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George watches as P1 slips through his fingers, taken forcibly and rightfully by his own son. He breathes—in and out—catching sight of his sort-of ex-husband through the mirrors of his car.
It’s always hard to race against family. He briefly considers moving to NASCAR, then makes a face. Too rugged.
This is Kimi’s home race, he reminds himself. It has to happen this way.
He drove as fast as he could, kept Kimi behind him for twenty-five laps, but with older tyres and Kimi’s newer upgrades, he never really stood a chance. With defeat comes a bitter sort of resentment, bludgeoning its way to the surface no matter how desperately George tries to push it back down.
He thinks of the favour being shown, of the slow humiliation ritual Mercedes seems determined to put him through. He is Lauda’s last prodigy, though everyone seems to forget that whenever it becomes convenient. Wasn’t he promised preferential strategy after everything he’d done for the team in the last race?
But he cannot think that way about his own child.
Kimi wins Monza—the first Italian driver to do so in sixty years. The child. The prodigy. The rightful first driver.
George tries to weather the turbulence inside him one breath at a time.
He climbs out of the car and immediately shoots Max a look. It’s caught and understood just as quickly. George takes refuge in the garage while Max lifts Kimi into the air with unabashed pride and joy. Max has always been better at separating their child from the driver. George, no matter how hard he tries, has never quite managed it.
Marcus claps him on the back, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Best effort out there.”
He tries to stop himself, but couldn’t.
“Why wasn’t I given the preferential strategy?”
A guilty look passes over Marcus’ face, and that is all the answer George needs.
Later, he’ll take it up with Toto. Later, he’ll sit in a meeting across from Kimi the driver, not Kimi his child, and discuss a different strategy now that Kimi only needs second-place finishes to secure the World Championship.
For now, he stands back and watches Max and Kimi together. The sun is shining. They’re laughing, drinking their water, glowing with the aftermath of victory.
George’s chest feels splintered open and hollowed out.
They stand awkwardly through the post-race interview, something George should be used to by now. A tiny part of him is thrilled to be standing there alongside his family, but a more selfish part would rather have finished dead last than stand where he is now—in the middle, the almost-first place.
Max stands a few feet away, giving him space.
More salt in the wound. Another middle.
They’re in the middle of a separation, too, though they’ve remained civil for Kimi’s sake. Probably why the boy has been a little brattier than usual lately, sensing the tension even when neither of his parents dares acknowledge it.
Eventually, Max drifts closer, looking for all the world as though he’s perfectly aloof. George knows him far too well for that. He knows Max is hyper-aware of him, tracking every shift in his posture, every breath, every crack threatening to split through the composure.
George feels tears gathering behind his eyes and immediately clenches his jaw.
He will not be seen weak. They don’t deserve it.
“Good race,” George says to Max, his expression carefully composed.
Max looks at him in surprise. “You too. You fought well.”
George nods numbly.
The interviewer asks him a question. George answers with the effortless politeness of someone who has been PR-trained within an inch of his life.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then comes the hardest part: the cooldown room.
George moves mechanically, his mind growing foggier as he sinks further into his mood. He tries to open his mouth and congratulate Kimi, but the words refuse to come.
“George.”
He looks up to find Max holding out his water bottle.
“Oh. Thank you.”
“Drink. Rehydrate.”
George has little choice but to obey.
Max sits beside him, closer than he probably should. George knows what he’s doing. This is Max’s version of comfort, offering him some imitation of protection from what’s still to come without daring to make it obvious.
Kimi takes the middle seat far too soon, forcing Max to scoot over while somehow remaining close to both of them. As usual, Kimi’s eyes are immediately transfixed by the screen. He commits every mistake and every victory to memory, even the ones that aren’t his. It’s one of the things George and Max have always been privately impressed by, though neither says it often enough.
“Well done, mate,” George manages.
Kimi beams at him, so bright and innocent that guilt twists violently through George’s stomach. The boy probably thinks George had given the win to him.
“Thank you, Mama,” Kimi says quietly, his eyes still glued to the replay.
Max grins. “I watched you two fighting, I saw that and thought, ‘A bit more, guys!”
Kimi doesn’t react, too distracted by the screen.
George averts his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek.
Max grimaces at his own words before turning back toward the replay, drinking his water and, wisely, shutting up.
Blessedly, the cameraman leaves the room for a few moments of privacy. George sinks deeper into his seat with a heavy sigh.
“Papa, did I do well?” Kimi asks.
“Of course, kleintje. You were amazing out there,” Max answers softly.
George looks up to find Kimi staring at him now, bright-eyed and expectant.
Only then does he realize that he still hasn’t properly congratulated him.
Even now, he can’t quite make himself say it.
George simply nods in agreement.
And graciously, somehow, that seems to be enough.
By the time they make their way toward the podium, George aches with tension.
