Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Max Verstappen had a very reasonable emotional budget. Sixteen percent went to his family ‘cause they mattered, so they got a chunk. Six percent went to racing, because that was life. Four percent went to fitness and diet, the boring but necessary scaffolding.

Seventy-two percent went to pure, unbridled rage.

It was a free resource. Sometimes he pulled on it while driving, be it ranting at the team, the car’s shockingly piss-poor balance, the tyres fried to hell. Sometimes he yanked a little when the media asked dumb questions, because journalists liked to be dumb. And sometimes he was lucky enough to cross paths with George fucking Russell.

Princess George, as he’d been calling him since Azerbaijan 2022, had been prikkeldraad up his dick for years. George was a touch older; Max had always been faster. They hadn’t been in the same brackets since karting. 

Good fucking riddance.

If Max had been battling George instead of Charles when they were teenagers, he would’ve killed them both the first time George tried to grass him up to the stewards. Life in Formula One had been blissfully quiet until George climbed into a Mercedes and started yammering loud enough to drown out the engines.

Max took the odd chance to wind him up, of course. It got George huffing, stomping, or gloriously shouting “Verstappen!” which always made Max laugh.

In Qatar it had gone a little too far.

The 72% rage reservoir was now locked on Princess George. If thoughts could kill, Max would’ve vaporised him in the stewards’ room. George had pinched pole out from under him. He’d start ahead of Max tomorrow because he’d whined loud enough. 

Un-goddamn-believable.

Charles offered sympathy with those shallow, mirror-eyed looks. Max knew Charles got it, but nothing Charles could say would dull the burn.

He knew what would help.

“‘Oh, three-time world champion Max Verstappen should be above it all!’ ‘Max should be a role model!’ ‘Max is just like his father!’” 

Fuck ‘em. He wanted to fuck someone up.

He knew where Mercedes were staying. There were only a handful of hotels near the circuit. He didn’t have the time or patience to simmer. He strode in, calm as anything, Red Bull kit on, and asked the desk with the kindest crocodile smile for George Russell’s room. The clerk, obligingly star-struck, gave him the number.

George wasn’t the only one who knew how to schmooze for favors.

Up the lift, down the hall, fourth door on the right. He knocked like any team guy.

The door opened after a beat. Shirtless. Of course. Joggers, rubbing at his eyes, hair a mess. Max half-expected him to be in bed. Good.

“Verstappen, what on Earth ‘re’you—” George’s voice cut off, rough with sleep, quieter than normal.

Before George could finish, Max launched. He shoved him back into the room. Not brutal, he didn’t want to break anything, just the kind of shove that said don’t you dare fuck with me right now. He needed to tell George, plain and loud, not to mess with him.

George stumbled back, not nearly as far as Max had hoped. He still had the inches on Max, the quiet advantage.

“Really?” George snapped, sharp as broken glass. “You woke me up for this? Some kind of schoolyard talking-to?”

“Fuck you,” Max spat, shoving again.

This time George was ready. He caught Max by the wrists, long fingers closing around his forearms with a grip that felt small but held like a vice.

“Can’t believe this is happening right now,” George muttered, almost to himself, like Max was an annoying fly in his hotel room. 

Max squirmed. George just pulled him in, folding Max’s arms up so he couldn’t shove. George’s chest was warm under Max’s palms, and he smelled like vanilla. Max hated it. Hated the scent, hated the closeness, hated that his body registered the warmth at all.

“You’re feisty when you don’t get what you want,” George said, low and amused. “You reckon if I let you go you’d have a proper go at me, or you’d just push again?”

Max thought about headbutting him. If he could be certain it didn’t blow his race tomorrow, he’d do it in a heartbeat. If George tried to rile him more, he might not care. 

He hooked a foot around George’s calf, trying to unbalance him. George shifted weight, easing Max’s foot off with the bored precision of someone who’d done this dance before.

“See if you do that,” George mused, and tightened his hold. With a clean motion he lifted Max clear off the floor, middle suspended, feet kicking. Max’s brain went soft at the edges. Russell did not just pick him up!!

George lowered him back onto the carpet like he was setting down a coat. He smiled that closed-mouth smile that always drove Max mad.

“You’re lucky I’m still on the front row tomorrow,” Max muttered, venom and humiliation tangled together. “I’m going to make your race a living hell.”

“I’m counting on it,” George said, easy. “Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”

Something of Max’s anger whooshed out of him, weird and sudden. “I had the better lap. You’re only starting ahead because you cried to the stewards.”

George laughed. “You had the better lap because you impeded me, you git. And you’re just as handy with the stewards as I am, mate.”

“Fuck you!” Max hissed, considering the headbutt again.

“Only if you ask nicely,” George replied, teasing. “Generally, don’t want a partner who fights you the whole way.”

Max froze at that, then resumed squirming. “In your dreams, Russell.”

“Oh, I should be so lucky,” George said, rolling his eyes.

“Get off me, before I actually headbutt you.”

“Only if you promise to play nice.” George fixed him with those big blue eyes, like he could enforce honesty with a look.

Max reached up and bit the shit out of George’s shoulder instead.

George half-gasped, half-groaned, but didn’t let him go. Well, so much for that plan.

“Did you just bite me? What are you, a feral dog?”

“Bark,” Max deadpanned, eyes bright. He wished he’d drawn blood. The bite mark bloomed pale and angry against George’s skin, a perfect impression of his teeth. He almost wanted a photo.

“God, you don’t know when to stop, do you?” George muttered, eyes narrowing. Something in his tone twisted in Max’s gut, not quite anger, not quite authority. More like he’d just been caught misbehaving.

George’s gaze dragged down Max’s face, slow enough to sting. Then, without warning, he let go.

Air hit Max’s skin like a slap; the room’s air-con felt sharp and cold where George’s hands had been.

“Wasn’t trying to ruin your race, mate,” George said, voice low, matter-of-fact. “But I’m not letting you fuck me over on track the way you do in the paddock.”

He sounded tired. Done. Whatever argument Max had lined up shriveled under the weight of it. George turned him toward the door, that infuriating hand settling at the small of his back, not rough, just guiding.

“Not gonna roll over just because you’ve got the trophies, mate,” George added as he steered him out. “’Night, Max.”

The door shut in his face, a clean mechanical

click.

Max stood there blinking at the polished wood, unsure which part rattled him more, the dismissal, or the sound of George saying his name like that.

