Chapter Text
Evening
Saturday. Nov 30th, 2013
The lobby windows have already turned black, reflecting the lights instead of the outside. Evening settles in early during winter, like it’s in a hurry. George sat on the edge of the couch, fingers worrying the seam of his sleeve, pretending he was listening to Alex talk about literally anything else.
Max stood near the notice board across the room, helmet bag slung over one shoulder, talking to his friends. It’s easy to spot him—he always looked like he belonged wherever he was standing. George’s eyes drifted there without permission.
Alex noticed. Of course he did.
“What?” Alex said, nudging George’s knee with his own. “You’re gonna keep staring like that all night?”
George blinked, looked away too fast. “I wasn’t.”
Alex snorted. “Yeah, okay.”
For a moment, there’s only the hum of the vending machine and the soft scrape of chairs being moved. Someone dropped a coin; it echoed louder than it should. George’s gaze sneaked back anyway, like it’s muscle memory by now.
Alex leaned closer, voice lower. “You know this is stupid, right?”
George frowned. “What is?”
“This.” Alex gestured vaguely between George and the rest of the room—between George and Max. “Waiting.”
George shrugged, a small movement. “It’s not like—”
He stopped. There wasn’t a clean way to finished that sentence.
Alex sighed, clearly done with patience. “What? You’re gonna wait for another year?”
George didn't answer. He watched Max adjust the strap on his bag, the way he always did it twice, like he didn’t trust it the first time.
Alex followed his line of sight, then looked back at him. “George. He’s Max Verstappen. I bet next year Red Bull will sign him.”
The words landed heavier than they should. Red Bull. Next year. Not here.
George swallowed. His jaw tightened—not dramatic, just enough that Alex noticed.
“It’s a winter competition,” Alex continued, softer now. “Once a year. You already waited one.”
Last year flashed through George’s mind in pieces: introductions that didn’t stick, passing nods, Max as just another name people whispered about. This year was different. This year there were inside jokes spoken too quietly, shared gloves, knowing looks that never lasted too long.
“Once a year,” Alex repeated. “And that’s only if he comes back.”
George didn’t look up.
He picked at the seam of his sleeve instead, thumb worrying the loose thread until it curled under his nail. The room felt suddenly smaller, like the air’s shifted without warning.
“You know I’m serious,” Alex said, quieter but firmer. “Everyone sees it. He’s not going to be here forever.”
George swallowed. “I know.”
“Do you?” Alex pressed. “Because guys like him don’t stay in places like this. Someone’s going to pull him up. Soon.”
The words settled heavy between them.
George nodded, once—enough that Alex understood the feeling.
“Once a year,” Alex added, softer now. “And that’s if you’re lucky.”
George exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
Alex watched him for a beat longer, then leaned back. “I’m not telling you what to do,” he said. “I’m just saying—don’t assume there’ll be another shot.”
George didn’t answer. Instead, he looked up to Max.
Across the room, Max looked up too—just for a second—and their eyes met. It was nothing. It was everything.
Max smiled, small and crooked, like it was meant only for him.
George’s chest felt tight in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
Alex watched his face carefully. “You don’t have to make it a whole thing,” he said. “Just… don’t leave it unsaid.”
George exhaled, slow. He nodded once, like he’s agreeing to something he didn't fully understand yet.
Across the lobby, Max turned back to the conversation, unaware. Or maybe not. George can’t tell anymore.
The evening stretched on, heavy with the knowledge that there was only one night, one night before we left.
---
By the time George stood up, the lobby had shifted into that in-between state—half emptied, half waiting. Jackets came on. Bags got zipped and unzipped again, like people were afraid of committing to leaving too early. Outside, the windows had gone dark enough to turn the room into a reflection of itself.
George told himself he was just stretching his legs.
He wasn’t.
Max was still by the notice board, helmet bag resting against his shin, laughing softly at something one of his friends said. He laughed with his whole face—eyes narrowing, mouth open just enough to show teeth—and George had learned, sometime over the past year, that this was a thing his body reacted to before his brain did.
He waited. Then waited a little too long.
When Max finally stepped away, the conversation breaking apart naturally, George moved without thinking too hard about it. If he stopped to think, he knew he wouldn’t move at all.
“Hey,” he said.
Max turned. The smile didn’t disappear, just softened at the edges. “Hey.”
They stood there. Close enough to feel awkward about it, not close enough to justify stepping back.
