Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Emma had always known. She’d always known the ending of every story before it even began, she’d always known the answer, the solution. And yet she’d always let it play out, let the world take its own course. When George had decided to stay at Mercedes instead of looking for another contract, she’d been less than happy. But she’d stayed quiet, kept her mouth shut, because it wasn’t her fight. It never had been. And now, she was standing outside his door, unsure whether he was dead or depressed.

She knocked, not hesitant, never hesitant, but with less confidence than usual. It felt wrong, it felt like she was checking on someone who’d simply given up. Emma tucked a strand of her blonde hair back into its braid, foot tapping nervously as she waited. She eventually heard something shift inside, and then a crash. George eventually opened the door, his posture slumped, as if he’d stopped caring. Emma stared back, green eyes questioning, burning with fire.

“Your hair looks like shit.” Emma told him, pushing her way into the apartment.

“I was not expecting a 13 year old doctor at my door. So my apologies if I don’t look runway ready.” George shot back sarcastically. Emma gave him half a smile, her gaze still fixed on the birds’ nest that was his hair.

“The press wants a statement.” Emma said calmly, slowly guiding George to the couch.

“How ‘bout fuck off? Is that good enough for them?” He replied with a cold laugh. Emma grimaced, shook her head, then made her way to the bathroom.

“George! Your place is a shitshow!” Emma yelled, already making a mental list of things to fix and buy.

“I fucking know that!” George shouted back. Emma reemerged from the bathroom, holding a comb and a tub of hair gel.

“Look, I know this is difficult, but I took a day out of my very busy schedule to come here and fix you and it’s going to start with a proper hairstyle.”

“Em, I can’t.” George replied, his voice thin, maybe even scared. Ever since Mercedes had entered contract talks with Max, Max Verstappen, of all people, George hadn’t been himself. He hadn’t won races, he hadn’t had the same hunger to get out there and be better. To be the best. Hell, he hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the last time Emma had barged in like this.

“George Russell, I don’t care if Max does pick Mercedes, which he won’t, he loves Red Bull too much to make the right choice. You have media tomorrow, and you cannot show up looking like a defeated ghost. You cannot show up looking dead. I will not allow that. And to be honest, I don’t give a shit about you, or Mercedes, but without you on that track, Max won’t drive faster, and if he won’t drive faster, Oscar will win the championship unchallenged. And no one wants McLaren to win anything.” Emma looked him dead in the eyes, her gaze suddenly cold and unforgiving.

George just nodded, slightly, and Emma went to work attacking the curls that he’d let get so out of hand. “Mercedes offered me a contract a month ago.” George whispered as Emma combed through the knotted curls of his light brown hair. She stopped for a second, hands stilling, eyes sparkling with something like interest. Not true interest, because she knew what came next, she just didn’t know how he’d say it. “I turned it down. I told them that they could make me a better offer than that. I told them that they NEEDED to make me a better offer than that,” he hesitated, “And now they have half the grid fighting for my seat.” Emma stayed silent, her hands resuming their work in his hair.

Thirty minutes of awkward silence later, and Emma was pretty sure she’d gotten George’s hair to look slightly more presentable. “Ok, now, you need new clothes.” Emma declared, pulling out her phone.

“You’re ordering new clothes for me online? How much more pathetic can I get?” George joked, running a hand through his hair, much to Emma’s annoyance.

“I’m calling my driver, you idiot. I’m 13 years old, how the fuck am I supposed to get from point A to point B without at least one phone call?” Emma said as she clicked around the screen.

“Since when do you have a driver?” George asked, “You do realize I could just drive, right?”

“I don’t pay my driver 5 million a year just so I can never use him.” Emma shot back. She held the phone up to her ear, motioning at George to shut up. “Hi, I need you to meet me in 5 minutes.” She paused, listening, “No, I don’t care that you’re a 10 minute drive away, I said to meet me in 5 minutes and you will.” George stifled a laugh as he watched Emma fight with her driver.

When Emma finally hung up the phone, George spoke up, “Em, your driver can’t defy the laws of physics no matter how much you yell at him.” Emma glared for a second, before silently pulling a notepad out of her pocket.

“Ok, so, what all do you need?” She asked, already starting the list.

“Em, I have clothes, I have to wear the Mercedes shit anyway.” George replied. Emma pointedly ignored him, muttering a few German words under her breath.

“Sieht es so aus, als ob es mich interessiert?"

“Em, you can’t just swear in German when you’re pissed at me.” George said.

“I’m not swearing,” Emma told him, she paused, putting away her pen, “Okay, so, we need to buy; new cologne, new dress shirts, new tennis shoes, more food, and more shampoo.”

“Emma, I have cologne, dress shirts, shoes, shampoo, and you just brought food.” George reasoned, once again messing up his hair.