He couldn’t remember when Russell had ever called him Max. 

~~~~~ 

After the race, Max’s rage allocation snapped back into something like normal. Russell barely even crossed his mind. Princess George had started ahead, finished fourth. Max could live with that. He’d done what he always did and turned fury into points.

He went out with Charles that night, still humming from the win. Nothing beat earning it the hard way, clawing back a position until the chequered flag.

“Going out” in Qatar sounded better than it was. Alcohol was scarce, the nightlife basically nonexistent. They wound up in Charles’s hotel bar, which, by cosmic joke, also belonged to Mercedes.

Max shrugged and ordered a gin and tonic, clinking glasses with Charles over their podium.

A few drinks later, Charles tapped out early, pleading his morning flight. Max stayed, nursing the last tumbler, watching the ice collapse into little clinks. His head swam pleasantly with gin and victory. The glow in his chest wasn’t just alcohol; it was the leftover heat of the weekend, the way he’d fought, the way George had sulked.

He still caught himself grinding his teeth at the thought of that smug face, the steward’s decision, the whole stupid shove in the hotel room. The more he drank, the more it all blurred into something else. Irritation shot through with his strange, newfound knowledge. 

Russell was strong. He smelled of vanilla. He groaned when Max bit him. 

And somehow, he wasn’t interested in Max being in charge. 

That one had Max’s head spinning. 

He’d fucked plenty of people since becoming a Formula One driver, and especially since winning a championship, it always baffled him how people expected him to lead in bed. Like, he was only 27. How could he be expected to know how? 

Max didn’t pay attention to any of the pull in his gut saying he didn’t want to lead. Because what kind of winner didn’t want to lead? 

He pressed the tumbler to his brow as if the ice would cool the heat spreading through him. 

It was hard, finding people to hook up with, as a driver, sometimes. Someone who would keep things private, simple. Someone who knew exactly where things stood and wouldn’t beg for more visits with their hectic schedule. 

Max tossed back what was left of his drink and paid his tab, letting his feet take him to the lift before his logical brain could catch up. 

Before he’d realized it, he was knocking on a familiar door. 

A moment passed before another sleepy, shirtless George Russell opened up. 

“Blimey, Max. what time’s it?” 

Max didn’t push him this time. He merely shrugged, avoiding George’s question.

“Alright, mate?” George’s brow furrowed in mild concern. 

“No,” Max shook his head. “Not really.” 

“What’s on your mind, then?” He ran a hand through his hair, his stupid princess hair. 

Max sighed. “I thought maybe… you’d still be awake.”

“And you came all this way to check.” George’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it carried an edge like he wasn’t sure whether to be wary or flattered.

Max didn’t answer. His jaw worked, once, then stilled. Whatever words he might have had stayed behind his teeth.

George watched him a moment longer, the quiet between them stretching thin as wire.

George waited a beat, then two, before exhaling quietly, not quite a sigh, not quite relief. “Right,” he said. “Well. You’d better come in, then.”

He stepped aside, and Max crossed the threshold like it was dangerous territory. The room was dim, the air heavy with the warmth of sleep and the faint scent of soap. George shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“You want water?” he asked. His voice had gone steady again, careful.

Max shook his head, not trusting his mouth to work. 

“Then what do you want?” George asked, not unkindly. There was an edge, the one that said he’d said these lines before. 

Max’s eyes flicked up, caught George’s, then away again. His throat worked once. “Dunno,” he said finally, the lie sitting obvious between them. 

George huffed, more sigh than laugh. “Course you don’t.” He brushed past him, shoulder grazing Max’s just enough to make him flinch. “You never do.” 

Max turned, defensive. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” George shot back, soft but lethal. He didn’t move, just stood there, arms crossed over his bare chest, waiting. 

Max swallowed the rest. Whatever he’d come to say evaporated. He looked at George like the answer was written somewhere on him and he hated that he couldn’t read it.

George leaned back, studying him in the dim light. “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s guess, then.”

Max didn’t move.

“You show up here,” George went on. “You’ve been drinking. Say it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing, is it?”

Max swallowed. His throat clicked in the silence.

“You stand there,” George continued, voice barely above a murmur, “like you’re waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Only you hate being told anything, don’t you?”

A muscle twitched in Max’s jaw. He didn’t answer.

“Maybe,” George said, almost to himself, “you just like finding out what happens when you stop fighting for a bit.”

That made Max look up. Sharp, startled, caught out.

George’s expression didn’t change. He rose slowly, crossed the small distance between them, stopping close enough that the air seemed to thin. “You don’t have to say it,” he said quietly. “You just have to stay.”

The room went very still.

Max’s breath hitched, just once, like his body had heard the invitation his mind refused to name.

The silence dragged, taut and dangerous. George didn’t move again; he just waited, arms loose at his sides, gaze steady in the low light. 

“You think you know everything,” Max said finally, his voice low, scraped thin.

“No,” George replied. “Just you.”

Max huffed a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “You don’t know shit.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

It hung there, something between a challenge and a plea.

Max’s jaw worked. He looked away, then back, and the tension in him shifted, like a wild thing cornered that suddenly stopped seeing the point in running.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“So you’ve told me,” George said, calm as ever.

Max took a single step forward, close enough that the breath between them changed. “Don’t get ideas,” he said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Then Max let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking down and up again, a surrender disguised as defiance.

George didn’t smile. He only nodded once, slow, like acknowledging a truce neither of them would admit to signing.

George watched him for a long beat, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Tell me something,” he said lightly, almost conversational. “You planning to pay me back for last night’s roughhousing, or just relive it?”

Max’s eyes snapped to him, sharp, startled.

George’s smile was faint, infuriating. “Thought so.”

He turned towards the lamp.. “Go on, then. Pretend you weren’t.”

The light clicked off, soft as a breath. The room fell still, lit by the city outside the window. 

Max could feel the warmth of him, the steady, deliberate calm that always made him furious. George’s hand came up, just two fingers beneath Max’s chin, not a demand, more a question written in touch.

“Still think I don’t know you?” he asked.

Max swallowed hard but didn’t move away.

George wrapped a warm hand around Max’s neck, long fingers squeezing lightly. Max felt breath warm against his neck, a voice close to his ear. 

“Think you look rather pretty when you blush like that,” George murmured, his voice low and steady. Max’s eyes fluttered closed, unable to listen and look upon his demise at the same time. He could feel his ears turn pink. 

“Oh, you like being called pretty, do you?” George asked, tone caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“Shut up,” Max muttered, too quick.

George ignored him. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You’ve built this whole thing with hard edges, Max the champion, king of the hill, and now no one dares say a kind word to you.”

Max scowled. “You done?”

“Hardly.” George’s tone turned light, almost conversational. “Bet the only compliments you ever get are about lap times and trophies. Must be exhausting, carrying around all that with nowhere to set it down.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” George said. “But you still came knocking.”

Max’s mouth opened, shut again.

George’s smile thinned. “You should let someone tell you you’re pretty once in a while, Verstappen. Might do wonders for that scowl.”

Max glared. “Bite me.”

And before Max could regret his poor choice of words, George latched his hot mouth on the side of his neck, sinking teeth in like he needed Max to live. 

Max gasped, heat surging through his core. George sucked the skin on his neck possessively, still gripping his throat with one hand. He reached for Max’s waist with the other, steadying them both. 

“You still taste like champagne,” George muttered, laughing. “Oh, what a problem to have.” He licked along Max’s jaw, savoring the sticky sweetness. 

Max bit his lip, stifling a moan. George’s hand sneaked around to the back of his neck, holding Max’s throat open to his attack. He bit at his earlobe, murmuring, “Can’t say you haven’t thought about it, can you?” 

"Oh my god," Max’s words left his lips as a moan, and George chuckled. 

"Look at you." George trailed a finger down his chest. "I've barely touched you.”

“Can you just— stop talking,” Max begged. “For fuck’s sake.”

He could feel George grin into his neck. “No. And I think if I were to—” Suddenly George’s hand grazed between Max’s legs, touching right up against his very obvious hard-on through his jeans. “See? I think you like it.”

George was entirely too smug, at all times, always. 

Max whimpered at his touch, despite his protests. 

George pushed him slowly backwards towards the bed. Max let himself be guided, the backs of his knees hitting first, sitting on the edge. George crowded him, pushing him back up into the pillows, one thigh between his. mMax’s eyes rolled back at the feeling of a strong thigh to rub against, even in his jeans. But he stayed still. He would behave even if it killed him. 

George eased his Red Bull polo off, sliding it over his head. His eyes had adjusted enough to see the slender form above him, but no details. He felt rather than saw George’s hand slide up his waist, his mouth kissing and sucking up his chest. Max gasped when he felt a mouth wrap around his nipple, biting and sucking the tender flesh. 

His hand darted to the back of George’s head, tangling in his hair. It felt soft and slightly damp from his earlier shower, and he still smelled faintly of vanilla. George rocked their hips together, tongue lashing against his tortured nipple. 

Max cried out as his hips bucked in response. He felt hands tugging at his jeans button, undoing his zipper, sliding a hand along his waistband. “Please, please—” he pleaded. He didn’t know what he was begging for. 

And of course George wouldn’t just let him off the hook that easy, either. “Please, what?” he asked, teasingly. 

“Fuck,” Max moaned, wrapping one arm around George’s back like somehow keeping one off absolved him of what they were doing.

George rocked his hips again, teasing his fingers between Max’s skin and waistband.

Max wanted to hold his hips down and rut against him until he came in his jeans. He could do it, too. Russell would probably let him, if he were bossy enough.

But Max didn’t want to be bossy. 

Max wanted to be taken apart. 

“Please— please touch me,” he finally admitted through chenched teeth. 

“Look at that, manners from the mighty Verstappen. Miracles do happen.” Max could hear the smugness in his expression even if he couldn’t see it. 

Max’s tone sharpened, searching for a way to claw back ground. “If I’d wanted someone running their mouth,” he said, tone flat, “I’d have gone to Albon’s.”

“Would you now?” George asked, drawl slow and satisfied. “Funny, you’re here instead.”

He slid his hand further down Max’s briefs and grazed his fingers against Max’s impossibly hard cock. Max sucked in a breath, tilting his hips slightly into the touch. God, he was so desperate for even a little. He felt pathetic. 

“I think you need more than Alex could give you,” George murmured close to his ear, pinning him to the pillow. His hand wrapped around Max’s hard length, squeezing just so and stroking a few times. A strangled sound fell out of Max’s mouth, dying to buck his hips up into George’s hand. 

George gasped lightly, as if delighted. “You’re positively drenched, aren’t you?” He gathered some of the precome that had been steadily leaking out of Max since he’d latched his teeth into his neck onto his fingers, easing their glide over the underside of his head. Max throbbed in his hand, aching for more, for faster, for harder, for anything George would give him. 

As long as George would do it to him. 

George braced on one elbow, lazily stroking him with the other hand as if they had all the time in the world. Max felt his other hand splay across his chest, suddenly twisting at his exposed nipple. 

Max cried out, hips twitching, the feeling jolting straight through his cock. He didn’t know how, or why, but it made him feel like was going to come on the spot. 

“Interesting,” George murmured, as if Max were some fucking science experiment. “But is it only the surprise—?” he asked, almost to himself as he squeezed his other hand around Max’s throat, cutting off some blood flow but leaving his airway intact. 

Max felt a delicious rush in his head, a wooziness, and the last of his inhibitions ran out. He fucked up into George’s hand, slicked up with his own arousal, moaning high-pitched and needy. His head swam as he pushed against the grip on his neck, relishing in being held down as he barreled closer to his release. 

Distantly, he could hear himself begging, cursing, babbling for George, “Please— God, fuck— don’t stop, don’t stop—”

George’s mouth stayed close to his ear, rumbling low encouragement while he stroked him through it. “Just gagging for it, weren’t you? Needed a strong hand, I think, someone to take the reins a bit. You can be so good when you’ve half a mind to, fuck, look at you, so pretty when you’re about to come for me—”

At that, with the roaring in his ears as loud as a train, Max spurted hot and sudden between them, all over George’s knuckles. He released Max’s neck immediately, letting Max take his first full gasping breath after coming like the sweetest relief. He continued the rhythmic pumping with his hand a minute longer, milking Max of every single drop he’d ever had, in his entire life, he was pretty sure.

Max lay there dazed and sticky, blinking in the dark, nary a thought in his head. 0% emotions dedicated to anything. Brain just switched off. 

It felt incredible. 

He heard and felt rustling below him and realized George had pulled down his own joggers and underwear enough to get his cock out, and was stroking himself over Max’s prone form, his knees on either side of Max’s abdomen. 

“I like you much better like this. Think you’d look even prettier with a necklace,” George’s voice came rough with desire, his hand flying faster over his length. 

Max couldn’t see details, but George was definitely bigger. He whimpered at the thought of it. 

Before he could fantasize further, George groaned, hot come streaking down Max’s chest and neck. His frantic stroking slowed, his ragged breathing calmed. Max realized his hands had wrapped around George’s thighs, holding him steady on Max like Max had wanted him there. Fuck. 

George backed off, climbing off the bed and padding to the bathroom and flicking on a light. Max heard water running and soon George was back, lit from behind by the bathroom. 

“Good lord,” George said, half-laugh, half-breath. “You’re a bloody picture, aren’t you?”

Max looked down at the Jackson Pollock of come decorating his torso. He trailed a finger up the side of his chest, dragging some of George’s with it, curious more than disgusted. 

Brain still switched off. 

George approached him from the side of the bed, wiping him down with a wet washcloth like he was a child. He didn’t mind so much, now. No brain, and all. He just let George touch him, turning him as needed, appreciating his deft fingers and attention to detail. He returned the rag to the bathroom before flopping on the bed on his stomach next to Max. 

“Alright, then?” George asked softly. “Everything up to the Verstappen standard?” 

Max nodded slowly, big swaths of nothing washing through his head. This was what peace felt like, maybe. Or whatever. 

George breathed. “High praise, that. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.” 

The quiet stretched, soft and dangerous. George lay still next to him, watching.

For a heartbeat Max let it be easy, the warmth, the steady sound of someone breathing who wasn’t him. Then something flickered behind his eyes; a memory, a voice, a thousand reminders of where he was supposed to be.

The air shifted. He straightened, blinked like he’d surfaced from deep water.

George’s gaze sharpened but he didn’t move.

“This—” Max started, the word rough. He cleared his throat. “This doesn’t happen again.”

For a moment there was only the hum of the air-con. Then George’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“There he is,” he said softly.

Max winced at that like he’d been shocked and clambered out of bed, hurriedly replacing his shirt.

George didn’t follow. He only watched him go, calm as ever, letting the door click shut behind him.

Chapter Text

In Abu Dhabi, Max didn’t let himself think about anything but the race. The car. The team. Himself.

It wasn’t his fucking fault the media wouldn’t stop asking about George fucking Russell.

Didn’t help that George was mouthing off in the press, either. Calling him a bully. Hah.

People didn’t understand the power of being labeled something like that, a “bully,” a “menace.” It only made Max look bigger, badder, untouchable. It made George look like prey.

Lewis had organised the annual drivers’ dinner, and Max steeled himself for whatever version of Russell he’d get this time. He almost thought the bastard wouldn’t show, the final empty chair sat next to him, waiting.

Of course, Head Boy Russell would never skip an important event, especially one his teammate had planned. But when George finally walked in, he strolled right past Max, plucked up the empty chair, and dropped it down next to Lewis instead.

Whatever. Less of a headache anyway.

Three practices, one qualifying, and a shit race later, and the season was done. He’d already locked the title in Vegas. McLaren would’ve had to properly fuck the dog, or whatever, to lose the Constructors’.

Abu Dhabi was still a great place to party even if Max had finished sixth. Right next to Russell. 

Whatever.

Charles had a podium to celebrate, and he refused every excuse Max threw at him. Said Max had to “support him in his time of need,” since he was losing Carlos and the Constructors’. Max rolled his eyes but went anyway, muttering curses at Charles’s stupid pleading face. He was strong against Jimmy and Sassy’s brand of manipulation. Still weak to Charles. 

Charles picked some outrageously pretty club full of greenery and bass that rattled Max’s ribs. After a couple gin and tonics, he stopped caring that he’d been dragged out.

End of the season, after all. He’d earned a bit of living.

Wouldn’t it just be his luck, though, that George fucking Russell— and, oh, fantastic, Alex, too— would walk in right then.

Fuck.

Charles tugged on his hand. “Come on, Max, you promised you’d dance with me.”

“Charlie,” Max groaned. They were already heading for the bar. “Okay, okay, fine—”

Charles shrieked with laughter and hauled him into the crowd. Max kept one arm around Charles’s waist, the other gripping his sweating drink, the music pounding through his bones. He wasn’t losing track of the one reason he was even here. And no one else was touching Charles, not while Max was around.

People got weird with Charles in clubs. He was too pretty, too sweet. They mistook kindness for invitation. Charles had told him how much he hated it, so Max made himself useful, a wall of muscle and irritation in human form.

Max wasn’t pretty like Charles. He didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing.

Except—

"Think you look rather pretty when you blush like that."

The words slid into his head out of nowhere, hot breath and vanilla soap. Something ugly and fluttering bloomed in his stomach.

God.

Max peeked over the crowd at the bar and caught the top of the tall dipshits’ heads. George and Alex, still chatting, still laughing like the world was theirs. He could practically hear Alex’s laugh cutting through the bass.

Max scowled.

When the song ended, Charles wanted another drink, and Max damn near sprinted off the dance floor. He loitered behind him, watching Charles flirt his way to the front of the queue without so much as a wait. Typical.

“Oh, hey, Max,” came a voice too close.

He spun, heart jerking, to find Alex right behind him, George still at the bar, turned away, not looking.

“Hey, Alex,” Max managed, the words rough in his throat.  “Good, uh… good race today. Thought you had Piastri for sure.”

Alex laughed, that easy, warm sound Max had actually liked back when they were teammates. “Yeah? That makes one of us, mate.”  The grin was blinding, unbothered. “Is that Charles? I’ll go say hello. Enjoy your break.”

Max nodded, smiled, and kept his eyes anywhere but on the bar. Anywhere but on him.

He threw back the dregs of his drink and dropped the glass onto the counter with a clack, then shouldered through the crowd toward the restroom. Needed water. Air. Something.

Heat crawled all over him.

In the mirror, he didn’t look any different— same face, same stupid hair— but he could feel the weirdness churning under his skin like poison.  His stomach twisted; his chest felt tight, throat clutched in invisible fingers.

