Work Text:
Max didn’t know why George was ignoring him.
It was not the sort of thing Max Verstappen was accustomed to, because people generally did not ignore him, not in the paddock, not in the garage, not when he walked through the hospitality buildings with a redbull can in his hand and half the grid instinctively moved aside to let him pass, and certainly not George Russell, who had spent the better part of the last six months quietly finding excuses to be wherever Max happened to be.
But this morning, George had looked directly at him and then looked away.
Not a glance that lingered too long, not the little smile he always tried and failed to hide when they were surrounded by people, not even the subtle lift of his eyebrows that meant meet me later, but nothing at all, as though Max were just another face in the crowd.
Max stood at the entrance of the Red Bull garage with his arms folded across his chest, watching George disappear into the Mercedes side of the paddock, and he felt something uncomfortable settle beneath his ribs.
He had texted him last night.
Three times.
The first had been a simple you still awake?, the second had been call me when you can, and the third, sent sometime after midnight when the silence had become impossible to ignore, had simply been George?
Max had watched the little message sit there for several minutes before finally putting his phone down, telling himself that George was probably asleep
Still, Max had let it go. At least, he had tried to.
By the time morning came, he had convinced himself that there was probably a reasonable explanation for it, something boring and ordinary that would make him feel stupid for having spent half the night wondering whether he'd somehow managed to piss George off without realizing it.
Then he saw him and George didn't glance at him.
He walked past the Red Bull garage with his team around him, talking animatedly about something, and Max caught his eye for barely a second before George's gaze immediately shifted toward the person beside him, his expression changing so subtly that anyone else would have missed it.
At least, he didn't let himself react, because if George had suddenly decided that pretending Max didn't exist was the game they were playing now, then Max was perfectly capable of playing it too, and he wasn't about to spend his entire weekend following George around the paddock like an idiot just because the man had apparently forgotten how to answer a message.
So Max simply turned back toward his engineers and continued whatever conversation they had been having, nodding at the appropriate moments and looking sufficiently interested in the setup changes being discussed, even though there was a small, increasingly irritating part of his mind that remained focused entirely on the direction George had disappeared in.
Two could play this game.
If George wanted to ignore him, Max would ignore him back.
When they crossed paths in the hospitality area, Max didn't acknowledge him, even though George slowed down for half a second as though he had expected Max to say something, and when George eventually continued walking without looking back, Max had to remind himself that this was what he had wanted.
He could give George distance.
He could give him so much of it that George would eventually realize how stupid this entire situation was.
The problem was that Max had never been particularly good at pretending he didn't care about George, especially when the two of them had spent months building a relationship out of tiny moments that nobody else was supposed to notice, from late-night visits to hotel rooms and whispered conversations behind locked doors to the barely-there touches they exchanged whenever they were certain nobody was watching.
Now all of that had disappeared.
George wouldn't look at him, wouldn't answer his messages, wouldn't stay in the same room for more than a few minutes, and seemed to have developed an almost supernatural ability to find somewhere else to be whenever Max appeared.
By the time qualifying arrived, Max was tired of it.
He climbed into the car, George stopped mattering.
At least, that was what Max told himself.
The session passed quickly, with the usual progression of Q1 into Q2 and then the final shootout of Q3, and by the time Max crossed the line on his final lap, he already knew that it hadn't been enough for pole.
P3.
He looked toward the screen and waited for the final positions to settle, his eyes moving automatically from his own name toward the top of the classification until he stopped.
George Russell — Pole Position.
Oscar Piastri — P2.
Max stared at the screen for several seconds, because somehow, despite everything, seeing George's name sitting at the top still made something warm flicker inside him before his irritation immediately returned to smother it.
Across the paddock, the Mercedes garage erupted into celebration, and when the cameras found George climbing from his car, Max could see the sheer excitement written across his face even through the distance between them, with George pulling off his gloves and laughing as his engineers crowded around him while Oscar eventually made his way over to congratulate him.
George turned toward Oscar and gave him the biggest smile Max had seen from him all weekend, a completely unguarded, giddy expression and for one awful second Max found himself thinking that he hadn't seen George smile like that because of him in far too long.
Oscar said something that Max couldn't hear over the noise of the garage, and George laughed again before throwing his arms around him in a quick celebratory hug, looking so genuinely happy that Max had to force himself to look away.
It was ridiculous, really, because Oscar had only congratulated him, and there was nothing remotely strange about a McLaren driver celebrating with the pole sitter after qualifying, but Max still found himself staring at the two of them for a second longer than he should have before turning toward the cameras as the three of them were called over for the post-qualifying interview.
The interviewer looked between them with an amused smile.
