Chapter Text
When Max first entered Formula 1, he was met with all sorts of comments: that he wasn’t mature enough to compete; that he lacked the skills to drive the car; that his achievements weren’t enough to compete with the other drivers.
Not enough.
This phrase dogged him at the start of his career, like a label to which everyone was eager to attach yet another professional verdict, despite the fact that they had watched just one race and drawn their conclusions based on some journalist’s commentary. For their part, the journalists showed no restraint in their desire to pour as much venom as possible in his direction: they turned every action or word of his, regardless of context, into a threat, which meant he often had to sit through hours-long lectures from the PR team on how to behave in front of the cameras. And even with all that preparation, Max wasn’t always ready to politely answer for the hundredth time whether the overtaking manoeuvre was actually safe, or whether he’d done it deliberately, wanting to get past his rival despite the high risk (and no, he doesn’t want to knock out everyone who overtakes him).
And then there was always his father.
Joss was never the ideal father: it was clear to everyone that he was ready to realise his own unfulfilled ambitions through his son’s career. Max was never asked what he wanted – to be honest, he’d been karting from such a young age that it sometimes seemed as though he’d been born with a steering wheel in his hands. In Jos’s upbringing, there was one rule: get what you want at any cost, so his father’s shouting, slaps and coldness were a familiar routine for the young racer. Sometimes he would look on with envy as other children were praised simply for crossing the finish line, warmly hugged and lovingly kissed on the forehead, whilst he received a reproachful, disappointed look from his father for coming third.
And so, years later, the Dutch Lion emerged – the fastest, most stubborn, most dangerous Formula 1 driver, breaking record after record, the one admired and hated by thousands of people around the world.
-
And now this lion was casting disapproving glances at the very embodiment of a ‘thoroughbred Englishman’, who was clearly trying to lull everyone into a sleep at 11 o’clock in the morning during the drivers’ briefing.
George was gorgeous, with a perfect British accent, skin as clear and radiant as the models in skincare adverts, wearing a snow-white polo shirt that hugged his tall, athletic frame so beautifully, and classic black trousers in which his already long legs seemed to had stepped straight off the covers of men’s glossy magazines, whilst his thighs commanded the attention of even the most self-assured straight bloke; and his undeniably attractive, snow-white smile, with a slight hint of a smirk, was a bloody thorn in the side.
Correction: he was a bloody thorn in the side, the dream of every PR manager and a headache for Max, especially considering that over the last ten minutes, those long legs in classic loafers—which cost a fortune—had already bumped into his knee five times (Max knows the price of that pair, even though he has at most six identical pairs of white trainers in his wardrobe).
And just as the thought of pointlessly spending a thousand dollars on a pair of shoes flashed through his mind, a stranger’s hand settled confidently on his knee.
‘Yes, I really do think Max is the ideal partner.’ ‘Lifting his head, the Dutchman’s surprised blue eyes met the British man’s confident and penetrating gaze, which held a hint of mockery and playfulness. “To be honest, despite his reputation as a dangerous and aggressive driver, I’m convinced time and again of his high skills and analytical abilities. Being on a team with a man like that means dealing with an incredible combination of hard work and a fiery temper. - With that, he turned to the nearest camera and leaned in closer. - And of course, first and foremost, it’s a great opportunity to prove that my skills are every bit as good as his.
The last sentence sparked a wave of surprised exclamations: it was a show of respect and a challenge, but not just to anyone, but literally to the Dutch lion sitting to his right. The hand that had rested confidently on the stranger’s leg throughout the speech clenched his knee tightly: his fingers quickly traced a line just above it and withdrew. A playful glance lingered for a second on the blond man’s surprised and bewildered face, as if etching the moment into his memory, soaking up the whole range of those sincere emotions. Pulling his hand back onto the back of the sofa, George unobtrusively interlaced his fingers, trying to feel the warmth that felt so pleasant, as if tiny sparks were running from one finger to another, sending impulses throughout his body.
