Chapter Text
P14. Not his worst race, but far from what he’d hoped for.
George keeps his helmet on as he threads through the crew. Through the slit of his visor he catches Max by his box, cheeks flushed, bottle in hand, listening to Charles gush. Max is grinning, loose and effortless, light in a way George hasn’t felt in months. Even Charles looks more alive than he’s ever been all season.
The knife in his chest twists a little tighter.
A thin ripple of claps greets George inside the garage. Kimi’s already there, looking like he wants to say something before someone whisks him away. Toto finds George first, cutting through the shuffling engineers. The weight of the hand that clamps his shoulder is grounding, and for the first time since the chequered flag George doesn’t feel like he might melt into the floor. Toto’s look isn’t kind, but it isn’t angry either, and George is too drained to decipher it. He makes no move to remove his helmet either—Toto never comments on his post-race moods, but the rest don’t need to see that the wet around his eyes isn’t sweat.
God. Seven years in F1, and he’s still blinking back tears over a bad finish. It never gets easier, does it?
When Toto’s hand falls away, George picks up his pace. His fingers find the cold metal lip of the zipper near his neck as he slips into the room where his ice bath waits.
George doesn’t hide his disappointment in front of the cameras. He’s learned the PR balance over the years for times like this: clean angles and measured honesty. A couple pointed questions send him back into that final lap—contact, the spin, the blur of cars streaking past as the crowd gasped. He doesn’t remember what he was asked, only the sting of memory. He recovers quickly, fixes whatever look he just pulled. He knows he’ll avoid watching any clips of himself from today.
The following debrief with the team was as long as George had anticipated, which is saying a lot, since he likes assuming the worst. He tries to focus the best he could. The team reviews everything in excruciating detail—the close racing with Max, the car’s performance, the moment it all fell apart. Every slide back to P14 has Max’s name somehow attached to it. Max’s car. Max’s dirty air. Max’s rear wing catching his front.
George doesn’t hate Max. In fact, he kind of admires his confidence and no-nonsense attitude. It’s just unfortunate that the Dutchman always manages to embroil himself in the antagonistic forces of George’s life, like some cruel cosmic joke. And while George had grown out of petty resentment, he’s not above lamenting.
When the team finally dismisses him, George wastes no time leaving. Kimi invites him to dinner but George declines out of a lack of appetite, so there he stands, in the dim parking lot with his bag weighing a tonne of bricks and puffy eyes behind his favourite pair of shades. George isn’t sure why his legs carried him here. He didn't have a car parked this time, nor was there a car waiting for him. To catch some night air maybe, but the soft breeze did nothing to soothe the crawling under the skin however. He had long washed off the grime of the race, but the salt of his breakdown in the shower still lingers on his tongue.
Well, no matter. He has the entire night to himself to pull himself together before throwing himself back in the sim.
“Need a lift?”
George turns, startled. He must be more out of it than he thought, if he had missed the sound of footsteps in the quiet of the parking lot, but he recognises the voice instantly.
Max stands a few paces away, cap low and sandy hair sticking out beneath it. He’d changed out of his racesuit into the fashion felony of a Red Bull polo and skinny jeans. The unbotheredness of it all—a four-time world champion and not a care given about the world beyond the tracks—had always irked George, even if there was something terribly admirable about it. The faint scent of champagne clings to Max, bitterer than George remembers. He tells himself he’s imagining it, because Max didn’t seem like the kind of vindictive to let himself reek of champagne in the presence of someone licking his own wounds.
Max doesn’t ask why George is wearing sunnies in the dead of the night. George cannot make out the look on his face from beneath the cap’s brim, so he doesn’t try.
“No, thank you,” George says out of reflex, sharper than intended. “Good race,” he adds stiffly. Max had clinched P2 after all, though it almost took more effort than he had to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
Max doesn’t say ‘you too’ in return and George isn’t sure if it stung more than if he had. The Dutchman smiles, boyish and rough-edged like everything else about him. George doesn’t know what to do about the sight and pulls out his phone in lieu of talking.
“You got a ride?” Max asks, scanning the parking lot.
