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P7 in qualifying. Fuck that. Gather all the damn yellow stones and just kill him with it.
Max doesn't know how many times he's seen pitying looks directed his way since his arrival in Zandvoort. With ego as his shield, he doesn't let anyone see the turmoil rolling through his mind. He channels his aloofness, his dead stares, his general no-care. It works for the most part; even Albon might be convinced.
Who even gave a fuck about engagement rings? Overpriced and bad for the environment. So and so.
Aside from what could be the most heart-shattering news of his life, there is also the pressure of winning his home race with the latest 2026 shit box Red Bull has decided to gift him. The pace just isn’t there, and it’s been tough all around. But most of it, obviously, is not his fault. He does what he can, but the best seems to be P2.
He carries all of this on his shoulders, tense from pressure. He carries part of that weight in his chest, clenched and suffocated from heartache. He takes one deep breath, then another, none of it seeming to ease.
"Max?" Laurent gives him a calculating look, brows slightly furrowed and lips in a thin line.
"What?"
"Can you race?"
No one has ever questioned his capabilities before, especially at his peak physical condition. "Yeah, I'm good."
And it's not like there's any other driver to replace him. He focuses all his might on the meeting, barely hanging on until he exits the room to take a breather outside. He walks aimlessly around the motorhomes. In the middle of that and the hospitality units, other people bustle around him and pay him no mind. It’s easy to just disappear.
In this invisibility, he allows himself to think of George. The name itself brings complicated feelings to the forefront. That engagement photo caught him during one of his daily runs; he had stopped and sat down immediately. He remembers booking a ride because he couldn’t figure out how to get home in the middle of his brimming anxiety. George hadn’t even texted him or given him a heads-up. He was made to discover it just like any other audience in the grandstand.
He texted him: Congratulations, mate! :)
He had waited. Waited. Waited. And waited. But George never even opened the message.
Lost in his thoughts, he bumps right into someone with a grunt.
"Oh, sorry, mate."
Max almost vomits. He looks up from the ground right into eyes that strip him of all his defenses. "It's..."
Okay? It's okay?
"Max," George whispers, his face melting from polite distance to soft warmth.
Max gathers all his strength to push away, with the obvious lack of strength of a person in yearning. "I wasn’t looking. Sorry, mate."
“How are you? I haven’t seen you around.”
“Been busy,” Max says carefully.
“I know, I saw! Media’s been hounding you about the car.”
“Look,” Max says. “Can we not do this? It’s stupid to pretend.”
George’s face shutters closed, unreadable. He’s so good at that, being expressive and honest, then taking it all back. “You’d know all about pretending. Right, Maxie?”
Maybe what hurts is hearing that nickname turn into a blade. George must’ve noticed his mistake because he winces. “Right. Congrats on your engagement. It’s what you deserve.”
George pushes him through the space in between two buildings. "You make me feel insane. How dare you stand there all high and mighty when I’m the one who’s hurt. You hurt me.”
“And look where it’s got you.” Max levels his gaze with his.
“With a scam of an engagement?”
“With a woman who meets your standards.”
George all but pulls his hair out. “I wanted you, Max. I still want you.”
“Oh, please, the ring’s barely warmed by her finger and you’re here telling me you want me? I gave you an out, and you took it.”
“Because you’ve given me no choice!”
“Your parents are against me; that’s why they arranged Carmen for you. My dad despises that his son is a fag. We can’t even come out because of our profession. Don’t you see this won’t work? You don’t deserve this life.”
“Are you so egotistical that you think you can just tell me what I deserve?”
“Clearly, because you keep choosing wrong.” Max leans against the wall, feeling his shoulders sag with exhaustion. "Schat, I don't want to fight. This isn’t what I want for us."
"Well, I want to!" George exclaims. "Fight for me, Max. Be the one you think I deserve.”
“There’s nothing to fight for. You’re engaged, and I’m very happy for you.”
“Say that again without looking constipated.”
“Another time. I really need to focus on the race.”
George laughs, appalled. “Our relationship is crumbling down, and all you can think about is the fucking race.”
