Chapter Text
With Max’s art major, he found himself sketching and painting more than he’d like. It wasn’t his preference, oil paints and charcoal didn’t allow the hands-on type of creation he desired so intensely. But homework was homework. The warm lamp aimed at his simple landscape sketch and cast a contracting glow to the cold autumn twilight that peaked through the blackout curtains; charcoal waiting patiently for its turn to articulate the piece. He didn’t notice the growl of his stomach or the parchedness of his lips.
The creak of the dorm room door caught his attention and pulled him from the monochrome landscape. The light streaming through the window had been golden the last time he’d truly noticed it. Max’s roommate, Daniel, pushed through the door; headphones tousling his untamed curls. He gave Max his signature, toothy grin before tossing his backpack onto his own bed.
“Right where I left you.” Max smiled at the fondness in the older man’s voice. He called Daniel an everything-major. He’d changed degrees three times at that point, and he admired him for it. He saw it as Daniel not settling for something he knew he wouldn’t enjoy to the fullest.
“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” Max stood up and stretched, his back thanking him with a few satisfying pops. He was thankful for the distraction that had walked through the door. His hands had begun to lose all the skill he’d been developing for his entire life and it was frustrating him to no end.
“I got you this. Knew you'd've forgotten to feed yourself.” Daniel placed a tightly wrapped bag on the edge of his desk, and Max instantly unwrapped the care package. A dark plastic bowl containing soup and a wrapped sandwich. His stomach growled, thanking the Australian for him. He instantly tucked his work-in-progress away.
“Thanks Daniel.” Mouth already full of food, he laughed at him.
“No worries, mate.” Max heard him swallow, the air suddenly shifting, ever so slightly. “So I was talking to Charles…”
He gave Daniel an icy look, daring him to bring up the Monégasque. Him and Max had a complicated past, at least in his eyes. They’d been schoolmates, and for the latter part of their secondary school years, Max had been quite taken with him. He admired Charles’ artistic abilities, and for a while it gave them a rather childish rivalry; it also led Max to develop feelings for a short while. He'd trusted Daniel with that information, who'd gone about it by teasing him any chance he got.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Max continued to shovel his food down his throat. He could practically hear Daniel’s smile.
“Just listen will you?” His tone was playful and teasing. He continued despite the roll of Max’s eyes.
“He was telling me that Professor Vettel was finally going to be giving you guys a real sculpting assignment.” Max barely kept himself from choking on the chunk of sandwich he was currently swallowing. They’d done small projects in the class, but it was mostly studying techniques and history, and Max was itching to use the University grade equipment and materials to sculpt on a larger scale. He spun around in his chair and eyed Daniel down.
“When?!”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear it.” Daniel, with a cheeky grin on his face, faked offence and turned away from Max in a childish way. He picked up an empty plastic bottle and chucked it at his head. It made a comical crunchy sound as it bounced against Daniel’s head.
“Daniel, tell me.” Max couldn’t contain the joy in his voice, standing up to manhandle Daniel into giving him the information he desired. The Australian just laughed hysterically as he backed away from him.
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. He said it would be like tomorrow or something, I wasn’t really listening.” Max threw his hands into the air as Daniel laid on his bed, a toothy smile mocking him.
“You are useless Danny.”
No offense taken, Daniel started on his own university work. The energy of the room gradually cooled down, simmering in a friendly warmth. However, Max could no longer work on his charcoal project. The prospect of a full on, school funded, sculpting project was buzzing him with unfounded energy. He disregarded his assignment for the night. Instead, he lay on his back imagining what he might finally be able to sculpt. It gave him something to dream about.
—
Max was early to class the next afternoon, still buzzing in anticipation of getting his hands on the sculpting materials. His Professor sat behind his desk, writing on white slips of paper as students filtered in the classroom. It was fuller than normal, faces he didn’t recognize filled in the usual empty seat and it gave him an odd feeling.
