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Max is about to go to bed when he hears a knock at his hotel room door.
He is fully prepared to ignore it and stick to his plan of sleeping like the dead until the next day, but the knocking only grows more insistent.
He is a sick man, for God’s sake. Leave him alone.
With the throbbing in his temples getting worse, he makes his way toward the hotel room door, irritation steadily building. The feeling only grows when he sees the familiar face waiting in the hallway.
“Hello, darling.” His voice is soft and lilting as he says the nickname, amusement impossible to hide from his tone. The sound drills into Max’s already aching head, still dizzy from the accident earlier. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now, least of all Russell “You’re a hypocrite, you know that?”
The man standing in front of him adds it with a smug smile spreading across his face, although it never quite reaches his eyes. If Max were a worse man -and he knows he can be one- he would slam the door in his face, but it is already too late to make that decision because the Brit has walked into the room as if he owns the place rather than being a particularly annoying visitor.
“How did you get my room number?” he asks with a sigh as he closes the door and follows the other man inside, where he has already made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed. If he has to deal with this, he might as well try being somewhat hospitable for once.
“I made a couple of calls,” the other man says casually, as if asking for the room number of his supposed arch-rival is the most normal thing in the world.
There is something strange in the Brit’s eyes, but his entire body language says he intends to be a nuisance. He is succeeding.
“You know? I don’t think the doctor recommends having sex after a racing accident,” he says, if only to annoy him.
In reality, he knows the Mercedes driver isn’t here for that. If he were, it wouldn’t have taken a second after walking into the room before his tongue was down the other man’s throat, and there would be considerably less clothing involved. Besides, the excuse of the accident is, at best, pathetic. They have done worse things with less.
That is why watching the other man’s face twist in outrage is probably the funniest thing that has happened to him today.
“God, Max. I didn’t come here for that.” There is a condescending edge to his voice that makes Max think the other man genuinely believes he isn’t capable of doing that sort of thing right now, as if he doesn’t know perfectly well how capable Max is of pinning him to the bed he so rudely sat on.
Like he said. They’ve done worse with less.
“Then what are you doing here?” he asks, and this time some of his irritation slips through. He can blame the headache.
But George doesn’t even flinch at his tone, although in any other situation he would already be complaining about it. Maybe he developed empathy on the way to the hotel. Unlikely.
“You’re a hypocrite,” the other man repeats, as though it were a universal truth.
Again, Max notices his eyes. They are a little red and glassy -perhaps from the champagne- but they have that clarity Max rarely gets the pleasure of seeing when they’re together.
“Yeah, fuck, I heard you the first time. And what?”
The other man keeps staring at him impassively, but this time he leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on Max as if he were studying him. It’s funny that Max feels cornered while standing in his own hotel room. But that tends to be the effect George Russell’s abnormally large eyes have on people.
“We’ll probably have George crying on the radio about the pit release.” The man quotes him with an almost comical solemnity, except there is nothing funny about it now. Max feels something hollow open up where his stomach should be, and the headache finally settles in completely “That’s funny, Max. Because I remember seeing you with glassy eyes after the race.”
Okay. That one was his fault. A jab thrown in the heat of the moment, although, in hindsight, there hadn’t really been any heat to justify it. And he had ended up looking like an idiot, especially after George hadn’t reacted the way he’d expected him to. But when has Max ever gotten what he wants from George Russell?
When he wants his support, George goes to the stewards.
When he wants to get his dick wet, George goes and complains that that’s all he wants him for.
When he wants him to shut up, that’s when the other man talks the most.
And when he gets a fucking concussion, George has to show up at his fucking hotel room to complain about something that has absolutely nothing to do with the other thing.
He walks toward the minibar, irritation steadily building. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know you had time to look at my eyes while you were giving your position away to your teammate,” he snaps as he pulls out a can of Red Bull and cracks it open.
Fuck his doctor and all his recommendations.