His throat.

He groaned, scrubbing both hands over his face, making the blush worse. Great. Real fucking great.

A knock rattled the door.

“Just a minute!” he barked, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.

God, he sounded pathetic.

Another knock, harder this time. Impatient. Max straightened, irritation flaring. Of course some idiot couldn’t wait their turn; there were ten other restrooms in the place—

He yanked the door open, ready to bite someone’s head off.

George fucking Russell shoved him backward into the room.

Max’s eyes went wide, every word ripped clean out of his throat.

George pushed him up against the wall, yanking his hair back to expose his neck. Max’s mouth fell open from the shock of it, but that bled away as soon as he felt George’s hot mouth attach just below his jaw, sucking a bruise into his pulse point. 

Max whimpered, wanting more, wanting George to mark him up, to make it hurt, to take him out of his head, if only for a little while. He shoved a hand under George’s shirt, feeling the warm skin stretched taut across his stomach. God, he was so annoying with the taking-his-shirt-shirt-off thing. Why did he have to feel so good?

“Thought we—“ George started, distracted by licking across Max’s collarbone, one hand holding the collar of his shirt open. 

“Thought we could use that mouth for something more— constructive,” he finally said, voice hoarse from the weekend. the season, the club. “How are you on your knees?” 

Max whimpered, loudly. He’d only been able to blow a guy once, and not to completion. Not that he hadn’t thought about it a million times. But he just kept finding partners who wanted to blow him, which was nice, of course, or who wanted him to blow their back out. 

Max suddenly felt nervous to perform in front of George. His heart raced under George’s open-mouth kisses along the column of his throat, and George must have known how much he was affected by everything. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the thinking,” George promised before biting him hard below his collar and sucking another bruise. Max moaned and nodded, his head bobbing like a doll’s in George’s grasp of his hair. 

Ever the bizarre gentleman, George slipped off his weird canvas slip-on shoes and slid them under Max’s knees as he pushed him down to the bathroom floor. They weren’t comfortable, exactly, but the soles beat knee-on-tile discomfort any day, Max assumed. 

Not that he would know. 

George kept his fingers tangled up in his hair, tilting Max’s face up while he unbuttoned his linen pants and pulled out his cock. 

Max hadn’t gotten a good look in Qatar, and now he couldn’t look away. George was longer and thicker than he was, like he’d thought, and he wasn’t even fully hard. 

George stroked himself while looking down at Max on his knees, breathing out of his mouth and cursing softly. “Fuck, gorgeous like this for me, aren’t you?” 

Max whined softly at the praise and George smiled. He knew what he was doing to Max, and he loved twisting the knife further. “Open up, tongue out,” he instructed. Max complied, showing George his wide pink tongue. 

“Christ,” he hissed as he eased his head just onto Max’s tongue, pushing back into his mouth. Max automatically wrapped his lips around the thick length in his mouth, and wiggled his tongue a little. “Yes, that’s— that’s good, Max.”

George’s grip in his hair tightened involuntarily and Max felt a surge of… pride, he guessed. At having done well at something. Max had always liked being praised. 

This just happened to be accompanied by a rush to his own prick, because the thought of sucking George off in a club bathroom was too hot for his mind to comprehend. 

He’d probably wank to the thought of this for months. 

George’s cock head sat halfway up his tongue and he hollowed his cheeks, sucking lightly. George finally opened his eyes and looked down at Max, who waited patiently for instructions. 

“D’you want me to— I can take over, if you want,” George offered. Max hummed his asset around George and he groaned at the opportunity. 

“You have to tap me if you need off, okay? Don’t wanna actually kill you.” George’s words were a stern instruction but his voice and eyes were soft, reassuring that Max had a way out if needed. 

Max tapped George’s leg to show he understood. “Good, right then,” George slid his other hand in Max’s hair on and pushed more of his length into Max’s mouth. 

It took a minute to adjust, Max shifting his tongue and flexing his lips to try to ease the ache already building, but he felt okay. George pulled out some, hissing again at Max’s lips wrapped tightly around the head of his cock. 

“Use your hand, as well,” he instructed, voice raspy with want. 

Max wrapped his hand around the base of George’s dick, stroking slowly between his lips and George, spreading his own spit out like lube. 

George pushed back in, deeper this time, slicked up by Max’s efforts. He gagged but it didn’t hurt, just made his eyes water. He continued sucking harder, stroking with his hand, twisting closer to his lips the way he liked to do on himself. 

It was a bit clumsy, but it was working for George. Max could feel him tensing on his tongue. He tasted fairly clean, thank God. Like sweat, maybe, and salt. He still smelled like vanilla. Max was mostly preoccupied by how overwhelming it was to have something of that size stretching out his lips. 

George started thrusting in and out of his mouth faster, holding his head in place.

Fuck it. 

Max dropped his hand. George’s hips stuttered, but he pressed further into Max’s mouth, pressing his cock up against the entrance to Max’s throat. Max moaned and looked up, locking watery eyes with George’s. 

“Bloody hell, Max, y’look—” George’s cock pulsed in his mouth again, sort of hot and wet. Max guessed the barely-salty taste was precome. 

“Beautiful, like this,” he breathed. Max whined at the praise and George’s hands tightened, fucking even faster into his mouth. Every so often it made him gag, but he never felt like tapping out. His mind felt hazy, he felt good making George lose some of that tightly wound composure. 

He was also actively leaking into his own jeans from the situation. Max ground the heel of his palm into his straining erection, desperate for relief as George fucked his mouth. 

George noticed too, gasping between groans. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Might kill me, that.”

He pushed a bare foot directly between Max's legs into his hardness and Max thought he might come from that alone. 

What the fuck was wrong with him. 

George thrusted harder, insisting against Max’s throat. Max moaned again, vibrating along George’s cock and refusing still to tap out. “Just wanna see you choke on me, God—”

George pushed slower, holding his head back, feeding Max his cock centimetre by centimetre until Max’s lips were flush against his pelvis. Max tried to swallow, and George moaned, fisting Max’s hair. “Fuck,” he rasped.

Max gagged again, hard, and George pulled back, allowing him to breathe. Tears spilled over his checks, his face flushed with the effort. “Don’t— stop,” Max finally managed, voice wrecked by George’s face-fucking. 

George’s eyes widened and he grabbed Max by the jaw before slotting himself between his lips. He pushed his foot harder into Max’s crotch, forcing him to rut against the only source of friction afforded him. “Knew you had a filthy mouth, but nothing like this, Jesus— ah—”

Max couldn’t think, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t stop his hips bucking against George’s fucking foot if he wanted to. He was so hard it hurt, and all he could think about was George fucking his mouth. 

George pumped his hips a few times before Max felt him swell impossibly hard. He tapped Max rapidly on the side of his head. “Ah— shit, Max, ‘M’gonna— gonna come, fuck—” George gasped.

Max sucked as hard as could before George groaned loudly and shot ropes of salty come into his mouth. Max swallowed without thinking. 

George pulled out, stepping back, raking his fingers through Max’s hair almost fondly. He looked Max over, his swollen mouth, his flushed face, the spit running down his chin, the tears streaming down his face, the ones still in his eyes, like he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

Max’s brain was off so he just let George look. No concerns, no problems. Radio static. 

George looked at the rest of him and his eyes grew alarmed. Hm. Wonder what that was about. Not that Max particularly cared about anything, at that moment. 

“Max, did you come in your jeans?!” George asked, incredulous. He palmed his face pushing his pretty hair up his forehead. 

Max hummed. 

“Oh my God, what am I going to do with you?” he breathed, a note of awe mixing in with helpless laughter. “It’s not like I can go call Charles to come help, is it?” 

Max sat back on his heels not thinking much at all. He glanced down at the rapidly expanding wet spot on his jeans, which wouldn’t be too obvious in the dark of the club, but the hotel lobby, the car, any other place he’d be sharing with Charles, he’d be at risk. 

“Eh,” he managed. 

“Come on, then,” George hauled him up, slipping his shoes back on, buttoning his pristine linen pants and looking as though nothing had happened other than a light flush to his cheeks.

“I think Alex said you lot are staying in the same hotel as Williams, pretty sure. ‘M’gonna call you a car.” 

Max leaned against the sink as George tapped out something on his phone, and put it in his pocket, satisfied. He slid out of his oversized button up, left in a tight t-shirt. He tied the button-up around Max’s waist, the long arms dangling in front. 

“You’re gonna walk out of here and go directly outside and get in the black Escalade when it pulls up, alright? That’ll take you back to your hotel. You can tell Charles you felt ill, or something.” 

Max hummed again, enjoying George being bossy-bossy as usual. 

“Max,” George said in his Big Girl voice.

“Hm?”

“Directly outside. Black Escalade.” 

“Yeah, heard you.” 

“Okay, good. ‘M’gonna walk out now, so wait a tick before you come out.” George pressed down on his shoulders as if willing him to stay put. 

Max stayed leaned against the sink, running his fingers through his hair in that slow way George had. It felt nice. 

Eventually he rocked to his feet, slightly unsteady and walked out of the bathroom. He hugged close to the wall, trailing one hand along it until he found the door he’d come through with Charles. He slipped out, not looking up. 

Sure enough, a black Escalade sat waiting close to the kerb. The door opened before he reached it; a voice asked, “Car for Mr Verstappen?”

He grunted his assent and climbed in, the door shutting out the night. The world went quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the sound of tyres over wet pavement.

The car ride blurred with warm leather, streetlights flicking across his eyes. He leaned his head against the glass, eyelids heavy.

George’s shirt lay tied around his waist, the sleeves spread across his lap like an apology. He picked one up, held it to his face, breathed in the vanilla soap and something cleaner, steadier, George through and through. It clung to him, that smell, as steady as the voice that had guided him into the car.

“Max.”

He thought about George’s hands steady on his face, in his hair, on his shoulders. The calm in him even when Max had nothing to give back. He thought about his mouth, the clipped instructions, the unflinching care threaded through every word. They hadn’t even kissed, he realised. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

He didn’t know how to feel much of anything right now. 

The calm started to crack as the city lights thinned and the car slowed in front of the hotel. The brightness of the lobby hit like a slap, too sharp, too clean. He tightened the shirt around his waist, suddenly conscious of it, of everything.

In the lift mirrors he caught flashes of himself from every angle, eyes ringed red, hair mussed, marks on his neck, at his collarbone where George’s mouth had been. He looked like someone he didn’t recognise.

The doors opened onto his floor and the quiet rushed in. He fumbled the keycard twice before the lock gave. Inside, the room was dark, untouched, smelling faintly of soap and nothing else.

He shut the door, leaned back against it, heart kicking hard against his ribs. The night replayed in fragments, George’s hand at his back, the calm command in his voice, the softer edge when he’d taken over.

“Oh my God, what am I going to do with you?”

Max pressed a hand to his face, tried to breathe. The shirt still hung from his waist, absurd and intimate, carrying every trace of the man who’d put it there. He pulled it free, tossed it onto the chair, but the scent lingered, sharp as a memory he couldn’t shake. 

Chapter Text

Max spent December in a blur strung between families and never-finished conversations.

He visited his mother in Belgium, his sister and her husband, let the kids climb all over him until he laughed for real. He visited his father’s side, too, out of habit more than want, burning his candle at both ends, always ready with an excuse when the air turned strange or sharp.

The blessing of being a Formula One driver was that there was always a reason to leave. A flight to catch. A commitment. A calendar that excused everything. No one truly had any hold over him anymore. 

By the time he landed back in Monaco after Christmas, the quiet hit hard. His flat felt too clean, too polished, like a showroom for a life he wasn’t sure he lived in.

Charles insisted he come to his New Year’s party, and Max never knew how to say no to Charles. 

He showed up out of obligation more than intent. Monaco’s rooftops glittered in every direction strung with light, the sea black and polished below, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d splintered somewhere along the way and left small, sharp pieces of himself scattered across circuits and hotel rooms and sleepless nights. He was back in Monaco in one piece, technically, but it didn’t feel like all of him had made the flight home.

The music hit before he even made it up the stairs. Bass pulsed through the walls, laughter spilling down the hallway in French and Italian. Monaco’s golden boys and their orbiting satellites.

Charles met him at the door, all warmth and champagne, the kind of host who never noticed when someone didn’t want to be there. “Max! You came!”

Max managed a smile, the practiced one, and let himself be pulled inside. “You said I had to.”

“And you listened,” Charles said, clapping his shoulder before someone called his name from inside. He vanished back into the noise like a firework disappearing into smoke.

Max stepped in and let the door fall shut behind him. The flat was already thick with laughter, cologne, the clink of glasses. The noise pressed close, but it was easier to drown in the crowd than in the quiet of his own head.

Someone offered him a drink; he took it without asking what it was. The glass was cold in his hand, grounding.

He told himself he’d stay an hour. Maybe two. Long enough for Charles to see him, long enough to prove he was fine.

Max was fine. 

And then an unmistakable voice from across the room cut through the noise, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

He didn’t hear what was said, only the smooth tone of it, the sort of voice that carried even when it wasn’t trying to. It threaded through the music, through the noise of the room, and landed squarely in the part of Max that had been doing his best to stay numb.

He turned before he could stop himself.

George stood near the balcony doors, lit by the blue wash of the city outside. Suit jacket open, tie loose, a glass in hand and that same unhurried calm in every line of him. Laughing at something Pierre was saying, like the whole world existed purely for his amusement.

The crowd blurred; the sound in Max’s ears thinned to a low hum. He realised too late he’d stopped breathing.

George looked up then, as if pulled by the weight of being watched.  Their eyes met across the room. No surprise on George’s face, only that faint, knowing tilt of his mouth that said of course you’re here.

Max’s pulse kicked once, hard enough to make his fingers tremble around the glass. He swallowed, looked away first, tried to steady the drink like that might steady him.

Somewhere behind him Charles laughed, the music shifted, and the party roared on as if nothing at all had happened.

Max did what he always did when something unsettled him. 

He pretended not to care.

He made the rounds, nodded at people he barely knew, let them talk at him about the season, about the holidays, about the next car launch. He smiled when he had to. Drank when he didn’t. But every time he caught a glimpse of movement near the balcony doors, his stomach pulled tight again.

He told himself it was fine. Monaco was small. George was allowed to exist in it.

Still, his eyes kept finding him between other people’s shoulders, in reflections off the glass, in the brief glint of cufflinks when George gestured as he spoke. The man was a gravitational force, and Max hated himself for being predictable enough to orbit.

At some point, Pierre left George’s side. The balcony doors opened, a wash of cool air cutting through the heat of the room. George stepped out alone.

Max told himself to leave it. To finish his drink, thank Charles, and fuck off before he caused himself more problems. 

Instead, he found his feet moving.

The night outside was quieter, the sea below scattering the city lights. George stood turned at the railing, the faintest curl of steam rising from his breath.

“Didn’t think parties were your thing,” George said without looking around. His tone was easy, a drawl that cut right through Max’s resolve.

“They’re not,” Max answered.

“And yet—” George turned then, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Here you are.”

Max swallowed, hating that it felt more like surrender than conversation.

“Charles strong-arm you, then?”

“Something like that.”

George hummed, soft and amused. “You’d do anything for him.”

Max’s jaw flexed. “He asked nicely.”

“Must be nice,” George said, taking a sip from his glass. “Having someone who asks nicely.”

Max shot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” George replied. “Just thinking out loud.” He smiled to himself, the picture of composure. “You look better than last time.”

“Don’t start.”

“Not starting,” George murmured. “Just saying.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Below them, the waves slapped quietly against the rocks. The city flickered in the reflection of George’s glass.

“You should probably go back inside,” George said at last, still watching the water. “Wouldn’t want people talking.”

Max stayed where he was. “They always talk.”

George’s mouth curved, just a fraction.

The air from the sea carried a damp bite. Max worked his jaw, the railing cold beneath his hands. George waited. He always waited.

“I’ve still got your shirt,” Max said at last. It came out too abruptly, as though he’d been holding it between his teeth for hours.

George blinked, caught off guard for the first time that evening. “Do you?”

“Left it in my bag after—” Max gestured vaguely, like he’d forgotten how to finish the sentence. “Anyway. If you want it back.”

“You can keep it,” George said, recovering quickly, voice light again. “Looks better on you.”

Max turned his head, incredulous. “I’d rather die than wear one of your frilly girl shirts.”

“Oh?” George’s smile returned, slow and knowing. “Then maybe you should bring it round. After.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I rarely am.” He drained the last of his drink, set the glass on the rail. “But I’ll leave the door unlocked anyway.”

Max stared, the words catching somewhere between his chest and his throat.

“Enjoy the fireworks,” George added, turning toward the doors. The light from the party flared around him for a second, then swallowed him whole as he went back inside.

Max stayed where he was, the salt air stinging his throat. He told himself he wouldn’t go. He told himself again when the first fireworks cracked open above the harbour. And then, as midnight drew close, he stopped trying to convince himself of anything at all.

The party rolled on, louder, brighter, everyone pressed in for midnight. Max couldn’t hear any of it properly. George’s words had settled somewhere deep and mean inside him, looping every time he tried to look away.

“Must be nice, having someone who asks nicely.”

He found a drink in his hand and didn’t remember picking it up. Someone laughed too close to his ear; he smiled on instinct, said something flat in return, and drifted toward the hallway. The balcony door was still open a crack, cold air sliding through. He thought of George’s voice low and close to his ear and the thought landed like a hook behind his ribs.

Max lasted another hour before giving up the pretense.

Back in his flat, the quiet felt punishing. He kicked off his shoes, tore at the buttons of his shirt, opened a drawer just to close it again. The place smelled of nothing, of new clothes and fresh paint. He hated it. He hated how quickly he started looking for the one thing that still smelled like someone else.

The linen was exactly where he’d shoved it weeks ago, buried under a heap of clean clothes. He pulled it out like it had burned him, shook it once, stared at it in his hands. Vanilla and something faintly metallic, familiar enough to make his stomach twist.

His phone buzzed. A new message. No greeting, no name, just an address.

For a long time he didn’t move. The screen dimmed, went black, lit up again when he tapped it. The map opened itself; his thumb had already found the route before his brain could protest.

He told himself he was only curious. That he just wanted to see where Russell lived now. That he could turn around at any time.

But when the elevator doors opened and the city’s night air hit his face, he knew he was already gone.

