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George didn’t need to turn around to know it was Max knocking on his door, letting himself in.
Las Vegas has been kind to him, last year’s dominant victory, though overshadowed by Max's championship win, was still one of his sweetest memories. This year it was wet, the only day in the year that it rained in California they qualified on the sopping tarmac, the lights of Sin City glazing and sparkling in George's eyes. He had qualified a respectable P3 and climbed out of the car, wiping dampness out of his eyes. George had started the race watching Lando dart out of Max's way, then slipping on the painted roulette wheels as he dove in front of the papaya abomination, chasing after the navy Red Bull, forever snarling down Max's gearbox.
He had chased to little avail, pulled forward to sniff after Max's end, scrambling down the seconds, swallowing them rapidly to squeeze two down to one, one down to eight tenths to four tenths to forever hovering around in DRS without a gap to be found. Years ago, Monza 2022 specifically, he was leading, darting through the temple of speed with the Ferrari zooming down towards vindication, the Red Bull growing larger in his mirrors. Max had hovered behind him for laps, never colliding, always too close for comfort, and George had felt hot under his helmet as if Max was really breathing down his neck. Turn One after who knows how many terse runs Geroge had finally wobbled, a mistake so small no commentator would've caught, the brakes slammed on just a breath too late but Max had already dashed through, the needle's width between them and Max’s slide on the racing line and he was already pulling away leaving George dizzy and breathless.
He thought of Monza in Las Vegas as he choked in Max's dirty air. How did Max feel in Monza? Did he feel the same panicked desperation of being behind, did he cough in George's dust? Or was he assured like a lion stalking their prey, calmly breathing into George's cockpit and drowning him with the pressure. Someone had compared Max to Senna before, compared him to Lewis, the fear of seeing that yellow helmet in one's mirrors, the flash of colour that promised damnation. Charles had tried to fight it in China this year, his Ferrari dragged on an invisible puppet string through four corners, but Max had clung on, or had he simply let Charles try to defend in front? He had slipped by finally, the cars weaving in a beautiful waltz through the track, a dominating dance that Max had begun and left Charles standing in the middle of the room, staring after Max's shadow, the same shadow that lingered in George's dreams.
If China was a waltz, Las Vegas was the can-can, quick, short, snappy, beautiful, finished, Lando abandoned on the rainy streets as Max had darted away, and now it was up to George to get Max to dance.
He had breathed out of his nostrils, hot air flooding his helmet, imagining it breathing into Max's car. But George wasn't Max, and this wasn't Monza, and he had clung on valiantly, waiting for a mistake so desperately he himself locked up instead, a brief heart-dropping slide that had caused his engineer remind him gently on the radio to save his tyres, to fall behind and let Max have the lead. Max didn't dart away in the end, holding three seconds of space, saving his own tyres. George thought of Brazil last year, when Max had gone on the radio to chat about Charles' slip in the sprint, a flash of a mistake that George needed to watch the replay three times to catch, a brief insignificant error that Max had complained with a smile as the McLarens dashed into the sunset.
George wondered what Max was thinking then, did he laugh about George's mistake on the radio, when he slipped chasing Max; did he lament George's steering, when Lando snapped up George and ran away.
Like Monza, Max won. Like Monza, George came third. Like Monza, Max was the reigning world champion. Like Monza, George looked up from his space below to sniff Max's beauty.
Unlike Monza, Max had pulled a twenty second gap in a lesser car, in the car P4 in the constructors. Unlike Monza, Max wasn't in the championship lead. Unlike Monza, second place was disqualified for plank wear, sparking too close to the sun, and George was promoted into second. Unlike Monza, Max slipped into George's hotel room after the race.
George glanced up from where he was sitting on the bed, still in the Mercedes kit with his legs crossed laying on the covers, his phone resting in his lap with the notes from the post-race debrief. Max was standing in the doorway, his hair was messy, champagne slick. He had gone straight from the podium to his debrief, and then into George's room.
“McLaren got disqualified,” Max said, still standing in the doorway. “Plank wear.”
George blinked at this, sitting up straight, turning off his phone with a click.