“Uh.” George scrolls through his contacts with a little more urgency, in hopes that the solution to his ride back will illuminate itself. At the same time, he finds himself too tired to lie.
“Not yet,” he says. A pause. “Don’t you have an after-party to get to?”
“I’ve got an early flight,” Max says simply, which George thinks isn’t much of an explanation because that has never stopped the Red Bull driver. But again, he’s too worn out to ask. He gives a non-committal hum as his finger hovers over a pit crew’s contact. They all stay at the same hotel anyway. George wouldn’t mind waiting until he’s done clearing out the garage. He could sit through half an hour of stilted conversation too, and he wouldn’t be asked about the sunnies.
Probably.
“Wait here,” Max says abruptly. “I’ll drive you.”
George’s head snaps up. “What?”
But Max is already adjusting his duffel strap and jogging off. George stares after him, phone glowing uselessly in his hand. Well.
Max has been charitable lately—warm in ways George isn’t entirely used to. The kind of benevolence that comes with being untouchable on the track, possibly. Still, George didn’t think he’d willingly subject himself to a thirty-minute car ride with him. Distantly, he thinks he’d be more bewildered if he weren’t this emotionally spent. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe George was suddenly possessed by the spirit of irrationality, but either way, he stays put.
Headlights slice through the dark a minute later as a Porsche rolls to a stop in front of him. George half expects Max to lean out the window with some cocky grin, but the man only tilts his head toward the passenger seat, wordless. George tries not to think about the bizarreness of the situation and loads his stuff in the backseat before slipping into the front. The door shuts with a thud that feels too loud.
Max pulls out of the parking lot, one hand loose on the wheel and the other drumming against his thigh. The radio is turned low, the music indiscernible. George faintly recalls that Max isn’t big on songs and resists the urge to connect his Spotify to drown out the noise in his head. The quiet hum of the engine fills the rest of the silence that Max doesn’t seem particularly keen on breaking. His pale blue eyes are trained on the road, face relaxed. He seems to know where George’s hotel is, somehow.
“You didn’t have to,” George says eventually.
“Don’t worry about it,” Max says. And that was that.
They hit a stretch of empty road, streetlights washing the inside of the car in alternating gold and shadow. George’s eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the windshield, unfocused. His body is still wound tight from the race but his mind floats somewhere else, like he’s hovering just outside himself. He doesn’t even remember what he’s thinking about until Max’s voice cuts through the fog.
“Are we good?” he asks.
George blinks and tries to pretend like he wasn’t just caught spacing out. “About?”
“The contact. Before you spun out.” Max makes a vague gesture with the hand resting on the wheel. “Just to check.”
“Right.” George huffs, lips twist into something sour at the memory. “The contact.”
Max glances over. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, I know,” George cuts in too quickly. The back of his neck burns. He can still feel the spin in his stomach, the world tipping sideways, the engine choking as cars flew past. “Bit of a shame ‘cause I’ve been driving clean all season but it’s fine. What, you think I'd hold a grudge against you for that?”
“No, it’s just—” Max’s fingers tap against the wheel like he’s turning George’s words over in his head. “I wasn’t sure.”
Max’s conscience is a strange, irritating thing. Maybe giving him a lift is some misplaced attempt at an apology, but if Max had watched any replays, which he’s sure he had, he’d know the ruling was fair. Just another racing incident.
George exhales quietly. “Really. You didn’t take my line, you didn’t crowd me off. I lost grip and turned into you. That’s all it was.” George pauses. “If anything, you should be pissed.”
Max looks over, brow arched. “So if I’d turned into you, you’d be pissed?”
“Well. Yeah.”
Max laughs under his breath like he’d been holding it. The tension diffuses just enough for George to slouch back a little.
“What about you?” Max asks again after a moment. “You feeling okay?”
George snorts. “I came P14, mate. What do you think?"
“Could’ve been worse.”
“Sure. If I were still in a Williams.”
“You held Lando off for twenty laps. That’s solid work. Tyres just gave up near the end.”
“Please don’t turn this into another debrief,” George groans, and tries to think about the irony of it coming from arguably his biggest track rival. “If you do, I might actually throw up in your car.”