~~~

The building was quiet, the kind of expensive silence that swallowed footsteps. Max’s reflection followed him in the glass doors, in the lift’s mirrored walls, in every polished surface that made it impossible not to look at himself.

The linen shirt was balled in his fist by the time he reached the top floor. He didn’t remember deciding to bring it. He just hadn’t been able to leave it behind.

The corridor stretched out, pale and empty. Light from the harbour bled through the tall windows at the end. He found the number, the same one from the message, and stopped.

His heart hammered; his mouth dry. Every sensible thought told him to leave, to throw the shirt at the door and walk away. He almost did. Then he thought of George’s voice, that steady, maddening calm and his hand moved before the rest of him could catch up.

One knock. Too soft. He almost turned around and did it properly when the latch clicked.

George stood there barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower. He looked annoyingly unfazed to see Max at his door. 

“Evening,” he said. “Traffic must’ve been dreadful.”

Max’s throat tightened. He held up the linen shirt like evidence, something to make this less absurd. “Thought you might want this back.”

“That right?” George’s mouth twitched. “You came all this way for laundry.”

“Don’t—” Max began, but his voice came out hoarse.

“Wasn’t going to say a word.” George stepped back, leaving the door open. “You’ve made it this far,” he gestured inside, inviting Max in. 

Max hesitated just long enough to hate himself for it. Then he crossed the threshold.

The door shut with a soft click. The flat was low-lit, all soft edges and expensive silence. George crossed to the kitchen counter, poured himself a drink like Max hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere.

“You want one?” he asked without looking back.

“No.” Max’s voice came out too fast, too sharp.

“Suit yourself.” George took a slow sip, set the glass down. “So.  Laundry run complete.”

“You told me to come,” Max retorted, blinking. 

“Did I?”

“You sent the address.”

“You didn’t have to use it.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “Don’t act like this was my idea.”

George turned then, leaning against the counter, head tipped slightly. “You showed up at my door, Verstappen. You’re holding my shirt.”

Max threw it onto the counter between them. “There. You’ve got it back.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Because you’re impossible to ignore!” It came out louder than he meant, echoing off the walls. His hands had curled into fists before he realised it.

George didn’t flinch. “You think I’m the problem?”

“You always are,” Max shot back. “You get in my head, you—”  He stopped himself, breathing hard.

“I what?” George asked softly.

Max looked away, chest rising and falling too fast.

“That’s what this is,” George said. “You keep coming back because I see you, and you hate that I do.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.” The words landed quiet but hard. “Enough to know you’ll stay until you can breathe again.”

Max laughed once, a sharp sound with no humour in it. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

George’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m not staying,” Max added. “Not for you.”

But Max didn’t move. Max couldn’t move. 

George smiled faintly, the kind of expression that never reached his eyes. “No,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “You wouldn’t dare.”

George stopped a breath away, close enough that Max could feel the warmth off him.

“Winning’s safer than wanting,” George said softly. “Isn’t it?”

The space between them felt thin as wire. Max’s throat worked; his hands stayed clenched at his sides. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, loud enough to drown the rest of the room.

George’s gaze dropped once to the shirt still folded on the counter, to the line of Max’s jaw. “You’ve spent your whole life making sure Max comes first. Why stop now?”

He trailed a finger lazily along Max’s jaw, scraping against the grain of his stubble. “You don’t do anything you can’t walk away from.”

Max’s breath caught. For a heartbeat he leaned into the touch before he realised he’d done it. His eyes fluttered shut, just once, like a man bracing for impact.

George saw it. His mouth curved, slow and triumphant. “Right then. I’m going to have a shower. Either lock up on your way out, or make yourself useful and warm the bed.”

George lifted the glass again, finishing what was left in one long swallow. He set it down with the same care he did everything, the soft click of crystal on stone absurdly loud in the quiet.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and wandered down the hallway. The muted sound of a door opening, then closing, followed by the rush of water.

Max stayed rooted where he was, staring at the empty glass. Every thought tangled in on itself. Leave. Stay. Breathe. Suffer. The sound of the shower filled the flat like static.

He rubbed a hand over his face, pressed his palms into his eyes until stars bloomed there. None of it helped. The longer he stood, the tighter the air seemed to get.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t a decision so much as a collapse. He crossed the hall on unsteady legs, the floor swirling under his feet, the sound of water louder with each step.

The bedroom smelled faintly of vanilla and linen. He sat on the edge of the bed first, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Then he let himself fall back, eyes closed, heart pounding against the quiet.