Emma glared, “Your cologne sucks, you forgot to iron your dress shirts and I’m not going to do it for you, I’m pretty sure you don’t remember the last time you bought new shoes, you can never have enough food in stock, and your shampoo brand is just… Not.”

George groaned, but let Emma drag him out of the apartment. They met her driver at the valet pickup of George’s hotel room 7 minutes later. “You’re 2 minutes late.” Emma stated, punctuating the words with a dramatic sigh and a rather pointed glance at the Rolex sparkling on her wrist.

“Ms. Grant, my apologies. I would’ve arrived sooner if not for the policeman who pulled me to the side of the road for speeding.” The driver apologized, his tone slightly nervous and his hands flexing around the steering wheel. Emma paused for a second, and decided to stay silent for the time being. George had a sneaking suspicion that there may have been much more of a scene had he not been there.

Emma opened the door to the back seat, practically shoving George into the car. She followed him, slamming the door in her wake. “Ok, so first we’re going to the barber. You need a shave, and possibly a haircut.”

“Em, I do NOT need a haircut. This is just how my hair always looks. Second, I am capable of shaving on my own.” George argued, quickly buckling his seatbelt as the car sped away.

“George, I am sure that you are capable of shaving, I’m just not so sure you will. And also, if that’s how your hair always looks, your stylist must be fucking jesus christ himself because I do not recall ever seeing your hair look this bad.” Emma said. She was halfway through rebraiding her hair, whilst simultaneously taking another phone call. “Hoi. Wat wil je in godsnaam Max?”

George turned to look out the window, while Emma argued in Dutch with who he presumed to be Max. “Zeg ze gewoon dat ze moeten opzouten,” He heard her say. George didn’t really understand it, but he could tell from Emma’s tone that she was frustrated, but not with Max. It was something he’d figured out in the 6 months since he first met the young prodigy. She often spoke languages he didn’t understand, so he ended up guessing the meaning through pitch and hand gestures.

Emma eventually hung up, turning to George expectantly. “Well?” She asked, as if that meant anything. George saw her eyes soften just a little, almost emotion, almost weakness.

“What do you mean ‘Well,’?” George shot, his eyes narrowing. It was more defensive than anything else, after so many years of the harsh media, every question felt like an attack.

“Are you gonna let me take you to the hair salon? Or are you just gonna sit there looking like a defeated rat that’s lost the will to live?” Emma said. She’d never been one for kind words. She got to the point, the blunt truth. Maybe that’s why she and Max got on so well. The two of them were so truthful, so harsh, so blunt, it always felt like an attack, a threat. It was a thing that made George fear Max and depend on Emma.

“Fine, just no buzz cuts.” George said, turning away from her. He couldn’t let her see the expression that had taken over his face at the harsh words. He could hear Max’s voice in his head, “You’re no one, nothing, you’ll never be enough. I’m the best, I’ve already proven then, but you? You’ll always be the kid who couldn’t fill the shoes of Lewis Hamilton.” He flinched just remembering the words in his head. Max believed it. Hell, maybe I do too. He never wasted breath on lies. And maybe I don’t waste time denying them anymore. He ran a hand through his hair again, earning another glare from Emma.

“George, Max Verstappen is the least of your problems right now.” Emma said, reading his mind, “He’ll still win everything this year, but he won’t take your seat at Mercedes. He’ll drag the negotiations out till the last second, use the contract offers from Mercedes to drag a better car out of Red Bull, but he won’t sign on that dotted line. Not for any team that doesn’t wear the colors of navy blue and red, most definitely not for Mercedes.”

George glared at her for perhaps too long. Then, his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket with a defeated sigh, checking the screen. He’d expected Toto, or maybe a reporter, but he did not expect the name “Verstappen” written across the home screen. Fuck, he cursed, his head already spinning. He couldn’t not answer it, that would make him a coward, but he had no fucking idea what to say once he did answer it. What would Max say, if he saw George now. What would he think? Nothing good, George thought, shaking his head. He hesitantly hit the green button, nervously holding the phone up to his ear. “Hey, what do you want?” He asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Hello, Max, how are you? Oh yes, I’m very well thank you. To what do I owe the not so pleasure of this call? Ah yes, I wanted to help you out with your contract negotiations. No, none of that? Come on, George. I thought you were the nice one between the two of us.” Max joked, clearly not in the least bit annoyed. Which was unusual, considering Max was always annoyed about something.

“I save those conversations for people who have decent things to say,” George growled into the phone. His jaw clenched slightly, enough for Emma to notice as she watched him intently.

“I do have decent things to say. I want to help you with your contract.” Max replied easily, a hint of annoyance now finally creeping into his tone.

“What do you mean help me?” George asked, his voice raising maybe a little too hopefully.

