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George was sulking.
It hasn't been very long since his crash in Singapore, 12 hours, 19 minutes, and 45 seconds to be exact, but who was keeping track, and he still felt like complete and utter shit.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be dwelling on last night. Toto had sent him in his place to this conference entirely to try and get his mind off the crash before Suzuka. He was supposed to be walking around mingling and brushing shoulders with all the fancy business people in the room, and in his defense, he had tried. He'd gotten dressed up in the only suit he had on hand, the fancy blue one from last year's awards that George didn't even remember packing. He'd greeted the Petronas representatives sent to welcome them, and he'd walked along with Shov and talked to person after person about the current season and the teams plans for next year and yada yada yada.
But carefully curated PR talk was hell and by far the last thing he wanted to be doing. Especially not when it involved awkward attempts at dancing around discussing his results in Singapore with callous business assholes who he was ninety-nine percent sure hadn't even watched a clip of the race.
George had taken the first chance to slip away after what felt like the ninth crass comment on how some stuck-up COO didn't understand why he didn't just pass the Red Bull-it was a Mclaren, you pompous dick-if they were faster. He knew Shov would have his head when they realized George wasn't coming back anytime soon, but right now, he was more concerned with drowning his problems in his second glass of bourbon.
He was only halfway through said glass when he felt a presence sidle up next to him. George cursed internally. Couldn't one thing this weekend go his way, he thought, mentally bracing himself for the incoming lecture.
"One Gin and Tonic, please." The person requested, flagging down the bartender in a voice that, surprisingly, was not that of Andrew Shovlin.
"Shouldn't you be on a flight halfway to Japan by now?" George mumbled, tension bleeding out of his body as he gently swirled the content of his glass, eyes trained on the glistening ice cubes. He didn't need to turn to know who was standing beside him; the voice was familiar enough. George couldn't decide if this was better or worse than being subjected to a Shov lecture.
"Do you know you've been sulking here for nearly the last twenty minutes? Max asked, slipping into the empty stool next to him. Completely uninvited, George noted. "I've been in and out of this lobby three times, and you haven't moved once; it's kind of pathetic."
Yep, definitely worse. Much much worse.
"I don't think I invited you to sit, Verstappen," George remarked, bringing the glass to his lips, not finding the need to dignify his comments with a response. Having Max Verstappen for company, the only thing that somehow managed to be more headache-inducing than sponsor talk with a bunch of heartless businessmen or getting told off by Shovlin.
"You didn't," Max cheerily replied, accepting the drink the bartender slid his way. "You know Russell, you won't find the answer to your crash at the bottom of a liquor bottle."
George took a steadying breath, tipped his head back, and downed the rest of his drink in one go. The glass hadn't even hit the bar top before he was signaling the bartender for another. "What exactly are you doing here, Verstappen?" George snapped, annoyance permeating every word. He could feel Max's eyes following his every move, but he didn't care. His day had been shitty enough without the added snarky judgment of Max fucking Verstappen, thank you very much.
"Well, you're not the only one who had a bad day, Princess." Max shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.
George contemplated how easily he would be able to get away with murdering Max in a crowded hotel lobby in broad daylight. Realistically, Max had accumulated enough points to win both the driver's and constructors' championships, even postmortem, so maybe Red Bull wouldn't mind.
George scoffed, "A fifth-place finish, truly the worst thing imaginable."
"I mean..." Max trailed off, eyes dancing with amusement. George could tell Max was trying to get a rise out of him, and it was fucking working.
"Christ, you are such a prick."
"This coming from the man whose team talked about their last car like it was a 2019 Williams."
"As the only person who's driven both, the W13 was still shit." George said, fully turning towards Max now, "And you cannot speak with how Christian talked about the Red Bulls from 2014 to 2020."
"All that was third fastest-"
"You finished second in the constructors three times in that period!" George retorted. "Not that that did anything to stop Christian from threatening to leave the sport every other weekend."
"Mate, your team spent every Friday acting like your car was slower than the Haas, did fine in qualifying, and ended up with a double podium come the race.
"We also always had better race pace and did a lot of work over the night to get the car in a better state. And even then, we mostly got podium cause Ferrari fucked up a bunch, unlike your genuinely competitive cars."
"I still wouldn't say we were second fastest in most of those seasons. It was just..." He trailed off, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "Ferrari fucked up a bunch."
"So we can agree-"
"At least we're not driving for Ferrari?" Max supplied a full-blown grin on his face now, drawing a sudden sharp bark of laughter from George's lip that he immediately tried to suppress.