“George, pole position, Oscar alongside you on the front row and Max just behind you in P3, so let's start with you because you looked absolutely delighted when you got out of that car, and I have to ask, was that relief, excitement, or were you already thinking about how you're going to defend Turn One tomorrow?”
George laughed.
“Probably all three at once, to be honest, because the lap felt good, but you never really know where everyone else is until you see the timing screen, and when I heard P1 from Marcus, I think I just completely forgot about anything around me.”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah, I could tell,” he said, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he looked at George.
George laughed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the microphone in his hand, “I was just happy.”
The other interviewer laughed softly before turning toward George, clearly enjoying the exchange between them.
“George, you've had a few close calls this season where pole has been within reach, so was there anything different about that final fast lap today, or did you just finally manage to put everything together?”
George considered the question for a moment, his expression becoming more thoughtful.
“I think I finally stopped trying to make the lap perfect, because when you're chasing something like pole, you can sometimes get into your own head and start thinking about every little detail, and then you end up losing more time trying to find that perfect lap than you would if you just trusted the car and committed to it.”
The interviewer nodded and turned towards Oscar.
“So you were the closest man to pole today, and you're going to start alongside George tomorrow, which gives you a pretty interesting opportunity, but how much are you thinking about the race already?”
“Quite a lot,” Oscar admitted, “because qualifying is great and I'm happy with P2, but tomorrow is when it actually matters, and starting alongside George means I have a chance to attack him from the beginning, so I'm definitely going to be thinking about that tonight.”
George glanced sideways at him, an amused smile appearing almost immediately.
“So you're already planning to take my position?”
Oscar looked back at him, “Whatever it takes, mate!”
George laughed.
Max sat on George's other side, listening to the exchange with an expression that remained carefully neutral, although he couldn't help noticing how easily George slipped into this teasing rhythm with Oscar, especially when George had barely managed to hold a conversation with Max all weekend.
The interviewer smiled.
“George, Oscar has made his intentions pretty clear, so does starting on pole change how you approach the opening lap when you know the driver next to you is going to be looking for exactly the same thing you are?”
“I think it makes it exciting,” George replied, his smile widening as he glanced toward Oscar. “Obviously, you want to get away cleanly, but you also know Oscar is going to be trying everything he can to get ahead, and with Max behind us, I think the worst thing we could do is start fighting each other so aggressively that we give him an opportunity.”
The interviewer turned toward Max, clearly sensing an opportunity to stir things up after hearing the confidence in his previous answers.
“Max, you've got Oscar in P2 and George in P1 tomorrow, so the obvious question is, do you think you can take P2 or even P1 away from them?”
Max barely looked toward the interviewer before his eyes drifted toward George sitting closely to Oscar with his arms loosely folded, listening with an expression that was already beginning to look suspicious.
Max gave a small scoff.
“It's just a McLaren and George,” he said, the words coming out casually enough to sound like nothing more than his usual confidence, “wouldn't be that hard.”
Oscar's smile disappeared almost immediately.
He looked away, suddenly finding the floor, the cameras, and absolutely anything other than Max very interesting.
George, meanwhile, went completely still.
His jaw tightened and eyes narrowed.
And then he turned his head slowly toward Max, giving him a glare sharp enough that Max could practically feel it against the side of his face.
Max finally looked at him.
George's expression said seriously?
Max's expression said what?
The interviewer laughed awkwardly, “That's quite a statement.”
Max shrugged.
The interviewer continued with a few more questions, but Max barely paid attention to any of them, giving short answers whenever the microphone came his way while his mind remained somewhere else or someone else entirely.
Eventually, the interviewer smiled and lowered the microphone.
“Alright, I think we'll let you three get out of here and prepare for tomorrow, but congratulations again, George, and good luck to all three of you for the race.”
George smiled politely toward the cameras.
“Thank you.”
Oscar nodded.
“Thanks.”
Max simply gave a small wave before stepping away.
The moment the cameras were no longer directly in front of them, George turned toward the Mercedes personnel waiting nearby, exchanged a few words with one of his engineers, and started walking toward the back of the paddock.
Then Max followed.
He ignored the voice of one of his people calling after him, lifting a hand without turning around to signal that he'd be back, and picked up his pace as George disappeared around the corner of the hospitality building.
“George.”
George didn't stop.
Max walked faster, “George.”
This time, George's shoulders tensed, but he still kept walking down the hallway, his footsteps quick against the polished floor as he headed toward the quieter section behind the hospitality units, and Max had to lengthen his stride to catch up with him.
“Will you fucking stop?”
George finally did.
He turned around sharply, his expression already irritated before his eyes landed properly on Max.
“What?”
Max stopped a few steps away, breathing slightly harder from having practically chased him through the paddock.