“I don’t want you to leave Mercedes. I want you in the fastest car possible–at your best, because anything else doesn’t really count. I’m okay with racing if my opponent wants to be there.” He paused, “George, you think I can’t drive faster? I can, and I would, except that I can’t. Every goddamn time Oscar is right fucking in front of me, I just can’t. Not when it should’ve been you. Not like that, George. Never like that. Because that’s not a fight worth fighting anymore.” Max finished. George could almost see the way Max was most likely glaring right then.

He bit his lip, “I don’t need your pity, Verstappen,” He quipped.

“It’s not pity. I just hate seeing you like this. When you first joined Mercedes, you wanted to race, not just race, but win. And now you’re a broken shell of the driver I used to respect, admire, even.” Max hissed.

George supposed that Max Verstappen getting pissed off while trying to help someone was to be expected. After all, seeing headlines about Max’s most recent flip out was about as common as hearing the Dutch anthem on Sundays. “I don’t need you,” George whispered, his voice betraying him with a slight tremble.

“We’ll argue about that later, then. But for now, let’s just say that I need you. Ok?” Max’s voice came through, not desperate, but real in a way that it never was. “If you want to keep your contract, meet me at the Starbucks a block away from your hotel at 3:00.” And with that, he hung up.

George froze, his hand still gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned pale. He glanced at Emma, as if searching for answers. “What the fuck was that?” He almost screamed. But he didn’t, he whispered the words, under his breath.

“That was Max’s best version of ‘concerned rival’.” Emma replied easily, barely glancing up from her phone. Her foot tapped on the floor impatiently, as if waiting for something she’d never wanted.

“Right. Haircut. Wouldn’t want to give Max any more material.” George said as he finally noticed that they’d parked. Oh, so that was what Emma was waiting for. He quickly pushed the door open, avoiding Emma’s quick glare as the sun hit him.

They walked together into the barber shop, which smelled like some cologne that probably cost more than George’s entire year’s salary. Gold streaked the marble floors, as well as trimming the edges of every surface and the baseboards. A glass fountain sprayed sapphire blue water in a, you guessed it, golden base.

A young man walked out from behind the counter to greet them, or rather, Emma. “Em! You’re back!” He said in a slightly southern accent. The man’s green eyes matched Emma’s, and his cropped, blonde, hair had the same pure glow as hers, so it didn’t take George long to put two and two together.

“That’s your brother?” He asked, eyeing Emma with a look that perhaps wasn’t the friendliest. She glared back, offering the slightest nod.

“George, this is Carter. Carter, this is George. He drives for Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team. Which is not nearly as exciting as the name suggests.” Emma paused, glancing at George as if to check whether or not that was an okay introduction before continuing, “He’s been silently destroying his mental state for the past few weeks, and with it, his hair.”

“Ah, I see.” Carter said, circling George like a vulture would a carcass, “Well, nothing a little trim can’t fix.”

“Keep in mind that you're seeing this after about 30 minutes of me combing through his hair,” Emma commented. She flashed a smile, rare, for a girl like her. If Oscar Piastri was robotic, then Emma was literally dead inside.

George let her drag him to a chair, though he doubted that he could’ve resisted even if he’d tried. “Just, please don’t do anything too drastic.” He begged as Carter smirked. 15 minutes later, he hadn’t, in fact, ended up with a buzz cut, but rather, a much better version of his original hairstyle.

“Carter Grant, at your service,” Carter said, stepping back with a bow. George honestly had nothing bad to say, and he wasn’t about to give Emma another reason to gloat about. He arranged his mouth into a very PR approved smile, got up, and walked out of the barber shop before he could do something ridiculous like cry.

“George!” Emma called, running after him. She caught him pretty quickly, seeing as he wasn’t exactly running away.

“Why, fuck, WHY, Em, did you have to bring me to your brother’s barber shop?” George cursed, whipping around to glare at Emma, his eyes cold but steady. “You bring me to your perfect brother. Rich, talented, it’s like an insult, Em. It’s humiliating.”

“I didn’t realize you had a problem with my brother,” Emma said cooly, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t, Em, I don’t. But it just feels like insult to injury at this point.” George admitted. He ran a hand through his hair again, earning another glare from Emma.

“Look, George, I’m sorry. I really am. But let’s be honest, I’m 13 years old, there’s not many other people who would take me seriously.” Emma said. She reached out, grabbing his hand. “I know that these past few weeks haven’t been easy for you, but it hasn't exactly been a breeze for me either. Or for Max, for that matter. I’m doing my best, okay? But in the end, you’re the only one who can choose to get back on the right path. So what is it, eternal depression, and an end to your F1 career, or are you going to let me do this for you so that you look like someone worth Max’s help?”

George froze, pulling his hand out of Emma’s grip. “Fuck it,” He muttered. It wasn’t anger, just acceptance. “Where to next?”

Emma smirked, “Finally, George Russell is one step closer to being human again.” She led him back to the car, showing the driver the map on her phone.

