Archive of Our Own

Max Verstappen had a type; was that such a bad thing? He liked pretty men, with lanky limbs yet toned with a hint of muscle. Long eyelashes they would flick at him, skin flushed when he had his way with them. He preferred them a little bratty, too; he enjoyed the idea of being able to put them in their place in the heat of the moment and show them who was in charge. Then, after exposing them to a world of utmost pleasure, he would care for them so gently, just as they deserved, and shower them with praise for how good they were.

If that happened to end him with a relationship, then that was a bonus. Thought right now, quick flings and one-night stands weren't a deterrent. All he needed was an NDA signed so the team didn't get in his ass about it, and he was fine.

So, yes, he had a type. Perhaps that type aligned a little too well with none other than George Russell, his fellow driver, but Max decided not to look closely at that fact. If the things he was attracted to overlapped with a lot of George's attributes, perhaps Max could chalk it up to a complete coincidence and not the gnawing feelings that had blossomed over the recent years.

Who knew arguing could get him so riled up in the horninest way possible?

George probably had no idea what effect he had on Max, and Max would keep it that way. He was content with the feelings staying dormant, untouched and hidden, so the world would never know. Besides, he could imagine the press, the chaos that would unfold if he and George had some weird hookup. And then what would happen? Red Bull would be up in arms over it, Mercedes may get rid of George— he was sure Toto wasn't above it, even if George was (and Max would never admit it out loud), one of the better drivers on the grid.

Then there was the whole issue that George Russell had never been openly queer in his entire life. Max liked to think he could sometimes tell, noting it down as intuition. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to explore what his intuition had to say about George, but George had openly brought girlfriends to races in the past. Nothing recent. But still, it wasnt as if any of the drivers were openly outed, anyway. Speculation came in waves, often increasing when a social media manager posted a photo or video that had the fans acting wild. Even Max sometimes questioned if Lando and Oscar were closer than they were letting on, solely based on the way Piastri looked at Lando with those lovesick eyes.

Max wouldn't cross any lines. He wasnt an idiot. He could also imagine his father, and whilst Max had gotten older, wiser, and more understanding to not take everything the man said to heart, he could tell that if he was out to his dad, it would only cause problems.

So Max was happy to ride it out behind the scenes, hook-ups and signed forms, one night and it was done. He didn't need to chase George Russell when there were enough strangers who looked like him. Obviously not the exact replacement— for the night to be perfect, he would need it to be George that he was undoing, not a stranger whose name he would forget in three months. Though George wasn't on the menu, so Max wasn't picky with what he was offered, making sure to indulge in what he could.

Then the photos appeared.

Now— Max said he wasn't stupid, and that wasn't a lie. However, sometimes, usually when the influence of alcohol was involved, he let his mind slip.

Would he ever have sex in public? Of course not. Anywhere where a camera could see him was no place for him to act so intimately. Does he recall around a week ago, standing in the dark corner of a nightclub— in one of those V.I.P sectors— Max didn't think the details really mattered. Yes, he remembered being there. And he certainly remembered the head he received from— well, he couldn't recall who, couldn't remember how they met, just that the stranger was the splitting image of George, with some minor alterations here and there. They were cheeky, had the sassiness about them that Max just adored, and it didn't take long for them to be messily making out.

He hadn't been thinking straight— that was exactly the problem, his dick took over when his lips collided with another man. Soon enough, Max was sitting in a booth, out of sight from the main crowd, and the stranger was beneath the table, between his knees, zipping the fly of Max's trousers.

It had been a good night, if he recalled, but he wasn't sure if he made the guy sign a disclosure after all was said and done.

Though he supposed it didn't really matter, since the photos came about anyway.

The damn photos.

They were blurred, taken in the heat of the club, strangers dotted around, faces meshing against the background in streaks of neon colour. Then, right near the back of the room, you could see the exact same booth Max sat on last week, where he had his dick in some stranger's mouth and had a fun night.

The trouble was, the photos were taken from that night.

Max was… oddly calm about the whole ordeal.

Perhaps that was because he hadn't looked at his phone since he saw the photos; the fact Charles had messaged him so damn early set off the alarms in his head. When he opened it, it was a simple line of question marks and a link to the Tweet.

Max took one look at the photos, closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and placed his phone, screen facing down, next to him.

He hadn't moved from the edge of the hotel bed since.

There were too many people trying to contact him, too many thoughts about the race this weekend, too many things going on all at once. He'd travelled here earlier in the week, so with it being Wednesday, maybe he and the team could come up with a plan before the media tomorrow. But apart from those sorts of thoughts, he was seemingly unmoved. Unbothered.

He knew it would hit him at some point, but currently, he found himself questionably unfazed. When it eventually crashed into him, he would deal with the panic then, but for now, he went about his morning routine. No responses were sent, no calls were picked up, just Max allowing himself to breathe.

He couldn't avoid them forever.

Though his decision to go straight back to Twitter was perhaps not his smartest choice. He could look past the hate— that had never truly bothered him, and whilst the amount of rancid words people were spewing did make his heart twinge, he could ignore it. There were a lot of assumptions; some people argued that it couldn't be Max, others tried to prove it was.

If you squinted, Max thought it was pretty obvious that it was him. Through the club, at the back, there he was sprawled across the couch at the booth. He'd taken his cap off at that point— he was pretty certain he'd lost it there too— so you could see it was Max on the receiving end of the scandalous act.

There were four photos. In the first one, it was obvious he was receiving head; the second seemed to be a little later on within the same act. The next one was the person pulling away— in the first two, you couldn't really see the stranger, obscured by the shadows from the table. Max remembered offering him a handjob; he didn't do oral himself, never found the pleasure in finishing someone off that way (and always made the fact clear before his hookups), he was happy to begin with it, but often switched to his hand when he thought the other was close. But the stranger had been content with just giving. Wiped the dribble of cum off his chin (which had been captured in the damn third photo) and said he could deal with his hard-on himself. Then a kiss on Max's cheek, just at the corner of his lips, and the stranger was on his way. It had been quick fun, a burst of passion underneath the flashing lights, and both had left satisfied, even if Max hadn't done much. The stranger had that blissed-out look by the end of it, and Max would never forget his kind, warm smile as he left him be at the booth.

The fourth and final photo was of the stranger leaving him at the table. Max looked as if he was grabbing for his phone. He probably left not long after the ordeal was over. The stranger was angled to the camera, half his face hidden, half on show, and because he was walking through the gaggle of people, his features were smeared in the picture.

Though users online were too clever, and Max was always a little intimidated and a little impressed at how many details fans could pick out.

Max had a type, and he never wanted to disclose that information with the world, but now fans were making several assumptions, not just about Max, because they couldn't quite pin down who the stranger was.

Where Max had thought he was calm, he faltered. In the quiet of his hotel room, he felt the pin drop, the grenade ready to be thrown as his heart rapidly sped up, clattering against his ribs. Max couldn't care less if it was just him strung out for everyone to see. But it wasn't, and that was a problem, because Max did not want to face his feelings. He certainly didnt want to have to talk about them, either. Hell, even if the stranger was truly identified, it would have been easier than this.

He looked at the trending topics and saw George Russell right under Max's name in the list.

He clicked it and read the very first tweet.

So let's talk about that picture of Max getting sucked off. That's obviously George, right? The hair, the body, literally everything about him just screams George.

Max felt his stomach churn, insides rolling, every reply turned into a debate, close-ups of the stranger scrolling across his screen.

A new phrase managed to find its way on the trending list.

Actually two, to be precise.

Gax and Rustappen.

Max couldn't help but think he had royally fucked up.

George Russell was many things. He was perhaps a perfectionist, always the overachiever, and that did no wonders for his mental health. He was a little on edge at all times, sometimes too "uptight" according to media outlets. He was painted as a diva; they told him that he was dramatic, and people liked to goad him for his emotions, which he had no problem with showing. George was passionate, he was caring— or liked to think that he was, anyway. He was hardworking too, and prided himself when the time and effort he put in paid off.

Though there was one thing George Russell did not see himself as: he wasn't a whore.

