the the sweet sweet liquid through the screen, tries not to think about the bucketfuls of P2s and P3s Max has already bagged. The picture’s a little blurry, probably taken once Max got off the podium, in some corner of the paddock. Max’s fireproofs were unzipped and hanging off his waist, and Lando had somehow forced Max into an obnoxiously orange McLaren T-shirt that’s far too wide for him. He was laughing in the photo, his hands covering his face with his eyes crinkling in delight, and there was another blue-orange blur in the background that Alex presumed was Carlos, holding something silvery. It was a cute picture, a sweet little photo only Lando could’ve taken of Max. 

He sent a thumbs up back to Lando and tried to forget about it. He could practically hear their laughter through the screen, felt like if he reached out he could wipe the champagne off Max’s face and onto himself. He felt a jealous squirm in his throat, a familiar jealousy and an unfamiliar one. Alex turned off his phone and laid it flat on the bed. 

🌊

George got a P2 in Spa. His first ever podium in F1, and George got it because he qualified second on a rainy day. Alex was pumped for George, sent him a screaming happy voice note because George had outqualified a freaking Mercedes in that boat of a Williams. Rain was the ultimate equalizer. Alex almost screamed at the screens when Max stole pole from George because, fuck, wouldn’t that just be the utimate proof that George deserved the Mercedes after his stellar, if not sightly unlucky, race in Sakhir last year. 

Alex thought about Sakhir and bit his lip. Two drivers proved their worth, and one more successfully than the other. Checo Perez won from last on the grid and qualified seventh for the Belgian Grand Prix in 2021 as a Red Bull driver. Alex sat in the back of Max’s garage and watched the “formation lap” and the “safety car laps” with a nervous tap to his feet and a restless, uncomfortable feeling.

Lando ran wide and crashed, the rain a demonic biblical downpour. Sebastian Vettel slammed his finger on the radio button and demanded a red flag and they granted him that. Alex didn’t have a race to “win”, not like they raced anyways, so he hovered outside until Lando was cleared of any serious injuries, and sat beside him in the medical center, loathing the plain white sheets and Lando’s pale expression.

“It’s a joke of a race, I can’t believe they made you guys go out in such terrible weather.” Alex scoffed, but he tripped over the word you guys, and hoped Lando doesn’t notice. His heart twisted.

Lando let out a breathy laugh, “Yeah, but George is definitely happy they didn’t race in the end.”

“Wouldn’t be amazing though, first podium is only for half points and a qualifying session.”

Lando smiled and gestured towards the TV on the opposite side of the sterile room with a nod of his head, switched to the Sky Sports broadcast. Alex used to always think it was in poor taste, that no driver wanted to know about the race they were severely crashed out of, but he was secretly glad for it right now. A Spanish news agency was interviewing Max and George right now, George wearing a glittering, excited look in his eyes. Alex grabbed a remote lying on a table and turned up the volume.

George slung a shoulder over Max, wearing a knowing expression, “Max– Max– he had a fantastic race today.”

“George is putting a lot of pressure on me.” Max said, and George rolled his eyes. “I was trying to be late on the breaks.” 

Max and George locked eyes, and Alex could already tell they’re both smiling underneath their masks.

“But yeah, it's good to be up there with Max. You know, guys like Max and Charles who we raced for so long.” George continued in a more serious tone, “I remember racing together in, like, 2011, you know, fighting with each other, um, and that’s you know, personally, I was to be back there, fighting with these guys and hopefully not too long.”

Max looked up from where he was fidgeting with his zipper, and said, “You will.”

They laughed, and the camera cut away to the pit lane as Geroge extended a hand to Max’s back, his eyes sparkling in delight.

Lando sighed exaggeratedly into his pillows, “So cruel, always forgetting us.”

Alex smiled back at Lando, hoping it looked like a jokey grin. He didn’t feel it, though, strained and tight because it was Max and Charles, ahead of the pack, and now George too, graduating to Mercedes, and Alex hadn’t even got a seat in F1. He felt bitter and sour, and he didn’t want to, but god, anyone would be bitter and sour.

Alex asked Lando about his summer break plans instead, swallowing the lump in his throat until it’s nothing.

🌊

It was Abu Dhabi 2021 and Max Verstappen was the world champion, the world champion. Alex wasn’t the one screaming on the radio, much to the world’s disappointment; he was in the AlphaTauri garage because the Red Bull one was too fraught with tension and anxiety and, honestly, Alex was quite sick of the Red Bull logo right now. He camped out in Yuki’s garage, watched Yuki claw his way to P4, Pierre to P5, and Max to the top of the world. 

Alex watched from the screens in Yuki’s garage as Max kneeled down to his left rear wheel and cried, bowing down to his championship winning car and worshipping it for one last time. Alex swallowed as he watched Max hug Carlos, holding him tightly as Carlos is lifted to the tips of his toes, stumbling back a little as he clung onto Max, who buried his face in Carlos’ neck and didn’t let go, didn’t let go of his first ever teammate, his first ever rival, his first ever conquest, his first ever friend in the world of Formula One.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

Alex turned to find an AlphaTauri mechanic watching the broadcast over his shoulder, a fond smile playing on his lips, hands mindlessly cleaning a part of a diffuser. Alex vaguely remembered the mechanic from his short lived Toro Rosso days. He was nice, Alex thought. 

The mechanic continued, “Good to have his first teammate on the podium when he wins, yeah? God, I can still remember the two of them as teenagers. Absolute menaces.” 

Someone called for the mechanic and he walked away, shaking his head with a smile, not before patting Alex’s shoulder. The thing about Formula One is that if you make it in, you stay in, forever. That mechanic was definitely there during Max’s Toro Rosso days. That mechanic, Alex would bet, was probably there during Daniel’s Toro Rosso days, heck, maybe even Sebastian’s. If you make it, you’ve made it for life. Alex felt his stomach twist uncomfortably and he had to tell himself he had, he made it. He signed a contract with Williams, he’s in, but. 

Alex sighed and walked back to the Red Bull garage. It was Max’s day, Alex should be happy for him. He was. 

He found himself on a yacht. There were a good few people from Red Bull here, and some other drivers milling about. Max was standing at the edge of the yacht’s second floor, yelling down to Charles who was standing on the docks. George was here too, somehow, talking to Carlos, both distinctly not Red Bull personnel, and Alex glimpsed Lando in the background. It was a bit loud, a bit rowdy, the kind of loose celebration that always went on after a race, whether it was sprinkled with rose water or champagne. The yacht was nice. Loud, of course, and packed, but there was a distinctly cheery feeling in the air. 