“God, really?”
Max nodded tightly, walking over to stand opposite George, leaning back against the desk.
“Mhm, they've just finished measuring all the cars. Just a few millimeters made all the difference.” Max paused, a hand brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “Good for Kimi, third podium in his rookie year.”
“Yeah, good for Kimi,” George echoed, his throat dry. “Wow, a double DSQ two races from the season's end.”
Max's face drew into a smile, a tired one he offered. Max looked exhausted, George thought. He unfolded himself and stretched his legs, standing up and walking over to Max, his feet light on the hotel carpet, his white Mercedes T-shirt close to Max's Red Bull jacket.
“Good for you, no?” George whispered, a small smile dusting his own face, his hand threading into Max's limp one to his right. “How many points are you down?”
“Twenty-four,” Max stated softly, a wondrous glint in his eyes.
“You could still win it.”
Max laughed, light and low, his face a delighted expression, and leaned forward to capture George's lips, their noses brushing. George exhaled softly, bracing a hand on the table behind Max, shutting his eyes and running a tongue on the inside of Max's top lip, who made an approving noise in the back of his throat, his fingers tightening around George's wrist, rubbing absently against his thumb. George felt warmth spreading from his nose to the tips of his ears, the soft sensation of Max's lips against him making him smile, stepping closer into Max's space when his phone rang suddenly, interrupting them.
Max giggled into George's lips, an adorable noise that made George smile before he frowned at the incessant beeping filling the room.
“Shouldn't you get that?” Max murmured, pulling away, an amused grin on his features.
George tightened his grip on Max, threading their fingers together and held onto Max's hand as he reached over and grabbed the offending phone off his bed. He connected the line without checking and turned on speakerphone, leaving it on his bed as he pulled himself up against Max again.
“Hello?” George said, already catching Max's gaze again.
“Hello, George,” came Toto's voice from his phone and George dropped Max's hand quickly like it burned and lunged to his bed, panic flooding his chest as he grabbed his phone and smashed it to his ear whilst Max sniggered, his face breaking into an exhilarated grin. George flipped him off as Max held his hand close to his face to smother his laughter.
Toto, oblivious to the embarrassed redness spreading across George's cheeks, continued, “The McLarens were disqualified. They ran their cars too close to the ground and were too thin, which meant a podium for Kimi.”
“Yeah, I knew,” George replied distractedly, waving Max away who was giggling into his ear, cackling.
“You knew?” Toto asked, confused, “The news hadn't come out yet, the FIA report's getting published in half an hour with McLaren's statement.”
George's eyes widened in surprise and shot a rude gesture in Max's direction, who was setting up his laptop on the sofa, pushed up against the window, Las Vegas’ lights flickering in his eyes.
“Are you there, George?” Toto questioned at George’s lack of response. “Are you out right now? Make sure you aren’t staying out too late, Qatar is only seven days away.”
“No, yeah, no,” George stammered, leaving the room and heading into the bathroom to continue the call, “No, sorry, no I’m not out. Uh, no, someone in the paddock told me, doesn't matter. Why were you calling?”
George leaned against the door as Toto rambled on about the set-up and conditions in Qatar, drowning out Max's laughter a wall away.
George finally hung up on Toto after they had discussed Qatar at length. Mercedes’ constructors position was locked in, basically, unless George and Kimi criminally fumbled the last two races and Team Verstappen won everything, which by the way everything was going, might happen.
George padded out back into his room to find Max on the sofa, his laptop propped atop the desk and his notebook perched on his thigh, scribbling in it occasionally. Geroge slipped down beside Max and dropped a kiss on his shoulder, who made a happy noise.
“Watching Lando’s onboard?”
“Yours.”
George glanced at the screen to find that it was, indeed, his own onboard, his teal gloves filling the screen, twisting and shoving his wheel into place. He's briefly reminded of Baku two years ago and George buried his face into Max's neck, chuckling quietly.
“Too used to watching a Mercedes steering-wheel?” George mumbled, smiling.
Max swatted at him lightly, his hand brushing against George's leg and staying there.