That gets another laugh out of Max, and it rings warmly in the cabin. “Mate, I’m just saying. You don’t give yourself enough credit sometimes.”
“For what, losing my tyres?”
“For good racing.”
George freezes, a little. It's not that Max doesn’t do compliments—he does, on tracks and over interviews and press conferences—it’s just never been in the quiet of a car where it’s just the two of them. Oddly enough though, it does make him feel better. Max isn’t the kind to kiss ass, most of all not George’s. He must say what he means.
“Thanks,” George says belatedly.
Max dips his head. The silence that follows isn’t so much awkward as it is heavy. George turns to the window, just to give himself something to fixate on. His reflection looks washed-out in the glass and hands drift to his sunglasses to take them off. He quickly decides against it. Better safe than looking like he’s had an allergic reaction.
“We’ve got two weeks before the next race, yeah?” Max asks, after some silence.
George takes a second to process the question. “Yeah, two weeks. Why?”
“I’m taking a few days off. Somewhere quiet.”
“Yeah?” George can understand that—wanting to get away from it all, from the noise, cameras, the questions. “Got a place in mind?”
“I do.” Max’s mouth curves slightly, eyes still on the road. “My cousin’s got a place in Provence, France. Lourmarin. He hardly uses it, said I could go whenever.”
George hums. He can picture it easily enough—the chiseled stone houses, turquoise waters and the warmth of summer.
“Sounds lovely, mate. Can’t imagine better weather for it.”
“Yeah,” Max agrees. There’s a pause, and then:
“You should come.”
George turns so quickly it’s almost comical.
“You mean—what, like with you?”
“Yeah,” Max says easily. His tone is even, almost casual. “We fly out tomorrow morning. Switch off for a bit, clear your head. Just for a couple days.”
“Fly with you,” George echoes slowly, like he’s repeating something in a language he only half understands. “On your jet.”
“Yeah.”
“To your little French vacation home.”
“It’s not little,” Max says, amused. “Not mine either, but yes.”
George faces forward again, staring at the city lights streaking across the windscreen as if they might rearrange themselves into an answer. His head feels too full and too empty at once.
“This is really random,” he says finally.
Max shrugs one shoulder. “You’ve done weirder. Didn’t you drive across the Mojave with Lando at midnight?”
“That’s—that’s different,” George says almost defensively, running a hand through his hair. He lets himself stare at Max, waiting for him to retract the invite, but it never comes. The man stays perfectly, frustratingly, composed.
“You’re serious about this,” George remarks faintly.
“Yeah. Why not?” Max glances over this time, just long enough for George to catch a cheeky twinkle in his eyes. “Drivers go on trips during the season. You look like you could use it and I was already going.”
George swallows. He’s half-convinced it’s the champagne talking. Some podium afterglow, his generosity spilling over, because while their feud had simmered, they weren’t exactly chummy either. If it had been anyone else in this passenger seat, Max would’ve invited them too.
“Anyway,” Max continues, unfazed, “you’re free, right? You don’t have to be back in the sim yet.”
He’s not wrong. George would probably spend a couple days haunting his flat like a ghost before hauling himself back to the factory. The sun-drenched plains and picturesque valleys of Provence sound like a much better use of his time. He doesn’t say this aloud, though.
“I wouldn't want to intrude," George protests weakly.
“It’s just me,” Max replies. “I told you, my cousin hardly uses the place. House is empty most of the year.”
“Not gonna grab one of your other mates?” George asks curiously, sneaking a look at him.
There’s a pause—long enough that George thinks Max might actually be considering it and wonders why he hadn’t thought so before. Then Max exhales, shoulders loosening.
“Nah. The house isn’t small, but it’s also not that big. If I invite one guy, another’s gonna wanna come. Then another. You know how they are.”
George does indeed. There’s something very monkey-see-monkey-do about the grid. It’s oddly endearing, in a primitive, kindergarten school-trip sort of way.
“If it gets big enough, PR will want to get involved and that defeats the point,” Max explains. “I think it’s better if it’s just us.”