“You're avoiding me.”
George looked around the hallway, his eyes immediately checking both ends before settling back on Max.
“Not here.”
Max stared at him, irritation flashing across his face.
“Why not?”
“Because we're still in the paddock.”
“There is nobody here.”
“There could be.”
Max took another step closer, keeping his own voice quiet but unable to hide the frustration that had been building since early of the week.
“You won't answer my messages, you won't look at me when we're around people, and every time I try to talk to you, you disappear, so I'm not really interested in hearing you tell me there could be someone here again.”
George's jaw tightened as he looked away, his fingers curling around the accreditation hanging from his neck.
“I'm trying to give you space.”
Max stared at him.
“I didn't ask for any space, you asshole.”
George's eyes snapped back to him.
“Max—”
“I didn't ask for any of this,” Max continued, his voice dropping into a furious whisper as he stepped closer, “I didn't ask you to ignore me, I didn't ask you to pretend you don't know me, and I sure as hell didn't ask you to shut me out for three fucking days without telling me why.”
George's expression hardened.
“I was trying to do what I thought was best.”
“Well, you were wrong,” as Max shook his head, frustration boiling over again.
“Why is this bothering you anyway?”
George looked away as he continued, his voice quieter now but somehow more painful.
“Whether I'm talking to you or not, whether I'm around you or not, why does it matter so much?”
Max stared at him as though he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.
“What the hell are you saying now?”
George swallowed.
“I'm saying—”
“It doesn't make sense.”
Max ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back before immediately stepping forward again because he couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to leave or demand an answer.
“You disappear for three days, you ignore every message I send you, you barely look at me, you act like hugging Oscar is more important than being next to me, and now you're asking me why I care?”
George's face tightened.
“Because we're friends.”
There was a silence so complete that even the distant noise of the paddock seemed to disappear.
Max stared at him.
Then he laughed once, short and disbelieving.
“The fuck you mean we're friends?”
George looked down, “Max.”
“No.” Max stepped closer again, his voice shaking now, not with anger alone but with something much more vulnerable.
“You don't get to call this friendship.”
George's eyes lifted.
“You don't get to stand there and say we're friends when I've literally kissed you for the past fucking months.”
Max's breathing was uneven now.
“Friends don't do what we've been doing, and friends definitely don't spend nights together.”
“Max, keep your voice down.” George begged, his eyes darting toward the entrance of the hallway before returning to him. “Please.”
“Why?”
“Because someone could hear us.”
“Let them.”
“Max.”
“No, seriously, let them.”
George shook his head, panic beginning to creep into his expression.
“Do you actually want people to call you a faggot?” he whispered, the word leaving his mouth with obvious reluctance. “I don't want that to happen to you.”
Max went completely still.
Then his expression hardened, “Fuck them.”
“Max—”
“Fuck them,” Max repeated, quieter this time but no less firm. “Am I not free to love anyone despite their gender?”
George's face softened immediately.
“You know that's not what I'm saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I'm saying I don't want you to get hurt because of me.”
“You don't get to decide that.”
“I know.”
“No, you keep deciding everything for both of us.”
George looked down.
Max stepped closer, his voice trembling with frustration.
“You decide when we talk, you decide when we don't, you decide when we're friends, and now you're deciding what people are allowed to think about me.”
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“I don't need protection from people who don't know anything about us.”
George looked at him helplessly.
“You don't understand.”
“Then make me understand.” Max desperately looked at him.
“You just came out of your long-term relationship, Max.”
Max's jaw tightened.
“Kelly and I broke up more than a year ago.”
“Well, the public doesn't know that, do they?”
George's voice cracked slightly.
“They think it's only been two months.”
Max stared at him for a long moment, his anger slowly giving way to disbelief, because underneath everything George had been saying was the same fear that had apparently been eating at him for days, the fear that people would take the pieces of their lives they could see and turn them into something ugly.
“George…” Max's voice softened as he stepped closer. “You do know I really like you, right?”
George looked up at him, clearly caught off guard by the sudden change in Max's tone.
“I don't show it much,” Max continued, his voice quieter now, “and I know I'm not exactly the easiest person to read, but you know I do, right?”
George swallowed.
“I know.”
“That's why I'm standing here arguing with you instead of just walking away.”
George looked down.
Max took another step toward him.
“I want to fight for whatever relationship you think we're having right now.”
Max's voice softened as he continued, the anger from earlier slowly disappearing beneath something much more honest.
“I want you, George, and I don't care if we have to keep this hidden for a while, and I don't care if people don't understand it when they eventually find out, but I need you to stop acting like whatever we've been doing doesn't mean anything.”