He wouldn’t consider himself an introvert or an extrovert, but maybe that odd middle one he never bothered to remember the name of. He was still wary of others, of strangers who only saw the spiky exterior he expelled. Max glanced around at the newcomers, taking his back seat vantage point to scrutinize them.
His eyes stopped on golden brown curls. The man looked ahead lazily, hand tapping silently against the desk he awkwardly sat at. Max couldn’t find it in himself to look away. Captivated by every inch of him, feeling an unshakeable urge to trace every line of his face with his own hand; to measure the length of his nose with his thumb and maybe discern the exact shade of his eyes. Eyes he hadn’t been able to look at properly.
The sound of books falling onto the desk next to him fully startled Max out of the daze he hadn't noticed he’d slipped into. Charles sat next to him like he usually did and pulled out his wired headphones to look at him. Max coughed, trying to push the tinge of embarrassment crawling down the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but Charles.
"Picking your prey already, Max?" If Charles had the ability to wiggle his eyebrows, Max was sure he would've. Instead he elbowed his ribs and tried to wink at him, though he just shut both of his eyes.
Max swatted the Monégasque's arm away and folded his arms. He refused to be teased. He was a grown ass man, not some silly teenager. He readjusted himself in his seat and focused on his Professor, who’d stood up finally to address the class. Max had to physically fight himself from looking over at the captivating stranger a few rows ahead of him as Charles finally turned away from him.
“Good afternoon. You might’ve noticed a few more faces in class today, that’s because I have a big project for you.” An excited whisper fell among his classmates as Professor Vettel held out an old cap with the white slips of paper inside. “They’ve kindly agreed to help us. So when I get to you, you’ll choose your muse from my hat.”
Max waited with baited breath, not entirely sure where these nerves suddenly came from. Each student picked a white piece of paper from the hat, but Max kept his eyes forward, knowing he’d be last. He was unsure if he wanted to be paired with him, the conflicting feelings settling in the pit of his stomach. His attention was brought back to the present as Charles grabbed his chin in mock concentration. Two white slips remained and Professor Vettel gently shook the cap, tossing the two papers like mushrooms in a pan.
After a good second of sauteing the slips, Charles reached in and grab one. He instantly bit his lip and look up. Max watched the Monégasque smile as he spoke the name on the slip.
"Carlos Sainz."
Max rolled his eyes. Of course it was Carlos. Those two had been inseparable in their pervious year at Uni. It was around then that Max finally let the last embers of his crush on Charles fizzle out; he couldn't stand the not-so-subtle fliting those two did. Charles grabbed his things in record speed and moved from his seat. Vettel was now right in front of him. The hat held out with a smile.
A single paper remained. Max exhaled through his nose and snatched it out and unfolded it.
"George Russell.” He hoped no one noticed the slight crack in his voice. Max couldn’t help that his eyes instantly snapped to the gentle curly haired man, but this time he looked back at him. He stood up and made his way to the back row of the class, although he looked less than exhilarated to be there in the first place. Max didn’t look at him as he sat next to him, an immediately awkward tension built between them.
As Professor Vettel walked back to the front of the class, the man next to Max held out a polite hand. He chose to ignore how his eyes began to memorize the veins on his hand, and instead reciprocated the handshake.
“George Russell.”
“Max Verstappen.”
Max turned away, taking a deep breath and relaxing his shoulders. Why did it feel like he was sweating?
“Looking at a photo is one thing, but with a live subject right in front of you, you can extract every detail in a higher rate of precision. We’ll take the next two months to create a bust of your subject. You have the option to go down to just the neck line or past the shoulders and chest. You’ll have class time and any time afterwards to work on your project. Just consult your partner about times.”
He glanced over at George as the professor finished his address to the class. Everyone began to murmur in quiet respectful conversations with their partners, but his looked rather bored, eyes looking at something on his phone. So Max had to instigate the conversation. Great.
“So.” He started, bringing his attention to him. “When are you available? I’d prefer to work on it as often as possible.”
George took a moment to think, teeth biting at the corner of his bottom lip in concentration.
“I'm available in the afternoon. All week except for Monday and Thursday." George pulled out a heavily noted calendar, filled with different colored pens and sticky notes. All with times and requirements on them.
