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Alex walks in on George and Max in Monaco.
How do you even start to describe George to Alex? Do you start in childhood, the years and years of karting intertwined, following, chasing, overtaking, defending, winning together? Do you start with F1, 2019, a group of rookies with Lando to round out the generation of karters, their generation of karters that made it into F1? Is it the sleepless nights in each others’ hotel rooms lamenting about the snail-like Williams or the jerky Red Bull? George replaces Lewis in Sakhir and immediately outshines Valterri by a mile; Alex podiums, finally, but loses his seat next race because a podium isn't enough when your teammate's got eleven and two wins. George fights tooth and nail to get Alex into Williams, and he cannot be anything but grateful, bites his lip when George calls Williams the junior Mercedes, and licks the champagne off his face, standing beneath the podium, his head forever craned up.
It's Monaco, 2025. Someone jokes that Williams is made of Red Bull rejects, the ones who failed to survive Max, but Alex's dragged a Williams into Q3, so who's laughing now? They had stayed late, because it's Monaco, baby, and unless you come up with something weird, you'd be stuck in a train for an hour and a half, too bored to enjoy yourself, but too stressed to relax. Alex groaned, letting out a tired sigh. It was nearing eleven, and the vast majority of the teams had gone home, drivers taking advantage of the ability to sleep in their own beds, but Williams had stayed late, talking about strategy until Alex's mouth ran dry. Carlos offered to drive Alex back, but he refused, citing the need to use the bathroom, and privately just wanting some peace and quiet, a mental battle to prepare for tomorrow.
One wouldn’t think that F1, for all its prestige and wealth, still had shared bathrooms. Large, maybe, but they were still shared between the drivers, staff, and media, which was often really annoying, especially when someone wants a quote about the car after you've just had a shit. Alex wouldn't have thought anyone was still there, with even the Racing Bulls packing up an hour earlier, but the light to the toilets was on, the door adjacent streaming soft yellow light into the pitlane. Alex could hear footsteps instead, soft and quick scruffling of feet. Another driver? Alex wondered, or mechanics pulling an all-nighter for their team, attempting to salvage something of a Monaco race.
“George.”
Alex paused, himself half a pace away from the lightly ajar door, still standing in the dark hallway heading into the bathroom. It was a man’s voice, rough around the syllables but soft in tone, quiet in the night where no one was expected to still be in the pitlane. It was a familiar voice, but not distinctive enough for Alex to place.
“I know, I know,” George replied, then sighed. His voice sounded empty, far away without being physically far.
“It was a battery issue, you couldn’t have controlled it.”
Max, Alex whispered to himself, before quickly clapping his hand softly on his face.
“I know, I know.”
There was more scruffling of feet, and Alex couldn’t help himself. He walked closer to the door, ever so slightly open, and peered in.
Max was leaning against the sinks, a Red Bull cap sitting on the edge of a tap, his jacket folded to a side at arm’s length. He was still in full team kit, but that meant nothing, for Max anyways. The more surprising scene was George, still in his Mercedes T-shirt, standing just a foot’s width away from Max, so close Alex could swear he could see George’s breath on Max’s face, which was tilted up to him, a soft expression on his face that Alex could recognise but couldn’t read. Max’s hand was holding George’s, his right hand a soft grip on George’s left wrist, a comforting hold.
“It’s just,” George began, huffing out a sigh, “Frustrating. Seventy-two laps stuck in a train, Max.It’s worse knowing nothing could be done.”
“Is it?” Max’s voice is soft, comforting, his eyes never straying from George’s face. “This was a Mercedes fuck up, you did the best you could. You can rest knowing you’re not stuck in the back on merit. If your race gets ruined tomorrow,” Max waved his left hand in the air loftily as if to demonstrate his point, “You can just blame it on Toto.”
George laughed at that, a soft wet laugh that Alex knew better than the lines on his palm. It felt so intimate he knew he was intruding, eavesdropping where he should’ve been, but.
“What about you? P5 isn’t bad.”
Max’s face melted into a small smile, half regretful, half fond.
“I’d take starting behind the McLarens, but no way the Ferraris are faster here.”
“Wasn’t Charles pissed on the radio when you impeded him?”
“Were you watching qualifying from the garage?” Max asked instead, his voice dropping, and Alex could almost see George smirking in response in his mind.
“What if I was?”
“Then you should’ve told me I lost two-tenths going out of Portier.” Max whispered.
Alex didn’t get to hear George’s response because he’s inched closer, his right hand holding onto the marble sink Max’s back is leaning against, tipping his head forward. When Max met his lips Alex’s breath caught in his throat, but he couldn't look away from the way Max closed his eyes, the small space between their bodies that George closed, the relaxed expression on Max’s face, a glimmer of contentment rarely seen this year. Max tugged George closer to him by their intertwined hands, and it was so painfully soft Alex felt like he should be arrested for looking, but he couldn’t look away.
They broke apart after a lifetime, and Max’s eyes were lidded and dark when he looked up at George, a small smirk spreading across his face but it was not bright enough to hide the sheer contentment and comfort oozing from Max’s relaxed stance. George was still standing close, his nose nearly touching Max, and even Alex could tell the joy in the shape of their silence.
George shivered slightly leaning up against Max.
“Cold?”
There wasn't a moment for George to formulate a response before Max’s already grabbed his Red Bull jacket from his left and draped it over George’s back, the navy blue covering the Mercedes white, blending the both of them into the same hue from where Alex’s looking. The red bulls sewn into the back of the jacket seem to mock Alex, and he’s almost too busy glaring at the shape of the red yellow blue on George’s back to catch George’s response.
“Thank you.”
It’s so painfully sincere, so full of emotion in the way only someone with the softness to offer can sound, so casual in the way only someone well-familiar with the other can whisper. Max was smiling up at George. Max, Mad Max, teammate killer, rule-breaker, was looking up at George, his George, with an expression Alex coul only describe as fond. A painful lump has formed in his throat, and Alex walked away, leaving the door ajar. He could pee at home.