Alex walked up to Carlos and shook his hand, patting him on his back. Carlos was smiling, a happy glow emanating off him, his expression soft, his hand strong in Alex’s as his hair swayed loosely in the desert wind.

“Good job on the podium, mate. Nice way to end out a season at Ferrari.” Alex offered, and Carlos smiled, patting him on the back. 

He’s come into his own, Alex thought, worn the rosso corsa just as easy as he wore the McLaren papaya. Ferrari suited him, the slightly prestigious energy as if they were motorsport royalty. He and Charles made a neat pair, the two of them, and in red they felt almost untouchable. Not physically, of course, Carlos is Ferrari’s best result and he was in P5 in the championship, but, well. Ferrari could finish P20 and still have the hearts of everyone who had sat in an F1 car.

“Yes, ay, crazy season, eh? But good, good podium to finish.” 

Alex agreed, crazy season. Everyone knew that Max would get a title from the day he won his first race at eighteen, it was only a matter of when, but no one thought it would be this year. The Red Bull was strong, but Mercedes was Mercedes, and Max had sat very prettily in that P3 spot all last season. 

Speaking of Mercedes…

Alex turned around to face George, who’s looking out into the Marina with a faded smile on his face, and poked a teasing finger at his chest, 

“Are you supposed to be here? Doesn’t Mercedes have a plan to kill everyone at Red Bull right now?” 

Carlos laughed at Alex’s statement, and added, “Careful that Toto doesn’t revoke your contract after seeing you here.”

George turned towards them and a legitimate worry flickered over his face before it settled into a terse smile, and he clapped Alex’s hand in greeting. 

“I’m still technically part of Williams right now, you know? There’s still a right to roam.” 

George’s voice was light, happy, and Alex was genuinely glad. They talked about something or the other, the race, their plans for the winter break, their reactions when they heard the safety car instructions. Carlos got a text from Charles and wandered away, and Max joined their little non-Red Bull pair.

Max looked happier than Alex had seen him all season, hair still ruffled from the race, a carefree expression as he clasped George’s hand sloppily, definitely under the influence of alcohol. He’s had a mad season, Alex thought, a long season. Going up against Lewis Hamilton was definitely not an easy feat, and Alex could count too many nights he’d been woken by a notification from his phone of Max’s ideas after a run in the sim, or his thoughts on the car, or asking after Alex’s sim data, or his opinions on a set-up. 

“Congratulations on the title.” George offered, smiling at Max, who only laughed loudly in response, patting George’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, well, to be honest, I did not think I had it until the last corner. It was terrible, the race! My leg was cramping the entire way and all I could think was ‘I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it.’” Max replied, punctuating his response with various gestures and a light smile. 

It’s weird, Alex thought. There’s such a perception of Max as this cutthroat racer, which he was, quite often on field, but he’s rather… not, off-field. 

“You had a good season, though, you deserve it.” 

Max smiled at George, and shrugged. “I mean, it could’ve got either way, but, ah, I’m just happy it’s over.” 

“Yeah, leave some wins for the rest of us.” Alex injected, which elicited a laugh from both of them, Max’s significantly louder. 

“Ah, well.” Max knocked his elbow against George’s arm, “He is in the Mercedes next year, so we’ll see. Big pressure though, to perform well against Lewis.”

George snorted, because no shit, but he shrugged and sipped on his drink. 2022 would be interesting, Alex thought. He wouldn’t want to be in George’s position, going up against a seven-time world champion furious with his loss, trying to scamper on the tail of someone insistent to defend their title and cement their worth. There were a thousand eyes on the Mercedes seat right now, and heaps of pressure on whomever occupies it, because George wasn’t another Bottas, not a sidekick to The Lewis Hamilton. Everyone could tell from a mile away that Toto was grooming George to be the next lead driver for Mercedes. It was only a matter of when.

The night faded away, the raucous celebrations dwindling, though not soon. Red Bull’s lights were on all through the night, and Max spent the night in his garage as a farewell to the car. Alex went to bed with fractured visions of drinks and faces and thoughts about the next season. Before his head hit the pillow, though, he corrected himself. He would want to be in George’s position, in a team at the top of the field, gunning for wins and championships. He was in such a position though, and towards the end, he wanted everything but to stay, so maybe wasn’t that right after all.

🌊

It’s just George’s luck that he made it into Mercedes the first year they failed the car in who knows how long. The zero-pod concept was shit, and George porpoised his way through P4s and P5s by sheer force of will. They recovered, though, the Mercedes, towards the latter half of the season, but by then Ferrari was marred with a series of unfortunate events, and Max had just as well as scampered away with the title. Alex did ok. The Williams was much easier to drive than the Red Bull, that’s for sure, but it was slower, so much slower, and Alex either faded into backmarker obscurity or fought for his life for the glorious P10. His former teammate, meanwhile, broke the record for most wins per season. Funny that. 

They didn’t do their usual celebration after Silverstone this year. They didn’t last year either, not when the Red Bull garage was brimming with frazzled anxiety and blooming resentment, an awkward back and forth between Christian and the doctors where Christian was insistent that Max could drive and Max looked very much like he couldn’t stand up, his eyes shut against the blinding hospital lights as Alex tried to softly recap the race for Max, ignoring the angry demands from Jos that Max had to race, Christian’s fractious worries about the title on the line, small preparatory actions in the background just in case Alex had to step in and drive for Max instead, and GP’s tense looks between the crowd of people packed into the small English hospital room, his expression torn between frustration and worry. Christian had dragged him aside, in the sterile white hallway, and told him to prepare his best for the worst case where he had to race in Max’s stead, that they could not, could not, let Lewis run away with more points. Alex had nodded mutely, promising to do his best, whilst Max protested as loud as anyone could hear that he was perfectly fine to drive. He wasn’t, but that didn’t matter because there was a title on the line against Lewis-fucking-Hamilton, and not a single point could be left on the table. 

Alex had stayed with Max that night, because he wasn’t allowed to fly, obviously, and they didn’t want Max going to Milton Keynes in such a state. He paced back and forth, the NHS website open on his laptop as Max laid like stone in the darkened hotel room, blinds drawn to prevent even a sliver of light coming through. Max wasn’t well, wasn’t well at all when he demanded, begged, Alex to drive him to the factory because he couldn’t lose to Lewis now, shook away Alex’s worried as he sat, crumpled on the ground in the sim room, pages and pages and pages of Alex’s notes on the ground, sweat beading and he tried to make sense of the numbers, as the numbers swam on the page. Checo refused to come in. Max drove himself mad watching Alex drive on the simulated track because he hadn’t been cleared to drive, yet, but drove anyway for a twenty-four hour sim race because he needed to “get used to sitting in a car”. Alex gave up on trying to coerce Max into bed, his blinking eyes going over onboard after onboard. They camped out in Milton Keynes, crushed Red Bulls between their teeth, and Alex dimmed all the lights, lied to the mechanics when Max had to lie down because his eyes couldn’t focus anymore, ignored the championship deficit on Max’s homescreen, taunting him, taunting Alex.