"At least we're not driving for Ferrari." He agreed, failing to bite back his own smile. He sent a mental apology to Charles for laughing at his pain.
Max was watching him, a soft smile on his face, eyes twinkling with something George couldn't quite put his finger on.
"What?"
"You've stopped sulking."
George paused, fully caught off guard by the sudden change in discussion. It took him a second for him to understand what Max was referencing. The crash, he realized, had completely slipped his mind during the argument for the first time since his car had gone into the barrier. A small voice in the back of his mind questioned if this might have been intentional if Max had started that stupid argument entirely to try and take his mind off the crash, but no, that wouldn't make sense. Why would Max, of all people, care enough about how he was feeling to try and cheer him up? Max barely tolerated him.
"Oh-." George trailed off, whatever he was planning to say dying out on his lips as he spotted a familiar bespectacled man standing not too far from where they were sitting.
With his towering height, Andrew Shovlin stood out from the group he was standing with. George recognized some of the people as the people from Petronas, but everyone else was completely new to him. Part of him felt for Shov having to deal with this all himself; the rest imagined how perturbed he must be because of it.
"Shit!" he cursed, trying to duck out of sight, hoping that Shovlin hadn't spotted him.
Max frowned, following George's eyeline to where Shovlin stood, talking to someone who George believed was part of the group of people he'd been introduced to earlier. "Oh." was his only response.
George ducked further, internally cursing his past self for leaving this specific problem for his current self to deal with and for being so fucking unnecessarily tall. Max stood up, placing his now empty glass down, and slipped away to talk to the bartender, completely uninterested in his current predicament.
George was still in his head, trying to think of an excuse for why he'd disappeared for so long and why he was at the bar instead of socializing, when Max reappeared beside him, hand outstretched. "You wanna get out of here?"
George sat up straighter, eyes trained on the hand held out to him. He frowned, brows furrowed in confusion, "Why would I go anywhere with you, Verstappen?' he asked, eyes shifting back up to Max's, suspicious.
"I'm trying to help you, prick." Max sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Why?"
"You need somewhere to hide, and I have a place he'd never check. Besides, I'm bored. " Max shrugged, lips quirked up into a mischievous smile. "Come on, princess, have a little fun. You've already been ducking your sponsor duties. Why stop now?"
His teeth dug into his bottom lip, eyes flicking between Shovlin further back and Max's outstretched hand. Toto had suggested he come along to try and get his mind off last night, and as of right now, talking with Max had been the only thing that had actually done it. George knew he was just making excuses for when he would undoubtedly be getting a very long lecture from Toto on the phone later, but for right now fuck it.
He took Max's hand.
Max's smile grew, hand tightening around George's, and he didn't let go. Not as he tugged George along, seamlessly navigating them through the growing crowd of attendants slowly filling the lobby without catching Shov's eye. Not as they stood in the back of the elevator, trying not to laugh every time they caught the other's gaze. Not until they reached Max's hotel door did he finally let go to fish out his room key. George didn't think about the feel of Max's hand in his, and he certainly didn't miss the quickly receding warmth. That would be weird.
Max unlocked the door, holding it open for him.
"Who knew you were such a gentlemen." He joked, earning a jab to his side.
The hotel room was frankly ungodly big. George had stayed in his fair share of fancy hotel rooms with his recent move to Mercedes, but this blew nearly all of them out of the water. It was closer to the apartments he'd looked at during his move to Monaco, with its massive parlor, open floor plan, a snack and drink bar tucked into the corner, giant mounted flat screen TV, there was even a fucking chandelier hanging right in the middle of the room.
"You realize you're only going to be here for a couple of hours at most, right," George asked, slipping his suit jacket off and carefully draping it on the back of the nearest sofa. Max hummed in response, breaking off to look through the minibar. Though to call it a mini bar seemed an understatement, it was nearly as big as the actual bar they'd just come from.
"I'm not paying for this," Max explained, pulling out what looked to George like a medium-sized, probably wildly overpriced, bottle of tequila. "Christian has a business meeting with the Red Bull owners and figured it would be a good idea to bring me along, and this," he gestured vaguely to the room around them, "is a shared hotel room for us to enjoy for the day, paid for by the owners."
'Must be a pretty important meeting then." George said, internally questioning if this was information Max should even be sharing with him as he watched Max disappear behind the bar in search of something else, popping up a few seconds later, two shot glasses in hand.
