Chapter Text
It’s late when Max finally steps into George’s hotel room.
As always, George has turned on a myriad of small lamps just so that he can avoid using the overhead light, which he claims gives him both instant headaches and an impending feeling of doom.
The man in question is already under the covers, propped up against the headboard with two pillows behind his back, immersed in his phone despite always insisting he basically lives offline. He doesn’t, but he loves to believe it, and Max happily lets him, so long as he gets to lay his head on George’s stomach and have his hair absentmindedly stroked by long, deft fingers as he drifts off.
The entire room is permeated by George’s scent – a grounding, subtly sweet mix of iris and musk, earthy beneath its clean, floral notes. It makes the tension in Max’s shoulders immediately relax by a degree, enveloping him in familiar warmth.
So what if he’s a walking stereotype. George smells delicious, and Max never gets better sleep than when his nose is tucked into the slope of the omega’s long, elegant neck.
The first thing George does when he spots Max is, of course, pout dramatically. His curls look fluffy and uncombed, and he’s wearing one of Max’s Red Bull t-shirts: it’s a bit too big on him, his delicate collarbones peaking through in a way that almost looks deliberate. He looks cozy, if a little tired. The black eye he’d gained that morning when he’d walked straight into the bathroom cabinet Max had forgotten to close is getting steadily more purple – something Max is sure he’ll never hear the end of.
Max’s attention, though, is firmly on his pink, heart-shaped lips, pursed out in the most petulant, exaggerated moue known to man.
‘Unbelievable,’ Max huffs in disbelief, toeing off his shoes and letting his overnight bag fall to the floor unceremoniously. ‘What are you making that face for, huh? Front row not good enough for you, babe?’
‘I’ll have you know, I had quite a rough day, actually,’ George says, primly. He’s still looking at his phone screen, but Max can tell by the slight arch of his left eyebrow that he’s not really focusing on whatever’s on it anymore.
‘Oh yeah?’ Max asks, walking to stand at the foot of the bed and crossing his arms. It doesn’t have quite the same effect as when George does it – Max can’t completely pull off his exact brand of judgmental disappointment, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fucking try. ‘We’re calling a sprint win and a P2 a rough day, now? Someone’s getting cocky.’
George locks his phone and sets it down on the bedside table. His big Bambi eyes settle on Max, and he has the audacity to bat his lashes at him while his bottom lip pushes out subtly. The combination is, if you ask Max, absolutely lethal.
‘First, my front wing broke,’ he starts, raising his hand so he can count on his fingers. ‘Then, my engine died, and I had to drag my car back to the garage. Mind you, I told Marcus that something was wrong, but did he listen? No, he did not,’ he continues, pettishly, pushing his hair back before he resumes his counting. ‘They “fixed” the car by turning it on and off, like it’s some old computer and not a miracle of engineering. And then, I somehow manage to put it into P2 and everyone in my team is fussing and fawning over Kimi being the youngest pole sitter ever.’ The way his pretty face twists into a frown of disdain is quite something. ‘Oh, and I have a black eye.’
Max rolls his eyes, lowering himself onto the bed and slowly crawling on top of George until he’s straddling him fully, enjoying being the taller one for once. This close, George’s scent is so much stronger and sweeter, and Max has to actively stop himself from burying his nose into the scent gland at the base of his neck.
It would be embarrassing, but Max can see the way George is not-so-subtly breathing him in, swaying forward almost unconsciously before he reels himself in.
‘Will that be all, princess?’
George scoffs, turning his nose up and pointedly looking away from him despite his hands having already grabbed fistfuls of Max’s hoodie to pull him closer.
‘You’re such a typical alpha,’ he snaps, tugging at the fabric a couple of times for emphasis. ‘Your complete lack of empathy shouldn’t surprise me, I don’t know why expected anything different,’ he adds, giving Max a withering stare. It’s not particularly effective, considering George can’t help biting his lower lip right after, his eyes zeroing in on Max’s exposed scent gland with obvious interest.
Max isn’t sure what’s funnier: George’s complete lack of poker-face, or him of all people accusing anyone of lacking empathy.