He had stayed up late with Max, three days before Hungary, trying to perfect the balance for turn four because no matter how they took it in the sim, the car would always clip and wobble in the back. On their fiftieth time, probably, Max had swayed concerningly, his grip on the desk tightening until his knuckles whitened as his eyes fixated on Alex’s simulated telemetry on the laptop. Alex had stopped suddenly, turned to look at Max, his pale face and ashen expression, and had opened his mouth to voice his concern when Max had looked up and noticed him. He must’ve noticed Alex’s concerned expression when he suddenly marched over, nudged Alex gently but forcefully out of the sim chair, and took the spot behind the wheel, trembling fingers held on tightly as he pointed Alex to watch the data. Alex had shut his mouth hesitantly, last year’s Silverstone suddenly echoing in his mind as he watched Max yank the wheel and shove the car like a mad man, attacking Hungary with a vengeance. The car didn’t clip turn four.

Alex had stood in the Red Bull garage in Hungary with a confusing swirl bubbling in his stomach as the Red Bull mechanics panicked when Bottas sent a group of drivers bowling, Max included, his car reduced to half its bargeboard and the tension in the garage increasing a thousandfold. Max had ended up scoring a measly single point and had spent the rest of the day sitting down and trying not to let the world spin, and Alex had wondered if Red Bull had rather sent Alex out, preserving their golden boy for another day, if it was all for a single point. It didn’t matter anyways, because Max wouldn’t have let Alex sit in his cockpit if he could crawl, and Alex would’ve never been able to drag half a car into the points, nevermind with a concussion.

Anyways, they didn’t do Silverstone this year. Neither Alex nor George was in the mood after being crashed out in Turn One, and Alex could taste in the air a slight… not bitterness, but tension, with Lando’s P6. They made up for it in Brazil, though, with neither Alex nor Lando’s pointless finishes being able to dampen the sheer exhilaration of the first of their three to score an actual win, a Mercedes 1-2 at that. 

It was a good night. They hadn’t done anything different from the usual hiding in someone’s hotel room - Lando’s - and drinking, swapping jokes, and most importantly, congratulating George in increasingly exaggerated ways until he lobbed something at someone’s head.

Alex sat in the plush confines of the loveseat, watching Lando tease George about how anxious he was on the podium next to Lewis, and was suddenly struck by how their situations had reversed. Alex, stuck in a Williams he needed to beg into the points, and George, at a top team tasting podiums and now, victories. Well, George was doing better in the Mercedes, a bad Mercedes mind you, than Alex had in a funky but fast Red Bull. He tried not to think about it too hard.

“It’ll be you next, I think.” George told Lando with a smile, sitting elegantly on the sofa; Lando sprawled on his bed, flipping around to prop his head on his hands, groaning lightheartedly.

“Mate, I hope so. Sochi was such a terrible race.” Lando complained, nose scrunched as if still experiencing last year’s heartbreak. Alex smiled kindly, because they’ve all experienced their potential maiden win, maiden podium, maiden pole, whatever, being cruelly snatched away. He also politely didn’t mention how he wasn’t involved in the discussion, and the others both nicely didn’t mention how he was stuck in the Williams shitbox because, yeah, it wasn’t great. 

Lando sighed once more, then flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling, whilst George smirked at Lando’s dramatics.

 “It’s so weird though”, Lando continued, “Like, last year was crazy tight, Max and Lewis were on the podium practically every time and this year Max’s basically ran away with the title.”

This, Alex could joke about, and he laughed, “Yeah, we all thought it’d be Red Bull versus Mercedes again,” Alex gave George a sly grin, “Didn’t Max break the record for most race wins in a season?”

Lando cackled, scattered giggles that sound suspiciously like zero pod concept bubbling out of him as George glared and swiped at Lando’s head.

“What happened to celebrating my win? As far as I know, I’m the only one that’s gotten that first win.”

Alex beamed goodnaturedly, whilst Lando grumbled, not meaning it.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Lando pouted, and George smiled smugly, still a happy sheen of post-win glow, and Alex let him bask in it. 

2022 was not a fantastic year, but at least Alex didn’t feel like the car was eating him alive. Small wins.

🌊

If they thought 2022 was dominant, they hadn't seen anything yet. 2023 felt like pulling teeth sometimes. The Williams was easier to drive than the Red Bull, sure, but it was just so slow. It turned the corners, it went smooth, and sometimes they might have had a better chunk of straight line speed than the Alphas and Alfas, but it was just so slow. If he could make the car go faster by sheer will, he would, but he couldn’t, and he had to defend like his life depended on it just to cling onto a single point, and it usually didn’t even happen anyways. 

And if George thought Lando would be the next to get his win, it definitely would not happen in 2023. The Red Bull was just untouchable, sailing past the entire field like its literally grown wings. Correction, Max was untouchable. Checo had grazed that greatness at the start, the pundits forecasting a Rosberg-Hamilton 2016-like season. Instead Max had sailed on ahead completely, leaving Checo in the dust, the rest of the field resigned to P2 as the highest achievable step. Team Verstappen, someone joked, and as Checo’s performance seemed to stutter, teammate eater. Alex didn’t care, too focused on trying to drag his car into the points to care who won, but it was nice to think the world was a little more understanding towards the insurmountable task of being Max Verstappen’s Teammate. 

The post-Silverstone gathering of theirs is happier this year, though. Lando got a podium in his home race, which was a definite call for celebration because the McLarens had somehow pulled an upgrade from heaven and Lando went from averaging P14 to P4. They were all in the points this year, though, after Silverstone, and somehow Alex found himself in a noisy club with various different drivers scattered around. Alex glimpsed Oscar hovering near Lando, a shade of Carlos and Charles somewhere, the occasional engineer or mechanic that Alex passed by. He stood in a cheery corner in a happy haze, watching Lando harass and cheer on the DJ, swaying slightly. It was a good day, much better than last year’s Silverstone by leaps and bounds, and Alex had a little twinge of hope that the car, and everything else racing, will get better. 

Alex hovered over to George, who was looking at something in the distance. 

“Good race, eh?” 

Alex clapped George’s shoulder in greeting, who startled a bit, his awareness dulled by alcohol, and turned to greet Alex with a smile, making a so-so noise. P5 wasn’t bad, but George was driving a Mercedes now, and the expectation was absolute perfection.