Max steps out first, the crowd erupting into cheers and laughter. George can faintly hear a few chants of du du du du from somewhere below, and it nearly drags a smile out of him.
Then it’s his turn.
He accepts it all with grace, even when the booing begins and only grows louder as he steps onto the second-place podium. His stomach drops to his feet.
He feels almost like a horse on a balcony—absurdly, painfully out of place.
What is he even doing here?
There it is again: the burning behind George’s eyes.
He widens them slightly, bites down on his cheek—anything to keep himself together.
He will not cry.
Kimi steps onto the top podium carrying his flag and wearing that brilliant smile.
“I’m so happy to have you guys here with me!”
Max smiles from beside George, and George tries to do the same.
“Enjoy it.”
The second-place trophy feels small and pathetic in his hands, a foreign object resting in foreign hands. It’s ugly too, like a stack of dishes piled haphazardly on top of one another, but George watches Kimi kiss his own and proudly hold it toward the crowd.
George places his on the ground as though it has burned him.
His father’s voice slips effortlessly through the years.
Second isn’t good enough.
He waits through both anthems.
Then, finally, the champagne.
George watches from a few feet away as father and child, joined by Kimi’s engineer, lose themselves in the celebration. He remains where he is—dry, frozen, wearing a polite little smile—until Kimi finally turns toward him and manages a pathetic little spray in his direction. George sees Max smacking the bottom of his own bottle, trying to coax more champagne from it.
How humiliating.
He’s going to see this everywhere. Social media, headlines, interviews, endless clips dissecting every expression on his face. He’ll have to talk about Kimi’s victory with grace and pride, praise the team, smile through questions about strategy and championship implications, and perform every inch of the composed veteran they expect him to be.
Then, perhaps, when the cameras are gone and the hotel-room door is locked behind him, George can finally unravel.
He’s not a bad parent. Max reminds him of that every once in a while.
He teaches Kimi everything he knows. He feeds him, nurtures him, looks out for him. When Kimi wanted to start karting, George was the one who allowed it, the one who spoke to Toto and helped set everything into motion. When Mercedes signed him as their second driver, George had glowed with pride.
At Kimi’s first win, George threw a celebration.
After his crash on his Monza debut, George was there to pick up the pieces.
He is a parent in every respect.
But he is a driver, too.
A driver who had dreams of his own. Who wanted to stand at the very top, a World Champion beside his husband. He’d carried that dream long before Kimi became his son, long before Max ever knelt on one knee and asked George to spend the rest of his life with him.
Before the husband. Before the child. Before the family.
This dream had been his.
Everything after the podium passes in a haze.
Kimi is out celebrating his victory while George lies alone in his hotel room, staring blankly at the ceiling.
He doesn’t dare open his phone. He already knows what waits for him there: photographs of Kimi drenched in champagne, clips of the crowd booing as George stepped onto the podium, slow-motion dissections of every expression he’d failed to hide. Headlines praising the prodigy while quietly asking whether the old guard had finally overstayed his welcome.
So he leaves it facedown on the bedside table.
The room is painfully quiet.
Until he hears someone enter the room beside his.
They’d booked three separate rooms at the hotel, each connected by adjoining doors. As they usually did when travelling as a family, they’d left them open, and George had conveniently forgotten that this also meant leaving his room open to Max’s.
There’s a soft knock against the doorframe before Max steps inside.
“Hey.”
George turns to glare at him, though it probably isn’t as effective as usual given how pathetic he must look sprawled across the bed.
“Why the fuck are you here? Are you done checking in on Charles? How is he? Your new beau.”
Max doesn’t take the bait. “He’s not my anything, you know that.”
“Fuck you,” George spits. He’s hurting, hurting so terribly. He needs a fight. “Go away and go fuck him for all I care.”
“No.” He knows that there’s nothing between them, knows it’s his ugly jealousy, but it felt good to say. “I’m not here for that.”
“Why then? Come here to tell me how selfish I am?”
“No.”
“Please, Max, cut the bullshit. You’re here because I’m a bad mum and I should just go off myself. Is that it?”
Max doesn’t answer. He only watches him with those sad, pitying eyes, and somehow that makes everything worse.
“Come on, say it!” George snaps, his voice rising. “Tell me how pathetic and crazy I am. Tell me it’s stupid to feel this way. Say it!”
Max presses his lips into a thin line and takes a step forward.
Then another.
Toward him.
George can’t stand it.
“Say something! Why are you so fucking quiet?” His voice cracks.
“Call me a dumbass. Petty. Undeserving. Fucking scum of the earth for—for…”
His chest heaves, the rest of the sentence collapsing somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
Max is standing directly in front of him now.
George is painfully aware of the picture he makes: small and folded in on himself, kneeling on the bed as he looks up into blue eyes filled with unbearable warmth.