“ I've watched Lando in the garage already.” Max explained, pausing the video and turning around to gaze at George. “Besides, you drove well today.”
George deadpanned, “I had a steering issue.”
“Hmm, that just made your breaking more precise, I think. Anyways, I wanted to see how the car reacted following a McLaren. It's annoying, you're driving so tightly but the McLaren is just really good on its tyres. Lando's… look, there, Lando's breaking so sharp into turn five but there's barely any mark on the wheel.”
He shook his head, quietly frustrated. George slipped a hand into Max's, playing with his thin fingers.
“Thinking about Qatar?” George murmured.
Max leaned into George, tipping his head back and his eyes shut.
“Maybe,” he replied, “I don't think I'm in it. I mean, I guess Seb did win his first in a similar way but… I can't see McLaren fucking it up like that.”
George slowly massaged Max's hand, tangling his feet into Max's. He relished in the warm feeling of Max’s body against him, his arm around the both of them. He could stay like that forever.
“Do you want to win?” George asked, voice soft.
Max opened his eyes and gave George a small smile. “Who doesn't?”
Max ran his hands over George’s cheeks, his eyes unfocused, caressing him softly.
“I really want to win,” he admitted, “I think I made my peace with it after Austria, but now…”
“...it could actually happen,” George finished.
Max smiled sadly.
“I wonder. Five championships.” He shook his head lightly, dropping his hand from George's cheek into his lap. “I don’t think fate would be so kind.”
George frowned, “Max…”
Max ignored him, grabbing George’s free hand to play with it, running his fingers over George’s knuckles, smoothing down the veins over his wrist.
“I’m just really tired.” Max confessed, “I think I forgot how hard fighting for a championship is, especially this uphill game. It feels like it’s been the starting laps of Abu Dhabi since Austin. So close, yet so far, you know?”
George stayed silent and waited for Max to continue, leaning close that their bodies connected from the tip of George’s shoulder down to Max’s calves.
Max continued, “I do want to win, I want to win so much. Isn’t that greedy? I’ve already gotten four, it’s three more than I aimed for, what I expected at all, but…”
“You know that you can, and because of that you want more.”
Max looked up at George, his eyes soft and lidded, his expression vulnerable.
“Yeah,” he whispered, “I want it so, so badly.”
He leaned close into George, resting his entire weight against George’s body, his breath on their intertwined fingers, exhaustion leaking from every pore. The cruel part of George whispered loudly in the silence, screaming how dare Max be so selfish, crave so hard for a fifth championship when George’s barely gotten five wins but George silenced it, silenced the quiet whimpers of wanting, desperate, cursing the five months that seem to blend into a five decades of difference between them, the gulf of their accolades greater than the oceans. No, George reminded himself, this isn’t about that. Reminded himself of the closeness of their embrace, the way his ankle hooked around Max’s foot, the way their cars danced on track, a beautiful foxstep.
“It’s okay to want, you know,” George comforted Max, his voice tender.
“I know, I know. Too okay, I guess. I don’t know if I can handle losing. It’s exhausting trying to chase victory when I don’t even know if it’ll even happen. I’ve been on the back foot since the summer break, and it’s good, I guess, that I even have a shot right now, but it feels like being in P2 in Monaco.”
George responded, playing along with Max’s analogy, “You’ve won Monaco before, you’ve made up eleven places in Monaco before.”
Max hummed, quiet, before he replied, “It’s just exhausting. At least with Lewis it was just Lewis, you know? No one else mattered, but this year it’s like I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions. I want to hate the fact that the McLaren’s faster, but it’s not even their fault. It’s not our fault that we were shit in the first half of the year, it’s just how things ended up becoming. I want the season to last forever because I want to win, I don’t want anyone to be on top, but it’s been… it’s been really exhausting.”
George rubbed circles into Max’s hands, the reflection of their tangled limbs in Max’s darkened laptop, their bodies pressed so close not a wisp of air could pass. It didn’t feel like enough, George wanted to pull Max so close their bones could touch, that not even flesh held them apart.