Absolute perfection, from the man Alex found when he followed George’s line of sight, Max Verstappen, who was whispering quietly to Carlos, the Ferrari driver’s own race ruined by his own team. Max had seven wins in a row, and it would be more surprising if he didn’t smash Sebastian Vettel’s record of nine wins in a row. Racing perfection personified, that was Max Verstappen right now. He clawed back wins from any part of the grid, clean yet cutting racing, and Max seemed to tear open air in front of him to sail to the furthest parts of the track. Well, apart from Baku when he banged wheels with George. Who was in the wrong? Alex didn’t know. He didn’t even think they’ve talked about it properly, barring a few snarky comments to the media and a heated discussion in parc ferme. They were all smiles in Spain, though, so it wasn’t up to Alex to worry about.

He felt… floaty. Happy. Loosened by alcohol and a good home-ish race. George was still staring intently at Max, like he was trying to figure him out, like he was trying to pierce through Max’s skin though thought alone. 

A memory floated up in Alex’s mind, unbidden, and he frowned. George was also frowning, but not in Alex’s direction.

“You know, Max said something weird once, back in 2020 here at Silverstone"

George’s gaze snapped to Alex in confusion..

“I think Max had said he thought he would die in a racing car.”

George blinked, comically, before his hand grabbed Alex’s arm and gently but firmly pulled them both into a quieter section of the club.

“What the fuck?” George hissed.

“That’s what I thought! At the time, I mean, but then you guys all came in and I didn’t have to ask anything.”

“Wait, wait, this was when… we all went into your room after the second Silverstone that year, right? After Max won that bloody race? With, uh, with the really bad graining on the Mercedes?.”

Alex nodded mutely. Half of him was surprised at George’s reaction, half of him was disappointed he brushed it off like nothing, filed it away into the cabinet of his mind and let it rot and forget alongside his time in Red Bull.

“That’s such a–” George tripped over his words, agitated and exasperated, the club music pounding in their ears. 

“That’s such a Max thing to say.” George settled on finally, his expression unreadable. 

The conversation doesn’t continue, though, because a drunken happy Lando traiped over towards the pair of them, a humoured Max trailing behind.

“What are you doing in a dark corner all on your own?” Lando giggled at them, his shirt stained with orange paint, loosely hanging off one shoulder. “Come on, you should watch me DJ!”

Lando yanked lazily at Alex’s sleeve, pulling him and his arm out of George’s grasp, before quickly letting go and bounding towards another familiar figure in the crowd. Max trailed after Lando like an exasperated guardian, talking softly to Carlos at his side. Max turned around and mouthed what? at Alex. Alex, who’d stood in the middle of the floor with a hesitant expression, George shadowing him from where his back was still pressed to the wall. Alex blinked and looked away from Max.

☁️ 

George spotted Max hovering outside the Mercedes garages. The Hungarian race was just over, the teams were ready to pack everything and fly to Belgium, and a three-time World Champion was haunting the Mercedes hospitality just as the sun was about to set. It was 2024, and Max Verstappen no longer had the dominant upper-hand, the car didn’t gap the field by half a minute, and the Ferraris and the McLarens were rising closer with increased aggression, their jaws snapping, the one-man team barely dancing out of their bite.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

George spoke into the silence, and Max’s head snapped up from where he’d been staring at the ground, pacing back and forth. George thought, he looked like shit. Max’s hair was messy and ruffled the amount of times he’d brushed through it, sweat-slick, and there were noticeable bags under his eyes, a dark hollow carved into the shape of his face. He didn’t say so, because he’s not a terrible person.

“I heard you got a curfew?” George quipped, because he’s also not a good person either, and they’ve had this on-and-off tension ever since Baku last year and if George couldn’t usually gauge which side of the coin they’ve landed on each interaction, he’d rather just have Max snapping from the first moment.

Max rolled his eyes so hard George wondered if it hurts.

“For your information, I only stepped in because someone dropped out and it’s fucking rude to leave a team or a teammember hanging.” Max spat out, words flat and harsh. “I raced a twenty-four hour before Imola and won, I raced a twenty-four hour after your teammate punted me into the barriers at Silverstone in 21’ so don’t fucking tell me about–”

Max took in a deep breath, and looked away rapidly at the ground, evading George’s gaze. George was reminded of Silverstone, three Silverstones, actually. Last race, which was absolutely horrible and a race George doesn’t want to remember. Alex had made it into the points, Lando into the podium, but none of them had been happy with the results, and plans disintegrated into dust by virtue of no one showing up. Last year’s Silverstone, which was okay, he supposed, but he was reminded of the afterparty, a blaring club, the flashing lights dancing on Alex’s face and the words dripping from his mouth, leaking from a Silverstone from nearly half a decade ago. George wanted to groan, because all this only reminded him of the fact he’d never had a good Silverstone, and George wanted to sigh, because of course that was such a Max thing to say, a Max thing to say like how Max raced twice in a week because sleep was for the mortal or his utter lack of regard for recovery because even George can realise how disastrous Silverstone 2021 was.

Max seemed to compose himself a little, running his hand through his hair again. He was wearing a loose Red Bull jacket – not his, based on the fact there wasn’t a small Dutch flag with three stars along the zipper – and his fireproofs were unzipped to his waist, and he looked… almost small, not the larger than life vision of Max Verstappen in the paddock. The visage of Max Verstappen.

“Do you know where Lewis is?” Max uttered the words like it pained him, and George was extremely taken aback, and it showed when Max scowled, got ready to turn away.

“He’s in his debrief, probably. I can text him to come find you afterwards?”

“If I wanted to text Lewis, I could. You know I’ve known him far longer than you, right?”

Max’s voice was dripping with disdain and sarcasm, though George could still trace the hints of tension buried within the words. He didn’t acquiesce, though, because whatever maybe-friendship between him and Max disappeared in Baku into this confusing and unpredictable dynamic. 

“Okay, I’ll just go barge into his debrief then, thanks for the advice, I forgot ramming into people was a thing we do now.”

Where did that come from? The most cutting words seemed to just drop from his tongue whenever he’s with Max, and it’s twice he’s insulted Max in a conversation.

“Ugh, I don’t care.” Max dragged a tired hand across his face, “Yeah, text him, tell Lewis I’m waiting outside.”

George did do so this time, taking out his phone to send Lewis a message to come outside after he’s done. 