"Afternoons? I need to work in natural daylight. Artificial light casts odd shadows and I can't work like that." Max hadn't anticipated an immediate disagreement. He let the fire in his heart settle for a moment, rage building before letting it flicker to a lower, calmer temperature. "Is this time available at least?"
“I guess we can collaborate during this time most days. Are you sure you can’t do it in the later afternoon?” George was tapping his pen on the calendar, like Max could understand the hieroglyphs he'd been writing in. Notes filled with number and abbreviations, clearly something only its creator could understand.
“I don’t understand why I have to move my schedule around you? You volunteered for this.” He tried to level the tone of his voice, keeping his breath even. He was just surprised by this man’s audacity.
“Yes I did. I need the credit. But that doesn’t stop me from having a life, school and work.” George on his part seemed to stay calm, but a twitch in his brows told another story. “And I’m not demanding you change your schedule. We’re collaborating.”
Their heated ‘discussion’ had turned a few heads in their direction. He coughed and pointed his gaze at George. Who squared his shoulders and brushed a stray curl, that Max was in no way hyper fixating on, off of his forehead.
“We can meet during the days on weekends, but if you want to meet during the week, it’ll have to be later. Or during this class.” George lowered his tone into a falsely sweet one, followed by an insincere smile. He looked down at Max and their height difference pissed him off slightly. But he gave his own forced smile, though he knew his eyes betrayed him.
“I guess that will have to work.”
—
Max stared at the emotionless texts between him and George discussing their first engagement in Max’s sculpting project. They’d decided to wait till the weekend and he had to pretend he was okay with that. Itching to feel the clay beneath his fingers, to see his own creation form from his own hands. To study the face of his delegated muse he’d been thinking about just as often as any normal person would. He wanted to study the man, see what marked his skin; whether it be scar or beauty mark, Max wanted to know.
He wasn’t the only student in the room. Others quietly worked on their projects, whispers of conversation lingered between artist and muse. Max stared at his own lump of clay. It was a misshapen blob of tan clay, not quite the color of George’s skin.
Max tried not to think about it.
The door to the art studio creaked open with the grace of the autumn wind. Max looked behind him to see George approaching, looking as delicately masculine as before. Though his hair had lost the controlled curl, laying slightly flatter upon his head. As if nothing but his hand had run through it that morning. He wore a simple dark polo and perfectly pressed cream slacks, though an aged zip up hoodie lay cradled in his hooked arm. A crack in the perfect image of George Russell that Max didn’t have the time to gaze into.
George sat on the stool parallel to Max's blob of clay, his leather shoulder bag slipping onto the rug with a small thunk. He didn’t meet Max’s eyes, but looked down at his phone. The screen too dim for him to make out what he was looking at. But it wasn’t his business. And Max didn’t even want to know why George looked tired and rushed. His earlier annoyance slipped from a kindled flame to a waning ember.
“So, what do you need from me?” George’s voice was low, matching the quiet concentration of the room. Max took a moment to think of an answer. The silence lingered between them, no amount of comfort within.
“Well…I just need—I just need you to be here. And look at me when I ask. Today is basic stuff, so if you have work to get done…” Max left his sentence there, open ended and unsure. He couldn’t fathom why his heart pulsed at a quicker pace than usual. His palms suddenly a little sweaty.
George didn’t reply, not verbally at least. He nodded his head and pulled out his laptop.
So Max began his work. His heart beat from excitement as he touched the clay and glanced at George. Whose crossed leg barely grazed his knee, leaving a burning sensation. The heat that crawled through his lungs was because of the room’s lack of airflow. Surely.
George, to his credit, sat incredibly still and upright. Max worked with the clay easily, molding the clay in a general George shape. He smoothed the uncured clay where the future shape of the George sculpture’s collarbone would sit. He wondered if he was soft without any harsh edges, though the sharpness of his facial structure begged to differ.