The trees raced past in a blur, the scenery fading into specks of color. George missed it, the rush of wind, the shove of the G forces. But more than that, he missed the champagne. The parties afterwards when he got to witness Max letting himself go for just a few hours. He missed the feeling of freedom that came from it all.

“George, it’s not over.” Emma whispered, her gaze fixing on him. He blinked at her, confused. Her eyes held something else, this time. Warmth, care, more like hot coals than the dumpster fire that usually burned behind her gaze.

“It sure as hell feels like it.” He said, hands gripping the jeans that he’d put on to make himself look presentable before opening the door for Emma.

Emma opened the door of the car, stepping out into the ridiculously overpriced shopping center as if all the problems in the world had faded. Because that was simply what she did. She tucked everything away into a quiet little corner where she could unpack it all later. George followed her out, composing himself just enough to look whole again.

And then he saw it. The tiny flower growing through a crack in the black top. It brought him back to Sao Paulo, the first time he’d ever stood on the top step of the podium. The first time he’d been undeniably the best. His breath hitched, and he stopped in his tracks. Carmen had bought him flowers that day, lavender, mixed into a bouquet of white roses. Suddenly, the world didn’t feel like it was drowning him anymore. Somehow, a tiny purple flower was enough to drag him back from the depths of hell.

“Em.” He said quietly, “Thank you.”

Emma gave him a look, then glanced down at the flower. “It was always you, George. You are the only one who did this. You are the only one who is capable of doing this for yourself.” She told him, pulling him into a hug. They didn’t speak for a while, until the car slowly rolled to a stop, and Emma broke the silence. “Now, let’s make you presentable for Max Verstappen, shall we?”

The next few hours went by in a blur, Emma had dragged him into several cologne stores, and they eventually settled on a scent from Tom Ford that probably cost more than the average house. Then, they’d visited just about every clothing store in Europe as Emma completely rearranged George’s wardrobe.

Finally, as they exited the mall, George let out a sigh of relief. “So, does that mean I’ve successfully returned to being human?” He asked playfully, shooting Emma a glance.

“I don’t know, it all depends on how it goes with Max.” She replied stoically, even though a hint of a smile made its way onto her lips.

“Ah, but he will be bewitched by the paycheck I’ve just spent on cologne.” George shot back. It felt natural, normal even, the way they talked. It was as if the world hadn’t been broken just that morning, as if the twisted knot that was his Mercedes contract wasn’t tearing him down, brick by brick.

“We’ll see,” Emma said. She pulled out her phone again, jumping when she saw the time light up on the home screen. “Oh, shit! You have 10 minutes to go meet Max!”

“Ah, fuck,” George cursed underneath his breath. Not good, not good at all. Before he knew it, he was in the car with another one of Emma’s drivers. Why did she need so many? It didn’t matter, because he ended up at Starbucks with one minute to spare.

Max was already there, surprisingly, not in a Red Bull shirt. Actually, George didn’t even know Max owned anything remotely close to the outfit he was currently in. But Max still looked surprisingly Max in a black sweatshirt and jeans. “Well, well, well. The man of the hour.” He said, standing up and shaking George’s hand. Still acting like Max too. George thought.

“You shoulda seen me this morning.” George told him as he internally thanked God for letting Max be in a good mood. Max laughed, genuinely laughed.

The air shifted slightly, and Max’s gaze shifted downwards slightly. “Can’t have been worse than me this morning.” Max quietly after a long pause, as if he was hiding something. Well, shit. George froze, instinctively reaching out. And then he froze again, realizing that this was Max Verstappen in front of him. His hand quickly snapped back to his side.

Max laughed, “It’s fine, George. I just saw my dad again this morning. He’s trying to get me to take the Mercedes contract.” Something about the way the sentence flowed, the way Max’s fingers dug into the tablecloth, told George it wasn’t “nothing”, but he let it slide, for now. Even if Jos Verstappen was never nothing, even if George so desperately wanted to reach out.

“Speaking of contracts,” George started, then trailed off. He didn’t really know how to finish that sentence. Anything more might come off as desperate, and anything too short could just be careless.
It was Max’s turn to let the hesitation slide. “George, mate, calm down. Why don’t we order drinks before I have to call 911 because you ‘overbreathed’, if that’s even a thing.”

And so they did. Max flagged down a waitress, which wasn’t exactly hard when you had the ego of a 4 time world champion. She looked young, mid-teens, probably, but at least she didn’t recognize either of them. “What can I get for you?” She asked, unaware of the turmoil currently settling down in both their lives.

“Water,” Max said simply, as if it were the only thing on the menu.

George hesitated, “Erm… A latte?” He said stupidly. No doubt Max would give him shit about it later, but there weren’t really any words coming to mind right then.

When the waitress left, Max turned to him, with the Max Verstappen equivalent of a “jumping up and down laughing hard enough to choke” expression on his face. “Is that how you always order?” He asked with a slight shake of his head.