"Mind joining me for a drink on the balcony?" Max asked, holding out one of the glasses and completely sidestepping the question. 'He definitely was not supposed to be telling me about that,' George thought, accepting the glass. "If you think this room is impressive, you should see the bedroom view."
"If I didn't know better, I would think you were trying to get me drunk enough to climb into bed with you, Verstappen." he teased.
Max scoffed, rolling his eyes, using his now free hand to tug George as close as the bar would allow, which was more than close enough for him to feel Max's breath lightly fanning his face. His voice dropped an octave, eyes locked on George's. "Trust me, Russell, If I wanted to get you into my bed, I wouldn't need alcohol to do it."
George wasn't sure he was breathing; he wasn't sure of anything past the heat burning in his lower abdomen. That was new, he thought, unsure if Max had ever responded to his teasing in such an openly flirty manner. They didn't do flirty banter, mildly annoyed jabs, and amiable conversation, maybe, but nothing flirty, never flirty; that was something Max did with Daniel, Charles, hell, even Lewis, but never him. It just wasn't how they worked, and maybe that was for the best because it was doing something to George that he didn't want to think about.
The corner of Max's mouth twitched up into a smirk, clearly enjoying the flush George could feel coloring his cheeks. "See."
George looked away, embarrassment growing. "I've had two drinks already, so this wouldn't prove your point." He knows it was the wrong thing to say the minute the words leave his lips.
Max let go of his hand, instead gripping his chin, forcing George to meet his eyes. "Is that your way of saying you want to sleep with me, Princess?"
George thinks he might be going insane. Everything about this was electing something in him that Max of all people should not be able to evoke. The hand on his jaw, the authority of it, that fucking nickname in that fucking voice. Yeah, he was clearly losing it.
"Just show me the fucking balcony, Verstappen." He snaps, but it's not convincing either of them. His voice is shaky, cracking in the middle of balcony, betraying everything he's feeling.
Max burst out laughing, letting go of him to pick up the tequila bottle and the remaining shot glass, walking off to what George assumed was his hotel room.
George took a second, pausing to try and regain some semblance of self-control because whatever this was was starting to push deep into uncharted territory for them. It's not like he hasn't had someone flirt with him before; Max wasn't even the first driver to do so, and his words weren't even close to as bad as the mildest thing Danny had teased him with, and yet. Something about the fact that it was Max doing this, Max who on most days barely tolerated him, pulling him in so close there was barely an inch between them, openly flirting with him, and it was sending his mind into a frenzy.
But it's not like he was attracted to Max or anything. No, he only felt like this because this was unnatural for them, and that was throwing him off. That was all it was. That didn't turn him on because he wasn't attracted to Max like that, and he absolutely did not think about kissing Max. That would be absurd.
'Maybe drinking two glasses of bourbon wasn't the best idea,' he thought, running an exasperated hand through his hair and following after Max.
The bedroom is just as fancy as the parlor but more toned down. Greenery carefully nestled in different corners of the room, a large bouquet of flowers George couldn't name on the table in front of the massive flat screen TV mounted to the TV next to him. An abstract painting on the wall opposite it. Two slightly ajar doors on the right, one from the black marbled tile he could spot, obviously lead to a bathroom. The other is an unused closet that honestly was basically a walk-in. Another chandelier hung from the ceiling, bathing the beige and royal blue in a warm golden light. All tied together by the massive king-sized bed right in the middle, sheets slightly ruffled by the clothes strewn across it and the open suitcase that rests on top of it.
Max caught his eye from where he was standing: alongside the bed, emptying everything from his pockets and his bowtie onto the bedside table. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, eyes alight with renewed amusement, having seen where George had just been looking. If I wanted to get you into my bed, I wouldn't need alcohol to do it.
George ignored him, gaze sliding past him to the glass sliding door on his left and the view of the distant Singapore skyline beyond it. "Christ." He said, stepping closer and pushing the door open.
Even with the dreary gray overcast sky, the city was still something to see. The weather, mixed with the later time of day, made it just dark enough outside for the city lights to sparkle. He walked closer to the glass railing at the edge, abandoning his shot glass on the small outdoor table. From here, he was sure he could see everything near the track: the hotel, the carousel, the tree garden.
"Okay, you were right," He breathed, leaning against the railing. He looked back at Max, still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him. "This view is fucking stunning."
"Yeah," Max agreed, though his burning gaze never once left George. "It's really something to look at."
"Like you can see it from back there." he joked, pushing that observation immediately out of his mind. It was definitely just a dumb coincidence, and he was looking way too much into it. "What, are you secretly afraid of heights or something."