‘Ahem, Max, what do you make of George’s remark? As far as we recall, you’ve had a long-standing disagreement and even outright conflict. — The journalist, who for a second felt she was witnessing something that clearly shouldn’t be happening between two feuding drivers at a morning briefing, quickly regained her composure and asked the question everyone in the room wanted to voice.
- Um, well... - as if waking from a momentary daze, Max replied with a slight hoarseness, trying not to look at how close George’s hand, which had been resting on his knee, was to his neck. ‘We can never predict what the future holds, and I don’t like making predictions at all, but I think we can all see our results in this race.’
He smiled a little awkwardly and set the microphone aside, signalling that his answer was finished. That was typical of Max: brief, to the point, a bit rough around the edges, and without any unnecessary fluff. However, today everything felt different, and he could hardly have said anything wittier or funnier, as his thoughts were occupied by the perfect Brit, or rather his actions over the last few weeks.
Although, to be honest, the last few months.
-
Listen, Max isn’t stupid. Yes, he’s absolutely passionate about racing – it’s what he’s literally dedicated his whole life to, what keeps him awake at night and drives him to test out ideas in sim racing, what he looks forward to every single time, and what he’s always ready to return to, regardless of wins or losses. Yes, he can often get carried away discussing strategy with the team or making changes to the car, but he still pays attention to what’s going on around him. And lately, something strange has been happening around him.
Everyone in the paddock knows it – George and Max are like fire and water, two incompatible elements who, although they maintain a polite façade and keep their distance, actually can’t stand the sight of one another. People joke that if Russell had been in Kimi’s place in the crash, we’d have been in for a UFC fight rather than a Formula 1 race; they share memes of the two of them colliding and laugh at George’s post-race comments.
However, when it comes to the real relationship between Max and George, in reality it would be difficult to call them bitter rivals. Max could indeed flare up, go and confront another driver, or be rude, but he would calm down very quickly. The adrenaline in his blood after the race stirred a desire to prove his point not only with words but also with actions, but a few hours later came the realisation that he was in the wrong (though, to be honest, not always); however, this was followed by the conclusion that the situation could no longer be rectified. His reputation as a stubborn, dangerous and cold-hearted man who didn’t care what people thought left him no room to clarify the conflict.
After Qatar, they did indeed keep their distance and mocked one another, but gradually the coldness faded away. George was proud, but not the sort of arsehole who thinks he’s better than everyone else; rather, he was someone who realistically assessed his abilities but didn’t limit himself in his desire to improve. The clash with Max had really angered him – he was furious, hurt – but looking back at the situation a few months later and analysing the blond’s behaviour (he hadn’t been spying on Max, don’t even entertain such a thought!), he came to the conclusion that there were two versions of Max:
1. The racing version of Max: a somewhat aloof, cold, attentive man who operates like a well-oiled machine. All his actions exude a confidence honed over the years, a menacing danger; he is the embodiment of a predator, that very Dutch lion who will not let his prey—in the form of victory—slip from his claws.
2. The everyday Max is a completely different person. First and foremost, he is a Dutchman with a slightly awkward sense of humour and a straightforward manner – not the sort that hits you with its rudeness, but one that gives a sense of calm and honesty. He doesn’t seek to flaunt his success and happily wears the exact same Red Bull outfit to absolutely every event, which is why his photo from the ceremony in a classic suit looks like a Photoshop job to George. He really is like a mother duck to newcomers: he listens attentively to long, rambling speeches, then analyses the situation with complete seriousness and offers advice, trying to give everyone his full attention.
The Brit found himself staring at this new side of the Red Bull driver. His unkempt hair looked so soft in the rays of the warm, early sun, shimmering and inviting you to touch it, to feel its softness. His eyes, gazing with such warmth at the young drivers scurrying about, seemed to light up and draw the gaze, creating a desire for this untameable lion to look at you with them. His broad smile with dimples, along with his soft laugh with a slight hoarseness, sounded alluring, and even that fashion faux pas in the form of skinny jeans looked natural, and even nicely emphasised his rather ample hips for a man, which looked absolutely sinful when he bent over.
