Work Text:
George is still furious by the time he gets back to the hotel room. The kind of fury that sits sharp under his skin, making his hands twitch like he needs to hit something just to get it out of his system. He wants to throw a lamp at the wall. Smash all the bottles in the stupid minibar. Instead, he paces.
He drops onto the tiny couch for maybe three seconds before the hideous upholstery starts pissing him off too. The window’s covered in streaks. The mattress feels like concrete. The air conditioning rattles loud enough to drill into his skull. Suddenly the whole room feels impossible to exist in.
His phone buzzes on the bedside table. Then again. George ignores it. If he answers anyone right now, he’s probably going to bite their head off.
So he keeps pacing restless laps around the room until someone knocks at the door. George stops dead.
“George, open the door, please!”
The voice on the other side makes him blink once in confusion before he crosses the room fast and yanks the door open. Max.
“Hey, bab—”
“Are you completely insane?” George grabs a fistful of Max’s shirt and drags him inside before anyone in the hallway can spot them. “How did you even get up here?”
“Kimi.” Max shrugs like that explains literally anything.
George shuts the door and keeps hold of his collar because he genuinely doesn’t know what else to do with himself right now. Half of him wants to shove Max onto the bed and stay there for the next twelve hours. The other half still feels angry enough to combust.
“I finally got a podium,” Max says, head tilting slightly. “Think I deserve at least one kiss.”
George just stares at him. Because yeah. Max finally got a podium, and George should’ve been there celebrating instead of sitting through a steward meeting fantasizing about homicide. He groans under his breath and pulls Max in closer instead, pressing his face into the side of his neck.
“I’m still angry,” George mutters against his skin.
“I know.” Max runs a hand through his hair gently.
“I don’t want you thinking it’s at you.”
“I know that too.”
George breathes out slowly, arms tightening around Max’s waist. Neither of them says anything for a while after that. Max just stands there holding him while the anger slowly burns itself down into something heavier and tired. Then George pulls back abruptly.
“You know what would make me feel better?”
“Hm?” Max’s gaze drops automatically to George’s mouth.
“Take your shirt off and touch your elbows together.”
Max squints at him. “That’s weird.”
“Do it anyway.”
With a suspicious look, Max pulls his shirt over his head and presses his elbows together obediently. George immediately goes silent, because fuck. The movement pushes Max’s chest together just enough that George instantly wants to bite him about it.
“What?” Max looks down at himself, then back at George, cheeks already turning pink. “George.”
George ignores him completely and steps forward, dragging his tongue slowly up the side of Max’s neck instead. Max shivers.
“You haven’t showered yet?” George asks against his skin.
“No.” Max drops his arms, still blushing. “Came straight here.”
George hums thoughtfully. “Can taste the champagne.”
Max laughs quietly and rubs a hand over his face. “How bad was the stewards meeting?”
“I got fined.”
“Seriously?” Max brightens immediately. “Okay, then we’re definitely celebrating.”
“Max,” George groans.
“What? First podium in forever and you get fined on the same day. That’s an occasion.”
George kisses the corner of his mouth softly. “Congrats on the podium.”
Max hums happily. “Thank you.”
“I’m still mad, though.”
“I know.”
“But your tits are helping.”
Max lets out the most offended noise George’s ever heard. “I’m leaving.”
George laughs under his breath and steers them toward the bed before Max can pretend to follow through on the threat. They fall onto the mattress together in a heap, Max half sprawled on top of him. George immediately wraps both arms around his waist and drags him closer until Max complains into the pillow.
“Survived an entire race just to die like this.”
“Worth it.”
George slides one hand under Max’s arm and settles it against his chest again, warm skin under his palm. Max makes a strangled little sound.
“You’re doing that on purpose now,” Max accuses.
“Maybe.”
“You’re obsessed.”
George squeezes lightly. “Could be worse.”
Then he leans down and mouths at one nipple through instinct more than thought.
Max arches sharply beneath him.
“George,” he whines.
George lifts his head just enough to look at him properly. Max is flushed all the way down his chest now, breathing unevenly already, fingers twisted tightly in the hotel duvet like he’s trying to keep himself under control. It would almost work if George couldn’t feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest.
“You’re so annoying,” Max mutters.
“They’re very nice,” George says, kissing just beside his nipple lazily.
Max drops his forehead into the pillow with dramatic despair. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Max admits into the sheets. “Unfortunately.”
George grins against his skin and bites lightly this time, enough to pull a sharp inhale out of him.
The sound goes straight to George’s head.
There’s still anger sitting deep in his chest somewhere. But Max is here. Warm and heavy on top of him, smelling like sweat and champagne, laughing breathlessly into hotel pillows while George kisses him stupid.
Max peeks at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re calmer now.”
“A bit.”
“My boobs fixed you.”
George snorts. “Yeah, apparently.”
Then he rolls them before Max can react, pinning him into the mattress instead. Max yelps in protest that immediately dissolves into laughter when George drops down to bite at his chest again.
“George!”
“You said they saved me,” George says reasonably. “I’m appreciating them.”
Max covers his face with one hand, still laughing helplessly while George keeps kissing slow paths across warm skin.