Max looked around the hallway before reaching for George's hands, his fingers closing carefully around them as though even now he was conscious of how easily one wrong person turning the corner could change everything.
“Then stop calling it nothing.”
“I never said it was nothing. I feel emotions for you too.”
“You said we're friends.”
“Sorry…” George winced as his thumbs moved nervously over Max's knuckles.
“What if this goes public?” George's voice was quiet, the question carrying far more fear than he wanted Max to hear.
Max looked at him for a moment before giving him an incredulous smile.
“George Russell, who do you think I am?”
Max squeezed his hands.
“I'm a responsible man, aren't I? I'll stand next to you, and I won't let you go down alone.”
George's expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
Max grinned, “What’s better than a world champion gay couple around the paddock? The presses would love to have that news in their website”
George rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting as he deliberately leaned a little closer, clearly deciding that teasing Max was much easier than dealing with the sincerity of the conversation.
Then he snorted, “Shut up, that's so lame, Verstappen.”
Max's eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, now I'm Verstappen?”
George's mouth twitched as he tried very hard not to smile, “Aren’t you not Mr.Verstappen?”
“You’re darn bold, Russell. After ignoring me for three days, you're suddenly very brave, aren't you?”
George rolled his eyes, “I said I'm sorry.”
“You've said that, but you haven't actually explained why you did it until we argue in this eerie hallway and that's exactly what I'm talking about because if something is bothering you, you can't just shut me out and expect me to magically understand what you're thinking, especially when we're—”
George leaned forward and kissed him.
Max immediately went silent.
It lasted only a few seconds before George pulled back, his cheeks slightly pink as he looked at him.
George gave him a pointed look, “My goodness, can you stop talking for five seconds?”
Max blinked at him, but instead of answering, his eyes dropped to George's lips again, and before George could even figure out what he was doing, Max leaned in and kissed him once more.
George made a surprised sound against his lips, but he didn't pull away immediately, and that seemed to encourage Max because the moment they separated, he kissed him again, softer this time, lingering for just a little longer before pulling back enough to breathe.
Max kissed him once again.
George laughed into the kiss, his hands instinctively finding Max's shoulders.
“Get away from me.” George joked.
Max pulled back just enough to look at him.
“I haven't kissed you in three days.”
“Blimey, you had been in a relationship before.”
“It’s not the same as being with you.” Max replied.
“Holy shit, that’s actually quite cringe. I actually got Max Verstappen saying that,”
“Shut it, I swear to god. you’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” George replied, still grinning as he looked at him, clearly far too pleased with himself after managing to make Max Verstappen, of all people, sound like someone in a hopelessly romantic film.
Max narrowed his eyes at him, although the amusement in his expression completely ruined any attempt at looking genuinely annoyed, and before George could say anything else, Max reached for him again, pulling him closer by the waist as he leaned down and kissed him, slower this time, lingering just long enough to make George forget whatever clever comment he had been preparing.
George smiled against his lips, his hands instinctively settling against Max's chest as he kissed him back.
As they pulled apart, George laughed quietly, shaking his head before giving him one last quick kiss.
“Come on,” George said, giving him a gentle pat on the arm before taking another step back. “We have a race tomorrow.”
Max looked at him, still smiling.
George pointed at him with a playful warning. “See you on the podium!”
Max's eyebrows lifted, his competitive grin immediately returning as he folded his arms across his chest.
“Let's see if those Mercedes upgrades can beat me to the top.”
“Ohhh, we’ll see!!”
George's grin widened as he started walking backwards, already laughing at the look Max was giving him.
“You're such a pain in the ass”
“Ditto!” Max smirked.
George shook his head, still smiling as he finally turned around and began walking away, but before he could get very far, Max called after him.
“George.”
He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “What?”
Max stood there for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and despite the confident smile still playing on his lips, there was something softer in his eyes when he looked at George.
“Good luck tomorrow.”
George's expression softened almost immediately, because beneath all the teasing and competitive remarks, he knew exactly what Max meant, and he gave him a small nod before answering.
“You too.”
24 hours later, George and Max stood side by side on the top two steps of the podium, George taking the chequered flag for P1 with Max crossing the line just behind him in P2.
George turned towards Max, remembering their conversation from the night before, and with a laugh, sprayed his champagne straight at him.
Max immediately retaliated, soaking George in return as the cameras flashed around them. They laughed beneath the podium lights, their trophies in hand and the roar of the crowd surrounding them.
George simply raised his bottle to Max indicating, told you I’d see you on the podium
Max smiled, as he raised his bottle back towards him.
For everyone watching, it was simply another great battle between two drivers who refused to give each other an inch.
But for them, it was something else entirely.