‘You know,’ he says, placing the pad of his index finger on the tip of George’s nose and watching him go slightly cross-eyed at that before he looks up at Max indignantly. ‘I qualified P8 today. And you of course don’t remember because you were celebrating a win, but I finished the sprint in fucking P9.’
George grabs his finger, pulling it away from his face. He doesn’t let it go, though, holding it in his hand and squeezing it like it’s a stress ball.
‘You also,’ he hisses, craning his neck so his lips almost brush against Max’s, ‘gave me a black eye.’
Max groans, dropping his head to George’s shoulder as the tips of his ears go red. ‘Babe, you need to stop wording it like that. Lewis was about to call the police on me earlier, he thought I was, like, abusive to omegas or something.’
‘Well, you might as well be,’ George sulks, but his words break on a sigh when Max starts scenting him, cheek nuzzling against George’s scent gland. George likes to deny it, but it’s something that never fails to make him go boneless, his usual feistiness evaporating like puddles under the sun.
‘Oh yeah?’ Max asks, breathlessly.
George’s arms snake around his neck, and he buries one of his hands in Max’s hair, tugging him closer as he lies back onto the plush pillows. ‘Mhm,’ he nods, lips finding Max’s temple. ‘I’m an omega in distress,’ he sighs, dreamily. ‘Shouldn’t it be your duty to kiss it all better?’
Stupid with affection, Max grins helplessly into George’s neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin of his scent gland. ‘Babe, if that’s what you wanted you could have just asked,’ he murmurs, reveling in the way George breaks into a shiver.
Max is finding it harder by the second to string words together, enveloped as he is in a cloud of pheromones, George’s sweet scent mixing with his own and making him deliciously dizzy, his godawful day suddenly a distant, unimportant memory.
‘Smell so good,’ George mumbles, nudging at Max with his nose until he raises his head enough for George’s lips to press against his, claiming them with a slow, deep kiss that makes Max’s spine tingle, leaving him both worked up and profoundly satisfied.
Gently, he rolls to the side, laying on his back and dragging George on top of him, smiling when the unruly mop of his curls tickles his chin, George's head slotting automatically in the crook of Max's neck.
Max runs his hand up and down George's back, and it's not long before the soft sound of purring rumbles against his chest, filling him with such gut-wrenching affection that Max's eyes prickle.
‘I wasn't done complaining,’ George suddenly says, words slurred and devoid of the earlier snark.
Max huffs a laugh, scratching George's nape and smirking when the purring grows exponentially louder. ‘Lay it on me, babe.’
‘I demand that Red Bull get it together,’ George proclaims, pinching Max's love handle. ‘Their current car is unacceptable, and it's not befitting of a four-time World Champion.’
Max’s heart stutters a little, the fucking traitor. ‘I’ll make sure to let them know you don't approve of their current package.’
George is quiet for a while, his steady purrs the only thing breaking the silence between them.
‘I always thought –’ he bites his lip with a small frown, as if he's not sure whether or not to continue. ‘I thought when I'd finally get a good car, that we'd be battling it out at the front. I'm happy to be winning, but it feels… incomplete, without you.’
Max presses a kiss atop his head, genuinely touched. ‘I’m honored you feel this way,’ he says. ‘You miss the borderline violence, huh? Kimi and the Ferraris aren't doing it for y–’
‘Stop making fun of me,’ George grumbles, pinching him again, more viciously this time. He always gets aggressive when he's embarrassed.
Max grabs his hand before it strikes again, interlacing their fingers instead. ‘George, I'm not making fun of you, I promise. I want to fight you on track, too.’
Absurdly, George blushes. ‘Yeah?’ he asks, breathlessly.
‘Of course,’ Max reassures, squeezing him a little. ‘You can stop name-dropping me in all your interviews, by the way. I got the message loud and clear.’
George grumbles something unintelligible, his purring stuttering as the blush gets deeper.
‘But,’ Max adds, softly. ‘Don’t worry about me, alright? Win it for yourself and yourself only. It looks good on you.’
George nods, pressing a small kiss over Max's heart.
Max blindly turns off the light. His thumb strokes a pattern over George's mating gland, an unspoken promise of what's to come – not yet, but soon.
He falls asleep to George's sweet rumbling, tangled up in him, breathing in their mingled scents, enveloped by a softness he never wants to let go of.