He most definitely was not the type of man to give a fellow driver head in some dingy nightclub. Especially if that driver was Max Verstappen— not that it mattered because George wasn't gay. Or bi. Or pan. Or anything that could insinuate he liked men in a way that was considered more than friends.

He had tried explaining that to Toto, the whole ordeal had been utterly humiliating: sat down in front of his boss before the PR team came in, before a full meeting unfolded.

"No, Toto, that is not me," he sounded exasperated, but he didn't think that would do his soured mood justice. He was bordering on exhaustion at this point. He was beyond tired of trying to explain to others that he wasn't the person in those damn photos, that it wasn't him sucking off Max Verstappen.

Toto hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, I know, you have already said."

Though he didn't sound as if he believed him, so George added, "Anyway, I'm not into men, as a matter of fact, so how would I even find myself in a position like that?"

Toto then gave him a look, one brow raised, lips pressed into a line. He was pensive. In thought. And George felt himself heat up, felt too seen even if Toto was assuming something completely, utterly wrong. His skin prickled under the scrutinising gaze, and he crossed his arms, perhaps in an act of defiance, over his chest.

"George—"

"No, whatever that look is and whatever you're about to say, you're wrong." He cut in adamantly.

Toto sighed, leaned back in his chair and lazily tapped a finger against his desk. No rhythm, no tune, just taking his time to digest the situation. Deliberate with the way he roamed George with his eyes, really trying to get under his skin. They knew each other well— too well, maybe. It was the same as every other principal and their drivers, and George was lucky to have someone such as Toto by his side, but sometimes it felt as if talking to a brick wall. Sometimes it felt as if he was fighting a losing battle, pushing against the strong currents, his legs would give up at any moment; he'd fall into the icy waves and let them take him.

"George," Toto tried again, paused to see if he would be talked over a second time, but George just huffed, tucked his chin lower, and he couldn't help but feel like a petulant child being scolded by the school's head teacher. "The images have been making their rounds, and you know what is in those photos."

"And I'm telling you, Toto, it isn't me!" He whined. Soon enough, he would be in a meeting and would have to repeat everything, and some people would question him, would judge him too harshly, as they assume it was him on his knees for Max, not the insane stranger who thought it was a good idea to do so.

George hoped, at the very least, that Max was suffering through an embarrassing meeting right now as well.

For a moment, Toto said nothing as he levelled him with an unimpressed look. As if to say: really, George? The evidence is damming. That was the whole problem! The man had looked like him, Geogre wouldn't deny it— in fact, it was a little uncanny how closely they resembled each other, but it was not him. If only the public would believe that, he feared that when he made a statement later today (because the team were undoubtedly going to force him to face it, even if it wasn't his fault any of this had happened— it wasMax and the strangers), no one would take him seriously, all because the man happened to look far too similar to George.

There was a nagging thought, something prickling the back of his mind, that told him to look into that. Just think for a second about why Max Verstappen, of all people, had someone who looked entirely like George between his legs, clearly enjoying the attention.

It bothered him. George couldn't figure out why, but something foreign settled between his ribs. Pressed harshly against his heart and protruded out to feed itself between his lungs. It was an unknown, one he wasnt sure how to breach— and maybe it would stay that way. Stagnant and settled, and George would never have to think about it ever again.

He could focus on the anger. The frustration that ran through his blood, pumped through his veins, it was hot, ugly, and George wanted nothing more than to go to the first microphone he saw, grab it, and simply scream:

No, it wasnt me sucking off Verstappen. No, I am not into men. Stop asking me questions!

Then that would be the end of it, and life would move on, and George wouldn't have to dread his dad calling him, asking too many spiky questions.

It should be fine. There shouldn't be anything to worry about, but George knew his father's opinion— outdated and hurtful and in no way reflective of who George was as a person. He'd spoken about their strange relationship, which was built on love and admiration, even if his father was gone more often than not. Even if George sometimes felt his own breath quicken after a nasty result, knowing it wouldn't have brought his father pride. And yes, everyone and their mothers apparently had something to say about the questionable parts of his childhood after George opened up about it in that one interview, but he tried to look past it. He always did have a habit of letting those sorts of comments get to him in a way that consumed every single thought. Once again, his dad popped into his mind, voice stern, but George detected the care woven in there, even if he had to search for it. His dad would tell him that feeling sorry for himself, being useless by letting the harsh words penetrate thick skin, would mean he wouldn't get far in life.

George really did try to ignore it, but sometimes everything was so loud that it was impossible to avoid.

Realistically, his father's thoughts shouldn't have him on edge and frantic, because George wasn't gay. There was no need for him to fear the conversation that might happen because there wasn't anything to admit; he would just say what he had told everyone. Why he was so caught up, inside a knotted mess, he wasn't sure.

There was no time to investigate his own internal conflict because, since arriving at the paddock, it had been a constant flurry of movements as the team tried to decide on what to do. Now they had moved, no longer stuck inside Toto's office.

"We need to make a statement," someone spoke, and George hadn't even bothered looking at who said it. He was pissed off that this whole ordeal was happening in the first place. He'd spent the entirety of the meeting so far glaring at the back wall. Once they had been shoved in the cramped room, a long table with just enough chairs to fit everyone (too many people, if you were to ask him), he had decided to forego joining in with the conversation.

"Yes, yes, solid and to the point," another person agreed. "What do you think, George?"

He didn't move, decided that he was tired of all of this and it wasnt even nine o'clock yet, having been brought in too early to miss the rush of reporters, so they could deal with the mess.

"George?" They tried again, "We need to know the truth behind the photos and then decide what route you would like to take. Obviously, we need to be cautious if it was you, and you want to admit that, because—"

"It wasn't me," he snapped. The wall had a crack down it, thin, spindly lines that tore through the paint, white flaking off to reveal a dirtied grey underneath. "And I will say that."

He can hear a sigh— another one of Toto's deep ones. He'd heard a lot of them today, and once again, it wasnt even nine yet. The conversation continued, and George wasn't asked any more questions, but he was aware of the plan put into place. He would get to write what he wanted to say, make sure the team green-lit that he could post, then tweet it out. The team socials would share it, adding a copy onto their Instagram too, and that would be the end of it. They would ask for no hate, and no hate towards Max either.

George could partially agree on that last one.

He didn't want to be on the receiving end of the discriminatory words. At the end of the day, Max had been forcefully outed, and the photos were obviously shared without his prior consent. No statements had been made from Red Bull or Max yet, and George's team had discussed the idea of talking to them, seeing what they were going to say. As long as Max told the world it wasn't George who had sucked him off, George couldn't care what they came up with. It was a horrible thing for Max to experience. George wouldn't deny the truth, and with friends of all different backgrounds, the urge to protect everyone from the hate was strong. It was what he could do as an ally; he always felt happier when standing up for what was right.

Though, on the other hand, he couldn't help but want to storm Red Bull and grab Max by the collar of his ugly team poloshirt and ask him what the fuck were you thinking? Because every driver knew that when in a club, or someplace similar, there was always a chance of being snapped by a phone or camera. Why Max thought he was excluded from that, George had no idea. It was careless, reckless, stupid, and about fifteen other synonyms for dumb that George could think of. It was a poor decision that dragged him into it unwillingly.

And he still couldn't decipher why it bothered him so much.

Not the being included part— he was well aware he was pissed off with the fact that Max had given him and his team twenty times more work to deal with today. But the thought that the stranger looked exactly like George, so much so that George had to do a double-take when Alex sent the screenshots yesterday.

At first, George was horrified that he had managed to get blackout drunk, so much so that he forgot completely that he had given head to Max Verstappen, but then he reminded himself he wasn't into Max like that— wasn't into any men that way— and he was most definitely not at that club last week.

If he felt jittery, a little fluttery in his chest, he tied it down to his anger. All his thoughts could be explained by his frustrations. He was pissed off that this had happened to him, and it didn't help his complicated feelings towards Max.

At one point, they could have been considered friends. Maybe most times they were seen as civil, but after last year's stunts, George could never stop the eye roll when someone mentioned Max. He was annoyingly smug, too damn good at what he did, and he knew he was good. Too aggressive, too much, a little too loud when George would have acted in a nice and polite manner. They were different, George was sure of it. He ignored every comparison the world threw at him and decided he and Max were not cut from the same cloth, and George no longer felt like being considerate.