The bluntness catches him off guard a little, but it shouldn’t have—it’s Max. Bluntless is in his perennial nature.
“Okay. Lovely offer and all,” George says, “but I don’t exactly have the right clothes with me.” Right now, he's packed less 'summer in French countryside' and more 'media day', and he didn’t think Max would want to swing by Monaco first.
Max just stares at him, profoundly baffled.
“You have shirts, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, but that’s not—”
“Mate, it’s summer,” Max interrupts, a loose grin returning. “Just grab your bags, hop on the plane, figure the rest out later. Simple.”
Simple, George thinks, a faint panic settling beneath his skin. This is anything but; this is one of those trips that feel like a gamble because you don’t know the company well enough. But unless Max is making him split the airfare for his private jet, he’s getting to travel to a beautiful part of France for essentially no cost at all, and George was nothing if not a grown man who could handle a couple days of sharing a space with his track rival.
He tries to imagine himself hopping on a flight back to King’s Lynn and suddenly, the thought of going back to his flat alone, of staring at onboards and telemetry until his eyes burn and waking up to the cold emptiness of his halls, feels worse.
“Sure,” George hears himself say. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Great, I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow,” Max says immediately as they pull up to George’s hotel. George hadn’t even realised they’d arrived.
“I could just—” George starts, reflexively. “I can meet you at the airport.”
Max waves it off without looking at him. “My hotel’s nearby and I’ve got a car. It’s fine.”
George nods distantly, still reeling from his decision when a thick, corded arm reaches across his lap to unlock the door on his side.
“You gonna make me do everything for you?” Max asks amusedly.
That snaps George out of it.
“You’ve been very unsolicited today,” he mutters, bristling on instinct. He twists to grab his bag from the backseat and clambers out, throwing Max a pointed glare for good measure. It loses some of its heat when he adds, mostly under his breath, “Thanks for the ride.”
Max just laughs, low and easy. “See you tomorrow. And take those glasses off. You look fine.”
The Porsche glides away before George can even form a retort. He stands there for a long moment, duffel clutched in both hands, the bellhop hovering at a polite distance. It feels like he’s just agreed to something irreversible that future George will have a lot to say about. And yet, beneath the trepidation, the weight pressing against his ribs feels just the tiniest bit lighter.
Alex blinks slowly at George, like he thinks he might need to get his brain checked. It’s a mortifyingly humbling experience.
“You’re serious.”
“If I were lying I’d come up with a better one,” George replies, raising his phone to give Alex a nice aerial view of the smooth leather seat of Max Verstappen’s private jet. He’s already swaddled himself in a blanket and neckrest, ready to pass out once the plane takes off so he doesn’t have to sit with the knowledge that he willingly agreed to this. He didn’t think Max would appreciate him clamouring for an emergency layover. Said man is seated at the table a few feet ahead, and George flips the camera to give Alex a good view of the messy blond hair peeking out from above the headrest.
“Man of the hour over there,” George remarks.
“I genuinely can’t believe this,” Alex murmurs faintly. “You’re going on a trip with Max. Alone. Just the two of you.”
“I know, I know. The whole asking bit honestly felt like a fever dream.” George says, flipping the camera back to himself. He had the whole night and morning to acquaint himself with the absurdity of the situation, so he just offers Alex a mild shrug. “But yeah. Super impromptu.”
“You don’t say.” Alex props his phone up on his bathroom sink, the angle crooked. “Two days ago you told me you were going straight back to King’s Lynn. Now you’re on Max’s—” He gestures vaguely with a toothbrush. “—jet. Does Toto know about this?”
“Yeah. He said it’s fine so long as we keep our heads down. Which, obviously. We were going to already, that’s kind of the whole point.” George lowers his voice, because Max didn’t seem like the kind to use earphones. “Anyway, I’m just letting you know in case I go missing on this trip. You’ll know who did it.”
There’s a loud, sarcastic “hah” on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, that’ll be you for agreeing to this in the first place. Seriously, George. You don’t even go on trips during the season.”
It’s true, only because George would rather just fly back to King’s Lynn if he’s grown sick of the factory, as if self-inflicted monastic suffering will fix his race pace. Lately, though, even the thought of going home made something in him sink.