An eye roll was Max's only reply as he stepped out onto the balcony. The moment Max was no longer blocking the doorway, the glass door slid shut, a loud beep sounding behind him. They both paused, turning their attention back to the door.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Max cursed, moving back towards the door, immediately tugging at the handle, to no avail.
George sidled up to the door, hovering slightly behind Max. "Max, open the door."
"Would if I could."
"What do you mean 'if you could'? Mate, it's your hotel room; use your room key."
"Really, I wasn't fucking aware it was so simple, Russell." Max snapped, familiar annoyance slipping back into his voice. Now, this was more like them incessantly bickering over the mildest things, not whatever the hell had been happening before. "I obviously don't have the key, genius. I put it in my wallet, which I left on the nightstand along with my fucking phone."
He stepped back, taking a deep breath. 'There was no need to start panicking,' he thought, reaching for his phone. He would call Shov, sit through whatever lecture he had coming, and have him find Horner to come let them in. Simple.
Only his hand came away empty, with no phone in either pocket.
Okay, now he was starting to panic.
George massaged his temple, trying to remember where he'd left his phone. The last he'd used it, he'd been trying to get away from the conversation with that stuck-up COO by pretending there was an important call he needed to make. His phone had been in his hand the whole way to the bar before he remembered slipping it into his suit jacket pocket, where he'd left it.
The same jacket he'd left draped on the sofa in the hotel parlor. Great.
"Fuck." He cursed, tugging at his hair. No phone meant no Shov, and no Shov meant no Horner, which meant no way back inside.
"You don't have your phone on you either, then." Max guessed, sending him a pointed look. George deigned to respond, walking back towards the edge and taking a seat on the cold concrete, the railing to his back.
"So we're stuck here until Christian eventually gets back, which could take a while." Max nodded to himself. Retrieving the tequila bottle that had been discarded on the small table right by the sliding door, he made his way over and took a seat next to George. "Great."
George hummed in agreement, taking the bottle from Max's hand, popping open the top, and taking a swig. They sat, passing the bottle between them, letting the minutes slide by.
"So," Max eventually said, voice breaking through the silence lingering between them for what felt like forever but realistically had been 5 minutes, "Why are you here?"
"Hmm?" George's eyes flicked towards him, brows furrowed in a silent question.
"Come on, princess," Max shrugged, "Anything beats silently sitting here for god knows how long, waiting for Christian."
George frowned, "Okay, Toto sent me here in his place because he's out due to his knee surgery, and he thinks drowning me in sponsor work is a good way to get my mind off the crash before Japan." He conceded, sitting up straighter, "My turn. Why do you keep calling me princess?"
"This entire day, you've either referred to me by my last name or called me princess." He explained, noting the look of puzzlement on Max's face. "Why? Where did this come from?"
"Your engineers, for one-"
"I fucking knew Lando told you." He groaned, head tipping back and lightly thudding against the glass. "That lying prick-"
"Actually," Max interrupted, "Nyck told me."
George paused, frowning. "De Vries?"
"We were together during the winter break, and he mentioned this old nickname you had in F2." Max explained, "Lando reminded me about it like the week before Baku."
"That," George paused, thinking it over. Nyck had been there in his F2 years, and anyone who'd spent two seconds around the ART team knew about the nickname; hell, Nyck had even made jokes about the nickname at Mercedes events before. And he was more than aware that Nyck and Max were close friends. "that actually makes perfect sense."
"Besides, princess, I think it perfectly fits you and your excessively pompous attitude."
"Oh fuck off." George scoffed, lightly shoving Max with his shoulder. "You want to see pompous, go downstairs and talk to any of those cunts."
"I take it you're not enjoying the conference, then?"
"I thought the sight of me 'pathetically' drinking at the bar gave that away." he quipped, adding extra emphasis on pathetic.
"I mean, it was a rather miserable sight. You looked like that one crying cartoon deer."
"Why does everyone keep comparing me to fucking Bambi."
Max shifted closer, eyes scanning over every inch of George's face. "The resemblance really is uncanny." he joked, quickly pivoting out of the way before George's hand could swat him.
"Just ask your next question, you dickhead."
"Oh," Max said. When he was sure George wouldn't try to smack him again, he situated himself back where he'd been sitting earlier. "Is this supposed to be like those dumb challenges marketing makes us do?"
"Essentially." George shrugged, bringing the tequila bottle up to his lips. "Just ask whatever comes to mind."
"Okay," Max nodded, and without missing a beat, he asked, "Who was your first kiss?"