The plan to talk to Red Bull never happened since Red Bull went ahead and posted their own statement. Nothing from Max, but George supposed he wouldn't have expected anything. The man hated anything media-related. Could George really say he was shocked to hear his team were the one to speak out instead?"

So George posted his own comment. It wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but if he spoke the truth, if he said what was really on his mind, then they would have another scandal on their hands, and Mercedes would be begging George to delete the tweet.

With that sorted (well, it was posted, George didn't think this whole mess was going to be 'sorted' for quite some time), he prepped himself for media duties. He decided it would be better to focus on that, show the world he was still calm and composed and not almost breaking apart behind the facade.

It was all going smoothly too, up until the point where he was just about to leave for his press conference. He was stopped by his press officer, "George, FIA have released a change to the schedule."

He felt he already knew what was going on. He groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose, "Right. Of course they have. What's changed then?"

They look through the email on their phone, "let's see. Okay— yeah, they've swapped you."

George narrowed his eyes. "Okay, and who am I with instead?"

"Hadjar and Verstappen."

Fucking fantastic.

Throughout the press, he didn't look at Max, couldn't bring himself to do so because if he did, his fist might collide with Max's cheek, and no one wanted that.

(Well, okay, George did want that to happen, but he had a race to prepare for; assault charges were not something he could be dealing with right now).

Max didn't try to speak to him either, and they sat on opposite ends of the sofa. George scrolled through his phone, not actually looking at anything in particular.

Eventually, the question was asked about the photos: the implications, and what it could mean for their racing.

George smiled his practised, polite smile. And the words his PR team had taught him bounced around his head. It was far too rehearsed; everyone knew that, but George did not care. He wasnt here to indulge in petty speculation, especially since none of it was true.

"As I've stated previously, the figure in the photo is not myself, and so there is no way in which this image can affect me," he stated plainly. "My condolences to Max for the fact that this is yet another breach of privacy, something that is becoming too frequent nowadays, and no one should have to go through that. Though personally, I shall remain focused on racing. It is what I am here to do, and since I am not attached to the image in any way, I feel I can come into this race with a clear mind and a set goal."

It was a classic PR response where he ticked all the necessary boxes to please most of the audience. There would be some individuals who wanted more, some who weren't happy with such a straightforward reply, but they would all have to put up with it. Soon enough, Max was being asked the same thing, attention shifting from George, and he resumed focusing on his phone rather than listening to whatever Max was spewing.

By the time the press conference ended, he was hot, bothered, and wanted to go home.

What he did not want to do was speak with Max.

Unfortunately, everything seemed to be going wrong for George today.

He hadn't even seen Max approach when George was halfway through the door into the Mercedes building. But suddenly there was a weight, a flat palm pressed into his back, that shoved him inside so the door could shut behind them.

"What the fuck—" the words died on his tongue as he took in Max, looking ruffled and almost… surprised? As if he were shocked that he had just done that too.

Everyone was staring, no one was talking, and George felt too embarrassed by it all.

"Fucking hell, what is wrong with you?" He hissed, and that seemed to reanimate Max.

He sprang forward, grabbed George's wrists and yanked him through the building, past all the prying eyes— there were probably cameras too. George couldn't be seen like this, dragged around as if Max was in charge, but George didn't pull away.

"We need to talk," Max muttered, and that had been enough for Max to lead George down a corridor and then into the first empty room they could find.

Now alone, George could really take Max in. It was as if an entirely new side to him had been cracked open. He fiddled with a cuticle as he started to pace, mouth moving silently as if he was trying to rehearse the words before speaking. George watched, it almost felt like morbid fascination, as Max tugged on the cuticle so hard it ripped free, a speck of blood pooling at the bed of the nail.

"Max." It looked as if George would have to be the one to take the initiative. "What the hell was that?"

He stopped pacing, glanced over to George, and the expression was unreadable. As if every emotion flashed across his face. George could decipher people; he was proud of the skill, and Max was a fairly easy person to read. His emotions always exploded outward. He always let them crescendo, never one to shy away from it.

But here and now, George could not decide what Max was feeling.

That, in turn, made him uneasy.

"We needed to talk," Max repeated. "This was the only way you would allow me to speak with you."

George strode across the room, further away from Max, and pulled out a chair. They were in a quaint meeting room. He sat at the desk, folded his arms on top of the wood. "Go on then," he pressed. "Speak."

"The photos…" for a man who always knew what he wanted, Max seemed lost currently. He stumbled on his words, something George had never seen before. "Look, the photos— it's shit. And I guess, I don't know? I'm here to say sorry."

George raised a brow. "You're apologising?"

"Yes. Probably. It feels like the right thing to do, so stop looking at me like that," he glanced away. "It sucks for you because you're involved in something you had nothing to do with. So. Sorry. About that."

George considers snapping, arguing is that it? Because Max had caused some serious problems here, and whilst George could tell the press his head was clear and he was solely focused on racing, that was very much not the case.

Though he took one look at Max, who was still picking at the cuticle, scabbing away at the divot of open skin, and decided against it. Instead, he asked something that had been on his mind since seeing the photos. He hadn't meant to— it was stupid, he should have just accepted the damn apology and let Max leave, but George couldn't help himself.

"The man with you in the photos, why does he look like me?"

Max's shoulders shifted. It was a tiny movement, the smallest jolt as he brought them up closer to his ears, but with George only focused on him, he saw it. Max was ready for the question, but it didn't look like he had an answer planned.

"I don't know, coincidence probably. It was dark, I was drunk," Max mumbled.

Another scratch, smeared with blood that stuck to the underside of his nail.

Max was lying.

George wasnt sure when he figured out he could tell if Max was lying or not— hell, there was a good chance it was a discovery he was having right now. But something about the way Max spat out the explanation, half-hearted and no confidence behind his words, made his stomach drop.

"Max." George tried again. "I've been put in a real predicament by you," Max looked ashamed, and George was unsure of what that did to him— he couldn't pinpoint if there was happiness mixed in there, or if he was just feeling unease by this point. "You messed up, and it sucks that people posted the photos, but I am in a problem right now, I deserve the truth."

"You wouldn't like it," Max warned.

His curiosity piqued. A part of him was being rational, telling him to leave it— leave the room, leave Max behind, so he could focus on his duties and the upcoming race.

But it was a tease. You wouldn't like it. George had no idea what it could mean, and the thought of leaving it unanswered was too much for him.

"Try me," he scoffed.

"Well, I warned you," finally, Max met his gaze, and what lay behind his eyes was a burning heat, a steadiness George wasn't prepared for, but it was mixed with a glint of embarrassment. "It's because I think you're very attractive, George."

For a moment, he let the words settle— because honestly, should George not take that as a compliment? Max thought he was so attractive, he wanted to hook up with men who looked exactly like him—

Ah. Oh. The reality of those words settled, and George took a sharp intake of breath; it whistled through his clenched teeth. Briefly, he felt nothing, just a chilled numbness as his mind short-circuited as the actuality of the words seeped in. Slow, like molasses, at first. Viscously thick as it submerged him whole. Then the anger came, too fast as it crashed into him, hot flushed waves that raged on in an unforgiving manner. It washed away the tar, sticky remnants tacked to his skin, and made room for the bubbling frustrations boiling behind flesh and muscle.

"That can't be right," his voice came out small, reeled in, he was trying to tether himself to— well, anything. But the thoughts wouldn't stop overlapping each other, a constant barrage of unfinished sentences.

Max said nothing.

"No, that can't be right," George repeated, finding his voice. "Max— you're saying that— if you sleep with men that look like me, then that only means that you feel— well, you know— about me."

"I said you wouldn't like it," Max retorted, almost a sneer, and George felt his composure slipping.

"Fuck you," he snapped, stepped forward and jabbed a finger harshly into Max's chest. "Absolutely fuck you, Max Verstappen. You cannot come in here and make claims like that! That— what? You're sexually attracted to me."