The whole contrast of these two such different sides in one person was captivating. I wanted to gaze into that face, track the slightest reactions, and try to understand which side dominated in this man.
-
And all this analysis led to George quietly (until a certain point) testing Max’s limits over the past six months. It was simply an experiment: to see how close he could get to the real Max. His plan was perfect: to defeat an opponent, you need to know him inside out, not just the part of his personality that shows itself on the track. At first, there were barely perceptible nods to one another; they didn’t even bother to shake hands and ignored each other’s existence in mixed company. Alex joked that when they were together, it felt like divorced parents at a children’s party. Gradually, the ice melted a little, hard feelings faded into the background, and they moved from polite nods to handshakes, which naturally caused a stir in the paddock, but only at first.
As soon as George’s observant mind noticed this difference—Max really wasn’t that cold in everyday life—the handshakes gave way to firm hugs after the races and on the podium. The very first hug was electrifying: he’d managed to overtake the McLaren on the final lap and finish P1, despite the car starting to fade towards the end. In the euphoria of victory, amidst the cheers of the fans and his team, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Max walking past towards his team – though he didn’t look particularly happy, he was pleased to have finished third, having squeezed the maximum out of the car despite obvious problems with the chassis.
It took him just a second to make up his mind: George quickly called out to the Dutchman, and before he could turn his head in his direction, he put his arms around his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. Clearly taken aback and bewildered, Max didn’t have time to react and found himself lost in the embrace of the taller man, his head resting against his chest.
The first thing George noticed was the scent. The scent of shampoo, something very expensive, with grassy, fresh notes; the musky scent of sweat mixed with deodorant; and finally, the scent of Max’s own body. All of this mingled, but surprisingly did not create a nauseating stench that made him want to make the poor bloke stand under the shower for at least an hour, but instead turned into an alluring, tangy scent that sent shivers down his spine. Despite his build (and Max was quite tall and stocky), in his embrace he suddenly lost his imposing presence and felt like a petite, warm creature I wanted to hold on to for as long as possible. Warmed up after the race, still slightly flushed, with beads of sweat on his forehead and clearly still buzzing with adrenaline, he looked incredibly alluring. In his embrace, not protesting but standing calmly, as if unsure what to do in such situations, with genuine surprise, he seemed incredibly sweet.
Snapping out of his daze, Max raised his head, looked at the Brit’s face, which was beaming with a proud smile and clearly had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, raised his hands, which had been hanging limply in confusion, and gently patted him on the back as he stepped back. It took only a few seconds, yet for both of them, that moment seemed to stretch into an hour. After politely saying something about a good result, George turned and headed towards his team, leaving a slightly bewildered Max halfway to the garage.
Things weren’t any better on the podium. As if deciding they had already crossed some sort of boundary, he climbed onto the podium and immediately pulled Max closer by the waist – his hand could feel the softness and warmth of the skin almost through the fabric of the suit, lingering noticeably. From the outside, it looked like a normal friendly gesture; however, whilst Oscar George gave him a barely perceptible hug—his hand hanging in the air more than actually touching his back—Max could feel the British man’s firm, large hand on him, as if holding him firmly by his side.
And whilst Max had previously put it all down to the adrenaline after the race, he wasn’t so sure about that now.
Firstly, George had started hugging him almost every time he saw him, and that made him wonder about the necessity of these actions. A normal handshake was replaced by being pulled into an embrace, a hand resting on his waist, squeezing it slightly, and after he was released, a curious pair of sky-blue eyes watched him intently, like a cat playing with a mouse and gauging the reaction to its game. And whilst this might have been normal for friends (though he still doubted that friends would constantly be groping his waist like that), the point here was that they weren’t friends. The Brit continued to make ambiguous remarks, mocking him slightly, still trying to overtake him on the track, yet somehow constantly appearing by his side, laughing at his jokes even when they weren’t funny, handing him water when he couldn’t find his bottle, and even lending him a jacket when the Dutchman had left his in the garage.