He told himself it was just until the room stopped spinning. Just until the water turned off.

~~~

The water stopped.

For a long moment there was nothing, no footsteps, no sound but the steady tick of the pipes cooling. Then the door opened, spilling a wash of warm air into the room.

Max didn’t open his eyes. He could feel George’s gaze, the weight of it.

The mattress dipped slightly. The scent of soap and clean skin reached him before George’s voice did.

“Couldn’t even make it out the door,” George murmured. “Figures.”

George slid a hand up his shirt, warm against his skin. “Bit of a disparity between us, now,” he teased, pulling at Max’s shirt. 

Max looked down enough to see George had dropped his towel on the floor, fully nude along his still-clothed form. 

Max lifted enough to help George pull his shirt over his head, tossing it off the bed. He toed off his shoes and unbuttoned his jeans, fumbling with the zipper. George yanked his jeans down, Max scrambling to lift his hips. 

He lay back on the bed that smelled too strongly of George, his heart racing under his ribs. George crowded him into the pillows. straddling his legs, pinning him to the bed with his long thighs. He traced a finger delicately over Max’s lower lip. Max shivered under the touch. 

“Could tie you to the bed,” George murmured close to his ear. 

Max couldn’t help the alarmed breath he sucked in too quickly. The words landed, and for a second his brain just… stopped. Like static had flooded the line between them.

He could picture being tied spread eagle to the four posts of George’s bed, the easy way he’d said it, and the wanting hit so sharply it scared him.

“You’d like that?” George asked in a low voice. “Think you’d look gorgeous strung across my bed, honestly, but I think you’d like the restraint even more,” he mused. “I’d like to see how you squirm on my fingers.” 

George said it with a smile, the same way he said everything that made Max’s stomach flip. 

Max froze.

“Oh, come on,” George said, laughing. “We don’t have to. You look like I just threatened you.”

Max opened his mouth, but nothing coherent came out. The panic bloomed in his chest like ice filling cracks in the ground, expanding, consuming. 

“That’s not—” Max started, voice catching. He forced a breath, tried again. “It’s not that.”

George frowned then, the amusement faltering. “Then what?”

“I haven’t,” Max said. The words were so quiet they barely existed.

George stilled. “Haven’t been fingered, or tied up?”

“Not… any of that.”

“Alright,” George said after a moment, tone even. “What if you wanted to? What then?”

George’s question hung there, quiet and unavoidable. 

Max stared at him, pulse drumming behind his eyes. “What?”

“You heard me,” George said. His tone wasn’t teasing now. “If you wanted to.”

Max’s mouth worked uselessly for a second. He looked away, toward the floor, anywhere else. “I don’t—” He stopped. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“You’re thinking about it now.”

That landed like a touch. Max swallowed hard. “You make everything sound so fucking simple.”

“It is simple,” George said softly. “You just have to want it.”

Max let out a sharp breath that was halfway to a laugh. “Wanting isn’t the problem.”

“Alright,” George said quietly.  “Then let’s make it simple.”

The air between them tightened. Max’s breath came short; every instinct screamed at him to retreat, but he couldn’t make his body obey. George wasn’t suffocating him, just close enough that Max could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of soap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” George murmured. “Just have to let me handle it.”

Max’s throat worked. “I don’t know how.”

“You’re doing it,” George said. “Right now.”

Max let out a shuddering breath. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a drop, terrified not of falling but of what it would mean to jump.

Max’s lips parted, blood rushing in his ears, his hands, his cock. “Okay,” he finally croaked out. “Please.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” George practically growled. He clambered off the bed and fetched a small bottle and some silk rope from a bedside table. 

George pulled one of his wrists towards a corner of the bed, looking down at him sternly. “If it gets to be too much, you have to say,” he instructed. 

“I know,” Max muttered. 

“Do you?” George challenged. “You can just say ‘red’, if that’s easier.” 

Max rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes, okay? Spare me the sermon and just tie me up already.” 

George chuckled. “You ask so nicely.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Think I’ll make it extra good just for that cheek,” he teased, wrapping the silk cord around the post and around Max’s wrist. 

Max brushed his fingers against the soft fabric of the rope, curious how something so soft and delicate could keep him restrained. 

George finished tying the knot and switched to his other side, laying Max’s wrist on his thigh, wrapping it gently with the cord. He finished tying the second knot. “There. How does that feel?” 

Max’s arms lay on the bed pulled straight but not too tight. He tested it, pulling both hands on the lovely cord. He could barely move either arm. He curled his fingers around the rope. 

It felt incredible. 

George traced a fingertip from his shoulder to his wrist, admiring the taut muscle under the soft cord. “You’re— God, you’re something to look at,” George breathed in wonder. 

Max continued flexing against the ropes binding him to the bedposts, feeling the give. The strain in his arms ached deliciously. 

He felt his dick stiffening in his underwear just from the pressure. 

George touched his lips again, fingertips sliding along the seam as if probing for an opening. Max parted his lips slightly and George greedily pushed his ring and middle fingers into Max’s mouth. 

Max’s shock was replaced quickly by desire when he felt George’s long fingers eagerly pressing the back of his tongue. He sucked on them like he’d sucked on George in Abu Dhabi, closing his eyes in bliss. 

George exhaled slowly and fucked his fingers into Max’s mouth. “So good with your mouth, aren’t you? We’ll definitely have to try a gag another day…” 

A gag. 

Another day. 

George thought he was good. 

His words felt like open flame, and Max knew exactly how fast he’d burn if he let himself reach. 

George pulled out of his mouth and opened Max’s briefs. He curled his spit-soaked fingers around Max’s arousal, squeezing him when Max moaned at the feeling. He slowly worked him over with his own spit while straddling his strong thighs. 

Max arched his back in pleasure against the pull of the silk around his wrists while George held his legs. He moaned from the sheer pressure of his entire body being restrained, though none of it hurt. He felt contained, protected in George’s bed.  

George stopped stroking long enough to slide Max’s briefs off, leaving them both completely naked. Max could feel George’s erection hot on his lower abdomen but he couldn’t see it without really craning his neck. 

George shimmied down his body further, nudging Max’s knees apart with his own. He braced his elbows on Max’s hips, uncapping the small bottle he’d fetched before and dispensing lube on one hand. 

A few moments later, Max felt wet fingers probing under his balls and he jerked as if he could escape the intrusion. A squeak escaped throat despite managing to clamp his mouth shut. George placed a hand on his hip, steadying him. 

“Easy there, just feeling my way around.” 

Max screwed his eyes shut, willing the flush on his chest to stop creeping up his face. 

George pressed more directly into his perineum and Max tried to breathe. He moved his fingertips in small circles, spreading the lube generously and warming it. Max’s legs still tensed and strained, squirming around George’s lean frame. 

Even though he wanted it. He knew he wanted it. 

Leave. Stay. Breathe. Suffer.

As George increased the pressure slowly, Max relaxed just a bit. Just enough for George to stroke his hip reassuringly, murmuring “There we go.”

With his eyes still shut, Max had no warning when George wrapped the hand he’d been using to stroke his hip loosely around his cock. 

George’s lips soon followed, hot and wet and sucking around his head. 

The flood of sensation diluted the oversensitivity to George’s fingers. Max distantly felt his fingertips ghost over Max’s tight rim, but George swallowed so much of his cock in one bob of his head that Max lost his mind to pleasure rather than panic. 

“F-fuck—” he moaned, arching against the ropes coiled against his wrists, enjoying the pull across his entire chest. 

George’s fingers pressed more insistently, dipping the barest tip of one finger in while wiggling his tongue sideways on Max’s frenulum. Max cried out, throbbing in his mouth, hips desperately bucking up for more. 

George chuckled low in his throat, pinning his thigh with an elbow, easing more of one finger into his tightness. Max panted, eyes snapping open, searching the ceiling as if that would save him from the sensations threatening to overwhelm him. 

George thrust his finger in and out shallowly, twisting slowly, in the same rhythm he bobbed on his cock. Max felt his cock head brush against the back of George’s throat and he thought he might die. 

So what if it was the best head he’d ever received? So what if George fucking Russell made him see stars with his hand and his mouth? 

Max could feel George working down on his cock, easing past the opening to his throat to take him all the way. His finger slid deeper and deeper with each thrust, and when Max could finally feel George’s lips against the skin of his pelvis, George curled his long finger towards his stomach and he felt some involuntary punch to his gut. 

He groaned, whole body thrashing. 

George pulled his mouth off, flushed and smirking. “You like that?” 

Max whined softly, hips trembling with a mixture of pleasure and overstimulation. 

George pressed his finger deep inside, curling again carefully, searching for just the right angle to make Max moan again. Too quickly, he discovered the angle and rhythm that would surely send Max directly to the shadow realm, making his thighs quake and pulling high-pitched moans from his mouth like it was nothing. 

“Think you’d like another?” George asked, grinning. “You’re doing so well, absolutely stunning, really.” 

Max would blush if he weren’t already red all over. He bit his lip, unsure of how to say what he wanted. He nodded slowly, looking at George through hooded eyes. 

He didn’t have many words left. 

George bit his lip hungrily, circling two fingertips around Max’s hole. He leaned down and licked a broad stripe up Max’s wet cock, base to tip. Max tilted his hips into the pressure, moaning wantonly. He wanted George’s mouth to never leave him alone. He wanted to come down his throat, he wanted bite marks to remind him for days, he wanted love bruises where George sucked on him for too long just ‘cause. 

His tongue, his teeth, his lips, even his voice, when it wasn’t saying fucking annoying shit. Max wanted George to drive him crazy, tear him apart, make him forget. 

“Bite me,” he choked out. “Please—”

George slowed his circling of Max’s rim only for a moment before biting the hell out of his taut stomach, right above his hip bone. 

Max groaned, wishing he could hold George’s head to his body, but relishing in the burn of the ropes’ tension anyway. George pressed two fingertips inside him, Max gasping at the stretch, wondering how he could ever fit two whole fingers in there. 

George kissed across his stomach languidly, sucking bruises when he felt like it, twisting his fingers slowly and thrusting them in and out just barely to ease Max into it. He kissed down one of Max’s thighs and bit hard, sending waves of pain and pleasure coursing through his legs and core, making his cock throb even harder. Max couldn’t help but wail, pulling at his restraints, but it felt delicious. 

All he wanted was more. 

George sucked bruise after bruise on his inner thigh, biting when he felt like it. Max moaned and writhed, feeling George’s fingers almost completely bottoming out to the last knuckle inside him. George spread his fingers experimentally, scissoring him gently and relaxing him further. 

But every time he picked a new place to suck, George would curl his fingers forward, brushing both fingertips over that bundle of nerves that made Max tense up all over, leaking steadily on his stomach and pulsing like he could come at any second. 

He wouldn’t though. He couldn’t, right? 

George continued his destruction of Max’s mental stability when he twisted one of his nipples while pressing up particularly firmly, and Max legitimately lost all brain connection for a moment. 

Brain off. 

God, it felt so good. All he felt was good. His arms burned, his hands shook from gripping the ropes for so long, his thighs quivered from keeping them spread at this angle and tensed like this. He wanted so much, he felt so much, too much, and also not nearly enough. He wanted to fucking come. Come in George, come on George, come with George. 

He wanted George. 

When Max regained some sense a few moments later, George was pumping two fingers in and out of him hard. Max writhed helplessly and George looked up, surprised. He slowed down, twisting slowly. 

“Still okay?” he asked, a smile in his voice. 

Max hummed. 

George climbed up his body, straddling his legs again. He held his jaw with the non-sticky hand and looked into his eyes like he was checking for something. 

“Max, can you say yes or no? Are you still okay?” 

Max liked how concerned George got. It was cute, if a bit silly. He blinked slowly up at George. “Yes,” he said finally, the word slow as if fighting through the fog in his brain to get out. 

George traced the pad of his thumb over Max’s lower lip. “It’s so hard to know what to do with you when you’re like this. You’re— you’re so perfect and easy for it, but I don’t want to take advantage.” 

Max tilted his chin up, chasing George’s touch with his mouth. He pulled George’s hand with his lips and sucked his thumb in, swirling his tongue around it.

“Blimey, Max,” George breathed. “D’you want to come in my mouth, then?” 

Max groaned, rocking his hips into George’s. George pulled his thumb out of Max’s hot mouth to allow him to answer. Max looked up through hooded eyes, trying to focus on the man above him, holding him down. 

“Want you—” Max tried. 

George leaned down on both elbows, caging his face, stroking his hair. “Want what?” he asked softly. 

“Want you to fuck me.”

Time stood still as George held his breath. “Say that again.” His voice low, his eyes not leaving Max’s. 

“Wanna— want you to fuck me,” Max said again, still rubbing his leaking cock against George’s hip. George’s eyes were always intense but this was kind of… next level. 

He looked— hungry.

“D’you want to be tied to the bed?” George finally asked. 

Max smiled so wide it hurt. “Please.” 

“Bloody hell, Max. So good for me, aren’t you?” 

Max nodded to himself as George scrambled off him, off the bed. He was good for George. 

George untied his ropes, helping flip him over onto his stomach. Max rubbed his wrists, arms trembling, until George reattached them to the posts, now with his chest pressed to the mattress. 

“I have to prep you a bit more,” George promised, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

He pushed Max up onto his knees, spreading them apart and pulling his hips back, arching his back. George gathered more lube on one hand, warming it before easing two fingers between his legs, probing gently before working his way up to scissoring him again. 

Max breathed deeply, flexing to make himself relax. He wanted to rock his hips back onto George’s thrusting fingers, he wanted relief for his dripping, aching dick. But he wanted to be fucked more. 

“D’you think you can take another?” George asked, voice husky with desire. “You’re taking my fingers so well.” 

The praise lit him up, a jolt straight through the chest. A low hum slipped out before he realized it, eyes half-lidded, brain running a few beats behind his mouth. “Mm— yeah,” he murmured.

“Good.” George pressed more fingers into his tight hole slowly, giving him time to adjust to the burn and stretch of his hand. Max’s walls pushed and tensed but slowly accepted another of George’s long fingers up to a knuckle. 

George fingered him so nicely, one hand pushing between his shoulder blades. Max moaned happily, lost in the bliss of George’s hand sliding forward and stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. 

George curled his fingers inside him again, catching him off guard. Max keened, cock jerking with the pressure, and he desperately wished he were lying flat against the mattress so he could rut against the duvet. 

George kept up his ministrations for an annoyingly long time before Max felt him pull out and climb off the bed. He grabbed something from the bedside table and soon had his thighs pressed back up against the back of Max’s, and Max sighed, relaxing into him. 

He heard the ripping of a wrapper as George rolled on a condom and used more lube to slick himself up. George groaned with relief of finally touching himself after focusing so long on Max, and then Max felt a hand spreading him open, and something hard and hot and wet pressing against his hole. 

“Please,” Max begged, pushing his hips down as much he could, straining against the ropes, shaking with the effort. 

“Fuck,” George hissed before shoving partway in. 

Max’s eyes rolled back, George’s cock felt so much more solid and pronounced than his fingers. He gripped the ropes like a lifeline, pulling his chest apart from one end, while George split him open from the other, cheek pressing into the pillow. 

George pulled out slowly, thrusting in shallowly and spreading lube everywhere. Max felt his hands on his waist, pulling him closer, gripping him tightly, keeping him steady. 

The pain and strangeness of having something enter him faded as George reached around and stroked his neglected dick, dripping down his thigh. Max moaned into the fabric, biting the pillow to keep from losing his composure completely with relief. 

He wanted, he needed, he craved. 

“Could’ve shoved my whole hand in you, fat lot of good it would’ve done me. Christ, you’re tight,” George hissed between clenched teeth. “‘S’like you were made for it, taking me so well,” he groaned, tipping his head back, finally bottoming out. 

Max felt like he couldn’t breathe. There was too much, too much George, too much inside him, too much all around him, and somehow not nearly enough. He needed so much more if he were to ever feel good again. 

George continued stroking him to the same rhythm he thrust into Max, slow and steady, deep and hard. Max gasped, each thrust knocking a small sound out of him. 

“You’ve certainly got the arse for it— and your thighs, my God—”

George released his cock and gripped his legs, thrusting deeper and resting his chest on Max’s back. Max felt George bury his face where his neck met his shoulder, panting into his skin. 

Max arched his back further, pushing back into George’s thrusts. “And you need it, don’t you? Greedy boy…”

Max’s world stopped again when George smacked his ass, the sound louder than the pain, but the shock rippled through him. His breath stuttered, his cock twitched, whimpering for the man pounding into him. 

“Y’like that?” George’s voice was ragged with want, egging Max on. “You want me to hurt you?” 

Max whimpered again, not trusting his voice. 

George reached around his chest, twisting a nipple and making him cry out in surprise. His hips slammed into Max’s, changing the angle to arch into Max’s prostate with his thrusts. Max’s mouth hung open, unable to stop the desperate wailing pouring out of him. George’s hand continued tormenting his nipple while the other resumed roughly stroking his erection. Max felt pleasure slam into him, jolting through his core with each thrust. He couldn’t take much more, it was too much—

“Ah, fuck— please, ‘M’close, don’t stop, don’t stop—” Max wailed, muffled by the pillow, tears clumped in his lashes.

Max’s thighs tensed up harder than he thought possible and everything went white as he screamed, coming as hard as he’d ever been able to, spurting up George’s bed, hot and sticky. 

George stroked him through it, fucking into his hole at that same devastating pace until Max came down. George’s hips stuttered, his thrusting erratic. “God, yes— so good for me, fuck, fuck, Max—”

Max distantly felt George pulsing in the condom in his ass, but his brain was disconnected from his body. 

You have reached the ass of Max Verstappen, he’s not available right now. Please leave your…

George collapsed on Max’s back, chest heaving, sweat and lube between them. He curled around Max and panted, wearily untying the knots at his wrists before pulling Max’s arms into his chest, massaging tension from his wrists and arms.  

Max felt slight relief at being able to bend his arms again, but then again Max wasn’t thinking a whole lot of anything. 

George kept him plugged for a minute more before stroking his hair absentmindedly, murmuring a warning that he was going to pull out. 

Max whimpered at the removal of the steady pressure, the warmth, before George took off the condom and tied it off, throwing it in the direction of the trash. 

George protectively wrapped his arms around dazed Max, pulling him to his chest. Max’s breathing calmed, his eyes were heavy, his stomach was sticky, his head was on George’s chest. That was pretty much the extent of Max’s knowledge of the world. 

And as Max fell asleep, he thought about how much he liked when George stroked his hair. 

Chapter Text

Max woke to sunlight bleeding through the curtains, too bright, too real. For half a second everything was warm, soft skin, steady breath, a heartbeat under his ear. Then it hit him whose chest that was.

What the fuck. 

Memory trickled back in fragments. 

His body remembered before his brain did; his arms ached, his wrists raw and sensitive. His thighs burned, sore from holding a new position. 

And his ass. 

He jerked upright, breath catching. The sheets twisted around his legs like they meant to hold him there. His pulse thundered in his throat, so loud it drowned the quiet. He winced at the sudden movement, muscles screaming in protest. 

George stirred beside him, and that tiny movement sent the panic sharper. Max’s mind ran ahead, cataloguing everything wrong. Where his arm was, what he was wearing— what he wasn’t wearing, for that matter— what he’d let happen. The calm from the night before felt like a trap snapping shut.

He swung his legs off the bed, still tangled, already looking for his clothes, his phone, anything that belonged to him. If he could just move, just breathe—

George murmured something behind him, soft, half-awake, and Max froze all over again. His voice came low and rough from the pillow. “You don’t have to run, you know.”

Max’s spine went rigid. He didn’t turn around. He was halfway into his shirt, breathless, pretending he hadn’t heard.

“I’m not—”

“Yeah,” George said quietly, cutting him off. “You are.”

There wasn’t judgment in it, just tired understanding. He sounded like someone talking about the weather, inevitable, exhausting.

George shifted again, sheets whispering. “Come back to bed, Max.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a calm directive, threaded with sleep and that quiet authority he seemed to wear without trying.

“I’ve got to go,” Max said. His voice cracked in the middle, betraying him.

“You don’t,” George replied, eyes still closed. “It’s barely eight.”

Max stood there, shirt half on, staring at the floor. He could feel the warmth of the room, the scent of vanilla and skin. His world felt tilted on a strange axis, waking in a strange bed, in strange arms. 

But they weren’t strange arms. They were George’s. 

George sighed softly, a low exhale against the pillow. “Come on. Stop thinking so hard.”

Something in the way he said it made Max’s throat work.

George reached out blindly, found the edge of the sheets, and tugged them down a few inches. “Here,” he murmured, “no one’s keeping score. Just… lie down.”

Max hesitated. His chest felt tight, his head loud with all the reasons he shouldn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed first, then let himself sink backward, as if gravity had opinions stronger than his own.

George’s arm slid over his waist automatically, guiding, not trapping. His hand rested heavy and warm against Max’s stomach, anchoring him. “Good,” George mumbled, half asleep again, forehead brushing Max’s shoulder.

Max stared at the ceiling, rigid at first. But the heartbeat behind him was steady, patient. The sunlight on his skin softened the edges of panic until it became something quieter, heavier, dangerously close to comfort.

He told himself he’d get up in a minute. Just one.

George’s voice came again, muffled and drowsy. “See? World didn’t end.”

Max swallowed hard, eyes closing against the light. “Not yet,” he muttered.

George’s lips curved faintly against his skin. “Go back to sleep, mate.”

And somehow, impossibly, Max did.