George wanted something big, something fierce. If Max would retaliate as he always did, George could fight fire with fire. An explosive storm of loud noises, each sentence raising an octave higher, to see who could get the last word in. Maybe, in the process of their argument, they'd burn the whole paddock down to the ground. Then what would remain would be ashen bricks and scotched pavement; their bones would be what survived, bundled together in a way that people would question why they were spending time in a Mercedes room together. That would cement the rumours, so even after death, George Russell would be shrouded by Max Verstappen's cascading shadows.

Nothing like that happened; the fire dwindling, and George was the only one fanning the flames. All that came back was that same repeated phrase, Max unnervingly consistent. "I told you. I said that you wouldn't like what I had to offer."

"Because you're admitting to liking me— well, or, at least wanting to fuck me." George ran a hand through his hair, huffed out a curt breath, and looked across the room so he no longer had to face Max. "Do you know how crazy it is to admit that?"

"You wanted to know."

George wanted to know— that was the problem. Because he couldn't stop thinking about why Max would take head from a guy who looked exactly like George. He needed the answers, but now he had them, he wasnt sure what to do. He considered that maybe if he had stayed blissfully ignorant, he would be feeling much better than he was right now.

But George Russell was many things, and curious (for better or for worse) was one of them.

"Let me ask you something," George found himself saying. Despite how frustrated he felt. Despite the apprehension.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Max shot back.

"Yes. Max, I need to know—"

It was as if Max could tell what he was going to say, eyes widening slightly at the way George's voice wavered. The uncertainty of it all was unlike anything either of them had ever felt.

"Don't—" he tried, but it was too late because George was already asking.

"Max, do you have feelings for me? Like, actual feelings for me? Not some petty 'I want to sleep with you' type of ordeal. But like— the other type."

He couldnt bring himself to say it. Whenever he tried to put a name to whatever those feelings were, a lump caught in his throat and nothing came up, just the faint trace of bile hitting the back of his mouth.

Max stared. He stood for a long time, unmoving, and George felt a delirious laugh bubble up from his chest— again, he couldn't believe the absurdity of it all.

Max Verstappen caught with his dick in a George Russell lookalike's mouth. READ ALL ABOUT IT HERE!

It was an insane string of words that George never wanted to have read in the first place. Though the damage was done, and he'd seen the article. He'd seen the Tweets. Now here they both stood, in George's own personal haven, Max having pushed his way in like he always did, on and off the track. After Max had ruined his life, even though George had nothing to do with the scandal.

"Yes." Max finally spoke, voice unlike anything George had ever heard from the man. Max Verstappen was not nervous, but here, now, he seemed shy. Reserved. A whole different personality, and George had no way to navigate it.

"Yes?" George echoed, the laugh escaped him, loud as it bounced off his walls, a crack in the middle that shattered the last shred of sanity he had left.

Max nodded jerkily, the movement a clunky attempt at something habitual. "George, don't make me say it."

"No, Max, I think you should," he forced through gritted teeth. "Fucking say it, go on."

Max sighed, broke eye contact, and looked to the corner of the room. "I think I might be in love with you."

A beat, stretched long, pulled taut in a way that meant it could shatter at any moment.

"Get out." It was all George could say; the order was doused in a bitterness he did not recognise, and he hoped it hid what lay underneath.

Fear? Confusion? Something more— something far more complicated than he would ever know?

"George, will you at least—"

"No," he cut in. "Max, get out and leave me alone. I have a race I need to be focusing on."

Thankfully, George didn't have to beg as Max actually listened, leaving him to stew in the silence. To swallow down the— well, he couldn't even describe what he was feeling. It was ugly. Twisted brambles that protected the fruit. Pointed ends shrap, that dug into his skin, left pricks of blood beading against porcelain.

He grabbed a hoodie that was lying over the back of a chair, bunched it up into a tight ball, and screamed as loud as he could into it. He continued until his throat was hoarse, feeling like it had been scraped raw as he gasped out into dampened fabric.

Then George stood. He recentered himself and put his composure back in check. He opened the door and stepped out as if Max hadn't come along and changed his whole entire world. As if there was nothing hidden someplace between his ribs, embedded into the cartridge of his heart, gnarly and knotted and too raw for him to touch.

George despised Max. Hated his arrogance and snark. He hated the photos, hated that it had to be him who was dragged into the mess. And he hated those words:

"I think I might be in love with you."

Or at least, he thought he hated them, but a new, foreign feeling was worming its way through the chaos, and George had no idea what to make of it. It made him doubt his steady footing, question the very foundations he built himself on.

What he hated most, the horrid feeling that cramped in his stomach and pounded against his skull, was the fact that the new feeling remained despite how hard he attempted to push it down. It was something different. Unknown. George wasn't sure if he really despised everything that much, and that was what scared him.

He hated feeling scared. He was worried it had something to do with the fact that he didn't loathe those words: I think I might be in love with you as much as he thought he should.

Okay, Max may have fucked up.

Well— fucked up felt a little too kind for what he had done. It was a true screwup, one that involved him admitting to George Russell that he liked him. In fact, he admitted to liking him so much that he only had sex with guys who looked exactly like George.

So, yes, Max messed up. He made a very big mistake, and Max often didn't think that way about himself. He was not perfect; he knew that, but he would always try to be the damn best. It was how it always went; it was the pride that ran through his blood.

But yesterday— or was it the day before? Time flowed a little differently now that his life was in shambles. He told George the truth, and he was the one person Max probably shouldn't have told it to. Though George had poked the bear, prodded too much and then recoiled at the consequences. Really, they were both to blame for this mess (the confession, not the photos— Max was well aware the photos were his own undoing) because if George hadn't pushed, even if Max warned him he wouldn't be pleased with the outcome, then maybe the truth would still be locked inside of Max, deep down in a place where no other person could reach it.

Though George Russell was stubborn. A trait Max adored because he loved a man that Max could put in their place— George fought against him, they were opposites and yet too similar. They were the same ends of a magnet, propelling each other away, but the world could still see the similarities that lay beneath. Max wanted to reach him, wade through the forces and reach George on the other side.

Max considered that he may never get that. Before the photo happened, he had made peace with that. Now with the photos out, he realised the desires were always just dormant, and Max could fuck, get sucked by or hook up with as many George Russell lookalikes as he wanted, but he would never be satisfied unless he got to taste the real thing.

Though Max wouldn't be allowed to do that. He knew it, was aware of the fact, and semi-resigned to the fact that no one would ever know, and he would die being the only one to know the truth. The idea of anyone knowing about his crush was embarrassing.

Now George knew.

Now George knew.

And George was being weird.

Don't misinterpret Max's thought— he knew as soon as the confession slipped past his lips that their relationship would never be the same again. No matter how much arguing happened between them, despite the ups and downs, the push and pull, the friendliness and the aggression, now that Max admitted the truth, he knew that the space between himself and George had been forever changed.

This, however, felt different.

He expected disgust. Though he wasnt sure if that was the correct word to use. George would look at him from across the paddock, would always refuse to talk to Max, but the eyes were where the words were held anyway.

It was as if George was trying to get Max to come back again, even if he was the one to push Max away in the first place. It was a curious gaze, not as heated as Max assumed it would be. More confused than anything. Mixed with something akin to troubled, and if Max had to guess, George was having a very big internal conflict right now— he wasnt sure what exactly it would be about, but Max could take a safe bet and say he was most likely the cause of the spiral. The looks happened too often, which was what got to Max. In moments where the rest of the world werent looking at the pair, which was a very infrequent occurrence right now, considering the drama the photos brought. But Max may not even have to be on camera, or in the press room, or waiting for the driver's parade, and George would be sneaking a glance his way. A lost look, swirled with too many feelings, so many unspoken words, the blues shining with something Max could not name, even if he tried.

And Max did try.

The race came and went, Max on the podium, George somewhere behind. It was normality brought into the craze that was the past few days. If Max had to answer another question about pride, about being the first openly gay driver, he was going to act up in such a way that the PR team would have another meltdown about him.

Max hadn't wanted it— so much for bravery and courage. If it were Max's idea, he would never come out to the world, full stop. He would die with the fact and was content with doing so, because his personal life never needed to be put on blast like that. There was hate, of course, but Max had known that his entire life. As soon as his father caught him making out with a guy from his karting days, he realised that the world would be unfair to him. He could still remember the fury that streaked across his father's face in angry splotches of red. The silence of the car journey home was stifling, and he had been sent to bed with no dinner.