“What was I supposed to do? You threw me off with your ordering of water at a coffee shop.” George argued, although he wasn’t truly mad.

“I don’t know, order?” Max said, “A few more words and you would’ve had a decent sentence.”

“It’s not that simple,” George shot, unable to stop himself from laughing.

“It literally is. Watch,” Max stopped, composed himself. Then, in an admittedly decent impression of George, “A latte, please.”

George, who was dying of laughter by this point, just shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Mate, you asked me to come here.” He managed between bouts of laughter.

“Yeah, ‘cause Starbucks is the only place that doesn’t let the idiots from Netflix film us.” Max explained. And everything shifted again. Such a simple sentence, and yet it was everything that had torn them apart in the first place.

“Mate…” George’s voice trailed off. He twisted the fabric of his jeans in his hand, doing his best not to reach out and do something stupid like grab Max’s hand.

Max gave a half hearted laugh. “I know,” He muttered, “what an amazing life we live.” They sat in silence until the drinks came, the tension in the air between them palpable.

Max grabbed his water from the waitress as if she were intruding on the most tender moment of his entire life. Although, now that George thought about it, that might’ve truly been the most emotion Max had ever shown to anyone. George thanked the waitress for the both of them, just in case Max ever regretted the silent yelling later.

“I don’t want the Mercedes contract,” Max said bluntly, fingers gripping the glass tightly.

“What do you mean?” George asked. Emma had told him the same thing several times, and he’d never believed it.

“George, mate, I couldn’t do that to you. I should be replacing Kimi anyways. You’re the one getting that shitbox they call a race car on a podium, you’re the one winning. Life is unfair sometimes, but I do my best to keep it even.” Max whispered, his eyes betraying the true meaning of those words.

I don’t want the contract, but my father does. I don’t want to do this to you, but my father does. I’m sorry, George, but I have to do this to you. George heard that underneath Max’s words, the truth, bitter, real. Max’s eyes softened slightly, the icy blue melting away slowly to a warm flame.

The silence stretched between them, building the bridge that had been broken since before they’d even noticed it crumbling. “Max, just take the contract.” George finally broke the silence. His eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them back. He couldn’t cry here, not in front of Max, not in front of the world. The truth was, Max deserved that contract. Max had won four world championships, Max had proved himself worthy of a Mercedes contract. George had stood by idly and let him.

“No,” Max replied sharply. His eyes hardened again, the momentary weakness gone, “I won’t. I can’t let them win.”

“Max, they’ve already won. You may not see it, but they have.” George said, grinding his teeth against the edge of his glass, “and the RB21 is worse than any car Mercedes has ever made, so you’ve got no excuse this time.” George knew he was closing up again, deflecting the truth with another awful joke. He just didn’t care. He could cry later, when he wasn’t in the company of a 4 time world champion.

“Tractor racing is still a fun sport,” Max offered. Apparently George wasn’t the only one who’d shown too much emotion for one day. Max suddenly froze, his eyes narrowing. His gaze was aimed over George’s shoulder. Any passerby might’ve thought Max was simply daydreaming, but as George turned around, he knew that it wasn’t quite so simple.

Jos Verstappen was walking slowly up the sidewalk, his eyes fixed on his son. There was something about the way he held himself that told George Jos wasn’t just dropping by to say hello. Each step was heavy, purposeful, as if he were going to burn the world down. And he might've been.

“Dad,” Max said, his voice tight. Jos gave a nod, extending his hand to George. To his credit, George ignored it, eyes instead turning to Max. Max’s jaw was clenched so tightly George was sure he would simply shatter his mouth. The man’s eyes had turned dull, emotionless, as if they were simply part of a badly painted mask.

“Max, we need to talk.” Jos said, dropping his hand to his side. Father and son were glaring at each other with an intensity Max usually reserved for anyone who finished above him on the podium.

“No, we don’t,” Max replied. George could hear the forced calm in the driver’s voice, each word laced with bitterness., “I’m not taking the Mercedes contract, and this is the last time we’ll talk about it.”

Several things all happened at once. Jos lunged at his son, knocking Max sideways off his chair. Simultaneously, George jumped up to defend Max, shoving Jos halfway across the room. Meanwhile, Max laid on the ground, either unable or unwilling to get back up.

George stood, hands shaking from the adrenaline. He knelt down beside Max, hesitating once again to touch him. “Max, are you alright?” George asked, his hand finally finding a place on Max’s arm. He was well aware that everyone in the place was staring at them, judging them.

Max was trembling underneath his touch, blood spilling down his forearm where the glass had shattered against soft skin. He considered lying, getting up, pretending none of it affected him. But he couldn’t. George would’ve seen straight through that mask, straight through the fog that made everything about Max blurry. When Max finally spoke, it was real, for the first time since he’d learned that how he really was didn’t matter. “No,” He whispered. The silence that followed felt heavy, like it was trying to mask the scene which had unfolded just moments before.