Max was quiet after that, slowly playing with the zipper of his jacket, and didn’t engage George in neutral conversation about racing, the tires, the strategy, how many seconds did George count before he slammed on the brakes. George knew what Max is here for, presumably, to apologise to Lewis for their collision, or maybe for blaming him to the media pen. Or not, George thought, remembering Baku, expecting conversation and finding conflict, turning on his phone to find that someone’s called him Princess George. They never did talk about it, a bleep of a confrontation forgotten in the face of an insignificant season for George and one so dominant for Max the Baku bump barely a footnote. George wanted to seethe, felt a childish sense of pettiness over the fact that Max was currently standing awkwardly outside the Mercedes garage for Lewis, when George barely warranted a snarky comment to the media. 

Lewis was his rival, his brain supplied unhelpfully. His true rival, not the likes of Charles and George because somehow Max is five months older than George but four seasons more experienced, sixty-one wins to his two. Lewis was Max’s rival in the sense of Max forever looking up, burned by the Mercedes' shine for years and years until he took that silver for himself; Lewis was Max’s rival in the sense that Max’s peers were not great enough to challenge him, Max could only look up for a challenge to the statistical greatest the sport has seen. 

But George was still standing here, hovering outside his own garage because Max Verstappen was too proud to not call George an obscenity on television, but not so proud as to freely slander Lewis Hamilton. Lewis Hamilton, who was leaving George behind in Mercedes anyways. He thought about Max, the reckless way he drove, always on the limit of the regulations, on the limit of safety, driving every race like it was his last, the desperate ferociousness where another would’ve dropped back to manage their tires, his infamous dive bombs, corners taken flat out on a tight-rope of perfection. George knew second-hand from Alex how hard the Red Bull was to drive, yet Max yanked and shoved it into submission, into submission with an aggression unwarranted. He swore at George because he cared too much, because even a sprint win was everything for Max, who went on to only lose one race in that season to a teammate he had already eaten early on into his career.

George didn't care about Max anymore than Max cared about George, on the fleeting surface as humans, on the careful dial of a strained camaraderie of the twenty drivers at the pinnacle of motorsport. As Max winced, stretched his arms, shut his eyes tiredly, hid a yawn whilst waiting for Lewis, George thought he might care about Max more than Max cared about himself. What had Alex told him? Max thought he’d die in a racing car. The words made George shiver, shudder, because of how plain, how direct, how Max the statement is, and how sour it felt that he wasn't even surprised when Max said so, especially when he thinks of Max, when he wasn't soaring to titles, the ruthless aggression, the angry defense, wheels banging on the limit of appropriate action. Max Verstappen, who crawled into a bad car with a poor strategy only carrying measly hours of sleep and concentration, somehow dragged the car into P5, a position that even Charles was grateful to be in sometimes, considering the team he’s had. 

“What?” Max asked George, flat, voice rough and scratchy, because George had just been standing outside his own garage, motionless, arms at his side and an ache in his mind, staring at the unlikable enigma that is Max Verstappen. His face was flushed from the heat and a sickly grey hue shaded his sharp features, but his hair seemed to glister in the dimming lights. George couldn't look away, didn't know if he wanted to go up and take Max’s hand fondly or scowl at him with the unknown underlying tension.

“I was just– Just thinking about Silverstone,” George replied, throat dry.

Max raised an eyebrow, fingers massaging the back of his neck stilling.

“Silverstone?”

“2020. You… remember?” 

Max bit his lip, eyes searching George's gaze, expression unreadable, like he was torn between laughing or scathing. 

“Yeah. I remember.”

Silence descended over them again, the sun waning and dipping into the ground, the last orange rays kissing the asphalt as it disappeared behind the trees. The paddock was more or less empty at that point, most already packed up and gone home. George tapped his foot against the ground. Lewis’ debrief was taking forever. He glanced up from where he was kicking a pebble to lock eyes at Max, who was still staring at him.

George began, voice slow and foreign in-between his teeth, “You should take better care of yourself. You work too much, and no, saying you've done it before doesn't fix the fact that it's idiotic to do an F1 race on morsels of sleep. You can say no, you know, you don't always have race all the fucking time, we know you're good.”

Max blinked, expression softening and seizing in equal amounts. George plagued on, his words spilling out from somewhere he didn't realise he had, thoughts he bit back at news articles and furious headlines.

“You shouldn't– you– don't drive yourself into an early grave.”

Max's eyes suddenly flashed in recognition. 

“George–”

George opened his mouth to reply, to cut Max’s protestations off even though he wasn't even sure what he was going to say when Lewis walked out of his garage, a gaggle of engineers and mechanics also walking into the pit lane, stumbling upon that odd scene. George clamped his mouth shut, felt weirdly warm, and watched Max search his expression one last time, gaze lingering before he turned away and approached Lewis with a reserved expression. Head bent, soft words between the two that George didn't catch, wasn't supposed to hear. He walked away.

☁️

On Thursday, some idiotic journalist asked Max if he was worried going into Brazil winless in the last ten races.

Max was in the same media group as him and Oscar, and he sat in the centre of the sofa with an apathetic devil-may-care expression, cap pulled low on his face. George was suddenly reminded of the image of Max all those years ago, in Alex’s hotel room, that absolute sense of self-assurance, that complete lack of discomfort that almost betrayed a lack of decorum. Twenty-twenty seemed to haunt him at every turn.

Still, the question was inflammatory, and Oscar looked up immediately from where he had been fiddling with something on his water bottle, and George glanced across the sofa to Max, who tapped the microphone once, just to be obnoxious, and lifted it to his lips.

“I’m not worried. I’m a three-time world champion, I think I’ve accomplished all I’ve wanted to. I think even if my winless streak doesn’t end, I have still proven what I wanted to myself. And I mean,” Max shifted in his seat, took a short breath in, “You never know which race win is going to be your last, which is why I don’t care about the numbers, just celebrate each one as they come, right? But no, I’m not worried. Yes, the car was not there in Mexico but every track is different, and if you don’t go into a race thinking you can win it, might as well not race at all. I think I am not that unsuccessful in Interlagos, no? It would be ridiculous to go into another race worried just because of ten different results from ten different set-ups and circuits.”

Max let out a self-depreciating laugh at his words, and the journalists laughed too because Max was everything but unsuccessful in Brazil, his 2016 race eclipsing even his two wins at the circuit. But Brazil hadn't exactly been kind to Max, a poor result and worse PR backlash in 2022, when George claimed his first win. George smiled softly at the memory, and glanced down at his own nails for lack of a thing to do. It was a perfectly diplomatic answer from Max, all things considered, if not a bit self-important, but not in a way that exuded egotism, just the simple fact of hard concrete success. A little gauche, but not exactly incorrect.

Max picked up his microphone again, suddenly, “Oh, and, it seems like a very arbitrary metric to bring up. I think most drivers on the grid have had winless periods if not winless seasons, but I hardly see them being asked such inflammatory questions.”