He choked, a violent coughing fit racking through his body. George was ninety-nine percent sure tequila had gone up his nose. "Blimey, that fucking burns." he gasped, pinching his nose in an attempt to try and alleviate some of the pain.
"Shit, mate, you okay?" Max asked, gently patting his back.
"No!" George exclaimed, "What type of question is that!"
"You said to ask whatever came to mind!"
"I meant like favorite colour or some shit! Why is that the first question that came to your mind!"
George took a second, pressing the heels of his palm into his eyes, alternating between breathing through his nose and his mouth until the burning subsided to a mild throbbing.
"Are you going to answer the question?"
George turned, glaring at Max through his fingers, tears still wetting his eyes, an eyebrow raised in a silent 'Are you serious.'
Max shrugged, unaffected by the glare, "I want to know."
"Christ, you are insufferable," he rasped, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "It depends on what you count as a snog."
"There was a short one with Lando that technically came first. It was barely anything and was the result of a dare." George recounted, eyes closed, head tilted back, "Then there is the proper one with Charles in F3."
He could feel Max's eyes on him, assessing, George assumed. "Wait, why did you kiss Charles?"
"Really? Charles is the one you ask about. Nothing about Lando?"
"Well I knew that. Lando told me about it once when he got really drunk at a party."
He really wished he could say he was surprised by that.
"Dumb crush that I wanted to kiss at a party and realized I'd never kissed anybody outside of the aforementioned incident with Lando, which I didn't count as a proper kiss. Charles offered to show me how to kiss."
"Was Charles the crush? Was it just an excuse to get him to kiss you?"
"God no," he chuckled, shoulders shaking with laughter, "I love Charlie, and he's an attractive lad, but we've never seen each other like that. He's my good friend and nothing more."
"Wait, does this mean you've kissed the entire quartet?" Max teased, lightly poking him in the side, "No, wait, you're still missing Alex. Unless you've already kissed him?"
"That," George said, ignoring the familiar ache of pain in his chest. "Is another question. My turn. Why were you actually at the bar? And don't say it's because I reminded you of a depressed bambi."
"Like I said, you're not the only one who had a bad day."
"Bullshit," George shook his head, "You cannot actually be upset over a fifth-place finish with the season you've had. You just broke the record for most races won in a row, you've essentially wrapped up both champions by yourself, and you've won all but three races, and nothing is stopping you from winning everything left."
Max flashed him an amused smile, "Thanks for the ego boost, princess."
"Like you even need it. You've gotten praise from every driver and team principal on the grid, and no media outlet has described you as anything less than perfect." George pointed out, "Fifth place is far from a bad finish on a regular weekend, and you maximized the hell out of that car's performance; how can anyone be upset about that?"
Max chuckled softly, fully leaning against the back railing. "My dad sure found a way," he replied, looking up at George, eyes holding a sort of sadness that greatly contradicted the smile on his face.
And suddenly, it all makes sense. Max was hard on himself; they all know that. It was one of the traits they had in common: they both demanded nothing less than perfection from themselves. But just like George, Max understood that sometimes things were out of his control, whether that be the car, the strategy, or the other drivers. You can't control everything, just yourself. Singapore was one of those races.
The car hadn't been great; anyone with eyes could see that. A simple comparison between the cars in Singapore and any other track could immediately show the difference; the car in Singapore was just not the balanced beat it had been all season long. Fifth was more than better than what Red Bull could have asked for, given the state of the car in qualifying, especially after the safety car had essentially gone and screwed their strategy. Anyone sensible person would understand that Max had honestly delivered an impressive performance despite the botched setup, strategy difficulties, and the marina bay track intrinsic difficulties regarding overtaking. But, Jos Verstappen, from what George understood, wasn't exactly known for being a man of reason. Of course, he would manage to find fault in an otherwise perfect performance.
George rubbed at his jaw, trying to think of something to say. Max had done so much today to improve his mood from his crash it only felt fair for him to attempt the same. "My dad forgot my birthday once." he blurted out, instantly regretting it.
Max stared at him, face scrunched in bewilderment at the randomly announced statement. "If you're trying to play the whole 'who's dad is worse' game, trust me, princess, you will lose. My dad has actively left me in another country, both accidentally and on purpose."
"That is...so extremely fucked up, but no, that's not what I was trying to do. I just-" George sighed, folding his arms over his raised knees to give him somewhere to rest his head. "You drove brilliantly in Singapore and got the best you could out of that car, and I'm sorry your dad made you feel like what you did wasn't enough."
