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One day they were joking about joining the mile-high club, looking down at a sheeplike arrangement of clouds that obscured the globe beneath them, saying, wouldn't it be funny if... Next time they're on that jet, on the return trip five days later, here they are, for shits and giggles. The damn club.
It’s always been like this, he and Max. Surprisingly easy, sequential.
Some would say seamless, although their professional relationship does have its fair share of seams.
But he flirts with Max; Max can’t flirt back because his brain is rebooting, it takes him a full five seconds to remember human words. Alex thinks he’s just really bad at talking game with anybody, not just Alex. Don’t believe what the cameras try showing, that guy is shy.
And straight guy banter tends to involve its fair share of jokes about sucking dick and/or marrying each other, so he doesn’t think much else of Max’s timid stuttering other than, that’s cute.
He’s tried pushing that button time and time again—because it’s easy, and because there’s something a bit power-trip-adjacent about making RedBull’s golden boy look a little bit stupid in front of a camera, or in front of the garage, or when it’s just the two of them, really.
Any excuse is good.
Because he collects the moments like little trinkets, like a small kid collecting seashells off the beach: he won’t keep them forever, but while he’s picking them up, he likes to think he could.
He doesn’t, actually, think that much more of it until Max’s warm, velvety mouth is wrapped around his cock and Alex is desperately trying to look out the window at the gathering storm clouds. Not out of boredom or embarrassment, but because if he catches another glimpse of those tear-stricken teal blue eyes and that sheen of willing obedience he’d never thought to see on the face of a man like Max Verstappen, he’s going to come down his tight, inviting throat without warning, and that wouldn’t be nice, would it?
What he thinks now, a bit shellshocked, is that this is definitely not the first time Max has had a dick in his mouth, oh god, it’s not—and if it is, all the more reason to hate his damn guts. Mr. Perfect, always getting it so right, first-trying gay sex for the hell of it.
It comes back to him in flashes: Max a stuttering mess after one of Alex’s raunchier innuendos, just for the fun of it. How Alex had thought, who’d have imagined this guy was such a prude.
And he’s not, fuck, he’s not.
Just, Alex had been doing his usual thing. It’s so much harder for him to tone the flirting down than it is to come up with a constant stream of pickup lines to throw at just about anybody. Just second nature. And maybe Max’s second nature was being shy, or maybe it was—whatever this is. Taking Alex at face value. Being, in some bizarre twist of fate, actually and wholeheartedly into men, into Alex of all men. And now he wishes, for a moment that seems to stretch eternal beyond the deep blue of the horizon, that he could go back in time and say he hadn’t been joking at all.
He tries to warn Max, but his teammate swallows eagerly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Alex untangles his fingers from his sweaty hair, almost shaking with how life-altering the experience of having his dick sucked by Max Verstappen has been. And about this he wishes he were kidding—but he’s not. He’s going to think about his teammate’s mouth every time he gets his dick sucked by anyone else, and it’s never going to compare.
The thought sends a shiver down his spine.
I hope you die? Bland, boring threat. It’ll happen eventually.
I hope that on your next commute, you get such mind-blowing head from your coworker that it forever alters your perception of blowjobs? It’s real. It’s scary. It could be happening to you right now.
Max gets off his knees, crawls back up to his own seat, tips his head back and lets out a small, pleased sigh as Alex tucks himself back in, dazed. As if he didn’t just do ancient witchcraft on some bloke’s dick while 8 miles above the Appalachians or whatever the fuck. Like it’s just routine.
Is it?
“Do you…?” Alex gestures a bit at Max, at all of him. The armrest between their seats is lifted, and Max doesn’t seem to be shying away from the physical closeness now that they’ve fulfilled their own stupid prompt of joining the mile-high club. Just shy-ing, in general.
Alex feels slightly self-conscious for looking, but clearly, Max is quite hard still.
“Uh, a hand?” he tries, cringing at himself the moment the words leave his mouth.
“M’fine,” Max mumbles, which isn’t a yes or a no, so Alex does what he does best and pushes his buttons. He places a hand, careful, on Max’s knee. He’s wearing shorts. Alex wishes he weren’t wearing shorts, because maybe Max will also manage to ruin his perception of thighs from now on. Are those even legal? How are they so… so—?
“Fine how?” Alex prods, leaning closer, increasing the pressure bit by bit.
Max squirms, not away from the touch, but into it, letting Alex’s hand skirt higher and higher up his thigh, pulling the nylon of the shorts up with the movement. Almost too reserved for how forward he usually is with these things, as if revealing something sacred.
Eventually his hand ends up wrapped around Max’s clothed erection, pressing a palm teasingly against the warmth. He’s so hard it hurts even Alex to try and fathom what it’s like in those pants right now. And Max is heaving, trying to keep the volume low, breathing the sounds into Alex’s neck. High-pitched, delightfully needy in a way that he’d never thought in a million years he could hear from this man.
It has his head spinning. Or maybe it’s just the altitude.
“Jesus Christ, Max,” he groans, Max bucking his hips against his palm, biting his lips, making them look even fuller and prettier with the strain and the arousal. His eyes snap closed when Alex speaks, shy. So shy.
He intends to drag the teasing on for a while, but Max doesn’t let him: Alex says you’re pretty; it was actually meant to be something like you’re pretty submissive for how much smack you talk, but he lets the pretty linger, searching for words, and just like that, Max chokes back a moan and comes in his pants, flush against Alex’s palm.
That’s how Alex finds out Max is a complete slut for praise, especially being called pretty.
He tucks this moment away for future use. Nefarious future use.
“Alex, my pants,” Max whines when he comes to, eyes only half-open, making that deathly embarrassed face he only makes when GP calls him out on his bullshit and he’s right. Something in Alex bubbles; pride, maybe a side of endearment. “You ruined my pants.”
“Mate, you jizzed them,” Alex snorts. It’s easy, falling back to banter. As if he didn’t just make Max come with the palm of his hand and two words.
“You’re the one who—” Max blushes, looking away. It’s almost always impossible to win a staring contest against Max, but not when he’s all red and spluttering and embarrassed of himself like this. Then the win is almost handed to you on a silver platter.
It’s adorable. He does not find Max adorable. Just his… whatever.
“Made you?” Alex supplies, suddenly grinning. It might be the weirdest thing that’s happened to Alex on a plane, but not the worst. Not by a mile.
“Yeah,” Max says, barely audible. Still not looking.
“Fair enough. Can buy you a pretty new pair at the airport,” Alex teases, winking even though Max isn’t looking. He does it more for the love of the game than for anything else, really.
They don’t say let’s never do this again or this never happened; they also, cautiously, don’t say next time.
He’s not quite sure whether the mile-high club requires a renewal of membership every so often.
Alex, strangely, would probably not mind. Not at all.