~~~

Max surfaced slowly, like coming up from deep water. He felt heat wrapped around him, the slow rise and fall of a chest against his back, the weight of an arm draped over his waist. A heartbeat thudded somewhere near Max's shoulder blade. 

His first coherent thought was a dull ache, the kind that came from use, from being held. He flexed his hands against the sheets, felt fabric catch on the sensitive skin rubbed raw at his wrists. 

The air was cool against the sweat at his collarbone, but the rest of him was unbearably warm.

He shifted slightly, enough to feel George’s arm tighten in response. A quiet sigh ghosted against his neck. 

Every muscle in Max’s body went taut. He should move. He should run.

Instead, he lay there, eyes half open, staring at the morning light playing across the wall. His brain whispered all the reasons this was wrong, but his body didn’t seem to care. His body had made up its mind hours ago.

George stirred behind him. He made a noise, not quite a word, more like a groan caught halfway between a sigh and a stretch. The arm around Max’s middle tightened once, lazily, before going slack again. Then came his voice, rough with sleep. “You’re thinking too loud.”

George moved closer, his chest pressing more firmly against Max’s back. His hand slid up, fingers tracing an idle line along Max’s ribs before coming to rest over his heartbeat. “Relax,” he said softly, and for once it didn’t sound like an order.

Max’s body betrayed him first, easing slightly under the touch. His head thudded back against the pillow.

“Better,” George said, almost to himself. He sounded pleased, like calming Max counted as a small personal victory.

Max stared at the window, at the thin band of gold climbing higher on the glass. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Occupational hazard,” George murmured, amusement curling through the words.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t hostile anymore, just uncertain. 

When George finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Alright?”

The question landed harder than it should have.

Max’s first instinct was to scoff, to throw up some automatic retort. But the hand still resting over his heart made it hard to lie. He hesitated. “Yeah.”

George’s thumb traced a small circle against his skin. “Good.”

Max forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. George’s hand continued tracing lazy shapes over his chest, barely touching his skin. Goosebumps appeared under his touch as Max breathed shakily, closing his eyes. 

He was safe, relatively speaking. George wouldn’t… wouldn’t hurt him. 

George would take care of him. 

George murmured into his neck, voice low and teasing. “Didn’t think you could ever be this still.”

Max went tense again before he could help it. George’s breath tickled his skin, a low chuckle following a beat later.

“Don’t panic, it’s a compliment,” George added, the words soft but edged with amusement. “You’re always moving, talking, burning holes in the floor. Nice to know you’ve got an off-switch.”

Max huffed something like a laugh, though it came out shaky. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” George said, the warmth of his arm still heavy across Max’s chest. “Just— good to know it’s there. You. Quiet.”

The words sank under his skin before Max could throw up a defence. George’s hand stilled, palm spreading over his ribs in a slow exhale, and the silence that followed was almost peaceful.

Max stared at the sunlight washing over the ceiling, jaw tight, and muttered, “You talk too much.”

George smiled against his shoulder. “You listen, though.”

Max’s breath hitched. It felt too close to tender, too intimate for what they were doing. 

What were they doing? 

George kissed the side of his neck softly, all warm lips and attentiveness. “You’re a very good listener, actually.” 

Desire shot through him, neck tingling, words ghosting over his skin. “Yeah?” Max breathed. 

“When you want to be,” George amended, smiling. He trailed his fingertips down Max’s abdomen, the muscles tightening at the touch. “Thought you were going to make a break for it, earlier. But you listened to reason.” 

Max kept his eyes closed, his breaths coming in shallowly. “I wasn’t.”

“Liar.” The word came out almost fond. 

Max worried his lip. “I don’t usually wake up in—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

“In my bed?” George supplied. “That’s the bit you’re choking on, is it?”

Max huffed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Bit,” George admitted, utterly unapologetic. “But mostly I’m waiting for you to stop pretending you regret something you clearly don’t.”

“That’s—” Max started, but the words caught, tangled somewhere between denial and the truth.

George traced up his chest, circling one pec slowly. “Relax,” he breathed. 

“I’m relaxed,” Max lied. His heart pounded right under George’s fingertips. 

“You’re vibrating,” George said, amused. “You look like you’re about to make a break for the window.”

Max exhaled through his nose, clenching his fist. “You always this annoying in the morning?”

“Only when the company’s worth it.” George grazed over his nipple and Max felt desire shoot through him again, zipping down his spine. 

That shut him up. 

“So sensitive,” George sounded amused. He was toying with Max now. Max couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it. “Or, just sensitive for me?”

Max groaned as an answer. 

George gently touched up his throat, barely brushing under his jaw, over his pulse throbbing in his neck. “So good for me, like this. Could keep you in bed all day, all to myself.”

Max whimpered, pressing back against George and gasping at the hardness flush against his ass. 

George possessively wrapped his long fingers around Max’s neck, not squeezing, just holding. He kissed under his jaw, his breath warm and making him shiver. “Do you know how hard it is to control myself around you?” His voice was low, close to Max’s ear. 

Max couldn’t keep from moaning, his dick twitching between his thighs at the thought. He wanted to be good. He wanted George to want him. He wanted George to bite. 

“No,” he breathed, barely a whisper. 

George grinded his hips into Max’s, slotting his cock between Max’s naked cheeks. “Mmm— it would be so easy, taking you like this,” his voice dragged against every desire center in Max’s brain. 

For once, he didn’t want George to shut up. 

Max whined, pressing his hips back into George’s cock fully. “Please—” he begged, his own cock throbbing for any touch. He pressed his thighs together and whimpered at the contact, but it wasn’t nearly enough. 

“Please, what?” George asked mildly. Evil, malicious George. Couldn’t he see that Max was out of words, that all he wanted was more? George’s tongue grazed his earlobe and Max practically convulsed. 

“Take me, fuck— do anything—” Max moaned, hips rocking back against George’s length, barely touching his hole with each stroke. 

“Mmm, you’re so pretty when you beg,” George nuzzled into his neck and grazed his teeth over his pulse point. 

Max thought he might die. His mouth fell open, panting with the lust coursing through him. “Want it, want you— please—” Max’s voice cracked on the ‘please’. 

“Need it so badly, do you?” George’s hand traveled down between Max’s legs, loosely wrapping his fingers around his leaking erection. “Tell me. Tell me you’re a needy slut, dying for my cock.” 

Max whimpered, words failing him. His dick jumped in George’s grasp and George dropped his hand. “Tell me,” he insisted. His teeth grazed Max’s ear and Max moaned loudly at the teasing. 

“I’m— a n-needy slut,” he stammered. “Please, need you— need you to fuck me.” Max thrust his hips helplessly in the direction of George’s hand, dying for contact. If George would just touch him—

“Mmm—” George bit his neck, sending jolts of pleasure through his core. He wrapped his fingers around Max’s cock again, squeezing lightly but refusing to stroke. 

Max bucked his hips into George’s hand, earning a little bit of relief. He was openly leaking into George’s hand, absolutely overwhelmed with the need to come. 

“Y’know, I still want to gag you at some point, but it’d be such a shame when you sound so pretty for me,” George lamented into his throat. 

Max’s brain short-circuited at that. “Shit.” He wanted George to take his mouth away. He wanted something to bite down on while George fucked him. His hips thrust mindlessly into George’s steady hand, stroking himself with the rhythm of it. 

George fumbled behind them for something before Max heard the cap click of the small bottle of lube they’d used the night before. He exhaled, waiting for what he knew came next. 

George pressed fingers against his exposed hole, swollen and raw from the pounding he’d taken just a few hours prior. Max gasped, the sensation still new, still fresh. George slipped two fingers into him, pumping slowly and spreading a ridiculous amount of lube inside him, the sound obscene. 

Max moaned at the stretch of starting with two fingers, but he didn’t mind the pain. It only hastened the fuzzy feeling growing in his head. 

“Wanna keep you like this, whining in my bed,” George sighed, scissoring his fingers gently, relaxing Max’s sore hole. “God, you’re so wet for me.”

Max tried to bury his face in the pillow, to muffle the embarrassment pouring out of him. 

“Ah, don’t hide from me, gorgeous,” George chastised, pressing his fingers in deep. “We both know you’re absolutely gagging for it.” 

The way George’s fingers twisted and pulled at his rim made Max feel dizzy. George’s hand remained grasping his cock, unmoving. Max throbbed into his hand, torn between thrusting into it and rocking back on his fingers. He whined and tried to do both, the overstimulation cooking what was left of his brain. 

“Fuck, look at you. Think you actually would do anything for me to fuck you,” George’s tone held a note of awe, like Max was good, like Max was pretty, like he was worth wanting.

George rewarded him with another finger, slow and easy, working him up to one knuckle, and then another. Max felt his muscles relaxing faster than they had the night before, some mix of having been fucked recently and not being as tightly wound. 

“Y’want me to fuck you like this, like you haven’t even woken up yet?” George asked, voice growing hoarse with want. “Can you imagine, waking up to me fucking you open like this, taking what I want from you?” He groaned into Max’s shoulder, clearly affected by the idea. 

Max couldn’t help moaning at the thought of George using him for his own pleasure like that. He wanted to wake up to being used, being stretched on his cock, George holding him down, covering his mouth. Max’s eyes fluttered, his cock spurting even more precome into the sheets. 

“Oh, you like that,” George purred. “You wanna be good, don’t you? Just a toy for me to use when I wanna come.”

Max’s moans sounded so desperate and wanton, his voice raspy with need. “Please, fuck—”

George bit him again, his teeth sinking into his throat, sucking a bruise closer to his shoulder. Max hoped it left marks. George reached behind them again, and Max heard the telltale foil wrapper being torn off a condom. 

George soon pressed his cock head against Max’s fucked-open hole, barely thrusting his hips, teasing his rim. “‘S’this what you want?” he asked, taunting. He wrapped one arm around Max’s stomach, pulling his hips back, pushing his entire length in. They groaned in unison as he bottomed out, Max feeling too-full all at once. 

George held him there, hips flush together, not moving. Max tried to wiggle to get any kind of relief from being stuffed, but George held him too tightly, his other hand grasping his hip with bruising pressure. “Shit, Max–” he breathed. 

Max tried flexing what little control he retained, clenching around the length inside him. George moaned and gripped him even harder, somehow, his fingers digging crescents into Max’s hip. “‘S’not fair, you’ve no right to feel this tight,” he muttered, pressing his forehead into the nape of Max’s neck. “Christ–”

Max felt helpless in his grip, totally at George’s disposal. As if he had no choice in the matter. The thought made his chest tighten and something hot and dangerous coil in his gut. He whimpered, pressing back into George. 

George, bless him, started working his hips in slow, maddening circles, thrusting deeply. He kept a tight grip on Max’s hip, fucking in as far as he possibly could. 

Max held onto George’s arm across his stomach for dear life, unable to help moaning with each thrust.

“Yeah?” George mouthed at his jaw, his words rough against Max’s skin. “You feel so fucking good wrapped around me. You like how I take you, don’t you? You like how I’m filling you up?”

“Y-yes—” Max cried, useless to the world except as a toy for George. He could feel his orgasm nearing with each push into George’s hand. “Close, so close—”

“Don’t come,” George demanded, releasing Max’s cock, weeping and scarlet from the attention. “Wanna see you come for me.”

Slowly, he pulled out, leaving Max whining and clenching around nothing. George rolled between Max’s legs, lifting one thigh towards his chest and positioning his cock at Max’s wet entrance. He pushed inside in one smooth motion, dropping his head over Max’s shoulder and groaning at the feeling of Max’s tight walls. 

Max didn’t know how to feel about George looking at him while they fucked. He didn’t know where to look, what to do with his hands, how to keep from making those embarrassing noises again. His eyes fluttered shut, biting his lip to try to muffle the sounds leaking out of him with every breath. 

George grabbed his jaw firmly with one hand. “Ah, Max— look at me, there’s a dear,” he murmured. “Want you to see who’s tearing you apart.” 

Max’s brow creased, trying to hold George’s steady gaze, his blue eyes boring holes into his own. George looked— kind of beautiful above him. Flushed and panting, hair messy over his eyes, pupils blown wide with want. George had him pinned, had his jaw in his grip, had his leg pushed against his chest. 

Max didn’t have anything to worry about, like that. He felt everything melt out of his brain like it never had any hold on him to begin with. 

“There you are,” George rumbled, satisfied. “‘S’bloody perfect, when you let go like that.”  

George released his jaw and gathered up his useless hands, pinning them above his head to the pillow. His hips stuttered, thrusting deep into Max at this angle, his head falling forward with pleasure. 

Max whined, weakly pushing against George’s grip, blatantly enjoying having something to hold onto. George’s strokes quickened, snapping his hips hard into Max like he couldn’t hold back any longer. 

Max looked down between them, over George’s glistening, flawless stomach, to the length pistoning into him. He moaned, his eyes fluttering again. 

“Eyes on me,” George demanded. “I’m the one filling you up, I get to see you fall apart.”

Max’s eyes snapped up automatically, whimpering and enjoying George’s tone too much. He gripped George’s hand more tightly, relishing in the pressure against his raw skin. 

“Yeah? You like being held down, don’t you,” George asked, hungry gaze roving over his face. “I’ve got you— got you all to myself,” he panted. He pressed their foreheads together. “Say it, Max,” he demanded. “Who’s got you?” 

Max’s glassy eyes struggled to focus on George above him, his mouth not forming words, his chest tightening at the request. His eyebrows knitted together, brain not functioning. “Mmh—” he whimpered finally. “Y-you do—”

“Say my name, Max,” George insisted, his voice low and ragged. 

George shifted his hand around to grab Max by his dripping, throbbing cock. He pressed Max’s hands harder into the pillows, their noses brushing, panting into each others’ mouths. Max keened, desperate for release, arching into George’s furious stroking. “Ah— please, please—”

“Please, what?” George groaned, using Max’s slick to stroke him. Max was so close, he could taste relief, chasing the coiling desire low in his belly as George pounded into him. 