“I’m sure you know how much this means to me.” Max glares. “How many people are here for me. How many of them I can’t disappoint with the current car that I have.”
“But you’re okay with disappointing me?”
“Stop,” Max says. “Stop. I can’t do this right now. I can’t breathe.”
"Max, you can't just—"
"Schat. Please." Max tries to plead with his eyes. “I know we’re here because of me. But please. I really can’t do this right now.”
"Fine." He can see George stand tall in the way that he does when he gathers his composure. "After the race."
Max can do that. "Okay."
George gives him one last long look before walking away. And it's only then Max realizes that George wasn't wearing a ring.
It corrupts his mind like nothing ever has before. At least when it was good, it was easy to feel good. A hotel room dinner outshone any and every podium. When they fought, it was easy to treat the race as something cathartic. Now, in the in-between, he knows nothing of it.
He can't be happy, and he doesn't know how to be upset about it when it's mostly his fault.
The grandstand is painted orange for him, and all it does is fill his stomach with dread. Everything is on this race. If he wins this one, he might just win George back, which is an odd correlation his mind provides.
He wonders if Carmen is there. Soft, happy, and kissed by the sun. It makes him sick.
In truth, there is nothing at the end but points. Points to who or to where, he doesn't know.
"Max, can you give a word to our audience?"
"Hi... err, hello."
And he trudges on, feeling 10% dumber than he was when he left the garage. He spots the teal and black of Mercedes and dutifully avoids even glancing in their direction.
But as he walks to formation, fingers brush his, and he knows whose they are without even a glance. "Good luck, Maxie. Win this one."
Whispered so softly and so quickly it might as well have been the wind. It doesn't give him the confidence that he knows George hopes for. Instead, it adds to a knot in his already knotted-up stomach. He blessedly doesn't have to respond because George walks away just as quickly as he's arrived.
"Relax, Max, this one's yours for the taking."
Everything is automatic after that: wearing his helmet, getting in his car, driving into formation. Repetitive. Easy. Comfortable.
The tarmac is in between damp and dry, nothing too hard to handle. He just needs to keep focus. This is his home. This is familiar. The pedals under his feet, the steering wheel molded to fit his hands — repetitive. Easy. Comfortable.
In F1, every second and every decision per second counts. The fact that his head isn’t completely in the game is already such a danger. He tries to focus on his breathing, but nothing fades into the background as it should. The engine is too loud. The crowd’s cheers ring in his ears. He can even feel everything: the gloves catching on his hangnail, the ridges of his seat, and the sweat forming and dripping from his scalp. Everything is just wrong.
He tries to find an anchor, but all he can think of is George. Despite trying to fight it, it ebbs and flows into his thoughts.
"Maxie, you were gorgeous out there."
Repetitive.
"Meet me at my hotel room when you get sick of your interviews x"
Easy.
"Sha-hatt? I sound stupid when I say it. But I love y—"
Comfortable.
He makes the wrong call. He loses grip and crashes. He tries to save himself but makes the crash even worse. His rears rip away from the car, the front crumpling into itself upon impact. He manages to save his wrists from injury, at the very least.
He's done. The race is over for him — DNF in the last race on his homeland. The love of his life is getting married. And the ache in his chest is never subsiding.
With burning in his eyes and a sense of imminent loss in his chest, he sends the "I'm ok."
"That was... fuck... sorry."
He heads to the medical center, then straight to his motorhome.
His sole focus is keeping himself from crying.
When he reaches his motorhome, he throws himself on one of the leather seats. No matter his physicality, he feels unable even to hold his own weight.
One blessing motorhomes give him is sterility. There are no signs of George taking up space, none of their photos, and not even a blue hat. It doesn't even contain any traces of his own personality. The only time he'd let his worlds mix is when he was with George.
George, who knew him on and off the track.
George, who'd hold him off if it meant his team winning, and George, who'd asked to be held however their night might end. George, who'd enter his hotel room and motorhome with the familiarity of a loved one. George, who smiled, unafraid of who might be able to interpret what it meant.