And there were so many accidental touches that it became difficult to dismiss them as mere coincidence.
-
When the FIA called all the drivers into a room for a discussion during the meetings, Max was one of the first to arrive. He wasn’t a fan of the FIA, but his own team was holding a meeting literally in the next room, so he walked into the hall and took a seat in the second row to hide behind the back of the person sitting in front of him and get some sleep, for getting up at 5 am, despite all his discipline, was too much even for him. Gradually, the room filled with drivers, managers and other staff; Stroll sat down in front of him, so that his back provided perfect cover; to his right sat Charles, who had initially sat next to Pierre but, for some reason, changed his mind and moved seats. At one point, there were very few free seats left, and the seat to his left was empty when Lando entered the room. Immediately noticing Max, he waved and was just about to approach when a girl from the team called out to him and started asking him something. At that moment, the Mercedes drivers also arrived in the room, and Kimi immediately took a seat with Ollie, who had booked a spot for him in advance next to the other rookie drivers, whilst George stopped and scanned the room in search of a seat. There weren’t many options: next to Carlos, who was sitting at the front on the left; next to Gabi, who was sitting in the penultimate seat in the back row; and finally next to Max, who was sitting behind the tall backs of Stroll and Ocon.
It didn’t take him long to make up his mind. Within a minute, the Brit was taking off his jacket and striding confidently towards Max, a sly smile spreading across his face.
‘Good morning, Max, you don’t look too good—didn’t sleep well?’ He held out his hand and shook the slightly disgruntled driver’s, feeling a pleasant warmth after the cold of the street. ‘Mind if I sit next to you?’
And before the Dutchman could reply, the Mercedes driver, clearly pleased with himself, sat down in the empty seat, draped his jacket over the back of the chair and rested his feet against the legs of the driver sitting next to him. All this took place under the gaze of a clearly bewildered Lando, who had already mentally claimed that seat, and the surprised look of Charles, who cast a strange, inscrutable glance towards the perpetually quarrelling pair.
‘Can you even see anything at all from behind his back? Toto said that today we’ll be discussing certain aspects of safety, so we need to pay very close attention.’ With that, he leaned slightly towards Max, his knees pressing even harder against his legs. ‘If, of course, you consider it important to pay attention to safety issues.’
He smoothed his slightly tousled hair, and his eyes narrowed, closely watching the blond’s reaction opposite him. Such verbal sparring had become his morning coffee; he enjoyed it, especially when the questions were a bit tricky.
Max sighed quietly, realising that this British thorn in his side clearly had no intention of supporting his idea of a lie-in. Stretching his legs out in front of him to minimise contact, he rolled his shoulders and sighed rather loudly, making no attempt to hide his irritation, which was particularly evident in the mornings.
- Good morning to you too, George. I’m paying attention to everything except what we’re discussing for the hundredth time and which makes absolutely no sense. - He noticed the jacket, which looked as though it had been taken from an astronaut. ‘Is Mercedes testing a new rocket for launch into space?’ He raised the corner of his mouth slightly in a mocking manner, clearly pleased with his own joke.
‘This jacket is made from a rare material; it retains heat for 12 hours, preventing the body from overheating whilst maintaining an optimal temperature. And it looks far more stylish than any Red Bull jacket. - George was clearly amused by Max’s attempt at a sharp retort; it was truly fascinating to watch that predatory glint appear in his sleepy, not-quite-awake face, accompanied by a barely perceptible smile. He looked like a sleepy lion cub who hadn’t even realised he was awake, yet was already trying to bare his claws and growl. Though, to be honest, it sounded more like a meow.
‘Has the Red Bull office run out of hair wax?’ With these words, he reached out and, with a gentleness of movement that belied the tone of his voice, brushed a strand of Max’s hair away from his forehead, combing it back slightly. This gesture was visible to all the drivers sitting nearby: Alex, who had been chatting animatedly with Pierre just moments before, suddenly fell silent and stared at the couple talking; Charles, who had been buried in his phone, looked up and fixed his gaze on George’s hand; Lando, whose seat had been brazenly taken, turned around along with Carlos and stared at the scene, which was clearly unfamiliar to everyone.