“This is exactly why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” he whispers. “Because I can’t even stop myself from being jealous of our own child.”
There.
It’s out.
Max heard it.
George waits for the confirmation. For Max to finally say yes, to agree with every horrible thing George has already said about himself, perhaps even add a few more before walking away for good.
Instead, Max gathers him into his arms.
Close.
Impossibly close.
Impossibly warm.
George stiffens, struggling weakly against him. “What are you—”
“I’ve got you. I’m here.” Max says it in the voice he reserves for when Kimi is hurt—the soft, steady voice George last heard after Kimi’s DNF in Barcelona.
One hand settles against the back of George’s head.
“You’re okay, schat.”
Schat.
That does it.
Whatever fragile thread had been holding George together finally snaps. He crumples into Max’s arms, sobbing hard enough that every breath shudders painfully through his chest, fingers twisting into Max’s shirt as though he needs something—anything—to keep him from falling apart completely.
Max only holds him tighter.
“Why am I never enough?” George sobs, his voice wobbling around the words.
“You are,” Max whispers, brushing his hair back in slow, soothing strokes. “You are enough. You didn’t deserve that.”
George doesn’t know how long he cries or how long he lets himself be held by his husband. All he knows is that Max, not once, lets him go.
Eventually, the tears run dry, leaving George hollowed out and exhausted. He’s suddenly grateful Kimi is out celebrating with Lando because he doesn’t think he’s capable of being anyone’s mum right now.
Somewhere between the harsh, uneven breaths and intermittent sobs, Max had eased them both down onto the bed. Now he caresses George’s side in a slow, consistent rhythm, each pass of his hand steady and grounding. George presses back against him, wiggling closer until their bodies slot together with an ease that feels almost cruelly familiar.
“Charles and I are just friends,” Max says quietly.
“I know,” George croaks. His throat is scratchy and raw. “I was just being difficult.”
“Yeah. You can be jealous.”
“I believe I said difficult.”
“Mm.” Max’s hand continues its steady path along his side. “You know we’re not in this situation because I love you any less, right?”
George goes still.
“Then why?”
Max is quiet for a moment.
“I guess we grew distant. Grew apart.”
“I don’t want that,” George admits. His fingers curl weakly around the bedsheet. “What am I supposed to do with all this Max trivia in my head?”
A soft laugh brushes against the back of his neck.
“I don’t want it either.” Max pauses, his arm tightening around George. “If you let me, I’d still like to keep choosing you. I want to keep loving you.”
George’s heart jolts awake like a live wire.
He’s being chosen again.
By this man who, only last week, had looked at him with such cold disdain that George had wondered whether there was anything left between them worth saving.
“Even if I’m a bad mum?”
“You could never be.” Max says it without hesitation. “You’re where he gets it from.”
“Oh, please, Max. Don’t lie to me now. You’re the four-time World Champion.”
“Yes, but he’s brave. He’s patient. He smiles even when things go wrong. He thinks before he speaks, drives cleanly, knows how to work through his weaknesses. He’s competitive without needing to tear everyone around him down.” Max presses his face briefly into George’s hair. “That’s you. All of that is you.”
George turns slightly in his arms.
“That’s really how you think of me?”
It matters more than he wants to admit. George’s mind has always had a cruel habit of filling silence with the worst possible answer, replacing reality with something sharper whenever no one is there to correct it.
“Yes.”
Simple. Honest. Immediate.
Max has never been very good at softening the truth, which means George can believe him when the truth happens to be kind.
“Thank you.” George sniffles, already feeling another humiliating wave of tears gathering. He swallows them back. “...Kimi?”
“He’s still out celebrating. He asked where you were, so I told him you weren’t feeling well and that I was coming back to check on you.” Max’s thumb traces absently over George’s side. “He was worried. Of course he was. He’s part you. But I told him you’d be fine, and that you’d want him to enjoy tonight.”
“I do want him to enjoy it,” George says miserably. “It just fucking sucks that I lost P1 to my second driver.”
“I understand, schat.”
“It fucking sucks being treated like this.”
“Yes.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
George huffs, petulant but rapidly running out of steam.
“Thank you for being here. For knowing what to do.”
“Of course.”
Max reaches down and pulls the blanket over them both, tucking it around George before watching him sink deeper into the pillows.
“Get some rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow. I’ll order us breakfast, then we can go home together.”
George hums, his eyes already growing heavy.
“Mm. Okay, Verstappen. You drive a hard bargain.”
Max hums, leaning in to bury his nose in the nape of George’s neck. For the first time in weeks, there is no distance between them to measure, no argument waiting to be finished, no child or championship standing between what they used to be and what they might still become.
Tonight, Max is warm behind him, his hand resting over George’s heart, protecting it and keeping it warm.
Max is here to be with him.
Tonight, out of everything he could have chosen, Max chooses him.
For now, that is enough.