He tries to recall the harsh words they'd exchanged in Budapest, but, for the life of him, can't. And maybe it's better that way because he can't recall the words, but he remembers the look on George's face. His open, understanding eyes shuttered to a cold, distant look.
He remembers the feeling of his hands warm, then empty, then cold when George had let go. George always made it a point to have some sort of contact whenever they fought. It was never a question if George would one day pull away and walk out; it was only a question of when. That night, he did.
Max remembers only those last few words before the door shut. "Don't you dare regret it, Max."
Max is good at pushing. To push for a win. To push far away. It seems it extends to every branch in his life. His inner thoughts, that sound too much like his father, often tell him that he’s not worth a thing when he doesn’t do well. Things with George are often that – not well.
Their parents don’t approve. Countries they race in won't approve. The general public constantly pits them against each other. Max doesn’t care about what people think about him, never has. But he can’t bring something so fragile under the microscope of criticism and if George weren’t an F1 driver it would be easier to protect it. Can he do it? Can they do it?
He wipes at his eyes aggressively, feeling embarrassed for crying even in the privacy of his own space. But it won't stop; it only gets worse. His whole body trying to rack for a single breath. He feels like his chest might explode, or he might vomit. God, he's well and truly upset.
He's not sure when he passes out, but he jerks awake to a knock at his door that grows frantic by the second. His body protests as he stands and drags himself to open the door.
George doesn’t waste a second and quickly pushes him inside. Somehow, he manages to do it gently. He takes one good look at Max and immediately pulls him in for a hug. It’s the first time George uses his full height. It's awkward when he knows George prefers to feel small when they cuddle, but it's undeniably comforting to feel vulnerable, small, and protected for once. He sort of understands now why George likes it so much.
"Oh, darling, my love, I'm glad you're okay." George is freshly showered, which tells Max that he stood on the podium today. He knows George hates the stickiness of it. “I watched the crash and I thought—”
"Congrats." It comes out as a croak. “What did you get?”
“P3,” George says, sounding unenthused. "It should've been you there. Kimi and I had hoped."
"I fucked up."
George looks pained. Hurt by him. Hurt for him. "It happens, darling, I—"
"No, I fucked up. This. Us.”
George cradles Max's face with his hands, soothing him gently. "Carmen will understand. Hopefully, she won't be as traumatized with the next guy she's arranged to marry."
"Just like that?"
"Do you really want me to make this harder for you? You're already upset."
"It can't be that fucking easy. It's all anybody's talking about."
"I mean, sure, I can marry her, wait a year, then divorce her?"
Max sighs heavily, leaning into him with his full weight. George holds him steadily. "Like dangling fruit in front of me."
"You mean candy?"
"I'm serious, George. You shouldn't be this easy on me. In Budapest, I—"
"Let's not." George tenses underneath him. "That could very well be the worst breakup of my life. I could hate you, actually."
"I told you I didn't want to hold you back."
George makes an aborted move to pull away but seems to force himself to hold onto Max's shoulders. His grip is strong, like that of someone afraid to fall on a steep climb. "Enough. I'm tired of your self-pity. I want this. Isn’t that enough?"
"Not at the expense of your happiness."
"Are you slow on purpose? I'm happiest with you.”
Max shoves George off, then leans on the makeshift kitchen counter. “Then why did you fucking propose to her?” He looks at him, eyes bloodshot and painfully angry. “If you knew this would happen, then why did you do it?”
“I wanted to make it harder for you, watch you grovel a bit. But seeing you yesterday, I knew you'd sooner retire and disappear than try to actually talk to me if you thought that I was well and truly over you." It’s pathetically honest, and that only angers him more.
"You know how toxic that is? Proposing to teach me a lesson? We’re not good for each other."
George shrugs. "Probably. But is there anyone or anything you’d trade this for? I’m not asking because I’m being arrogant, I’m asking because, for me, there’s nothing else.”