“Well, you are a three-time WDC.” The journalist blathered in response, to which Max scoffed, opening his mouth to respond but the FIA personnel interrupted Max, and he shut his mouth with an annoyed, if not mischievous, glint in his eye.

“Francois Durand for Autosport KMP, do you…”

And that was precisely why George would never buy Max’s apathetic shtick. He cared too much. They all pretended to not to care about the wins, about the numbers, but they all do. George would bet his left knee Max knew the amount of wins each driver on the grid had, could recite all his own podiums or wins with relative ease because they all cared about the numbers, and if the best equalizer was rain, the best measurement was the cold hard truth of a stopwatch. With the way Max was looking at the journalists, like a cat ready to pounce, George was entirely sure Max cared.

They were allowed to leave half an hour after, the vast majority of questions directed towards Max, ineffective probing for a crumb of his personal life, his own inspirations, his mentors. All drivers on the grid were pretty clear on who they idolised. Sebastian used to worship Schumacher in the way Lewis deified Senna, in how Lando idolised Rossi and Carlos trailed Alonso’s shadow. David Croft from Sky Sports probed Max for three long questions for his own racing idol and Max gave non-answer after non-answer, allergic to naming other drivers, even those who could only breathe through the rubber they burn. Egotism, some said, or simply the supreme self confidence required to be a World Champion? 

George did nudge Max when they walked out of the media room, a light push of his elbow against Max’s ribcage.

“Stop lying, even the ants can see you care about the numbers.”

Max blinked, before rolling his eyes, intentionally speeding up his gait so that George needed to jog after him for a second. 

“Does it matter?” Max laughed out, voice dry and lacking levity. “I care because it’s the truth of failure and success, but it doesn’t matter to the world. If numbers were the only thing that mattered, you and I would be pests compared to Lewis.”

“You are pests compared to Lewis,” Oscar chimed in, humor bone-dry, a last glance at the pair of them before he rushed down the paddock towards McLaren and their first title fight in a decade and counting, leaving George and Max alone. 

Max laughed at Oscar’s snark, a fond expression on his face that was soon overtaken by a mask of apathy, or was it concentration? He fiddled with the Red Bull bottle always dangling from his fingers, his face etched into lines George thought had deepened over the season. 

“You would give up a lot for that fourth.” George told Max, still looking in the direction of Oscar’s retreating figure. 

Max hummed, a noncommittal response. “Maybe I’ll win, then I won’t have to give up anything at all.”

His hair was golden in the dying sun, his eyes brightly blue. George thought Max looked every bit the striking superstar of motorsport just then, every bit the man that could win it all, had won it all. Max brushed a bit of his blonde hair out of his eyes and walked off, ducking into the Red Bull garage and their inconsistent car, leaving George alone on the pitlane. The problem with Max Verstappen was that you genuinely can never tell if it’s arrogance, self-belief, or the fucking truth.

In Interlagos, it was the fucking truth. 

Max won from P17, George led the first lap and didn't even end up on the podium. Max Verstappen showed why he was a three time WDC, soon to be four, and George had to take it lying down, didn't ever find out what Max had to give up because Max just wins. He set sixteen bloody fastest laps and humiliated the rest of the field. The rain in Interlagos seemed to scream Max’s name, and George didn't know if he should be glad he was drenched by the same water or loathe the wet. Max caught his eye in parc ferme after the race, and raised a single finger. It was so Sebastian Vettel-like, so petty for the man who cared most about the legacy of numbers, the streak and the wins and the single title he couldn’t bring to Ferrari that George almost laughed out loud. The title was Max's now, not even a 2013-like end could save Lando, and George had to watch it all happen. Max glittered on the top step of the podium, familiar as it always was to him, raising up the golden trophy with a triumphant grin, wider than when he sealed the title last year. Numbers mattered. George thought that in a twisted sort of way the ten races he didn’t win mattered more than the streak of ten races Max won.

Alex walked into his hotel room without needing invitation, sliding the door open easily, George’s keycard between his fingers. Williams was terrible this year, like the year before, and the year before, and the year before. At least in Red Bull, Alex was scoring consistent points. Williams wasn't consistent enough to even start a race, had barely any parts to hobble onto a space on the grid, and Alex sat in the garage like he did in George’s last year with Williams. Franco binned it, anyways, draining the pockets of the Williams team and causing more despair to descend on the blue. It always felt wrong to see Alex in the Williams, his Williams, the white and blue livery promising nothing but an aggregate of P14. George was promised a Mercedes seat, the Mercedes team that he would lead come next year, and Williams was only a purgatory he had to endure. Max was Red Bull, Max is Red Bull, the team was in every sense Max’s and Max’s only, and after Alex they watched Checo Perez come to his downfall, eventually, in the second Red Bull seat of the undrivable Red Bull car. It created an uncomfortable feeling in George’s stomach that Alex was burned out of Red Bull’s junior and senior team, and that he was trying to find a permanent place in a team George always internally labelled as Mercedes’ junior.

Their career trajectories were similar. Not George and Alex, but Charles and Max and George; a year, maybe three, in the junior team before they ended up in the senior team, the prestigious title winning team like how they were predestined, inevitable, and supposed to end up. (Sadly, George had not been as extolled by the media) Lando stayed with his terrible midfield team that re-established themselves into a WDC contender, soon to be WDC winner, at least in the next few years. Alex – and Pierre as well, George remembered – bounced from junior team to senior team back to junior team and then to midfield purgatory. Red Bull was an easy villain who sacrificed five careers and counting for the success of one Max Verstappen, or was it that the might of Max Verstappen only existed amidst the teammates he consumed?

Red Bull’s problems were not George’s care, and the time to console Alex over Red Bull’s evils had long passed half a decade ago. On the other hand, sometimes George watched Alex in the Williams and all he could think was mine mine mine.

When Alex walked into George’s hotel room, he was wearing a Red Bull hoodie. It’s gigantic, the soft navy fabric dropping straight to Alex’s knees, RED BULL in garish bold letters over the front, a typical team kit in all senses of the word, well, except for the fact the back was emblazoned with MAX VERSTAPPEN 33 in diagonal orange letters. It had been a gag gift, from Lando, when Alex had first been promoted up to the senior team, a joke on the fact that he was entering Max Verstappen’s property. Not so funny of a joke in the end, of course, but Alex had kept that hoodie, despite its ridiculous size, the incorrect traitorous name labelled on the clothing, because it was Red Bull, and it wasn’t. George didn’t understand it, think he would’ve burned everything navy if he was in Alex’s position, but Alex wasn't George, he was better, kinder, softer. Nicer in every term of the word, and maybe that was why he was flayed apart and thrown out.