The brunette’s gaze doesn’t leave him for even a second. His expression turns amused “Oh, darling, I didn’t know you watched my race,” he says, narrowing his eyes with satisfaction.
“No, I didn’t.” the answer comes out harsher than he intended. He finishes the drink in one go and throws the empty can into the bin before returning to his place in front of the other man, only this time he stands closer, forcing George to shift backward in his seated position just to keep looking him in the eyes “I was too busy writing shit about you and Mercedes online. Sorry.”
The Brit’s expression turns slightly somber, but the amusement remains beneath the surface. He reaches out, catches the hem of Max’s shirt and pulls him toward the bed “Come here.”
Max doesn’t need to be told twice before closing the distance between them and joining their mouths.
Now this is something they’re both used to. All the back-and-forth just to see who gives in first, and when neither of them does, they end up tangled together on the bed and breathless.
Only, tonight they probably won’t necessarily end up breathless. Not if the way George kisses him so softly, as if he wants to memorize him, means anything.
It’s more of a closeness between their bodies than anything else, and there isn’t a trace of lust in the contact, no matter how much they are pressed against each other.
If Max had to describe it, he would probably call it a needy hug. The Brit’s hands cling to his back as though Max might disappear somewhere while he kisses him greedily. Max doesn’t contribute much to the contact. He simply holds the taller man while he pours whatever it was that brought him to Max’s door into the kiss.
Max can accept that if it means his headache keeps fading.
When they finally pull apart, they’re lying completely sprawled across the bed, and the brunette moves back slightly to look at him. He studies Max’s face, searching for something.
Max doesn’t know whether he finds it, but the other man’s expression twists into something resembling pity and as much as Max is enjoying the moment now that George isn’t insulting him, he has no intention of accepting his pity.
He closes his eyes. The headache is nothing more than an echo in his skull now, and he relaxes even further when he feels the other’s fingers moving through his hair.
“You look strange without the beard,” he hears the other man whisper as one finger traces the skin now free of stubble.
His mind already half-shutting down doesn’t even bother making him open his eyes “Hm. You don’t like it?”
A couple of seconds pass before the other man answers “It’s fine. I’m just not used to it.”
They stay like that for a while in silence, the Brit’s hands messing up his hair while Max’s own hands rub slow circles against the other’s hip.
If he weren’t already standing on the edge of sleep, he would probably laugh at how ridiculous the situation is. Less than ten minutes ago they had been taking shots at each other over the race, and now they’re sprawled together like none of it had ever happened.
Sometimes Max wonders if they simply can’t be normal and talk about their problems like normal people. They shouldn’t have to annoy each other until they eventually have to kiss just to shut the other one up.
It can’t be healthy but he can admit that it’s probably what makes their relationship work.
He can’t imagine it any other way.
He is just about to properly fall asleep when he hears a soft murmur coming from the Brit.
He forces his eyes open even though they feel heavy and sticky with sleep “Something wrong?”
The other man shakes his head as he moves a little closer, his hands never leaving Max’s hair “Just thinking.”
That catches his attention “About why you came here?”
The other man sighs and looks at him again. He gives a small nod “I was a little worried, you know?”
Well. That was not what Max expected.
So the first thing he does is try to deflect “Oh, so you were worried about my accident and the only thing you could think of was coming to antagonize me in my hotel room. Wow.”
George snorts as if replaying the situation in his head is particularly amusing “I wasn’t worried about the accident. Well, maybe a little” Max knows he’s lying. His boyfriend is the kind of man who gets nervous even when he spins and manages to recover from it, but Max decides not to call him out on it, for the sake of the fragile peace they’ve just established “It’s Zandvoort, you know? I know how important today was to you.”
And it was, it really was.This weekend was supposed to be his.
He didn’t get it, and that was fine.
Or at least that’s what he’d tried to convince himself earlier, after getting a call from his father.