Max looks at him, really looks at him. It’s one of those moments where he realizes that he hasn’t looked at George long enough to really take it all in. George looks tired, just as tired as him. His eyes, though not bloodshot, are emphasized by dark shadows. His jaw is tense. His lips have dried blood from chewing on them.
“This will just be like any other thing. It will pass like everything else.” Even to his own ears, he hears the sound of crumbling resolve. Despite knowing that he’s not perfect for George, that he’s not handsome enough, patient enough, or normal enough. Max is, after all, still just a man — a man in love.
“When you kiss me, does it feel like any other thing?”
No, it doesn’t. It feels, every time, like the start of a race — pulse beating, blood rushing, and exhilarating. Sex feels like avoiding a crash, like relief and giddiness at being able to do something he craves. More than that, there are quiet nights of them just talking over the quiet lull of sitcoms.
George would squeeze himself underneath Max’s arm, alternating between looking up at him with twinkling eyes and resting his head on Max’s chest. They’d share random stories, their dreams and goals, and sometimes even their fears. Max had never bared his own soul in such a way, not even with the mother of his own child. But that was different; that was a hideaway from speculation and familial ostracism. This is real.
And suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t care about everyone outside of this. If he could have George... if he could have him... that’s exactly what this is, right? A sort of olive branch. George’s last attempt at showing him that this is it for him too. All of Max’s bravado and unnecessary violence means nothing when it’s just them, when he can finally be honest with himself.
“I love you, schat.” He takes a deep breath — a leap from the precipice. “I want this.”
George smiles brightly. “Now, wasn’t that easy?”
It’s anything but.
But this he doesn’t regret.
True to his word, George takes the fall.
News of his engagement ending breaks out like wildfire, and he’s been under strict PR mandatories ever since. Max waits for George to rant about it, as he usually does with most things, but he never hears him complain. Not even when they find out Netflix is going to make an episode out of it on Drive to Survive.
The most George has complained about is the weather, his food, or his hair. Otherwise, he looks at Max with shining eyes, glittering like he’s never seen them before.
“Who’s this superstar?”
Max jolts away from reverie to look at the phone George faces toward him. It’s a thirty-second clip of his modeling job for AlphaTauri.
“Get that away from me, please.”
George laughs, looking at the video once more. “More for me, then.”
Today, they sit in his apartment in Monaco. They’ve just made each other omelettes, Max having to settle for George’s burnt and undercooked one while George gets to enjoy Max’s omelette, packed with cheese and veggies. The sun filters through the windows, the wind soft as it blows through the curtains. It’s quite picturesque, and Max never thought it would be able to be like this. But it was so easy. George made it easy.
George settles quickly, much to Max’s surprise. There are three pairs of his shoes on the rack. The sheets on his bed have been handpicked by the princess himself. The fridge is fully stocked with mindful ingredients. The bathroom now has pairs of everything — toothbrushes, shampoos, conditioners, towels, etc. Even the smell of the apartment itself has changed.
Max tucks a hair behind George’s ear just because he can, and George only looks up from his phone to smile at him, cheeks full of omelette like a squirrel with nuts. He looks young and relaxed, and Max is so painfully in love with him that he can’t help himself.
“Kiss.”
And George does.
Max asked for another chance. George gave it. Max asked for George to move in. George will, as soon as the season is done. Max asked for a kiss. George did. Max thinks he can ask for everything and anything, and he’ll get it just because George is here and loves him.
George’s phone clicks off, placed screen-down on the table. “Well, you look happy today.”
“How can I not be? The princess himself made me an omelette,” Max says.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’ve got to learn how to cook if I wanna be husbanded up.”
Max snorts, rolling his eyes. “And do you want your ring to be a yellow diamond, too?”
“Ha-ha.” George pinches his cheek. “Funny. Actually, blue would suit me better, no?”
“It does, of course, match your eyes.”
“Whatever, as long as you’re the one kneeling.” George looks up in thought. “And do not slouch. It’ll look sloppy.”
“Anything for you, schat,” Max says.
George smiles, a brilliant smile that takes his breath away.
There in the sunlit dining room of his apartment, they can finally begin.