George didn’t say anything; he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never known Max to not be okay, never known the man lying on the floor before him to be anything other than fine. He pulled Max into his arms. He felt Max tense beneath his touch momentarily, then almost melt into George’s arms. George could feel every bone in Max’s body, every joint was ridged, as if sculpted into sharp peaks. He suddenly realized how much Max was hiding, how much Max had silently suffered. How many times had he stood in front of the media, cursing everything Max had ever done? Saying that the world champion had never had to work for anything, that he didn’t deserve the titles, the wins, that they’d all been handed to him. How many times had he done that?

“I’m sorry," George murmured. He tightened his arms around Max, as if shielding him from the world. He didn’t care anymore how many people were staring at them anymore. He didn’t care if this would make some great headlines the next day. He’d stopped caring the moment Jos had walked in–the moment the air had turned still.

Chapter Text

George eventually lifted Max off of the floor, carrying him down the street and into the nearest hotel he could find. Max wasn’t exactly light, so such actions were quite a struggle. George knew that his back would regret it later, but that wasn’t the pressing matter at the time. The room smelled too harsh, too bright. So ignorant of its occupants.

“Max, mate, it’s okay. You’re safe.” George whispered in Max’s ear. He gently laid Max down on the bed, ignoring the voice in his head telling him how dirty the sheets were going to get.

Max stared up at him, eyes empty, as if someone had stolen his soul and shredded it into so many pieces it would never be able to reform. “All I ever wanted was for him to be proud of me,” Max said quietly, voice shaking, “I’ve won world championships, I’ve dragged the metal box Red Bull calls a F1 car to race wins, what is there left to do?” he paused, curling in on himself as if the air might attack him, “Do I have to sell my body, my mind? Do I have to destroy myself until I’m only a shell of the 4 year old boy who used to dream of this? Because I will, George. No matter how far I have to go, all I’ll ever want is my father’s approval.”

George grabbed Max’s hand, as if that could do anything. “For what it’s worth, I approve of you,” he said. And he meant it. No one should ever have to work that hard for their parents to love them–a father should always love his son, no matter what.

Max laughed bitterly. He grabbed George’s shirt collar, jerking the Mercedes driver down onto the bed. “Do you really?” He asked. George opened his mouth to respond, but Max swallowed his words in a harsh kiss. The world champion kissed like he raced, like he was fighting for something. George just let him, letting go of Max’s hand to pull his head closer.

When they eventually separated, both of them panting from lack of oxygen, George was dying of laughter. “Really? Approval is the only thing Max Verstappen needs from someone before he’s falling head over heels?” He mocked, immediately regretting it.

“I think you’ll find you approve more than you think in a second.” Max growled in his ear, eyes now sparkling with a renewed vigour. He spun both of them until George was under him. Max’s hands, now suddenly finding their purpose, pinned George’s shoulders into the bed. The younger man was bucking under him, desperate for something real. But Max wasn’t that kind of guy, and by the time both of them had stripped, he had still barely touched George.

“Max,” George pleaded, voice half cracking. Max just laughed, stroking a hand lightly up George’s now achingly hard cock. George arched into his hand, his entire body twisting at the featherlight touch.

“Patience is a virtue, George” Max teased, his hand now moving more purposefully. George bit back a moan, teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. And suddenly Max’s mouth was around his cock. George couldn’t hold back this time, cries escaping his lips unbidden as Max took him deeper and deeper into his mouth.

“Max! Please!” He yelled, hands fisting Max’s hair. He could feel his orgasm building, the warmth curling in the base of his stomach. Max felt it too, and a few seconds later, he pulled off. “Max!” George cried out, whimpering at the sudden loss.

“Like I said, patience is a virtue.” Max said, tone almost even enough to hide his own arousal. He muffled George’s complaint with another kiss, and another, until they were lost in each other’s mouths. George writhed underneath Max’s touch, his body pliant, like a ball of clay. The two twisted in the sheets for hours, each chasing something they didn’t even know they wanted. It was a vicious battle, with Max dominating all the way through.

In the aftermath, George lay in Max’s arms, melting into him. Max still hadn’t let him come, even after having fucked him open and basically crippling him for all eternity. George was pretty sure there was some kind of trauma hidden behind that, and he was perfectly fine with Max taking advantage of him for it. In fact, he was more than fine with it, not that he would ever tell that to Max.

“George,” Max whispered, “do you still approve?” The question didn’t feel heavy, not like the rest of the day had. It was almost a joke, and even if George knew better than to believe it meant that Max was okay.

“Does it look like I approve,” George asked, gesturing down at his aching cock.

“Yes,” Max replied, pulling George closer into his chest, “Now go to sleep,” And with that, the last rays of sunlight set over the horizon, leaving the two completely alone in their little bubble. George settled for a moment, before jerking back up, eyes wide with fear.