Max studied him, face back to its familiar unreadable neutrality. George squirmed under his gaze, worried that maybe he still hadn't said the right things. He knew when it came to comfort, he wasn't the best at it, but that hadn't been that bad, right?
"My turn," is what he finally settles on. "Can I share my opinion on your crash?"
Now, it was George's turn to stare at him in puzzlement, confused by the change in topic. "Is that even a question?"
Max shrugged, "You're fully able to say no, and we'll move on."
He probably should say no. He was doing so well to ignore his crash, and well, as considerate-truly a word he didn't think he'd ever use about Max of all people-Max had been about his crash; he had a reputation for being rude for a reason. But George also couldn't deny that the question had piqued his curiosity.
"Fine," He relented, curiosity regarding what Max had to say getting to him. "As long as you're not a dick about it and remember that I've heard your radio message."
"I didn't say anything negative in that message."
George gave him an unconvinced look. He wasn't stupid; he could get what Max implied with that 'Oh.'
Max hesitated, taking time to think about what to say, which George appreciated. "I don't think the crash was as terrible as you think it is." He finally said. "And I think you're being harder on yourself about the crash than you need to be."
"Hmm." George hummed, taking the time to think over the words. Max obviously wasn't saying this in some misguided attempt to cheer him up. He doubted Max would feel the need to lie to someone to try and make them feel better, especially not in private. No, some part of him genuinely believed what he was saying.
"I think-" George finally said, after what felt like ages, "I think that's easy for you to say in your current position."
"No offense, but you aren't fighting for anything, and you haven't been fighting for anything since, like, Baku last year." George sighed, raising his head. "You are a three-time world champion and have had two of the most dominant seasons in f1 history; you have proven yourself time after time. You aren't the one under the microscope anymore. You aren't the one who's going to have nine hundred think pieces from fans, new sites, and pundits for every little mistake you make. You-"
He could feel the tears burning his eyes, already threatening to fall. He tried to blink them away only to force them over the edge. And Great, now he was crying again, and here he'd thought he'd cried himself dry last night.
There was shuffling beside him. He could feel Max drape something over his shoulder; it smelled like sandalwood and citrus, Max's cologne. A warm thumb brushed over his cheekbone, wiping his tears away. He opened his eyes. Max was kneeling in front of him, suit jacket missing, hands gently cupping his face, eyes staring deep into his laced with concern. "Hey princess, please don't cry. I don't know how to deal with anyone over ten crying." Max exhaled, drawing a sharp gasp of laughter from George.
"Sorry," he said, leaning into the warm touch; he hadn't realized how cold he was sitting outside in just his button down. "I'm just so fucking tired of this season."
"And I get it. Sure, I haven't been fighting for much now, but I spent years in that same position." Max said. "Monaco 2018. We'd been the strongest car all weekend, it was supposed to be our best race, and I fucked it into the wall in qualifying."
"Didn't you get three other race wins and multiple podiums that season?"
"Not the point, the point is-well, actually, that kind of is the point." Max frowned, drawing another bit of laughter from George. "Shut up. The point is that I was able to get those wins and podiums because I moved the fuck on. Yes, I fucked up what was a guaranteed podium and a fight for a win off a stupid mistake. I cost myself and the team valuable points, I got an earful from everyone about it, and the media was more than happy to crucify me. I felt like shit, but wallowing in my own self-pity wasn't going to do shit, so I moved on and got a podium the next race.
He remembered that weekend well, primarily because it hadn't gone much better for him, with him ending up in the wall in the feature and sprint race, setting his championship fight back. He also remembered winning the next feature race and massively closing the gap to Alex and Lando, so maybe Max did have an actual point.
"You're a good driver, George, so don't get so caught up in this crash that you forget that."
His voice was gently, barely above a whisper, eyes sincere in a way that George didn't think Max had ever been with him. He was also much closer, the gap between them shrinking without George realizing it.
His tongue unconsciously swiped across his bottom lip, a nervous habit. Max's gaze dropped to his lips following the movement, eyes darkening with an interest that didn't take him much to figure out.
Max's thumb dropped lower, slowly tracing his lips. His breath caught in his throat.
Max leaned closer. George didn't move away.
The gentlest brush of lips.
The balcony door slid open. "There you boy are!" a familiar called, voice cutting through the tension. "We've been looking everywhere for you-Oh."
Christian Horner stood in the doorway with Andrew Shovlin hovering not far behind him, hand resting on the now unlocked handle. Two minutes earlier, and George would have been overjoyed to see them and escape the confinement of this damn balcony, but right now, with the ghost of Max's lips still lingering on his, they were by far the last thing he wanted to see.