“Fuck— fuck,” Max gasped. “Please— George, George—” 

His brain shorted out when he finally said it, his jaw slack and the ever-tightening band finally snapping in his core. And Max was exploding, come dripping down George’s knuckles, pooling on his belly, hot and slippery. He arched against the vice-like grip George hand around his hands, desperate to chase the feeling. 

“George,” he breathed again, muscles relaxing, eyes fluttering shut. “George—”

George stroked him through his orgasm, relentlessly snapping his hips up into Max like he needed it to survive. As soon as Max relaxed enough, he released Max’s wrists and pulled out slowly. Max whimpered softly at the loss, but his body relaxed, his face twitching with relief. 

Max opened his eyes to George on his knees over his sprawled form, stroking himself slowly, the condom long gone. “Want to come all over you, look so bloody gorgeous like this—” George murmured, his eyes locked on Max’s heaving chest, his sweaty abdomen covered in come. “Gonna make a mess of you, mark you all up,” he continued, possessed by the idea. “Christ, you look absolutely obscene like this, for me.” 

Max blinked slowly up at George, eyes glassy and unfocused. He couldn’t help staring at his blood-red cock with his hand flying over it, couldn’t help wanting a taste of the man who held him down, who made him feel so good. “George,” he whispered again, blissful and pliant. 

He opened his mouth, tongue outstretched. 

George’s rhythm faltered, his eyes widening. “Oh, fuck, Max, Max—” 

He lunged forward as his cock spurted hot and heavy over Max’s chest, his neck, his mouth. His come painted streaks all over Max, his hand desperately milking himself to the last drop. 

Max simply lay there until the stroking slowed, mouth still open, tongue presented. George lifted his head up enough to examine Max’s state, completely covered in both of their come, sweat, and lube. 

Max licked at his lips and swallowed what had landed in his mouth, to George’s immense surprise. “Bloody hell, Max. Y’should warn someone before you— before you,” he trailed off, his eyes flicking all over Max’s torso. “Let me help,” he said finally, climbing off Max to fetch a towel from the bathroom, wiping him off in quick, efficient swipes. 

Max liked when George took care of him after. He liked when George had that look of awe on his face like he was special, or something. 

George’s hand hovered for a moment before resting again against Max’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm there. He hadn’t realised how quick it had been beating when he’d woken. Now it was calm. Solid.

Max couldn’t move. Not really.

Every muscle felt like it had turned to heavy sand. The sheets were warm against his skin, the air thick and slow. He felt George shift beside him, the bed dipping. A hand touched his shoulder, steady, certain.

“C’mere,” George said quietly, and there was no room to argue.

Max went where the touch guided him. The world tilted until his cheek landed on George’s chest, skin hot under his face, the rise and fall of each breath steady and sure. The sound of George’s metronomic heartbeat filled the space between them. 

“Good boy,” George murmured somewhere above him. The words rumbled through his chest, into Max’s ear. “There we are.”

A hand moved up the back of his neck, fingers tracing circles there, keeping him tethered to Earth, tethered to George. 

Max tried to say something, thanks, or yes, or George, but nothing made it past his throat. He just breathed, slow and shaky.

The blanket shifted; George was tucking it higher over them both.

His brain felt far away, thoughts dulled and heavy. He could feel the weight of George’s palm resting between his shoulder blades, solid and warm, anchoring him in place.

Words drifted down, soft and blurred by sleep.

“Every time I think I’ve got you figured out,” George murmured, “you turn out to be something else entirely.”

Max wanted to reply, but all that came out was a weak hum. He couldn’t even open his mouth properly.

George said something else, but the meaning slipped away before it reached him.

Max just let the sound wash over him.

A pause; the slow drag of fingers through Max’s hair.

“Don’t know how you do it,” George murmured. “Don’t know why you think you have to.”

Max’s chest rose, fell. He wanted to say something, but the effort was too much. The hand in his hair stayed, soothing, steady. George chuckled under his breath. “You’d hate me saying this, but you’re bloody brilliant when you’re not fighting everything.”

Silence again, just breathing. The bed creaked softly when George shifted, drawing him a little closer. The warmth of his skin bled through the blanket until Max couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Time passed like that with George tracing idle shapes across his shoulder, whispering the kind of things he’d never say in the real world.

Max’s mind floated in and out of the sound, following the rhythm more than the words. Slowly, the fog began to thin. The warmth sharpened into awareness of the press of George’s chest under his cheek, the faint scratch of stubble against his temple, the clean scent of vanilla and skin.

He blinked, slow and heavy.

George noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said quietly, thumb brushing the side of Max’s face. “Welcome back.”

Max made a faint noise that might have been a word. His mouth was too dry to tell.

“Easy,” George murmured. “You’re alright.”

“’m fine,” Max managed, voice barely a whisper.

“I know,” George said, smiling. “Still nice to hear you say it.”

Max let his eyes close again, but this time he was awake, hovering in the stillness. He could feel George watching him.

“You should eat something,” George said after a while, light but certain. “You’ll feel human again.”

“Not hungry.”

“Liar.”  George’s tone softened. “Stay. We’ll have breakfast. Nothing dramatic, just— food, sunlight, peace for once.”

Max made a low sound that could have been protest, could have been assent.

George took it as agreement. “Good,” he said quietly, fingers combing once more through Max’s hair. “Then it’s settled.”

He didn’t move yet, and Max didn’t either. The world could wait another minute. Maybe two.

Eventually Max blinked at him, still tangled in the sheets, still not entirely convinced this was real. George looked… human. Hair flattened at odd angles, bed-creased cheek, the ghost of last night’s decisions still clinging to him.

George rubbed at his eyes, then glanced over, expression unreadable but not sharp. “You stayed.”

Max shrugged, staring at the ceiling. “Didn’t feel like fighting.”

“Miracle of the season,” George murmured.

They lay there a while longer, not moving. The silence between them wasn’t brittle anymore. It felt like truce. Like the kind of calm that only exists after both sides have finally run out of ammunition.

When George finally swung his legs off the bed, he muttered something about finding water. He stood, stretching once before crossing to where his clothes lay scattered across the floor. He stepped into his joggers, tugged them up one-handed while raking the other through his hair, then bent to scoop up the rest of his things. 

Max just watched him go, barefoot, rumpled, unguarded, and wondered when exactly things between them had stopped being simple.

When George came back from the kitchen a few minutes later, two glasses of water in one hand and a blister pack of aspirin in the other, he tossed a shirt onto the bed.

“Yours,” he said, nodding to the rumpled pile. “Happy new year,” he said, handing one glass across. He handed Max an aspirin. “For the uh— yeah.”

Max took it, squinting at him. “Thanks. Didn’t think this was how I would start 2025,” he muttered. 

George made a low hum that might have been a laugh. “Everyone’s full of surprises.” Max downed the pill, watching George lean against the dresser. 

Max sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “You planning to stand there all morning?”

“Just trying to decide if it’s safe to sit next to you without getting barked at.”

Max gave a dry snort but patted the mattress anyway. George sank down beside him, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked wrecked, but softer, somehow.

They sat like that in easy silence for a minute. The city outside was waking up. They could hear the faint hum of traffic, gulls somewhere near the harbour.

“You want coffee?” George asked eventually.

Max blinked at him. “Don’t suppose you’d have a Red Bull.”

“You’re joking.” George said, pushing himself up. “Please tell me you’re joking.” When Max didn’t answer, he groaned. “Of course you’re not.”

George pushed himself off the bed. “Absolutely not,” he said flatly. “You are not putting that chemical sludge in your body before breakfast.”

“It’s fine,” Max mumbled. “It’s sugar-free.”

George flicked him a look over his shoulder. “So’s bleach, doesn’t mean you drink it.”

Max snorted, trying not to smile, and the sound made George glance back at him, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Max said.

“Nothing.” George shrugged, turning to the hallway. “Just nice to hear you not swearing for once.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh, I intend to.” George was already halfway down the hall before Max could come up with a reply. “Come on then,” George called back. “If I’m suffering through your morning company, you’re at least going to watch me make something that qualifies as coffee.”

Max sat there a moment longer, staring at the space he’d left behind. The sheets were still warm where George had been. He exhaled, long and slow, then swung his legs off the bed. “You’re bossy.”

“Because I still have standards,” George said over his shoulder. “Up. Kitchen’s this way.”

His clothes lay in a heap nearby, shirt inside out, jeans halfway under the chair. He pulled them on piece by piece, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders, his core, his wrists, his ass. Everything smelled faintly of sleep and skin and the ghost of George’s cologne.

When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he looked like someone else entirely, or maybe just someone real. That thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and followed the scent of coffee down the hall. The tile was cold under his bare feet; the sound of the machine gurgling filled the quiet.

George was already in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, opening cupboards, muttering about filters and beans.

“You do this every morning?” Max asked, leaning against the counter.

“Yes. It’s called being an adult,” George replied without looking up. “Some of us like to start the day with dignity instead of taurine.”

“Big word for ten a.m.,” Max said.

“Mm,” George hummed, pouring water into the machine. “Try to keep up.”

The scent of brewing coffee filled the quiet. Sunlight edged across the counter, catching on the mess of George’s hair, the lines at the corner of his eyes. Max found himself watching, the domesticity of it all absurdly gentle after everything else.

George glanced sideways at him. “You look like you’ve never seen a man use a coffeemaker before.”

“Not one who lectures while doing it.”

“That’s just bonus service,” George said dryly. “You can tip me later.”

Max huffed a laugh despite himself. “In your dreams,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a warning this time.

George slid a mug toward him with a little grin. “There we go. Actual breakfast beverage. Try not to die of wholesomeness.”

Max complained about it anyway, and George told him to shut up around the rim of his mug.

Neither of them moved towards leaving.

George took another sip, eyes closing briefly like he was trying to summon patience. “Christ,” he muttered, setting the mug down, “I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” Max said, gesturing lazily with his own mug. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

George gave him a look, one brow lifting. “You think I’m letting you stink up my kitchen with the state you’re in?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re feral,” George countered, crossing his arms. “You smell like regret and floor cleaner.”

Max blinked. “You don’t even know what regret smells like.”

“Oh, I do,” George said evenly. “It’s coming off you in waves.” He finished the last of his coffee, then nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. Shower.”

Max frowned into his mug. “What, like— together?”

George rolled his eyes, already turning. “You’ve got five seconds before I drag you there myself, Max. Don’t test me.”

Max hesitated just long enough for George to toss a look over his shoulder of that sharp, effortless mix of challenge and amusement that always seemed to work on him.

“Jesus,” Max muttered, setting his mug down with a clink.

George’s grin was audible even before he said it. “And no complaining.”

Max followed, grumbling under his breath, but he still went.

The bathroom filled quickly with steam, mirrors fogging before either of them spoke. George moved around like he’d done this a hundred times, stripping quickly, testing the water temperature with one hand before stepping under the spray.

“Use the other one,” he said over his shoulder when Max reached for the wrong tap. “That one’s temperamental.”

Max grunted something unintelligible in Dutch.

George ignored it. “You’d think a man who pilots machinery at three hundred kilometers an hour could manage a shower knob.”

“Shut up.”

“Not until you stop looking like you crawled out of a ditch.”

Max shot him a flat look, but his exhaustion had sanded down his usual bite. He washed quickly, methodical, while George fussed with the soap and pretended not to watch him too closely.

Max’s shoulders stretched tight, sore from their… bonding activities. He splashed water over his face like he was in a hurry to get it over with. He stood there, motionless, the spray pounding against his back. 

George frowned. “You call that washing?”

“I am washing.”

“You’ve stood under water. That’s existing, not washing.”

Max let out a weary huff. “It’s fine.”

“Your definition of ‘fine’ concerns me.” George reached past him for the shampoo, flipped the lid, and squirted a palmful into his hand.  “Lean forward.”

“What?”

“Hair, Max. You clearly haven’t made its acquaintance this week.”

“I can do it—”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” George stepped closer, working the lather through Max’s hair before Max could mount a real protest.  His fingers were firm, practical, the motion brisk rather than gentle.  “You’ve got enough product in here to wax a car.”

“Don’t—” Max tried to move away, but George steered him back under the spray with a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Stop wriggling. You’ll survive ten seconds of hygiene.”

“I hate you,” Max muttered, water dripping down his nose.

“Good. Means you’re still alive,” George said. He finished rinsing the last of the shampoo from Max’s hair, stepping back to survey his work like a craftsman inspecting a job well done.

“There. Marginally less feral.”

Max wiped water from his eyes. “You done judging me?”

“Hardly.” George tilted his head, still studying him. “You’re not one of those horrid people who don’t wash their legs, are you?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“You know— just let the soap and water run down and call it a day.”  George’s tone was pure horror. “That’s barbaric.”

Max squinted at him through the steam. “How do you even think of these things?”

“Experience,” George said crisply. “You wouldn’t believe what men confess to after podium champagne.”

“I wash my legs,” Max muttered, turning back under the spray.

“Good,” George said. “Would’ve been a deal-breaker.”

“Deal-breaker for what?”

“For basic civilisation, Max. Honestly.”

When Max finally stepped out, George was already wrapped in a towel, water dripping down his collarbone. He opened a cupboard, rooting around until he found a plain white t-shirt and a pair of joggers. He tossed them across the bed. “Here. You’re not putting that biohazard from yesterday back on.”

Max stared at the clothes. “I’m not wearing your shit again.”

“They’re mine,” George said, patient but firm. “And they’re clean. Miraculous, I know.”

Max didn’t move.

George gave him that Bossy Girl look. “Either you put them on, or I put them on for you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Max muttered another curse, grabbed the clothes, and disappeared back into the steam.

When he re-emerged, he looked only marginally less feral, the t-shirt oversized, the joggers hanging loose on his hips.