“So,” George started, then stopped. He rubbed his thumb against his palm, recalibrated. “Uh. Later. Tonight.”
He cleared his throat. “Do you wanna… hang out? Just for a bit.”
Max blinked. Once. Then again.
“Hang out,” he repeated, carefully.
“With… me?”
The way he said it made something twist low in George’s chest.
“Yeah,” George said again. “Just us.”
“So,” Max said, “you’re asking me to hang out. Just… us.”
George exhaled. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Max shifted his helmet bag higher on his shoulder, why was he always doing that? “That’s—”
He huffed a small laugh. “That’s new.”
“I know.”
Max glanced down the hallway, where voices echoed faintly. “Papa won’t like it.”
George let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
Another pause. Max shifted the helmet bag higher on his shoulder, the strap creaking faintly.
“It’s different,” he said. Not complaining. Just stating it.
George nodded. “It is.”
Max considered that. Then, finally, “I’ll try. I can’t promise.”
“That’s okay,” George said immediately. “Really.”
They lingered, neither of them quite ready to leave the moment yet.
“Good race,” Max said eventually, like he needed something solid to stand on.
“Yeah,” George replied. “You too.”
They shook hands. It was normal. It was familiar. It should have ended there.
It didn’t.
“You look—” George started, then stopped. The thought has already escaped its cage.
He winced internally, then finished, softer than he meant to. “You look different when you win.”
The silence that followed is thin and sharp.
Max froze. George froze. Even the noise around them seemed to dull, like the lobby itself was holding its breath.
Max’s ears turned red first. Then his cheeks. His mouth opened, closed. He lets out a small, startled laugh that sounds like it escaped without permission.
“Oh,” Max said.
George wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I didn’t—” George started, heat flooding his face now. “I meant—sorry, that was—”
Max looked at him, eyes bright, flustered in a way George has never seen before. For one terrifying, perfect second, Max looked shy.
Then Max’s gaze flicked over George’s shoulder.
“Shit,” Max muttered, already stepping back. “That’s my dad.”
Jos Verstappen stood a few meters away, arms crossed, watching with an expression that could curdle milk.
Max straightened instantly, professional, composed. The blush lingered anyway.
“I—uh,” Max said quickly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like nothing just happened.
George stood there, heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Behind him, someone snorted.
Alex lowered his camera, grinning like he’d just won something important. “Please tell me you know I got all of that. This is what I paid for.”
George dragged a hand down his face. “I’m never opening my mouth again.”
Alex checked the screen, already replaying the video. “Worth it,” he said. “Absolutely worth it.”
George looked back at the doors Max went through, chest still warm despite the cold.
Highest achievement, he thought distantly.
Ever.
---
Later that night
George leaded the way like he was pretending not to know the route by heart.
They took the stairs instead of the lift. Two floors down, then a turn that looks like it shouldn’t lead anywhere at all. The hallway grew quieter the further they go, carpet muffling their steps, the air noticeably colder. The building hums differently here—less voices, more ventilation.
Max followed without asking questions. That, somehow, feels like trust.
George stopped in front of an unmarked door. No sign. No keycard reader. Just a handle and a faint draft slipping out from underneath.
He hesitated for half a second, then opened it.
The room is… pristine.
Too pristine.
White walls. Metal shelves lined with neatly stacked snacks, energy bars arranged by brand, bottled water labels all facing the same direction. A small fridge hums quietly in the corner, frost clinging to the edges. The air is sharp with cold, clean enough to sting.
Max stepped inside and blinked.
“Wow,” he said. “This is—”
He stopped, looking around again. “Very… organized.”
George huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It’s kind of a thing.”
Max dragged a hand over one of the shelves, careful not to disturb anything. “How do you even know about this room?”
George shrugged, locking the door behind them out of habit. “One of the seniors passed it to me. Said it’s tradition.”
A pause. “You only tell people you trust.”
Max looked at him then. Really looked.
“Oh,” he said. Again.
They sat on the floor, backs against opposite walls at first, like they’re giving the room time to adjust to having them in it. The cold seeped through George’s jacket, grounding. He liked it. It made everything feel clearer.
Max nudged a packet of biscuits with his foot. “You’re telling me you’ve been hiding this all season?”
George smiled, small. “It’s not exactly social.”
“You invited me,” Max said.
George shrugged. “Yeah.”