They never spoke of the incident, but the looks had been very telling, and Max made sure to be safer with his escapades.

His father hadn't messaged since the photos were released. Both his sister and mum checked up on him, told him they loved him and were proud. Max had never been worried about them; they would support him— though he supposed he wasn't worried about his father either, since Max had grown a lot from when he was a scrappy teen trying to figure out what he wanted to be. Now he knew who he was and didn't really care what others thought.

First and foremost, Max was a driver. It was a part of why he never shared the fact that he liked men; he didn't need to be hounded with questions upon questions about his own sexuality. What does it feel like to be the first openly gay and proud driver— Max did not care. It was not his choice to share it, and he wasn't about to start doing that now. His team told him to be polite about the whole ordeal, but his patience was certainly wearing thin now that he had been pressed again and again.

Another race week came and went. More looks from George, more questions from the press, no hook-ups for Max, considering the paparazzi were cycling him like vultures, now he was a big story for them to sell. They liked to use the drivers as dolls; Max and George were entertainment for the world to see. It wasn't funny, if Max was being honest. For their media obligations, they always happened to be coincidentally paired together. The fans would eat it up, even if both teams had made a statement that it wasn't George in the photo, the media liked to spin the narrative. George often never spoke directly to Max— he made it very clear when they were on the fanstage when he stood as far away as possible.

Though even through all the forced proximity, George never stopped looking, and Max never stopped finding those brilliant, bright blue eyes.

It wasn't until another weekend passed and the novelty of Max's story was wearing off now that people had found other narratives to latch onto. Though George never faltered, never once stopped staring.

Then he got the message: five words, one number, and Max had no idea what it could mean.

We need to talk. Room 363.

Max felt like he was going insane trying to figure out George Russell.

George was going insane trying to figure out Max Verstappen.

Though George was starting to believe less and less that Max was the problem, and that was something of concern for him because Max was a problem. He had been a thorn in George's side for too long, and now that the photos had been leaked, it caused George even more stress. Too much, if you were to ask him.

There was one thing that was bothering him.

The first problem was that George was on edge, for some reason. He was bothered by something, and he wasn't sure what that something was. Every waking minute, his mind would be full of Max, Max, Max, nothing else but thoughts of his fellow driver. He tried everything to rid himself of it. Long walks, even taking to the track when the sun was setting, and the number of people hanging around had dwindled. He tried to settle down and have some tea, sit and read a book, even try meditiation and George was not one to meditate, but he might as well give it a go if it would work to clear his mind of the annoying parasite that was Max Verstappen.

None of those attempts worked.

Max was a spider, and George was the fly stuck in the web. Twined up in the sticky thread, struggling to escape, but no matter how hard he beat his wings, his cry a constant buzz from the back of his throat, he could not seem to free himself from the trap.

Something was bothering him; he couldn't look away, and when he wasn't thinking of racing, he was thinking of Max, but he did not know why that bothered him so much.

It felt like a stupid tongue twister, and the more he thought about it, the less entertaining and amusing it was. He was stuck circling around and around, and Max seemed to be in the centre of the orbit. He would search for the man whenever he went out, eyes roaming the crowds until he spotted Max among them. He had never been discreet about it either, knowing that Max was aware, that Max always seemed to catch his gaze, was somewhat satisfying. George couldn't explain why— yet another messed-up thing about himself at the moment, he just knew he liked it when Max saw him. He liked it when Max knew George saw him, too.

He confided in Alex, uttering the words in a hushed tone as he didn't want the rest of the world to hear. Multiple races had passed, and Max and George kept playing their game, kept meeting each other's eyes through the masses, and George wasn't sure why they continued doing it.

George should be mad. He should be angry at Max for ruining— well, ruining something. Though the whispers were slowing, even if they were still somewhat milling around, they had reduced a little bit by now. George should feel hate, he reckoned, because Max had somehow turned his life upside down with a single set of images.

George couldn't find it in himself to be angry.

After he rambled to Alex, the words had flooded out of his mouth as he lay across the hotel bed. Alex, on the sofa, had listened, slightly amused at the whole ordeal.

"Well," George proimpted after he felt satisfied with all that he said, "what do you think is wrong with me?"

Alex laughed. He had the audacity to laugh at him, chuckling softly as he unfurled himself from where he was leant up against the cushions.

"What?" George frowned.

"George, you cannot be serious," Alex mused, "you're clearly obsessed with the man."

"Well, yes, of course I am." He crossed his arms defensively, feeling to neded to fight Alex for some reason. "Max has ruined my life for the past few weeks, all because of some damn stupid photo."

"No, George, you are obsessed obsessed with him."

George narrowed his eyes at Alex, and for a long moment, he daredn't say anything, just stared long and hard at his best friend. "What do you mean by that, Alexander?"

Alex looked too smug, shrugging, shoulders loose. "I mean, come on George, it's obvious to see because you're all caught up in your feelings again. We've been here before."

"Have we now?"

Alex nodded (too enthusiastically), "Yeah, that guy from our karting days, can't even remember his name, but you were always so excited to see him on race weekends. What about Rosberg? That was fairly obvious. Lewis? Are we forgetting that whole ordeal? Sure, being a fanboy can only take you so far, you were bordering on obsessed with how perfect you had to be for him—"

"Alex, you're naming relationships based on friendship and respect—"

"Even Charles at one point, though you got over that pretty quickly. Don't think I don't remember you gushing about him in our streaming days. You'd be all like, oh Alex, do you think Charles will want to play with me today?" Alex didn't allow George a second to speak, powering through with his verbal onslaught. "Then there was that stint with Oscar too, and that was also pretty short-lived, but it was there."

"Alex, what are you even trying to tell me right now?" George snapped, frustration wearing thin.

"They were crushes, George."

His brain stalled, halted for a moment as the words settled in, and he realised Alex was not joking in the slightest, but was being serious. He was insinuating that all the pent-up feelings towards the aforementioned people had been— what? Stupid crushes? George liked to show his fellow drivers respect; he liked to speak highly of them, too. Sure, there were moments where the lines had crossed, and George, in a panic-addled haze, wasn't quite sure where the thoughts Lewis is so pretty, I wish he would hang out with me more or Oscar is really cool and polite, I wish I could make him laugh like Lando can came from. George, whenever faced with such thoughts, messily shoved them in a mental cardboard box that he taped shut and chucked off the edge of a metaphorical cliff, never to be seen again.

They would have stayed untouched, too, if it weren't for Alex and the stupid Best Friend Ability™, where he could pick apart George and see what was happening internally.

George had never liked men. He could imagine the disappointment on his father's face, eyebrows furrowed and lips a thin, scowling line as he peered over the morning newspaper. The image took him back to a memory he had almost forgotten, nothing significant, but he remembered that they were all sat the kitchen table— one of the rare few mornings they got to spend together.

George was happy to talk about Alex. It felt like he finally managed to find a friend, and racing seemed less of a lonely sport when he knew someone at the track. Someone he could be close to. It felt less alienating than the fields back home, running with only his dog as company. It was nice to have people seem interested in him as well— Alex's number was stored on his phone (his first contact!), and they would sometimes message about things that we're racing related. It was rare for George to manage that feat, but he cherished it greatly. He was sure there would be others that he could become close with— the Lando kid seemed nice. Small but chatty, the opposite of George, but that didn't seem to deter Lando from talking George's ear off.

Now, sitting around the table, George happily spooned cereal into his mouth, and it was his turn to speak. He thought it would be nice to tell his family about it— they would love to hear about it, of course! They would be happy to hear George ramble about Alex; he really did love his new friend, and so he hoped his parents would be proud of him for making the big step and actually connecting with someone who wasn't an adult or his dog.

Though mid-conversation, his father cleared his throat and put down his paper.

"George, you're not a fag, are you?"