Well, it really was a bit strange. A bit.
With typical English composure, George withdrew his hand, sat up straight in his chair and turned to face forward, as if silently bringing the conversation to a close and ignoring the surprised glances from the drivers around him. Max, already accustomed to it but still slightly perplexed, tilted his head back and closed his eyes when he heard a chuckle from his right. Apparently, the verbal exchange had amused Charles somewhat, and the Dutchman couldn’t blame him for that.
What he clearly hadn’t noticed was the Monegasque’s fixed gaze on Russell, his furrowed brows and the obvious thoughtfulness on his face. The phone, which seemed to have completely captured the Ferrari driver’s attention, was now completely forgotten, and his gaze shifted smoothly to the profile of the Dutch lion.
-
Max was the embodiment of strength, determination and hard work. He was undoubtedly talented too, but ever since their karting days, Charles had remembered one important thing about him: talent can be overshadowed by sheer grit. They had spent many years side by side, overtaking one another, constantly clashing, studying each other’s strategies and trying to find each other’s weaknesses. For a long time, he thought of Max as a pushy lad who couldn’t see beyond the steering wheel, and tried to beat him in every race to prove he was stronger. However, as time went on, Max was ahead of his years, his achievements became increasingly significant, his personality changed, and that was when Charles began to notice the small but crucial details.
The way Max would watch sadly as other fathers hugged their children after the races. The way he happily hugged his rivals on the podium, regardless of his own result. The way he listened attentively to another boy who simply couldn’t get round the lap and very timidly asked for advice. And finally, the way Max himself spoke of him.
Despite all their rivalry and clashes, Max always found the right words, spoke of the Monegasque with a certain admiration, and was certain that in the future they would both be competing in Formula 1. He believed in Charles; he wanted them to race together; he saw Charles’s talent and skill. He didn’t even get angry when Charles overtook him. They spent many years together; Max was a constant presence in Charles’s life. Even though they weren’t followers of each other, he constantly checked the Dutchman’s social media, and his recommendations feed always featured videos of their interactions posted by fans. He could see that Max treated him much more warmly than he did others in the paddock. Despite his reputation as a dangerous and sharp-tongued driver, in reality he was a funny, lovely bloke who could talk about the car for hours, show photos of his cats and listen to another person with genuine attention, and Charles was proud that he was the only one who noticed this.
That was before George Russell decided that Max’s personal boundaries didn’t need to be respected.
He had known George since childhood, but whilst he and Max were rivals, he regarded the Brit simply as one of the drivers. He didn’t compete with him, didn’t pick up on—or even try to pick up on—any particular details, merely exchanging a polite greeting and forgetting all about it a minute later. When he made his Formula 1 debut, he was genuinely pleased for the lad and went about his business, occasionally bumping into him and exchanging a few words at the drivers’ parade or on the way to the garage. It was a normal relationship between drivers from two different teams.
Charles didn’t consider himself possessive, but what belonged to him belonged to him. His achievements, his friends, his belongings, his team and his rival. From the very beginning, Max had been Charles’s main rival; they were inextricably linked, and everyone in the paddock understood and accepted this. Nothing brought him such great joy as a victory over the Dutch Lion. Their rivalry was like a passionate dance, in which only Charles knew how to twirl around the tenacious driver. Pierre even joked that the happiest moments in Charles’s life were the podiums he shared with Max. Seeing his flushed face, his pupils dilated from the lingering excitement of the race, the undisguised admiration with which he looked at him, was the most delightful sight. And now this familiar scene has been disrupted by George Russell.