Seeing Alex wearing Max’s name made his stomach flip unusually, twisting and squeezing. The Red Bull red yellow blue looked foreign against Alex’s skin in George's vision.

George was already in bed, sitting underneath the covers with a recent sponsor’s brief laid over his duvet-covered knees, a speech tailored to perfection to prove to various dubious companies why Mercedes, the Formula One Team, was worth spending millions on in absence of The Lewis Hamilton, why George Russell was worth spending millions on. He didn't have that much faith in himself, but he memorised the speech to perfection anyways, or as close to perfection he could get before Alex snuck under the covers of the king-sized bed, a hood already drawn over his head, his eyes impassive, cold feet pressing against his calves. Alex was a passionate person, an emotional person, who drove the car to its best result if he had genuine faith, who couldn’t manage a Q2 lap if he had no belief in the car underneath him. His eyes were downcast as he inched closer to George, not too close, never too close, an inch’s distance away from George, his knees drawn up to his chest underneath the gigantic hoodie. It was adorable on him in a traitorous way, but George avoided Alex’s gaze. He wasn't good at affection, or comfort, or soft soothing words; that was Alex’s job. George could only provide a quiet place to sit, a hopefully familiar body to lean against. Or, to lay beside.

Normalcy was what George did best, though, so he acted normal and read the document, committing the sponsor’s corporate mission to memory, slowed his breath so it fell into sync with Alex’s next to him, let Alex slowly lean against his side, and silently lamented the lack of warmth from Alex’s body, snuffed out by Lando’s MV33 hoodie.

“You know, next year Williams will be the team of Red Bull rejects.” Alex suddenly said, his tone conversational, as if he wasn’t desolate an hour ago over the state of Williams and his increasingly growing pile of DNSes. 

George turned to slowly look at Alex, and he didn't really have words for it, so he kept his mouth shut, waited for Alex to elaborate. 

Or not, as Alex descended back into silence.

George was just about to turn his attention back to the document when Alex spoke again.

“Like, I know, you get what you give. It’s more unfair to Carlos to be demoted from Ferrari to Williams, but then Carlos never made Red Bull.” Alex shook his head slowly, lethargic. “Ah, it’s too long ago to think about. It’s Max’s, what, eleventh season next year? I’m betting on him beating Schumacher's record.”

George snorted inelegantly, “I hope not.”

Alex moved his head from side to side, as if to make a so-so response. 

“If you had a 2021-style title fight, I’d root for you, Georgy Porgie.”

Alex ducked under the covers to avoid George’s playful shove and turned the light off the desk lamp. George could see the illumination of Alex’s phone through the white duvet, but he didn't comment on it, memorised the corporate goals of Petronas, and moved his leg closer to the bundle of joy to his left.

☁️

Max won Qatar. It did matter anyways, because whatever fraught acquaintanceship they developed since Baku didn't matter. What were they even squabbling about in the first place? Ah, right, impeding in qualifying, It didn't matter, anyways, because by the time they landed in Abu Dhabi, it had completely ran away from the both of them. 

George said Max lashes out in unnecessary anger and borderline violence. Max called him backstabber, or, as Lando nicely translated for him, Max called him a friend fucker. George dramatised, told the media that Max threatened to put him in the wall, and Max angrily told Sky to fuck off, not after saying he was a two-faced liar. George had no love lost for Max, and Max stated that he had lost all respect for George. He went up to him sometime somewhere when they were both high strung and exhausted from the whirlwind of a season, and Max snarled that he hoped George and his FIA mates were happy. Max stormed away, and George got Ted Kravitz to ask him more questions, reopened the wound of Abu Dhabi in Abu Dhabi, blamed the Red Bull failure on Max, blamed the leakage of key personnel and the slow dying death of Red Bull’s dominance on Max’s unnecessary anger and borderline violence. Max didn't say anything to the media in response, just laughed, not kindly, and asked them to check who has more wins, more titles, a greater legacy? 

So. It ran away from them, like, completely. It wasn't great. 

Alex sent him an article written by the bloody BBC, for god’s sake, detailing the timeline and the happenings of the Verstappen-Russell rivalry. They used a picture of them in their karting days as the cover, Max and George, their teenage faces split into a smile, their fingers touching as they floated mid-air, an ecstatic happy jump captured for all of history to remember.

And well, now, for all of the world to see. 

George sat in his drivers’ room, just after FP1, and stared at his younger self, his hand ghosting Max’s, the familiar colours of their karting team looking back at him. He imagined telling his younger self he’d be on the cover of a BBC headline, a breaking news headline. He imagined telling his younger self that he’d end up hating the man, no, boy, next to him. Thinking the thought even George knew that was a lie. 

He zoomed into the image of Max, his eyes set in a crinkly smile, that small youthful face smiling into the camera. Last month he and Max were, if not friendly, cordial, understanding, slowly building a maybe-acquaintance from their split timelines feeding into F1, from the collision course at Baku. It had been, what, a week? Two? And it had all started from a single grid drop that hadn't even made a difference, because Max won the race, and George looked up from P4 and was relegated to feel the sting of second-hand champagne.

Someone knocked softly on the door to his driver’s room and George looked up, cheeks flaring from studying a childhood picture of himself on the BBC. He left his phone on the desk and opened the door to find Max, standing on the other side.

He looked calm, oddly calm, still in his fireproofs, and his eyes revealed nothing to George. His hair was a mess, though, but not a nervous mess, the mess that came after you yanked a sweaty balaclava off your head.

Max still didn't say anything, his face impassive, though not kind, and George had half a mind to tell him to fuck off and leave, but this was the most peace he’s had with Max in all of two weeks, proxies and directly. Max nodded towards the inside of the driver’s room, tilting his head inwards, as if to ask can I come in? Against George’s better judgement, he let Max in.

Max stood in the middle of his driver’s room, and George couldn’t help but be reminded of Alex’s hotel room, again, all those years ago. Weirdly, this was the time he thought he finally sensed awkwardness, if not hesitancy, from Max.

“Did you really have to bring up Abu Dhabi?” Max started, voice soft, dangerously so. George hated it.

“Did you really have to throw a fit in the stewards room?” George threw back, significantly louder, but Max didn't flinch. 

“Do you really want to play this game? You’ve literally got all the words open there.” Max retorted, gesturing to George’s phone, open to the BBC article face-up on his desk. 

George flushed, reached over to turn it off, but he didn't back down. 

“Yeah, and I could do this all day. Did you have to–”

Max grabbed George’s wrist, and George fell silent. He suddenly realised how close they were standing in George’s small driver’s room, just a foot’s width apart. Max made a move to drop George’s wrist, but he didn't, and his fingers held on tighter, but not uncomfortably so. George didn't say a thing, didn't ask, what the fuck.