The table turned silent instantly, all gazes landing on George, who was sitting on one end of the table, his father on the opposite. It cast a spotlight over him, all the attention he had hoped for turned sour, George swallowing thickly around the knot that formed in his throat. He knew the word his father used— he knew it wasn't a nice word either. Some kids at the karting track used itas an insult once, and the adults were not pleased. George spent that evening Googling what the word meant and why it was so bad, learning that night why he would never use such hateful language.

But his father had just directed the word at him, and that certainly stung.

"Well, boy?" His father prompted, drumming a finger impatiently against the table.

"No," George responded quietly, examining his bowl, fiddling with the spoon instead of looking his father in the eyes. "No, I'm not."

"Good," his father huffed, satisfied but still stern, and that was the end of the conversation. The rustle of paper meant his father had gone back to reading. His siblings started up a conversation, leading them away from any talk about Alex.

George learnt his lesson that day and decided not bring up his friends after that.

"No," it came out weak; the words felt wrong in his mouth. "No, I'm not into men— Alex, you know this."

Alex gave him a look, something akin to pity, and it made George's skin crawl, a wave of static scratching over him.

"I'm not," he reiterated.

"George, it's okay if you are."

"Well, yes— of course, there is nothing wrong with other men liking men," he was quick to respond. "The fact that Max likes guys is fine, I'm not a homophobe, Alex."

"You said other men liking men," he pointed out. "George, there's also nothing wrong with you liking men, either."

He wanted to argue, tell Alex he knew that, he was aware, but the words never came, and George found his mind wandering back to his father. Eyes cold, face morphed into a disgusted scowl and poor George, too young to think anything other than I need to make my parents proud, had locked away the memory and pushed away any assumptions. Toto was wrong, Alex was wrong, and the fans who picked apart his mannerisms and vernacular and painted him out to be gay because of it were all wrong.

But a voice, subtle, called out from the back of his mind: What if they weren't wrong at all?

It was insane for George to even consider it— he wasn't really interested in dating as a whole. With racing, there was too much to focus on an a relationship just wasn't viable. He had tried it once, and it now felt like aeons ago, and she said it wouldn't work because George's heart lay elsewhere. Now that Max had managed to get caught with someone else around his dick, suddenly George had been forced to face his previous stance on relationships and, for some reason, dragged down memory lane.

He thought about Max too often, and he chalked that up to the fact that the photos had been released. Sure, he felt weird knowing that Max always went for guys that looked like George, never brave enough to come to George himself—

Wait. Hang on.

George wouldn't want Max to come and ask him, anyway— but if he did, maybe George could test the waters. If everyone around him was so adamant that he, for whatever reason, had a Godforsaken crush on Max Verstappen, then he would do what he did best: devise a plan and stick with it.

"I need to speak to him," he said suddenly, sitting up straight and scanning the room for his phone.

"George don't do anything rash—"

"Nonsense, Alex. When have I ever done anything rash? All I need to do is talk to him, and if I have any inclination, any feelings whatsoever, that make me want to— I don't know, kiss him? Kissing feels like it might be a good standard to go off, then your hypothesis is correct," he explained, finding his phone on the table, scooping it up and swiping to his messages. "Any other outcome, then I am correct— which will be what happens, by the way."

Alex offered him a deadpan look.

"What's that look for?"

"Do you really think you're going to go in there and make it out without doing anything at all?" Alex challenged.

"Erm, yes?"

"George, that plan is the least straight-man plan anyone has ever come up with. I can't believe you still think nothing is—"

"Look, if anything happens, you can say I told you so, how about that?"

Alex grinned smugly, "I look forward to it."

George was already gathering his belongings, rushing out the door as he typed out the message. Alex yelled out something on the lines of good luck, but George wasn't listening, nor did he care much for luck— he was so set on the outcome (if Max actually did accept his request to talk) that he would be the one rubbing it in Alex's face, not the other way round.

He sent the message before entering his hotel room, slamming the door behind him.

We need to talk. Room 363.

Now all he had to do was wait.

Max wasn't sure why he didn't knock straight away. Something was holding him back. He hovered outside the door to George's room, listened to hear for anything on the other side, but he was met with a stuffy silence. He considered that a part of him was worried this was the end, not that there was anything to begin with, but George had every right to turn Max away once and for all and threaten to go to the FIA or something similar, They would side with George, obviously, and that would be the end of racing for him all because he couldn't keep it in his pants one night and had a knock-off George Russel give him head in the dimply lit booth at a club.

Though it wouldn't explain the looks. Max liked to think he was always a logical man, and so he never tried to jump to conclusions, but he couldn't help but theorise what all the constant looks from George meant. If George spent all this time dwelling on the photos, spent all this time staring at Max, then Max would be, perhaps, a little surprised if George turned around and cut him off entirely.

(Or maybe that was the hopeful, yearning side to him that was wishing for a better outcome).

He breathed in, rattled his knuckles against the wood, and heard a muffled "It's unlocked" call out to him.

The room itself was pristine and orderly. It was exactly what Max expected it to be, but George was far from that; his body did not reflect the room. He was buzzing with an unseen energy, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt as he sat on the edge of the bed. Max closed the door behind him, cautiously stepping into a space that wasn't his own, and decided to wait for George to be the one to break the silence.

It was now or never, Max supposed. Whatever happened right now, in this room, would cause a chain of effects for the future to come.

George gazed at him for too long; the seconds felt as if they dragged into minutes, stretching long and thin as Max stood waiting for the next move.

What came out of George's mouth was not what Max had been expecting: "You've been on my mind constantly, are you aware of how much I have been thinking about you since we last spoke?"

It was neither good nor bad, just a neutral statement that Max couldn't discern anything from just yet. He shook his head— partly a lie because he was aware to some extent that he must have been weighing on George's mind due to all the staring that happened these past few weeks, he just wasn't aware of how badly it had been.

Again, Max wasn't sure if this was good or bad.

"And I told Alex about this, actually," George continued, seemingly on a roll, "and it's crazy what he insinuated— or, at least, I thought it was crazy. How could I not? But then you've just been on my mind constantly, Max. In a borderline unhealthy way, and it has to mean something, don't you agree?"

"Maybe," was the only answer he could offer, still unsure of where George was going with all of this.

"I tried to desperately rid you from my head, and it never worked," he chuckled humorlessly, streaking a hand through his hair. He looked Max dead in the eyes, gaze resolute, "I think I might be obsessed with you, Max Verstappen, and I can't believe it's taken me this long to realise it."

Max waited for a punchline, waited for George to laugh, but none of that came. Just George, framed by the hotel lighting, hair delicate, cheeks flushed with a smattering of pale pink, blue eyes blazing with anxiety— but something deeper was mixed in there. Strokes of azure, defined and confident, a want that Max could no longer ignore.

"If you are saying what I think you are saying," Max said carefully, "then I need to make sure you mean it, George. I don't want you doing this for a different reason, whatever that might be. I want you to be doing this for yourself."

"What do you think I'm saying, Max?" George contested.

"I think you're saying that you want me."

George swallowed, stood and closed the distance between them, even prettier up close. He was there, in all his elegant glory, mingling with Max's personal space in a way Max never thought he would.

"I am so fucking stupid," George muttered, more to himself than anything, before he grabbed Max's face and pulled him in.

The kiss was far from perfect. A little too aggressive right off the bat, Max was unprepared, so his lips were parted at first— he realised George wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, so Max found his hands guiding them both. A hand in George's hair, gentle but grounding, one that nudged against his chin. It was messy, tongues running against teeth, nipping lips between canines, but Max melted into it, feeling the way George sighed into him too.

It was far from perfect, but it was theirs to keep.

Max broke off, met with glossy eyes that blinked rapidly.

"Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me," George stuttered on the words, "I want this— fuck, I want this— and I'm crying. Why the fuck am I crying?"

"George."

"I'm so stupid, thinking I could do this— and I still want this, Max, I really do, but it's a lot, you know? I only just had this revelation right fucking now. And now I'm here, and so are you, and it's so real—"

"George," Max repeated, the other clicking his mouth shut. "You want this, yes?"

He nodded.

"I need words, George."

"Yes, Max, I do. I do want it," he confirmed.

"And you trust me?"

George nodded again, "Of course I do, wouldn't be here if I didn't. I don't fucking trust myself— I don't know, I don't get what I'm feeling."