“Fuck, Max, did you lock the door?” George asked, scrambling up from Max’s arms.

Max sat up, pulling George back into him, “Yes, schat, you locked the door several hours ago,” he smirked, “and even if you hadn’t, don’t you think that now might be just a little too late?” He dragged George with him as he flopped back down onto the bed, flinging an arm lazily over his back.

“It’s never too late to lock a door,” George pouted, burying his face in Max’s neck.

Max just huffed a laugh, muttering something along the lines of, “It’s too late to lock the door when hotel staff walks in,” George groaned, before finally closing his eyes and letting the darkness that had been threatening him the whole day consume him.

Max laid in the dark, feeling George’s rhythmic breathing against his chest. For the first time since he was a young boy, he didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

The next morning meant they had to go back to living life. It meant they had to repeat all the logical answers to every question that they’d been forced to memorize. It meant sitting in a room of journalists and pretending that they weren’t seconds away from a mental breakdown. George woke first, still nestled into Max’s arms. His entire body ached like he’d spent the past week swimming across the ocean. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling. For a moment he forgot about the world outside, forgot about his contract. But then he remembered Kelly.

“Fuck,” George shouted, instantly waking Max up.

“Holy shit, what?” Max yelled, jerking up and consequently throwing George off of him.

“You have a fucking girlfriend, Max.” George panicked, scrambling away.

“Relax, George. She knows,” Max said lazily, falling back under the sheets.

“What do you mean she knows?” George asked, “Did you text her last night? What did you say? ‘Oh, yeah, I’m fucking George,’?”

“She doesn’t know about us, no,” Max explained, “she knows that I’m gay.”

“So she’s just fine with dating a cheating gay guy?”

“Chill mate, she’s got another boyfriend. We’re not really dating, okay? Her parents don’t want her dating the other guy, and I don’t want to out myself to the entire world, so we just made up a little arrangement.” Max answered, his tone creeping ever so slightly towards frustration.

“So this doesn’t make me the worst person in history?” George questioned as he finally followed Max back under the sheets.

“No, schat, it doesn’t,” Max wrapped an arm over George's shoulder, effectively trapping the Mercedes driver.

They watched the sun finish its ascent over the horizon, announcing the new day with far too much energy. At this rate, they would probably be late to the press pen, or miss the interviews altogether, but neither driver truly cared. Max eventually freed himself from underneath a very boneless George and practically threw himself into the cold stream of the shower. Meanwhile George was regretting every decision he’d ever made leading up to that point. Because sometime soon, they had to walk out of that hotel room. They had to walk out of the hotel, and oh fuck would the media have a field day with that picture. He could see the headlines already, Max Verstappen and George Russell Staying in the Same Hotel: Simply a Coincidence? He groaned to himself, choosing instead to bury his face in the pillow.

Max finally got out of the bathroom, dressed in the same clothes as the day before. George’s gaze caught on the light bloodstain visible on his shirt sleeve. “You can’t wear that,” George told him, as if he were a concerned parent.

Max pressed a hand against his forearm, hissing as the cotton made contact with the partially open gash on his arm. “It’s just for now. I have to go back to my room and grab the Red Bull polo before media.” He said, his tone hardly convincing.

“You are not leaving this room with blood soaked into the sleeve of your sweatshirt. So you, Max Emilian Verstappen, are going to sit on this bed,” George paused to point down at the mattress, “while I go get your shit from whatever hotel you’re staying at this time,”

Max laughed, plopping himself down on the bed like it was his entire life’s purpose. “If you say so mother,” he said, “oh, and by the way, that hotel would be the motorhome in the middle of Red Bull hospitality.”

George paled slightly, eyes widening at the implication. “You mean I just printed myself a ticket straight into the George Russell Hate Club’s headquarters?”

Max gave a half-hearted smile, “Mate, I would help you, but my mom told me to stay here on this bed,” he gestured downwards, “until she got back with my ‘shit’,”

George silently cursed his own mouth before turning away and “storming” out of the room. It was more of an exaggerated walk, but he couldn’t really be frustrated at Max anymore, not after everything the man had been through.

George ended up taking a taxi to Red Bull hospitality. Emma wouldn’t have approved, but it wasn’t really her business anyway. He wasn’t exactly presentable either, his hair still spiked to the heavens, the clothes he’d hastily thrown on wrinkled beyond imagination.

The Red Bull hospitality was nothing like Mercedes. Mercedes never celebrated anything, decorated any building with anything other than the silver logo, or did anything remotely close to human. Red Bull, on the other hand, was quite a bit more relaxed. The buildings covered in murals, engineers juggling nuts and bolts, the entire area looked as if it’d been doused in red, yellow, and navy blue paint. But even if the place seemed cheerful, George could feel the tension settling in his bones. This was the kind of place that was happy until it wasn’t, everybody was best friends until one person failed to turn a wheel to an exact degree. Red Bull hospitality was the kind of place that knew how to put on a show.