“I–” Max stuttered over his words, and ate them. His tongue darted out to wetten his lips, and his other hand reached to rub the back of his neck self-consciously.

“I’m– I shouldn’t have been so… rude and direct with the stewards, that was my fault.”

Max said it haltingly, like it actually hurt him to talk, to apologise to George. Well, it wasn't much of an apology, an admittance of guilt, maybe, but it was the best he would get. George tried to hide his surprise.

“Okay. Thank you for saying that.” George replied, and he hoped his voice sounded more even than he felt. 

Max dropped George’s hand suddenly like it burnt, and reached back to scratch at his own hair, to tuck in an invisible strand behind his ear. George felt the cool air on his wrist keenly.

“Okay,” Max said, more to himself, “Okay, that’s good. Um, I’ll–”

“That’s it?” 

Max blinked.

“What do you mean that’s it?”

Now it was George’s turn to be shocked.

“What do you mean– I mean you calling me a two-faced friend fucker on national television.”

Max’s eyes flashed, and George could swear he could see Max smiling, almost, before it turned back into a scowl.

“Like you didn’t say worse. What the fuck was that about Abu Dhabi? And Red Bull?”

“I–” 

“You act like you’re so calm and in charge in the stewards room, and what, you go and blame all of Red Bull’s problems on me? Say that I’m the reason the team’s falling apart? Dickhead.” 

Max's voice seemed to waver a little on his last statement, but his profanity had George seeing red.

“You–! At least I try, you go around cursing everyone like a bloody bull in a china shop, like that's any better! At least I–”

George didn't see it coming, or maybe he did, riling up Max like he always seemed to do. Max’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, and pulled George close until their noses were almost touching.

“At least I apologised, wasn’t that what you wanted? When I was in Hungary, you were standing outside because you were fucking jealous of Lewis because I apologised to him, and not you. I apologised, happy? Wasn’t that what you wanted, to see me–”

George didn't find out what Max thought George wanted because he closed the distance, shook off Max’s grip and shoved Max roughly against the wall of his tiny driver’s room, absently reminded of the engineers on the other side, but it didn't matter. Max looked smaller like this, his back against the white Mercedes marble, looking up at George in his ugly Red Bull navy, his blue eyes narrowed and sharp. George was keenly aware that they were basically touching, his right foot crowding Max up to and against the wall, his hands on Max’s forearms, pinning him against it. He could feel Max’s breath on his face.

“What did I want? Finish the sentence.”

“You wanted to see me beneath you, under you, begging for you to–”

Max’s retort was cut short when George let go of Max’s right forearm and took his chin, not roughly, and tipped it upwards toward himself. Max’s eyes blinked one, bright and sharp and daring before he shut them and George closed the distance.

It wasn't sweet, or soft, or tender, but what did George expect? He and Max were always diametrically opposed in the most similar ways, rival teams via the same pipeline, petty retaliation via different mouthpieces, such similar on track terrorism, fighting for a corner, elbows out, ugly, on the edge of the regulations and a hole in the other’s sidepod because even though George was PR63 and Max was Mad Max, they were both dirty and scrappy and anrgy because they fucking cared. 

George crowded Max against the wall until Max was fully backed up against it, George’s lips hard against Max, who was kissing him back with equal ferocity, his free arm grabbing at George’s waist, until they were pressed up against each other. It felt like winning, George thought, it tasted sweeter than champagne and it felt like he was fucking winning. Max pulled George against himself greedily, his hand against the small of George’s back. He darted out his tongue, licked the inside of George’s top lip and it’s so painfully intimate George had to hold onto Max’s left forearm lest he melt into Max himself. Max wasn't letting go, though, so George held on, pressed his lips against Max’s, hard and greedy and Max let him take it. George wedged his left foot between Max’s legs and breathed out deeply from his nose and he knew he was blushing. Max gazed up at him, his eyes glossy, and George locked his lips, a tongue darting out where a speck of Max's spit had mixed with his, and watched Max's eyes darken. His face was blushed red, a tint spreading across his cheeks that George horrifyingly found beautiful, sharp bones jutting in a way that made him want to kiss, sloppy long kisses until he had desecrated Max's skin with his teeth.

Someone knocked on the door quickly, three quick raps, and George knew it was Lewis. He shoved himself off Max so quickly he hit the edge of his desk, bumping against his spine. Max was staring at him, not glaring, just staring, his pupils dark and his cheeks rosy, eyes glittering. George also couldn't look away from Max, his soft hair, his hands hanging of his side that had been against his own back, his expression, torn between softness and—

“George, did you not hear me?”

Lewis had the decency to knock before entering, like the middle-aged man that he was, but apparently not enough decency to wait for George’s response, though he wondered how long he was silent for.

“We’re choosing tires for FP2. I think cornering speed won’t matter tomorrow, or less, I guess, but it depends on if you want to prioritize quali or race.”

The door to George’s driver’s room opened internally, and Lewis’ view of Max was blocked by the grey door. Of course, then Lewis just stepped into his driver’s room because they’ve been teammates for long enough to be at least comfortable with the other, the kind of bond you only got spending days boring over tiny numbers and chasing margins with each other. Unfortunately, that meant Lewis was painfully aware of George’s own habits, and George was always punctual. 

“Hi, Max.” Lewis greeted him dryly, “Have you two kissed and made up yet?”

Max leveled Lewis with a Look and stuck up his middle finger. Lewis only laughed and walked right out of his driver’s room in reverse, a sly smile directed George’s direction. Max glanced back at George, his expression unreadable, a hand combing through his hair before he let out a soft puff of air and seemed to put on a small miniature smile, and moved to leave. George’s heart jumped into his throat and his hand was on Max’s forearm before he could think twice, Max looking back at him with those bright confused eyes. 

“You're leaving?”

Max's eyes flashed with amusement, the corner of his lips turning up, his voice teasing. “I thought you had to get tyres for FP2? No?”

George wasn't laughing, the thoughts and words he had buried in himself, stored in his burnished heart since Max slammed out of the stewards’ room in Qatar, since he grabbed Max's waist as a child and was forever looking up.

“You thought you knew what I wanted. I didn’t want– I didn’t want any of that. I–” The words tumble out, disjointed and fast, and George let out a quick puff of air, “I wanted you to see me as your equal.”

Max blinked, once, twice, before slipping his arm out of George’s grasp, a small knowing smile gracing his features. He turned back to look at George just before he walked out of George’s driver's room, out of the Mercedes garage and back to Red Bull, his unforgiving and unipolar team. 

“Verstappen-Russell rivalry, no? I don’t think it gets clearer than that.”