"Then let me take the lead, and we do whatever you're comfortable with," Max explained softly, "you don't like anything, at any point, you say red, okay?"

"Yes, okay."

"Good boy," Max lit up at the way George took the praise. George bit his lip, his flush deepened.

"I'm still fucking crying," He pointed out.

Max leant over, kissed along George's cheeks, scattered them wherever the tears touched skin. "And you look beautiful. I can't believe I get to see you like this."

"Max," George whined, their lips crashing into one another's again.

For a while, it stayed just like that, Max up against the wall as George eagerly chased each and every kiss. Max committed the sight to memory. The image of George, vulnerable and needy for him, was now lodged in his mind and would never leave. Pressed up, bodies flush, he could feel George's dick hardening, rubbing against Max's thigh. Though he wasn't any better, his own cock fully erect from just a make-out session— usually it would take a little longer to have him worked up to this point, but the fact that it was the real George underneath his fingers happened to speed things up dramatically.

"Max— I want to— let me—"

"Whatever you want, baby," Max reassured, nickname slipping, but neither of them got caught up on that. Max choked on a gasp as George fell to his knees.

Max really had to stop himself from cumming in his trousers at the sight alone. George ruffled, skin flushed, gazing up at him with eyes full of carnal desires.

"You sure?"

George confirmed by zipping down Max's fly, working his cock out of the boxers. "I've never done this before," he admitted quietly. "I just— the thought of anyone else but me doing it— well, it makes me feel… insanely jealous."

For the second time, Max had to hold himself off from cumming immediately. George probably didn't know how that confession made him feel— George, jealous of all the lookalikes that Max had hooked up with? Yeah, that comment was not going to be leaving Max's brain anytime soon.

"I've got you, don't worry," Max tangled his fingers in George's hair, "if you need to stop, two taps on the thigh."

George jerked his head up and down, a small nod, and then parted his lips. Max was guiding him forward, mouth wrapping around the tip of his cock. He groaned as the heat engulfed his length, George's mouth seemingly moulded to take his dick. Max was surprised to hear George had never done it before, the way he took him. The motions were uncertain at first, but quickly flowed into something smooth. Or maybe Max was biased, already on the brink of cumming, and he undoubtedly believed anything George did for him would be near perfect, no matter what.

Max thrust his hips forward, felt George gag around his cock, but when he looked down, he saw George taking him well, breathing heavily through his nose as they worked together. Teeth scraped slightly along skin, and Max would have faltered if it were anyone else, but George was crying those stunning pearlescent tears, the lights flickering off them like crystals as they fell down his ruddy cheeks. Drool leaked from the corners of his lips, and Max was moving his hips, using George's hair to tug him along as if he was using George as a fleshlight rather than receiving a blow job, but again, Max wasn't complaining. He felt a crack in his composure, already leaking and hard before George had pulled Max's dick out, and felt himself swell against the warmth of George's mouth.

"Wait, let me—" he pulled George off completely, just in time for him to cum, marking George's face with his load, streaks of paint added to a masterpiece. "Fuck, you're perfect. That was amazing."

He rode the lasts of his orgams, felt it wane as reality hit, as he looked at George, a picture-perfect sight (and another image he would brand his mind with), smiling fondly at him. He noticed the glint in George's eyes, the tears had stopped, some hanging onto his lashes still, but the glossed looked remained.

Max tapped George's cheek, "George, are you still with me? Let me help you, okay?"

For a second, there was no response, but then George blinked up, looking half-dazed, before clarity seemed to hit him. Max wanted to speak, to tell him it was okay, but his feral mind was still caught up in the sight of George with cum splattered all over his face. So when George moved to his feet, unsteady as he stumbled his way into the bathroom, Max didn't stop him. Nor did he move when the tap turned on, water splashing, and George breathing too heavily.

Max was frozen, leaning against the wall, dick softening as it hung loose between his legs, the imprints of George's knees formed small divots againt the capet.

The water stopped, and George stepped out. Neither of them spoke. Max just let his eyes wander, noting the way George was clearly hard. He wanted to offer something, anything, to help, but when he directed his gaze back to George's face, he couldn't read the emotions, and Max wondered if it had been a terrible mistake coming here.

Though the images flashed in his mind like a slideshow. Mere moments ago, George was on his knees, begging for it, treating Max in a way he had never been treated before. He could imagine George's taste, his Chapstick, as they kissed, as lips collided and teeth clashed, and the fact that it had all felt so human, so real.

"George—" he croaked out, but it wasn't enough. Instead George turned, scurried out the door and left Max standing in the room, completely alone.

There was no way he knew where he was going, but his legs carried him there anyway. He did not knock, did not speak or call out, just barged through, thankful the door was actually unlocked, and paraded headfirst into Alex's room for the second time that evening.

Whatever had just happened kept replaying behind his eyes. George felt hot and sweaty, but he knew he wasn't regretful of his decision, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that information. He'd enjoyed it. Getting onto the floor for Max, gazing through eyelashes clumped together with his tears, preening at the prasie Max showered him in.

George had liked it, and now he was hard, standing in Alex's hotel room like a right prick, with no idea what to do with himself.

Alex cleared his throat, George was ripped from his crisis, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or disgruntled about that. On one side, he really did not want to think about what this all meant, whereas on the other hand, he really should categorise everything that happened these past few weeks and break them down into sectors, deciding what went into which section and what every little action meant.

Thought there was no time for that, and so he was here, in front of Alex, feeling as if his heart was ready to explode out through his chest.

"What the hell has got you all—" Alex stopped himself, eyes glancing down, as if trying to understand what was happening, and George flushed, hands going to cover his very hard dick, but he knew it was too late, and Alex had seen it all.

"Pleasedon'tmentionit," George rushed out.

Alex, fluent in George's hasty, panicked dialect, listened to him and decidedly ignored George's plea. "Mate, why are you hard?"

"Why did no one tell me I had a blaringly obvious crush on Max Verstappen!"

"George, I have been trying to tell you this," Alex sighed, exasperated. "Wait, what happened? Why are you hard?"

"Because I may have just sucked Max Verstappen off in my hotel room and then when he came in— or on? A bit of both, I suppose? Well, not that that matters— shit, what was I sayin? Ah, yes, blow jobs. Well, I kind of cleaned myself up and then panicked and ran away from my own hotel room, leaving him there because I didn't know what to do."

Alex raised a brow, but it was more of a sarcastic who could have seen this coming? than genuine surprise.

"And look, yes, I thought the whole ordeal was very hot," Goerge continued, his mouth moving faster than his mind as he let the words flood out of him, "so my plan failed and as soon as I saw him I knew what was happening and he was so kind, making sure I did want it and wasn't just doing it for his sake— hey, listen to that! Max and kind in the same sentence, who would have thought. Haha, I think I'm spiralling, 'Lex—"

"George," Alex strode across the room, and George stiffened, hyper aware of the fact that the boner was not going down and Alex was far too close. Though his best friend didn't seem to care, "Breathe. You're fine, and you did want to do it, yes?"

He nodded shakily, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall again, "Yes, Alex, I wanted it so much and I don't know what that means—"

"I think you do know what it means," Alex cut in gently, "but you are just afraid to admit it."

"There's something wrong with me," George whispered.

"Yeah, but it's not because you like men, or have a thing for Max, or the fact that it took you twenty-seven years to figure it all out. You know what your problem is, George—"

"Alex, this doesn't sound very nice—"

"— your problem is that you're not kind to yourself."

"Oh."

George was crying again.

Alex embraced him, despite the tears, despite the achingly hard boner that still wouldn't go down even though George was ugly crying into the crook of Alex's shoulder. He was held as Alex whispered reassurances to him— told him it was okay to love whoever he wanted, that he wasn't some failure because of it.

"Listen, do you have a problem with me liking men?" Alex asked.

"Of course not," George mumbled, mid-sniffle, worried about all the gross snot he was probably wiping against Alex's shirt.

Thoug Alex never relented, hand running up and down the ridges of George's spine, "Then I need you to treat yourself like that too, okay?"