"Are we interrupting something here?' Horner asked, stepping out onto the balcony, though the look on his face conveyed a pretty good assumption of what exactly they'd been about to do.
Max cursed, head dropping till his forehead pressed against George's. He took a deep breath, looking two seconds away from violently murdering his own team principal.
"No, not at all." George sighed, lightly pressing a hand against Max's chest. The Dutchmen reluctantly obliged, shifting back and allowing George to rise to his feet. Max stood, grabbed the discarded vodka bottle, and walked towards the door. "Max was just helping me...get something out of my eye." he lied, though he doubted either of them really believed it.
"Good," Horner smiled, gesturing for them to hurry up, "since we all have important flights to catch, and we can't afford to get...distracted." That he aimed purely at Max, eyes trained fully on his driver.
Max rolled his eyes, slipping past Horner and Shovlin, ignoring the comment, and making a beeline for the bathroom, muttering something about getting packed.
"Um, George, can you wait in the hallway for a second? I need to talk to Christian about something." Andrew asked.
"Sure," he nodded, exiting the room with another lingering look toward the bathroom. He paused, making sure to grab his jacket from the sofa.
The second he's out of the hotel room, he takes what he feels like his first breath, leaning against the wall, fingers tracing his lips. The feeling of Max's thumb brushing over his lips still fresh in his mind.
Shov's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. "Our flight leaves in about an hour and a half, and we have about a forty-minute ride to the airport, and I've already called the car. Do you want to get changed now or when we arrive?" He asks, walking past George, eyes glued to the phone in his hand.
"Airport seems easier," he answered, falling into step beside him.
"And you remembered to set aside a change off-"
"Clothes out of my suitcases and set them aside." George finished right as they arrived outside the elevator. "You know this isn't my first flight. I do know what I'm doing."
"Is that why you have two coats?" Shov asked, leaning in to press the elevator button, sending a pointed look his way.
"What?" He frowned, confused.
Andrew reached out, tugging at the arm of a black jacket he'd forgotten was still hanging on his shoulder. Max's jacket, the one he'd given him on the balcony to try and comfort him before he'd nearly kissed him.
"Oh," he said, shrugging the jacket off, carefully folding it on top of his own. The elevator dinged, doors sliding open beside him. Andrew stepped in.
But he can't just leave this how it is. Who knows what this will be when they arrive in Japan, when they're back to being nothing more than a Mercedes and Red Bull driver. No, he needs to know what this is now, and this jacket is a chance to do that.
"George?" Andrew questioned when he didn't follow him into the elevator.
George presses a hand to the side of the wall, forcing the elevator to stay open. "Shov, I know we're on a tight schedule already, but I really need to return this." It's a stupid reason he knows; a jacket isn't close to noteworthy enough to risk missing his flight.
Shov sighed, removing his glasses and pressing his fingers into his eyelids. "I need to call and update Toto about something that happened today. You have ten minutes until I need you downstairs and in the car, okay?"
George nodded emphatically. Ten minutes was more than he realistically needed to return a jacket, but he understood what Andrew meant. Ten minutes to go and deal with whatever this thing between him and Max was. "Ten minutes." he reiterated, turning and rushing back to Max's hotel room.
It takes three knocks for Horner to open the door, a puzzled expression on his face. "George, shouldn't you be on your way to the airport?"
"I had something I needed to return to Max." Horner looks unconvinced, which, given his comment earlier about him being a distraction, isn't surprising. "It's important."
"Fine." he relents, stepping out of the way to let George back into the hotel room. "But we do actually have to leave soon, so make it quick, please."
He nods, quickly moving past Horner and down to Max's room, knocking first before pushing the door open.
Max is standing near the foot of the bed, half turned towards the door, in a partial state of undress. He's in the middle of undoing his dress shirt, belt, and zipper undone, leaving his pants hanging dangerously low on his hips. George's mouth goes dry, eyes glued to Max.
He can feel Max's eyes watching him, waiting for him to do anything but stand in his doorway, staring at his partially undressed state like a creep.
"Christian, let me in." he rushes to explain, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, trying to regain some semblance of self-control and stop acting like some hormone-ridden teenager experiencing a crush for the first time.
George held out the jack, still neatly draped over his hand, earning a raised eyebrow in response, a silent question. "Your suit jacket." he clarified, fully stepping into the room and letting the door shut behind him. "I forgot to give it back." He stepped closer, progressively closing the gap between them till he and Max were face to face.