George eyed him critically. “Better. Still tragic, but better.”

“Remind me never to listen to you again.”

“Please do. It’d be the healthiest decision you’ve ever made.”

Max scowled but didn’t take them off. He moved into the kitchen again, ruffling his damp hair with the towel. The tile was cold under his feet, and the morning air crept up his spine. He tried to hide a shiver, but George noticed anyway.

Without comment, George crossed to the coat rack and grabbed a navy hoodie. He held it out.

Max shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” George said dryly. “Arms up.”

“George—”

“Arms. Up.”

Max glared but obeyed, grudgingly lifting his arms. George tugged the hoodie over his head with brisk efficiency, smoothing it down once it was in place. It hung loose on him, the sleeves nearly swallowing his hands.

“There. Civilised,” George said, satisfied.

Max pushed the hood back, grumbling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” George hummed, leaning back against the counter. “And yet you’re warm.”

Max rolled his eyes but didn’t take it off. The flat smelled like coffee and clean laundry; everything else felt too quiet to ruin. There was something quieter about him now, the sharpness sanded down. He looked around the flat like he was seeing it for the first time.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Then George cleared his throat, still watching him from the counter. “I’m glad you stayed. Even if you hate that you did.”

Max didn’t look up from his mug, but his mouth twitched. “Yeah, well… don’t get used to it.”

George lingered by the counter, rolling his mug between his hands.

For a while, the only sound was the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a scooter somewhere down on the street.

Max was rinsing his mug, back turned. He looked maddeningly close to fine, hair damp, expression clean, impassive. Back to normal, if you didn’t know where to look.

George did.

“Y’know,” he said, tone light, almost conversational, “for someone who insists he hates me, you’re almost nice in the mornings.”

Max stilled, the mug clinking softly against the sink. “I do hate you.”

“Just an observation,” George went on, lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Most people run out long before coffee, much less laundry service.”

Max set the mug upside down in the rack with a little more force than necessary. “You done talking yet?”

“Not even close,” George said, pushing off the counter. “You eat breakfast, don’t you?”

Max frowned. “Yeah.”

“What does ‘yeah’ mean exactly?”

Max shrugged, turning the mug in his hands. “Protein bar. Sometimes a shake.”

George blinked. “You start your day—” he gestured vaguely, “—as an alleged world-class athlete— with something that tastes like a cardboard shoebox?”

Max scowled. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s depressing,” George countered, already rummaging through cupboards. “Move.”

“What are you—”

“Making you a proper breakfast, before you waste away out of spite.” He crossed to the fridge, pulling it open and squinting inside. “Think it’s important someone around here makes sure you eat like a functioning adult.”

Max frowned. “This your way of bragging about groceries?”

“This is my way of preventing you from fainting in my kitchen,” George said, shutting the door with a thud and grabbing a pan from the rack. “Sit.”

“I’m not hungry.”

George shot him a look over his shoulder, one brow raised. “You say that, yet you always look like you could use a sandwich.”

“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” George turned on the stove, the flame flaring blue. “I’m just making food. You can sit there and sulk, or you can eat it. Dealer’s choice.”

Max sighed and leaned against the counter instead of sitting. “You don’t let anyone have a choice, do you?”

“Only ‘cause I’m right.”

The scent of butter hit the air as George worked, sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows. He moved around the kitchen with the same focus he carried on track, quiet and precise. The comfort of it made Max’s chest ache. 

George cracked eggs into the pan, glancing over. “Toast?”

Max shrugged. “Whatever.”

“That’s not a yes or a no.”

“It’s a whatever,” Max said.

George sighed dramatically. “Fine. You get toast. Congratulations, you’re participating in breakfast.”

Max huffed, and it might’ve been a laugh.

George slid him a sidelong look. “Don’t look so offended. You’ve already borrowed my bed, my jumper, and my coffee. Might as well go for the full domestic experience.”

Max’s jaw flexed. “You always have to ruin it, don’t you?”

George’s smile softened, the edge fading from it. “Maybe,” he said. “But only because I like seeing you do that thing where you don’t know whether to punch me or kiss me.”

Max blinked, the words catching him off guard. He looked away first, reaching for his mug. “Shut up.”

“Never,” George said, turning back to the stove like he hadn’t just said something that dangerous out loud. The eggs hissed softly as he flipped them, sliding them onto plates with practiced ease.

He dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, glancing over his shoulder. “Relax. I’m just feeding you, not proposing.”

Max made a noise that might have been a scoff, might have been a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

George hid his smile behind the kettle. “You say that like I’m not doing all the work here.”

“Yeah, you’re a saint,” Max muttered, watching the toast pop.

George plated the food and handed one across the counter, deliberately brushing his knuckles against Max’s as he did. “See? Civilisation isn’t that hard. You could do this yourself if you ever stopped treating food like fuel.”

Max rolled his eyes but took the plate. “Fuel works fine.”

“Mm.” George leaned against the counter, biting into his own toast. He glanced back, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, well. Maybe you deserve better than fine.”

That shut Max up for a long moment.

But he was smiling, and so was Max. Barely. But it was there.

For the first time, the silence that settled between them wasn’t tense. It was warm, like something they could almost get used to.

They’d finished eating. The plates sat between them, empty but unclaimed, steam fading into the quiet. George leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, looking entirely too smug. 

Max wiped at a stray crumb on the counter, refusing to meet his eyes. “Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

“Nope.”

“Training, then.”

George grinned. “Rest day.”

“Team meeting?”

“Cancelled.”

Max shot him a flat look. “I can’t just hang around here all day.”

“Can’t you?”

Max exhaled, muttering something Dutch under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable.

George smirked. “Really? You’ve been properly fucked, bathed, and fed,” He ticked each point off on his fingers. “If this isn’t hospitality, I don’t know what is.”

“That’s not—” Max started, then stopped, because there wasn’t a version of that sentence that didn’t sound weak.

George tilted his head, watching him flounder with quiet amusement. “Don’t worry, Verstappen. I’ll kick you out eventually. Don’t want the neighbours to think anything indecent.”

“Too late,” Max muttered, glaring at the dishes like they’d personally betrayed him.

George chuckled under his breath and started stacking plates. “Relax. Dishes can be washed.”

Max opened his mouth to protest, but George was already at the sink, sleeves pushed up, humming tunelessly as he rinsed dishes that didn’t need rinsing.

So Max let him.

He sat on the edge of the counter, pretending to scroll through his phone, and every now and then he caught himself watching George’s reflection in the window. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.

And though Max scowled at the thought, he didn’t leave.

George finished with the dishes and leaned a hip against the counter, drying his hands on a towel. The room felt too quiet again, but not the sharp kind of silence they used to have. This one was soft, sneaky, almost pleasant.

And that was the problem.

Max’s phone screen had gone black minutes ago, but he kept staring at it anyway. He could feel George in the room the same way he felt an oncoming thunderstorm, the pressure changing, the air thickening.

He shouldn’t have let it get this comfortable. He shouldn’t have liked it.

George glanced over. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“Shut up.”

“See? Loud.” George grinned, pushing off the counter. He crossed the room, slow but not deliberate enough to count as teasing. “You’ve been fidgeting since I made breakfast. You planning to bite me again or something?”

Max shot him a glare, but it didn’t quite land. “You’re not funny.”

“Bit funny,” George said, stopping a pace away. They were almost eye level like this. Max straightened on the counter trying to reach his head just that little bit higher. “You’ve been quiet all morning.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “I like peace and quiet.”

George’s voice dropped, not playful now, curious. “Why? You scared I’ll ruin it?”

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t have one.

The silence stretched, the air bending under it. For a heartbeat, it felt like they were back at the edge of something dangerous where one breath, one word, could tilt the balance all over again.

George must’ve sensed it too, because his next line came quieter, gentler. “You don’t have to keep bracing for me, you know.”

Max swallowed hard. “I’m not.”

“Sure.” George stayed where he was, close enough that Max could feel the heat of him. 

Max could feel his pulse in his throat, quick and heavy, the kind of rhythm that used to belong only to the track. He couldn’t look at George, not directly. The floor was safer. The floor didn’t make him forget what words were.

“See?” George said quietly, that lazy drawl still there but softer now, as if he were talking to a spooked animal. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not here.”

Max’s breath caught. “I am here.”

“Barely.” George’s voice lowered another notch, threading between them. “I can practically hear you trying to talk yourself out of it.”

Max finally met his eyes, and George looked steady, unfairly steady, with that small, knowing smile that always managed to look kind and cruel at the same time.

“Don’t,” Max said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

George tilted his head. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you—” Max’s words tangled, breath catching again. “Like you get it.”

For a moment, the silence stretched too thin to bear.

George’s expression shifted. The smugness slipped, and in its place was something warmer, sadder, realer. “I do,” he said.

That single admission landed hard, cutting through the air. Max hated how it made him want to close the distance, hated the way his body leaned before his brain could stop it.

George’s hand twitched at his side like he felt it too. 

Max stayed where he was, perched on the counter, shoulders drawn back as if holding himself in place by will alone. His pulse thudded in his throat, loud enough that it almost drowned out the sound of every alarm going off in Max’s head. 

When George stopped in front of him, the edge of his knee brushed against Max’s shin. He looked up at him, eyes steady, unreadable.

Max breathed out, long and slow, trying to steady himself. “You make everything complicated.”

George gave a low laugh, quiet but sincere. “Takes two, mate.”

“Yeah,” Max said, voice rough. “Apparently.”

“You make everything a bloody chess game.” He reached out, brushed his fingers over Max’s wrist. “Doesn’t have to be.” His voice had that low calm that made Max feel seen, pinned.

George’s thumb brushed slow circles that set Max’s pulse hammering.

Max couldn’t breathe right. Every inch of him felt wired, ready to fight or run or— He didn’t even know.

George took one small step closer. His voice dropped. “You’re allowed to want something simple, Max.”

“I don’t—” Max’s throat worked. “That’s not—”

“Sure it is.” George tilted his head, that smile flickering. “You’re right here.”

And before Max could think of a single excuse, George leaned in, so close Max could feel his breath against his mouth. His heart lurched painfully.

George’s eyes flicked up once, checking for a sign. “Alright?” he asked quietly.

It was too much. The smell of coffee on George’s breath, the warmth of his hand, the gentleness of it all. It felt like standing at the edge of something he couldn’t survive.

Max’s body betrayed him; he didn’t move forward, didn’t move back— just froze.

George hesitated, but the pause broke him. His mind screamed at him to do something.

Max flinched back, air punching out of his lungs. “Don’t— just don’t.” He slid off the counter, desperate for distance. For air. 

“Hey— hey,” George said quickly, hands raised, voice low. “It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“Stop talking,” Max snapped, pacing away from him. He grabbed for his jacket on the back of the chair, nearly knocking over the mug beside it. “You can’t just—” He bit the words off, shaking his head. “You can’t.”

“Max, it was just—”

“It wasn’t just anything!” Max’s voice cracked, raw with panic. “You don’t get to— you don’t—” He couldn’t finish. His chest felt like it was collapsing inward.

George tried to step closer, hands still out like he could calm a wild animal. “Max, listen to me—”

“I can’t.”

He was already halfway to the door, pulse roaring in his ears. His hands were shaking when he grabbed the handle. “Don’t,” he said again, quieter this time. “Just— don’t.”

George didn’t stop him. Didn’t move.

The door clicked shut behind him, his world fully on tilt. 

He didn’t look back.

He got home and slammed the door harder than he meant to. The sound ricocheted through the flat, swallowed by all that cold marble and glass.

Everything in Monaco looked too clean. It made him feel like a stain.

His shoes squeaked against the tile. He could still hear George’s voice, that low, patient tone that made it sound like he already knew how this would go. Like he’d expected Max to run.

The words stuck to him, heavy and wet. You’re allowed to want something simple. Fucking hell.

None of this was fucking simple. 

He grabbed the nearest thing, a half-empty water bottle, and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a thud and bounced off, harmlessly, stupidly. Just like every other time he tried to hit something that wasn’t a car.

He stood there breathing hard, the silence pressing in again. His reflection in the window looked foreign, red-faced, jaw locked, chest still heaving like he’d just come off a stint.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, but the words came out thin, shaky.

He didn’t know if he meant George, or himself.

He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down until it hurt. The sound of the sea outside was faint but indifferent. Everything else in his life obeyed him. Everything except this.

The rush drained fast. It always did.

The adrenaline bled out of him, leaving behind something hollow and too human. His pulse slowed to something ugly, arrhythmic, like a car misfiring. He braced his hands on the counter and dropped his head between his shoulders.

The silence roared.

Water was spreading slowly from where the bottle had burst open, pooling on the floor. Max stared at it, watching it creep toward his shoes. He thought about cleaning it up, then didn’t.

His breath came uneven, not angry, just tired. Tired of the noise in his head, of wanting to hit something that wouldn’t hit back.

He peeled his jacket off and threw it aside. It landed half on the couch, half off, limp and useless. He followed it a minute later, sitting hard, elbows on his knees.

The morning replayed again, George pulling him close, washing his hair, pulling the jumper over his head. 

He dragged both hands through his hair and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw sparks.

He could still smell George on his skin. Vanilla. The memory rose, thick and unwelcome.

“Fuck,” he muttered, softer this time. His mind reeled with shame and arousal and anxiety and—

George. 

Outside, Monaco slept. Inside, Max sat there, surrounded by the mess he wouldn’t clean up, waiting for the sound of his own heartbeat to fade.

He sat there until the water on the floor dried to a faint mark and the city lights outside blurred into nothing.

Eventually he ran out of energy to be furious. There wasn’t anything left to do. No one to yell at. Nowhere to put it.

He stripped off his shirt, dropped it on the floor, and went to bed without brushing his teeth, without turning off the light. The sheets were cold; the air hummed with silence.

He told himself he’d just lie there for a bit, close his eyes, clear his head.

Sleep took him anyway.