"I don't know if I can—"

"Any good parent would be proud of you, George, because of all that you have achieved." Alex stopped him without George having to mention his father. Of course, Alex knew, he always did, when it came to George. "And your sexuality should not define that. A true parent will love their child regardless."

"Okay." He wasn't sure if he believed it now, but a part of him thought that one day, he just might.

"I'm so proud of you, Georgie," he could feel the press of Alex's lips against his temple, morphing into a tender smile. "I'm proud of you for racing, for all you've achieved, for all that you will achieve still, and I am proud of you for speaking to Max."

Max.

"Wait, I've just left Max in my room, shit—" He pulled away, eyes wide, "that was stupid of me, wasn't it?"

"I'd say yes, but Max is so whipped for you that he decided to find your clones to have sex with, so I think he'd be willing to wait for you to come back."

"But what if he's not there— or if he is, what the fuck do I even say?"

Alex shrugged, "Say whatever feels right in the moment. As I said, he's a bit crazy about you, so I think you'll be fine."

"And if he's not there?" George repeated, worry evident in his tone.

"Well, there's only one way to find out? Besides, you should really go deal with you, you know—" Alex gestured downwards to the strain in George's trousers, he giggled, "— problem."

George, cheeks red, was at the door, "Stop mentioning that!"

"You were the one who barged into my room with a boner, it's only fair that I get to tease you for it—"

"Stop it!" He practically shrieked, embarrassed as he opened the door.

"Oh, and George?" Alex called.

He stopped, turned to glance back at Alex, "Yeah?"

"Told you so."

The door slammed shut. He wished his and Alex's rooms were closer because the walk (or, it was more of a sprint with George's pace) felt as if it took too long, the worries swirling around his mind as too many hypotheticals popped up. Once he got to his room, he didn't hesitate to storm in, only stumbling to a halt when he saw Max, lounging across his bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, acting completely nonchalant.

He looked up and met George from across the room.

"You're still here," George pointed out.

"And you came back," Max countered, with a questioning lilt to his words, as if he was almost disbelieving that George actually returned.

"Yes. Yeah, I did come back," he echoed, suddenly very aware he did not know what he was meant to be doing, or saying, for that matter. Alex had told him to say what felt right, but nothing that came to his mind felt fitting.

So instead, he acted on what felt right.

He crossed the room, almost fell as he tumbled onto his knees and scooted between Max's legs, cupping Max's cheeks and pulling him into a kiss.

It felt just as good as the first time, maybe even a little better.

When he broke away, breathless, Max was smirking at him, full lips a wonderful teasing pout. "So does this mean, well, you know— will this be happening for the foreseeable future?"

"Yes, you idiot," George sighed, though it was kind, not mean or agitated or tired. Just a simple fondness he hadn't allowed himself to feel— well, ever.

"You are not allowed to call me an idiot when you have been hiding yourself away from me all this time," Max countered smoothly. "It is not fair that I could have been having the real thing instead of knockoffs."

"Shut up, you're insufferable."

"Make me," Max challenged.

And so, George did by crushing his lips against Max's again. They settled into a rhythm, George becoming restless as he worked himself against Max, the ache between his thighs persisted, and he moaned, hot, needy, into the opening of Max's mouth.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but they had twisted, Max pinning George to the headboard of the bed, and he was now nestled between George's legs instead. His hands trailed across George's body, heated touches that dared to go lower and lower until they cupped the bulge of George's cock that still pressed the fabric of his trousers taut. Max leant back, looking expectantly, and George realised he was waiting for the go-ahead, only ever moving on George's terms, even if Max really had all the control in this situation.

"Yes, please," George wasn't above begging, but luckily, Max didn't push him that far— even if George put that idea away for another time.

Max slid down George's torusers and boxers, his dick now free and wasted no time in taking George's length.

It felt euphoric.

George had to hold himself from cumming there and then, the wet warmth of Max's mouth sucking him like a vice, working up and down his length and tongue swriling around to tease him. George had only ever wanked himself off, nothing more, and so the new sensations were dragging his mind further and further away, replaced with a haze of safety and content as Max had his way with him.

Words failed him, his mantra was Max's name, moaned again and again as he was worked undone by the skilled mouth. George found himself teetering on the edge, too close too quick. When Max pulled away, he whined, keened for Max to continue, and almost gasped when a hand grabbed his dick instead. Max leant forward to kiss George as he continued to pump up and down his cock.

"I want you to cum from my hands, you think you can do that for me, baby? Max mumbled into the corner of George's lips, and George could only nod breathlessly, lapping Max up like a he was a mutt in desperate need of a treat.

"Good, perfect, I want to be able to watch your pretty face as I make you cum," Max purred, his hand relentless as the other one came up and caressed the thumb across George's cheek, swiping away the tears that fell.

For the third time that night, George found himself crying.

"You're beautiful, you know?" Max praised, and George couldn't find it in himself to feel embarrassed about his composure slipping, not when Max seemed to revel in it, seemed to adore how the fat tears rolled down George's cheeks.

He opened his mouth, closed it again, couldn't say anything, only whimper and gasp as Max quickened the pace around his cock. Max watched, eyes glinting with something lustful as George's mouth hung slack, panting heavily, as he was brought closer.

"Go on, George, let me see you cum."

And who was George to deny Max of that?

He came, moaning Max's name that tapered off into a pleased cry, splatting across Max's hand and both of their chests, sullying the t-shirts. Max never once took his gaze off George. He saw the way his eyelashes fluttered, eyes rolling back slightly as he rested his head against the board behind him. His cum shot out in thick ropes, the orgasm coaxed out of him, leaving the haze to settle across his mind.

Max retracted his hand, and George made an embarrassingly pathetic sound as he watched Max lick George's cum up, cleaning his hand completely. "You taste wonderful," he commented before leaning in and kissing George again.

It tasted sinful, almost. Salty and tart, and George knew that at some point in the past, this whole ordeal may have disgusted him. But now, tasting himself mixed with Max, soft, spit-slick lips and sloppy kisses, George's body sagged, relaxed.

At some point, Max pulled away, and if George was more coherent, he would have taken note that Max cleared up, bringing a damp cloth from the bathroom to wipe up the rest of George's mess. George was stripped of his clothes, changed into a softer tee and shorts, and suddenly he was tucked beneath the covers, a warm weight wrapping around him.

"George?" Max's voice was hushed and gentle, "You still with me?"

He hummed, hope that conveyed enough that he was listening.

"Was that good? I didn't do anything you didn't like?"

George rolled onto his side, blearily opening his eyes to look at Max. He pulled him in, kissed him against his forehead before murmuring, "No, Max, I liked it. I want to do it again sometime, if you'd like that too?"

"Are you seriously asking me if I want to do this again?"

"Well, I have to make sure before I start jumping to conclusions, this is all new to me, you know," George pointed out quietly, almost ashamed at what he was admitting, even if Max was very aware of that.

"Yes, and I will lead you every step of the way, if that's what you need."

He wasn't sure what he needed. Not yet, anyway. It was too early to label anything, and he wouldn't be surprised if Max also felt the same way. George had had too many earth-shattering revelations today, he did not need to rush into anything. So he would take Max up on that offer, be led through the confusing thoughts and navigate the knot of feelings that sat in his chest because he trusted Max to lead.

Fate was a funny thing, wasn't it?

"I feel safe around you," George admitted, and he noted the way Max froze momentarily, shocked, before he blinked and smiled.

"That means everything to me," Max confessed, "whatever this is, I will look after you, yes?"

"Yeah," George felt the tiredness crash into him, "I would like that. I wouldn't let anyone else, you know? Only 'cause it's you."

"And you're the only one I would offer this to."

George smiled, planted one last soft kiss, this time against Max's cheek, before sinking a little further into the mattress. He was wrapped in strong, toned arms, the drum of a heartbeat and deep, rhythmic breaths, which lulled him to sleep.

Then, when he woke, tangled in bedsheets and Max Verstappen snoring away next to him, George didn't feel the urge to run this time. Not from his feelings, not from the invisible tethers, not from Max.

Instead, George decided to listen to the thoughts he had once locked away; his father's voice was nothing but a fly he could swat. For the first time ever, George decided to stay.