Max hated that he was being awkward. He thought momentarily about agitating him, prodding at his obvious lack of concern for his current appearance. Or maybe he’d try to be nice and ask him about his major, or just why he was so busy. But George had remained quiet as well. Which he couldn’t deduce as normal or not because he didn’t know George at all. Stalked his Instagram, for sure, but that didn’t mean he knew the man. Just the curated image of a university student with serious ambitions.
The time ticked down, the air between them was still. Each shift of George’s legs caught Max’s eye, his foot hanging freely in the space between their bodies. Eyes focused on the screen in front of him. They each existed in that art studio. Together, physically, but completely separate. While George seemed to catch his attention with every little thing he did, Max failed to capture those blue eyes even once. Max thought that perhaps this was all they were meant to be, though he wasn’t sure why he’d even taken the moment to consider them.
George had, irrevocably, been stuck in his mind. Their brief exchange of smoking words had left an impression in his brain—something few people had done so before in such a short amount of time.
This distance is fine. I don’t know him.
"So. What are you studying?" Max's own voice surprised him as his internal question leaked past his own two lips. George's eyes finally left the laptop, its blue glow disappearing from George's face as he lowered the screen slowly. His focus now solely on Max.
"I'm getting my Master's in Computer Engineering." George's face melted momentarily into a small passionate smile, his eyes drifting from him, as if gazing into his future. But just as quick as the gentle George appeared he dissolved back to the neat and proper student that Max had only seen.
"I'm assuming you're getting an art degree?" George easily continued the simple small talk, though his fingers tapped along the spine of his laptop impatiently. Or perhaps just out of nerves, Max couldn't deuce the reason but he was unable to fully let himself relax. He didn't know why he was caring about that.
"Yes, Fine Arts. Apparently, my sculptures lack refinement and soul or whatever." Max leaned back slightly to gain a more advantageous view of his work. He huffed at the though of being dismissed by museums and patrons for his lack of degree instead of his achievement he'd made up until that point.
"Sounds like you're lacking inspiration." George leaned forwards to gaze into the side profile of the very unfinished bust of his own head. Max watched, all of the sudden very curious as to what George thought of it; even as unpolished as it was.
"It does look rather soulless." He muttered after a moment of thought, eyes flicking to Max. Playful and mischievous. Despite the obvious tease, Max instantly felt a wave of protectiveness for the blob.
"Isn't that more of a reflection of you? It's supposed to look like you, you know." Max bit back with a surprising passion, using his hands to hide the clay from George's judging view.
"You're the one making it."
"He's thirty minutes old, George."
A nearby student shushed at them, their playful banter rising in volume quickly. Max just rolled his eyes at the pair while George gave a polite, apologetic wave in their direction.
Max turned back to the evolving blob, now more determined to make it look exactly like him. Perhaps he would've looked better if he could've been carved from marble, to exhibit the smoothness of George's skin and the delicate sharpness of his bones. But Max had to work with what he had, and the skills that he possessed through years of home grown trial and error. He wanted George to look at his bust as if he were looking into a mirror. He studied the mess of clay; it's weight, density and color.
He missed the gentle look on George's face, as if he was—for just a moment— completely comfortable with Max.
"I hope you find your inspiration, Max."
He snapped his head towards the effortlessly polished man. But, just like a few minutes ago, he gave Max nothing. Not a glance up from his laptop, a shift in his rigid posture, or a smirk upon his lips. He continued to work on his computer, spindly fingers working tirelessly.
Max didn't fail to notice the subtle increase in his pulse. At not only George's surprisingly soft words, but his sudden lack of interest in Max and the bust. It made him want to grab George's attention with his skills and passion, to show him just what he could do. He continued to glance at the British man for the remainder of their session together, purely to gain more visual familiarity in his muse. He didn't need to look at him for any other reason; nor did he want to.
So, Max didn’t think of George after they parted ways. Didn’t glance back at the taller man as they walked in separate ways. Didn’t stare at the boring texts between them, thinking about how they might sound coming from George’s own lips. Max went about his day, in no way counting down the hours till their next meaningless exchange.