But seeing the concern on his partner’s face is different. George is supposed to be celebrating Mercedes’ double podium, yet he’s here curled up against Max because he thinks Zandvoort meant enough to him to make him cry when he got out of the car.
It probably did. Max isn’t sure.
“So you came here because you think I was about to cry over not finishing my home race?” he asks, speaking as if he were talking to a small child, but he knows George, and he knows these are the kind of certainties the other man needs.
George snorts again, and Max wishes he could drown the sound out with his lips “Yeah. More or less, yeah.”
“You know I had just suffered a concussion, right?”
“Yes, Max, I know,” George replies tiredly, as if the conversation isn’t getting them anywhere. “But when I saw the footage, you looked wrecked. And pretty disappointed.”
“Well, wrecked is a pretty good word to describe someone who just had an accident.” He tries to joke, but all he gets in return is a smack to the head. Max moves closer and tilts his neck until his face is against the other man’s neck, pressing a kiss there just to annoy him.
“They were tears, I know, Max. And you’re an idiot if you think you can fool me by playing hard to get.” From where Max is, the words come out muffled. He really doesn’t understand what the point is anymore.
What does it matter whether he cried or not?
Whether he wins or loses in Zandvoort?
Whether he crashes or doesn’t crash into the barriers in front of hundreds of spectators dressed in orange?
“I can't convince you otherwise. You’re like the Queen of Crying or whatever.” Another smack to the head. Max just grins and kisses the other’s neck again, this time a little higher.
“Yeah, sure. I must be mistaken, then. I guess whatever was coming out of your eyes was champagne,” George says sarcastically, and the disdain in his voice only makes his British accent more pronounced. Max finds it ridiculously sexy, actually “Who knows what kind of side effects winning a championship has? I’ll ask Lewis about it.”
The comment is so absurd that Max snorts a laugh “You’re an idiot.”
Now George is laughing too, and it’s a beautiful, refined sound that makes all the tension drain from Max’s body “Are you coming back to Monaco before the next race?”
“I don’t think so. My family wants me to stay for a few days.”
There’s a moment of silence between them before George finally hums thoughtfully “I could stay.”
It’s more of a suggestion than a question, and Max finds himself thinking that he actually likes the idea quite a lot. His father isn’t particularly fond of their relationship, and Max couldn’t care less. It’s already enough that he lets Jos ruin his races. He certainly isn’t going to let him ruin his relationships too.
Besides, he knows George enjoys annoying his father which Max allows because, deep down, he enjoys it too.
As if he’s read his mind, George speaks again “Maybe we could go out for dinner and let the cameras take a few pictures.” He says it casually, as if he hasn’t already started making plans to torment Jos Verstappen “Just to piss the old man off a little and make him start foaming at the mouth.”
The mental image is far too satisfying to pass up “Yeah? And what do you get out of it?”
“Besides pissing off your father?” George asks innocently, as though that were the only thing he wanted out of this. With George, things are never that simple “Annoying Toto, obviously.”
There it is.
“Red Bull gets to keep the driver, and I get to keep the man.”
The enthusiasm with which he says it is almost contagious, as if he has just won a prize simply by saying it.
Max lifts his head from where it had been resting and looks at George. After a moment, the other man looks back at him, all sleepy expression and eyes shining with wicked amusement. There isn’t a trace of worry or irritation left on his face.
Max leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth “Of course. All yours, liefde. Let’s go to sleep, yeah?”
The Brit nods as he slips beneath the sheets, and Max takes the opportunity to turn off the light.
He moves closer to the taller man and wraps his arms around him from behind, the way he knows George likes He dips his head toward his now completely disheveled curls and sighs.
Just before he finally lets himself drift into the haze of sleep, he speaks.
“George.”
The other man only makes a noise somewhere between consciousness and sleep.
“Good race today.”
“Oh, God, Max. Don’t even start.”
Max laughs and pulls him closer.