“I know. I’m just—kind of in a weird mood,” he admits, running a hand through the tangles in his hair. “Thought something to break the routine wouldn’t be so bad. And if it goes horribly, I could just drive back or something.”
“Hm.” Alex begins brushing his teeth. The next thing he says comes out garbled, but George has a decade of fluency in the many variants of Alexspeak. “Where’d you say it was again?”
“Somewhere in Provence.” George tries to recall the name. “Lourmarin, I think?”
Alex pauses mid-brush. “Sounds romantic. Is that why you didn’t invite me?”
“Oh, fuck off,” George says, feeling himself grin. “He said he wasn’t inviting any of his mates. Figured I shouldn’t either.”
“Mm.” Alex spits into his sink and George twists his phone away with a grimace because he just had a full breakfast. “Actually, this might be good for you and Max. Clear the air.”
George squints, turning his phone back. “Clear what air? Does it look like we’re fighting?”
“Something’s off, I don’t know,” Alex says as he pats his face dry. George waits for him to elaborate as the Thai driver picks up his phone. The frame jolts, then settles on an unflattering close-up of his forehead.
“Can’t place it. But this’ll be good bonding for you, George,” Alex says.
“No, wait. What do you mean ‘something’s off’?”
“I told you I can’t place it. Just a vibe, you know?” A pause. “You ever looked up you and Max on Twitter?”
“That sounds harrowing so no,” George says instantly. “And I will not be.”
Alex pauses, like he’s considering this. “Probably for the best. Alright, I’ve got to shit. Aren’t you taking off soon?”
George suppresses his skepticism and cranes his head to assess the cockpit. “Looks like it.”
“Text me when you land,” Alex says.
“You think I won’t?”
“Oh, I’m assuming you’ll forget,” Alex replies dryly, “and then I’ll have to conclude that Max has thrown you into the Mediterranean.”
“Pacific,” George corrects, because he’s feeling particularly difficult today.
“Okay smartass,” Alex waves him off. “Bon voyage. Try not to get mobbed at the airport,” he says and ends the call first. He must really need to shit.
George pockets his phone and steals a last glance at the Dutchman a few feet ahead, head at a slight tilt. Sleeping, probably. George pulls on his eye mask and follows suit.
They alight without fanfare. Making their way through the Marseille airport feels like nothing unusual. George has flown with Max before, albeit in bigger groups of people, but in the bustle of airport staff it’s easy to forget it’s just the two of them. They move through the private terminal and exit into the warm spill of afternoon sun. As soon as they’re past the glass doors, a man ushers them to a sleek black car waiting at the edge of the tarmac, grabbing their luggage. George squints at the logo, and wouldn’t you know it—another Porsche.
“Is this yours?” George asks, but he finds it answered as the man hands Max a set of keys before moving to load their bags into the boot. George found it ironic, considering how Max made it sound like he had nothing planned save for the plane trip.
“Rental. You like it?” Max asks, eyes twinkling with mirth. George’s mind stutters for a bit before Max laughs and he realises it was a joke.
“Unfortunately I don’t just have cars lying around here. Come on,” Max says, rounding the car to slip into the driver’s seat. “It’s not far.”
George lingers to make sure their luggage is safely stored in the boot before carefully sliding into the passenger seat. Talk about déjà vu.
“You know the way there?” he asks, trailing his hand along the dash.
“I know how to read a map,” Max says as he adjusts the mirrors. “And I’ve been there once.”
“Have you?” It was a relief knowing at least one of them knew their way around here. “Guess I shouldn’t volunteer to drive us. Maybe next time.”
Max hums as he shifts into gear and pulls away from the curb smoothly. “No need for that. I can drive us.”
“Are you sure?” George says quickly. He feels a little like he’s exploiting Max's goodwill, not that he’s even sure where it all came from. “Wouldn’t want you not having fun on this trip.”
“Why wouldn’t I be having fun?”
George opens his mouth to refute but the words dissolve on his tongue. He frowns instead.
“If you’re sure, I guess.”