They shared the snacks eventually, knees drawn up, shoulders closer now without either of them commenting on it. Max talked about avoiding his dad—nothing dramatic, just careful timing, long routes, knowing when to disappear.
“You’re good at it,” George said.
Max grinned. “Practice.”
George didn’t think before he replied. “I’m impressed.”
Max’s grin softened into something else. Quieter. Warmer.
They talked about everything and nothing—tracks they hate, tracks they love, winter races feeling longer than they should. Last year comes up, accidentally. How they knew of each other then, not each other. How different it feels now.
There was a moment—just one—where the words almost lined up.
George felt it in his chest, the way a sentence formed fully and then stopped, like it had hit glass. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Max noticed. Of course he did.
“What?” Max asked, not pushing. Just… curious.
George shook his head. “Nothing.”
Max watched him for a second longer, like he knew that’s a lie but is choosing not to call it one.
“Okay,” he said.
They sat there in the cold, shoulders almost touching now, breath fogging faintly in the air.
George shifted first, more out of instinct than decision. The floor had started to bite through his jacket, the chill creeping in slow and persistent. He glanced toward the sofa—that looked like bed—pushed against the far wall—neatly straightened, throw folded with almost aggressive precision.
“Uh,” he said, quietly. “We can—there’s a couch.”
Max followed his gaze, nodded. “Yeah. That might be better.”
They moved without rushing it, sitting close but not quite pressed together, the space between them narrow enough to feel intentional. The sofa creaked softly beneath their weight. It’s warmer here. Or maybe George just noticed the cold less.
For a while, nothing happened.
Max leaned back, head tipped slightly toward the wall. George watched the way the light caught on his cheekbone, the faint pink already creeping into his cheeks like warmth he hadn’t noticed yet. The familiar line of it now close enough to trace with his eyes instead of memory.
He told himself not to.
His hand moved anyway.
Slow. Careful. Not touching at first—just hovering, like he was checking the shape of the moment before stepping into it. His fingers brushed Max’s cheek, light enough that it could still be accidental.
George let his thumb trace the line of Max’s cheekbone, a silent question.
Max stilled.
He looked up at George—not startled, not confused. Just quiet. Like he’s thinking.
For a breath, they’re too close to pretend this is nothing. George saw it then, the way Max’s gaze lingered before dropping—once, unmistakably—to George’s lips.
George didn’t move.
Neither did Max.
Their eyes met again, something unspoken passing between them. George held the gaze.
Then Max closed the distance himself, fingers curling into the fabric of George’s collar, not pulling hard—just enough. An answer.
George didn’t think after that.
He leaned in, slow enough to stop, slow enough to be stopped. Their foreheads brushed first. Their noses. Max’s breath caught, barely audible.
The kiss was soft. Almost hesitant. Lips pressing together like they’re checking, like they’re learning.
George felt it everywhere at once—warmth blooming in his chest, his hands steady now where they rested against Max’s jaw. Max kissed him back, just as careful, just as unsure, and somehow that made it perfect.
They parted only when they had to breathe.
They didn’t say anything.
Max stayed close, forehead resting against George’s, eyes half-lidded, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.
George exhaled slowly, like he was afraid of breaking the moment if he moved too fast.
“Should’ve done it sooner,” Max teased, and George barked out a laugh.
“Didn’t know you feel the same,” George said.
His hand moved, finding its way to Max’s waist—resting there for a moment before pulling him onto his lap.
Max made a strangled sound at the sudden movement, hands coming up instinctively to pull George back into another kiss.
George broke the kiss only by a fraction, just enough to breathe.
His forehead stayed pressed to Max’s, noses still brushing, like he wasn’t ready to let the space grow any wider than it had to.
For a second, George just stared at him.
His brain did that thing where it lagged behind reality, like it needed a second buffer to catch up. His mouth opened. Closed again.
“Oh,” he said, brilliantly.
Max huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a wreck. “Yeah. That was my reaction too.”
George laughed then—too loud, a little unhinged. He dragged a hand through his hair.
“I can’t believe—” He cut himself off, shook his head. “I’ve liked you since the first time we met.”
Max froze.
“Wait,” he said, blinking. “Like—that first time?”
“Yes,” George said immediately. “That first first time. The one where you barely talked and I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” Max said, offended. “I was just… bad at talking.”
George snorted. “You’re still bad at talking.”
“Yeah, but now I’m bad at talking to you,” Max shot back, smiling despite himself.
