Work Text:
"God, George, your legs—they're something incredible, you're something incredible." That glint in the blue eyes across from him made his heart beat faster, and his toes curl involuntarily.
George couldn't formulate a single coherent response: all his senses were overwhelmed. He felt so good, so full, so hot. He was so deeply immersed in the moment and in what was happening that he couldn't think about something as unimportant as words.
At the moment when a wave of impatience and desperation began to envelop all his limbs, he grabbed Max by the hair, pulling him even closer, and caught himself thinking that this was, perhaps, the best sex of his life. Everything was so painfully right, the way no one before had ever been able to make it. As if their bodies knew each other's dance before they even began to perform it. As if all actions and all decisions had led to exactly this. Later, George would wave off such foolish and sentimental reflections, which were caused, he would be sure, merely by a surge of hormones—but in that moment, all of it consumed him completely.
And Max's last thrusts made him arch on the damp sheets, his voice rising to the ceiling.
At the moment of orgasm, all of George's senses were focused on only one thing—Max. He seemed to be surrounded by him: breathing, feeling, absorbing, and living only Max. It seemed like the highest moment of unity between them.
Yes, they'd had sex before—plenty, in different places, with different moods and different feelings toward each other—but now it was something else. Perhaps the best race weekend of George's life was to blame, but at best that was only half of it.
Their relationship with Max had never been a horizontal line—rather a wavy one, with sharp dips and rises. Only recently had things become stable. Max had stopped perceiving every event so sharply, and George had stopped defending himself and arguing at every opportunity. They had become calmer and more patient, and as a consequence of all this, it became easier for them to understand each other. Not only in conversation, but also in bed.
───
The adrenaline after the race was still circulating through his veins. The intoxicating feeling of victory, of the fact that George had achieved his first grand slam of his career, seemed to seep through his pores along with all the champagne poured over him.
He was happy—intoxicatingly happy. He couldn't stop smiling at everyone: the reporters, his entire team, the spectators. But George would have given a lot for one more person to be beside him right now—the one who hadn't let him relax throughout the entire last part of the race.
Their rivalry, their fighting and confrontation had made the victory even sweeter, as if without all of it, it wouldn't have felt so complete.
George couldn't wait for the moment he would open the door to his hotel room—he knew what was waiting for him behind it.
His expectations were not disappointed. The moment he stepped into his room, hot hands were on his waist, gripping tenderly but firmly, and soft lips were on his.
From that moment, they spun into their own world. Everything beyond their room and their embrace seemed unimportant, distant, and insignificant.
───
When they lay on the bed, even more raw and sticky than before, Max gently twirled a strand of George's hair around his finger. The Briton couldn't hold back the question that had been spinning on his tongue lately.
"Max, what are we to each other?" George turned his head toward the man to see the answer clearly on his face and in his eyes. Max at that moment resembled a formidable lion not in the slightest—rather, he looked like a cat that had been basking in the sun all day.
"Princess, I thought it was obvious." Hearing that answer, George involuntarily frowned. "Don't frown, it doesn't suit you." Max gently smoothed the wrinkle between his brows, making George snort.
"If I'm asking, it means it's not obvious to me. And I'm tired of the vagueness and uncertainty, Verstappen."
Max simply leaned in and kissed George on the lips, gently running his hand along his waist.
"George, we are us. If you want to put a label on us, then fine—I'll be whatever you want me to be."
After those words, the Briton abruptly flipped them over and sat on top of Max.
"Are you sure this is the right decision?" George pulled at the strands of hair at the back of Max's head, making him tilt his head back slightly. "Have you thought it all through?"
For a few seconds, silence reigned in the room, and only the slightly uneven breathing of both men could be heard. The Dutchman's hands traced George's sides and stopped on the buttocks of the Mercedes driver, squeezing them slightly.
"I've thought it all through a very long time ago, princess."
George couldn't hold back the wide smile that spread across his face. He leaned down and kissed Max firmly.
Yes, there had been ups and downs between them, arguments and misunderstandings, sharp words and even shouting—but they wouldn't have wanted anything other than this.
They were where they wanted to be, enjoying everything life had given them. Today they were winners; perhaps tomorrow the wheel of fortune would turn the other way—but they were sure that they would still have each other.