The countryside unfurls ahead—rolling fields, green vineyards, and scattered farmhouses swathed in lavender. George leans his temple against the glass, letting the warmth seep into his skin. Max’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel. The music is turned low again, some French radio channel. George pipes up about the grid for next season, and the conversation ebbs and flows as they make their way to the city.
The hour slips by quicker than expected. The vineyards thin into rolling stretches of olive trees, then into winding village roads bordered by pale stone walls. Cafés spill into the street and locals mill about as if time moved differently here, slow and honeyed. They weave through Lourmarin’s quietly busy lanes until Max slows at a gravel turn-off. He pulls them up beside a country house with sun-bleached walls and terracotta tiles, vines climbing lazily up one side. It’s obnoxiously picturesque, like a set pulled out of a movie.
“Jesus,” George says under his breath. “Your cousin lives here?”
“Sometimes,” Max says as he cuts the engine. The silence is suddenly profound. George’s finger twitches towards the door handle.
“He comes maybe twice a year, but he says it’s too quiet for him," Max continues.
George’s hand stills. “Quiet?”
“Yeah, I know.” Max shoots him a warm smirk. “But I don’t think we’ll have that problem.”
We, George thinks. Although, between the constant clamour of the paddock and the roar of engines, he doubts they will too.
They step out onto warm gravel, and the air smells like crushed leaves and faint pine. They grab their bags and cross a small flagstone path toward the front door while Max rummages through his pockets. When he finds the key, he unlocks the door and pushes it open with his shoulder.
Inside, the house is just as stunning but startlingly intimate. Smooth, creamy walls washed in the afternoon light, wooden ceiling beams darkened with age and linen curtains billowing softly at the arched balcony doors. A long farmhouse table anchors the open kitchen, and in the living room, a matching sofa and loveseat sit around a vintage coffee table. The domesticity of the sight freezes him, a little.
“My cousin redid the place a few years ago,” Max says, catching George’s gaze. “He wanted it to feel cosy so he could write better.” He shrugs, with a tiny self-effacing tilt of the mouth. “I quite like it.”
“It’s beautiful,” George admits.
Max smiles, a quiet but unmistakable pride to it. “I’ll tell him you said that. Come on,” he says, motioning upstairs. “Bedrooms.”
The staircase creaks pleasantly under their steps. The hallway upstairs is narrow and bright, lined with framed ink sketches—loosely inked landscapes of France.
At the landing, Max stops at the door on the left and pushes it open.
“You can take this one. Got its own balcony.”
George wheels his suitcase inside and has the dizzying sense of trespassing into someone else’s tender, curated life. The room is warm and airy, a soft double bed tucked in a corner next to a mahogany desk with a lamp. A matching set of drawers with brass handles sits beneath a smattering of old film posters he half-recognises. At the far end, French doors open onto a narrow balcony, lace curtains lifting gently in the breeze.
“Mate,” George calls weakly from the doorway. “I feel like I should be paying rent.”
He turns to find Max leaning against the opposite doorframe across the hall, arms folded and brow arched with amusement.
“You can pay by helping with the garden,” he says.
“I think you’re better off hiring a gardener.”
Max laughs as he gestures to the room behind him. “I’m here. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
George nods, throat suddenly dry. Close, he notes. He wonders if the walls are thin, though it’s not like it mattered. This was pretty much a regular hotel. Except there’s no en suite. The prospect of sharing a bathroom with Max sits oddly under his skin, though it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to put up with on this trip.
George shakes his head and parks his suitcase by the bed. He takes one more sweeping look around and steps back into the hallway, where Max hasn’t moved.
“So,” Max says, rubbing his palms lightly against his jeans, “we’ve got a few hours before sunset.”
George raises a brow. “Meaning?”
Max shrugs, then tilts his head toward the stairs. “Meaning whatever you want. We’re in Provence. We should do something nice.”
George feels it again—that strange, careful loosening in his chest, like something long coiled is beginning to unfurl.
“Well,” he says quietly, “you know this place better than I do. Your call.”
Max studies him for half a beat, then lets out a satisfied hum.
“How about a swim?”