He shifted closer again, their space collapsing naturally, like it always had. His voice dropped without him meaning it to.
“Fuck,” Max said. “You’ve been driving me crazy since our first podium.”
George blinked. “The—KF2 and KF3 thing?”
“Yes,” Max said. “That one. The stupid photo. You wouldn’t stop smiling.”
“You won,” George said weakly.
“So did you,” Max replied. “That was the problem.”
They stared at each other for a beat.
Then George laughed again, softer this time, and shook his head. “We’re idiots.”
“Yeah,” Max agreed easily. “But at least we’re honest idiots now.”
He leaned in, but stopped short, hovering just there, close enough that George could feel his breath. Close enough to hesitate.
George didn’t.
He kissed him again—clumsy, slightly off-angle, teeth clicking faintly before they fixed it, both of them smiling into it. Max made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a breath, hands fisting in the front of George’s jacket like he needed something solid.
When they broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breathing hard.
“We really don’t have a lot of time,” George said, like that thought had just occurred to him.
Max grinned, reckless and bright. “Then stop talking.”
George laughed—and pulled him back in.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The words just… sat there.
George felt them settle somewhere deep in his chest, warm and terrifying all at once. Like something had finally been named, and naming it had made it real.
He laughed softly, breath still uneven. “We’re really bad at pretending this is new,” he said.
Max smiled, the kind that didn’t try to be clever. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We are.”
Their foreheads touched again, not quite on purpose. Max’s hand stayed at the back of George’s neck now, thumb brushing once, absent, like muscle memory he hadn’t learned yet.
Max shifted closer anyway.
George’s hands slid to Max’s waist, steady now, sure. Max followed the movement easily, like he’d been waiting for permission he already had.
The kiss this time wasn’t careful.
It was slow, deeper, unhurried in a way that felt almost defiant—like if they took it gently enough, they could stretch the night longer.
They pulled away, just enough to start gazing each other. Max looked so beautiful after kiss, George couldn't help but staring
They didn’t move right away.
That was the strange part.
The room had gone quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like it was holding its breath. The hum of the fridge filled the space between them, steady and too loud.
George watched him without meaning to.
“Why do you do that?” Max asked suddenly.
George blinked. “Do what?”
“That thing.” Max tilted his head, studying him openly now. “Where you think for ages before saying anything. Like you’re measuring the consequences.”
George huffed a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “A bit.”
George looked down at his hands. “I just don’t like getting things wrong.”
Max was quiet for a moment
“I don’t think you do,” he said eventually, nose brushed George's.
George glanced up. “What?”
“Get things wrong,” Max repeated. “You just…” He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t like not knowing how it’ll end.”
The words hit closer than George expected.
“Maybe,” he said.
Max shifted, scooting a little closer —not enough to make a point of it, just enough that George noticed the change in temperature. The space between them thinned.
“For what it’s worth,” Max added, softer now, “not everything needs a plan.”
George swallowed.
He nodded, even though his chest felt tight. “Yeah. I know.”
Silence stretched again, different this time. Not awkward. Charged.
George felt suddenly hyper-aware—of the cold air, of the warmth where they touched, of the way Max was watching him now without pretending otherwise.
“You’re staring,” Max said, not accusing. Almost amused.
George exhaled. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
That was it.
Not a confession. Not a dare. Just permission.
George hesitated—one last habit he hadn’t shaken yet—then shifted closer, enough that their lips almost touched again. Max didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in.
They kissed again, slower, gentler.
"Fuck—" Max cursed under his breath, his whole body was a mess. George's eyes was back on Max, worried.
"Is something wrong?" he asked gently, hands slid up to cup Max's face, enough to got Max's attention back on him.
Max was avoiding George's gaze, hiding his face to the crook of George's neck, mumbling something in Dutch that probably was some curses.
"Max," George breathed again, hands rubbing the back of Max's neck, tugging him tight.
"Max. 'S there something wrong?" George asked again, voice more gentled.
Max just hugged him closer, there was no space—except the air—left between them. "I'm hard," the words barely escaped from Max's lips, anchoring a laugh from George's mouth.
"I suppose we're not gonna be back to our own rooms tonight, aren't we?" George teased, grinning too wide, his cheeks hurt.
"Thought that was the plan," Max kissed him again, hard, trying to had something to stand on.
---
That night was theirs, The Night.