Max accepted the jacket, carefully placing it on his bed next to his open suitcase. "Thanks, but you know you could have returned it in Japan," he said, studying George. The tension in his shoulder, the nervousness showing in his restless movement. "Unless you had something else you needed to do here?"
George stood straighter, letting his eyes drift to Max's lips. He could still feel the phantom touch, the ghost of a kiss still on his lips. The question was rhetorical, of course. They both knew why he was there.
But, actually standing here with Max in front of him, trying to take control and make the first move, he could feel the nerves creeping in; questions of what people would think filling his mind. He was already sure that Horner and Shov clearly suspected something after what they saw on the balcony, and he hadn't really decided how he felt about that. How would he feel if others knew about this? Was there even a this to worry about? Was there even a thing between them? Did Max even want that? Did he? George looked away, taking a step back. "Sorry, I should probably."
"You overthink so fucking much, princess," Max said, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him closer, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.
And despite the rough initiation, the kiss itself is gentle, like Max was holding back, worried George would scare off. But at this moment, he couldn't find a reason to care what anyone else thought; all he cared about right now was the feel of Max's lips against his.
He melted into the kiss, letting Max back him against the nearest wall. He could feel Max's hand wandering, fingers deftly working to undo his shirt, hand exploring his bare skin. Lips trail down his neck, drawing a breathy moan from his lips. "Fuck," he gasps, feeling Max's knee force its way between his legs, pressing against his crotch.
A knock at the door interrupts them. "Max, I've called the car. It'll be here in about 10 minutes, so make sure you've finished packing."
"Okay," Max responds, and George revels in how rough his voice is, the fact that Max sounds as disheveled as he feels and that he's the one who caused that slight slip in control.
Max stopped, letting his forehead rest on George's shoulder. "I should finish packing," he mumbles, pressing another light kiss to his neck.
"And I need to get back to Shov." George sighed in response, more than sure his ten minutes were up, though neither of them made any move to separate.
"This-" he started, drawing Max's attention back up. "Anything starting between up is a bad idea, right?"
"You are," Max says, leaning in to press another kiss to his lips, "the absolute worst idea I've ever had, princess."
George hummed into the kiss, half tempted to ignore Horner and drag Max back to the bed.
Another knock came to the door. "A reminder, boys, that we are all going to the same place and that you live in the same country. Hurry up so we don't all miss our seven-hour flights."
And like if summoned, George felt his phone go off in his back pocket. Ten minutes were definitely up.
"When this weekend is over, you are coming to my place, and we are continuing this where we can't be interrupted."
"Mhh, I think I might be busy that whole week." George joked, attempting to slip out of Max's arm.
The hands on his waist tighten their hold, dragging him back. "Please don't test my patience, princess. I'm already at my limit." Max growled, teeth digging into his collarbone.
"You are really making it hard to leave." George gasped, fingers threading through Max's hair.
Max hummed, trailing kisses up his neck, teeth grazing his throat.
"Max."
He ignores him, hands dipping lower, grabbing at George's ass.
"Okay, that's enough." George gasps, pushing Max back. He took a second, steadying his breath and fixing his clothes. "We will never get out of here if you keep doing that, and we are not doing anything with Horner out there.
"I will see you in Japan," he says, opening the door and stepping out. Max frowns but lets him go, reluctantly returning to his packing.
"Uh-"
"Just go." Christian sighs, waving his away, not even looking up from the book in his hand.
-
Shovlin was leaning against the side of the car, still tapping away at his phone, only looking up when he heard George approaching. "Ten minutes." Shov reminds him, pulling the car door open.
"The elevator was slow."
"You're fifteen minutes late."
"It also had to make a lot of stops." George shrugged, climbing into the driver's seat.
"And yet that still didn't give you enough time to fix yourself." Shov retorted, climbing in after him.
He paused, looking down, confused. George could swear he'd fixed his clothes before he left Max's room. He'd buttoned his shirt, hadn't missed any, and while messy, he had tucked his shirt back in.
Shov reached out, adjusting the rearview mirror to show him what he meant, the two glaring hickeys blotting his neck.
"So," Shov asked, watching his head fall against the steering wheel. "You and Max?"
"No, nope, we are not talking about that." he refused, stating the car and peeling off. "We can talk about the track expectations or sim data for the rest of this weekend, just anything but that."
"Well, that'll be difficult, given I've already told Toto and some of the mechanics, and I believe Lewis."
"Shov!"