“Russell?” George heard someone call behind him. He ignored it, kept on walking, his gaze dead set on the motorhome. He was well aware that he was turning heads with every step, he was well aware of the several mechanics who had thrown wrenches at him. He didn’t even duck, he let the cold metal crack against his skull, didn’t even flinch as he felt the blood trickling down his face. He would get hell for it later, he knew that for a fact. Max would be pissed off because he’d gotten hurt, Toto would be pissed off because the pictures wouldn’t look quite so nice, and Kimi would be upset, which was hell in its own right.

George muttered a hello to the scaffolding outside the motorhome. He didn’t know why, he just figured he might as well show some respect for whatever was keeping the roof from crushing Max at night. Whatever it was faded when George slammed the door open and back shut behind him.

The Red Bull motorhome, with its iconic wood paneling, felt too empty, too hollow without Max lurking in every corner. There was still an open can of Red Bull sitting on the table in Max’s room, half empty as if George wasn’t the only one who’d almost been late to their little meet up the previous day.

Other than the singular drink on the table, Max’s room didn’t feel anything like it’d been lived in. The bed was meticulously made, every cup in the cabinet–not that George had been snooping around–was perfectly stacked, Max’s suitcase in the corner was packed so neatly that a robot couldn’t have done a better job. The problem with the suitcase, however, was that George didn’t want to risk messing up whatever order Max had going on in there. In the end, George just grabbed the whole suitcase, writing a scrawled note to the cleaning staff to explain the sudden disappearance.

On the way out, George caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging from the wall. Dried blood formed streams down his temple, cracking with every movement. His cheekbones had received the same treatment, making him look as if he were a victim of a zombie apocalypse. He turned away, flinching at the sight.

The walk back was relatively calmer, or maybe he was simply imagining it. He ended up walking back to the hotel, Max’s suitcase in tow, because the longer it took him to get back, the longer before Max would inevitably struggle to show his concern over the blood currently defaming his face.

George stumbled through the hotel door, his arm aching from dragging the suitcase behind him. Max had cleaned himself up decently, his hair tamed by whatever he found in the bathroom, his eyes sparkling with something George didn’t think could be good. Of course, all that went straight to hell when he saw George. Max rushed across the room, moving so fast he almost slammed George into the door he’d just shut. “George, what the fuck happened?” Max asked, grabbing the suitcase and pulling George into his arms protectively.

“It’s really no big deal,” George murmured, even as tears formed in his eyes, “some people at Red bull just don’t particularly enjoy my company.” Max growled, his grip tightening around George. He didn’t say anything, but even the oxygen molecules seemed to run as everything shifted several degrees colder in Max’s wake.

Max changed in silence, pulling his Red Bull polo over his head with an anger George wasn’t sure he’d ever seen in Max before. Not even after Austria. The silence stretched for miles, engulfing the room in a calm that didn’t quite belong. Max finally broke the silence, “They’ll pay,” he whispered dangerously, “they’ll pay for every sideways glance. Mark my words George, no one and nothing will ever lay a finger on you again. I’ll make sure of it, if it’s the last thing I do.”

No one spoke for a long time. Max drove George to the Marriott hotel by the track, leaving the Mercedes driver with a loaded, “Goodbye,”.

George did his best to clean up, hissing through his teeth as he wiped the blood from his face. The cuts really weren’t too bad, just barely breaking skin. He was guessing the slightly worse one on his temple would need stitches, not that he would actually get them. George had always had a problem with needles, whether it was a doctor or a particularly angry mechanic holding them. He could unbox that trauma from that particular incident later.

By the time George finally composed himself enough to answer the questions he was sure he’d receive, he’d basically given up on the idea of media day. What was the point of it all anyway? So George picked up the phone and called Toto Wolff. A man who he’d been avoiding religiously for quite some time.

“Toto?” George’s voice broke on the second syllable, as if all the work he’d done to keep himself under control had just gone down the drain, “So… I’m not going to be able to make it to media today,”

George could almost hear Toto preparing to yell at him, “And why is that? George, Kimi always comes to these things. He always gives the right answers. Care to give me a good reason why you can’t?” the Austrian scolded harshly.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, fucking sorry.” George whispered. He was crying now, tears running openly down his cheeks. His voice was raw, broken, as if every word was too much. “Please, I can’t, not today. I’ll still race on Saturday, I swear. Please, not today.”

“Ok, fine,” Toto said with a resigned groan, “but listen, George. As far as the world is concerned, you are sick, ok? And when you talk to the press, you will sell that to the point that even I believe it.”

George let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, “Thank you, fuck, thank you.” he said, “I’m sorry,” And with that, George hung up the phone. He let himself collapse onto the bed, melting into the sheets.