“Would you have rathered not getting your shit together in the summer?”
Max was silent, playing with George’s fingers. The answer would be no, a thousand times no, nobody needed to tell George, any single person in the paddock would be able to tell him so. But again, hope is a dangerous thing to have, a double edged sword, the fine lines of fate, like taking a corner from the inside hoping to death the car on the outside doesn’t turn in, that the racing line is yours.
Max didn’t respond, didn’t need to. He tipped his head back, turned it to his right, lidded blue eyes piercing into George’s heart, soft lips inviting that George welcomed, leaning in eagerly, pulling Max in, hoping it said more than his words could. Max sighed against his lips, a beautiful noise, parting George’s lips softly, running his tongue over the inside George’s cheek, making him shiver appreciatively. George imagined the taste of champagne in Max’s mouth, the same kind they had both swirled and swallowed down a few hours ago. That’s what Max tasted like, the perpetual sweetness of champagne, of victory, the clear scent of sunrise like resurfaced asphalt, the grounding breathless taste that was his and his alone that George could get drunk on. Max nipped against his bottom lip and George dragged him closer, a fist of Max’s shirt in his left hand, glancing his finger over a strip of Max’s exposed hips.
He pressed his lips against Max’s, relishing in the feeling of closeness, the tenderness Max never exposed on the track, all the hard corners of his body melting in George’s embrace. He opened his eyes, sweeping them down Max’s features, his soft lashes, the smudge of greyness underneath his eyes, the slow spread of warmth over his nose, the ghost of the smile on his mouth, over their interlocked lips.
Max pulled away, finally, his hand still in George, the taste of Max’s mouth still lingering on his lips. Max was flushed, and he expected he was the same, and George ran his tongue over his top lip, chasing the warmth Max had left behind. His eyes were hooded, dark and warm at the same time, and George could see the fireworks of Las Vegas sparkling from the azure shine of Max’s gaze.
Max stretched his legs and stood up slowly, a soft expression on his face, never breaking eye contact. His other hand was still holding George's, their fingers interlinked.
“Come on, I'm having a shower. I can still smell the champagne in my hair.”
Max smiled at George, his face soft and dusted with red, his hair a wild mess that George found so, so pretty. He tugged lightly at George's hand and motioned for him to follow him, and George would always be compliant.
He played with Max's hair absentmindedly, fingers running through the limp blond locks as he checked his messages. It was around five in the morning and the sun was just slanting into his hotel room, filling it with a delicious orange glow. Max was still asleep, face lying atop the pillow, a relaxed expression on his features.
George clicked onto Alex's contact. Alex had sent him a message immediately after the race, congratulating him on the podium, to which George responded with a heart emoji. Kimi had also sent him a video. It wasn't accompanied by any texts, though, and according to the time stamp, was sent at around three in the morning, to which George frowned. He opened it anyway.
The bottom half of the video was black, but George recognised the top half immediately. It was the fan-zone in Austria, Max on the stage with Yuki, a picture of a driver over his face, trying to guess who it was with Yuki's hints. The bottom half of the video was suddenly flooded with colour, and George was looking at himself, the camera going between him and Kimi, his past self distractedly checking his phone.
“Very beautiful? George Russell.”
He watched himself, standing in the rafters wearing a wide-eyed smile, his soft expression visible through the screen, a dash of sunlight warming his face, a beautiful yellow glow. He had looked up at Max's statement, and he remembered watching Max from backstage, huddled next to Kimi, the warm feeling spreading to his fingertips at Max’s tinny voice and fuzzy shape through the small screen.
He smiled softly now, his hand against Max's back as the clock ticked slowly to Qatar. Max wouldn't win, he'd end up two measly points down on Lando. No new record broken to add to his many, many, successes. Sebastian Vettel was the youngest WDC for Red Bull, and he'd stay the only one with four WDCs for Red Bull. George would watch Max sparkle in Abu Dhabi, beautiful and blazing and no longer the reigning world champion. He didn't know that yet, though, and when a journalist in Qatar asked him what he thought Max's chances were, he answered, “A hundred percent.”