He noticed it just a couple of months ago, but now he has to see it practically every day. The Brit touches Max whenever the opportunity arises, and if there isn’t one, he’ll create it. Hugs that at first made Pierre’s jaw seem as though it might hit the floor, standing too close, playful jibes that are perfectly natural between friends, but not between Russell and Verstappen. More and more videos appeared on social media where George mentions Max, admires Max, teases Max, jokes about Max, touches Max, so that at some point people began to think that they were the main and most interesting rivals. The Briton’s seemingly out-of-the-blue interest was suspicious, but Max himself was in no hurry to ignore it.
But they weren’t rivals, at least in Charles’s eyes. George was clearly inferior to Max, not only in his driving but also in his personal qualities, and to the Monegasque’s taste, Max’s appearance was clearly more appealing than that of the perfect Brit. Perfect is always boring.
However, for some reason, people had now started pitting them against each other, and if that were all there was to it, Charles would never have paid it any mind. But now Max wasn’t making room next to him, because there was already a smiling Mercedes driver standing there, listening as the Dutchman discussed tyres, quickly shaking his hand and not even having time to say a word before being pulled into an embrace, whilst on the podium he stood next to the Briton beaming with pride. Beside him, a crowd of rookie drivers is marching in the drivers’ parade, and to his left, as if that’s just the way it should be, Russell is walking and holding out his bottle of water, saying something about the new FIA regulations.
As if that’s just the way it should be. And the worst part? Max is accepting it all.
Charles notices a flicker of bewilderment and surprise in the Dutchman’s eyes, but he does not push the persistent driver away. Although slightly stiff, he hugs him back, responds to the jibes with a little joke and gradually relaxes. If six months ago the distance between the two could be measured in rooms, now it occasionally seems as though they have completely forgotten that they are on different teams and are appearing together more and more often. No, they aren’t signed to each other, nor do they spend time together outside the paddock, but George only sits next to Max, and Max increasingly finds himself unconsciously relaxing in his presence, allowing him to change the subject and touch him—be it a friendly handshake or a hug around the shoulders.
This is wrong. It is wrong in every sense of the word. No one has the right to be so close to Max.
He isn’t surprised by Max’s softer side, but the Brit’s new mannerisms were an unpleasant surprise at first, and now they frankly annoy him. He notices the admiration in his eyes when he looks at the Red Bull driver, and that’s normal, but he also notices that behind that admiration lies something predatory, something possessive, something deeper than friendly admiration. And this feeling itches unpleasantly in the back of his mind, like a bite that never stops itching.
Just today, when he arrived early, was the first to greet Max, took a seat next to him and even managed to exchange a few words, the driver’s full attention was focused precisely on the Brit. Not only had he taken a seat that wasn’t his, but he’d also managed to joke around, touch him, and shake off the sleepiness of the sleep-deprived blond. He touches him as if they’ve been friends for years, even though six months ago he wouldn’t even have wanted to say his name. It’s annoying.
The Monegasque’s attention is drawn to Max’s peaceful face; he has closed his eyes and, despite the Brit’s attempts, is trying to sleep for a few more minutes. His eyelashes flutter, a strand of hair falls across his forehead again, and his chest rises and falls gently. His legs are stretched out beneath Lance’s chair, his arms folded across his chest, and a phone rests on his knees. So calm, he looks attractive; the drowsiness lends his face a softness, and a barely perceptible, relaxed smile seems to play on his lips. It was as if the man who drove so aggressively on the track, who didn’t shy away from giving sharp retorts to journalists, who could get into a verbal spat—and not just with other drivers—was a completely different person. It was precisely this contrast that made him the ideal rival.
Staff were bustling about, some carrying extra chairs, others setting up cameras and equipment. George turned towards Max, but met the Monegasque’s inscrutable gaze. Something in Charles’s usually polite and smiling face struck him as strangely cold. Nodding, he shifted his gaze to the Dutchman, who was dozing quietly. A moment later, without opening his eyes, the latter drew his legs up towards him so that they were once again touching the Briton’s feet. George looked at the screen, where the presentation was already open, and instead of waking Max, he merely sighed quietly and turned away, focusing his full attention on what was happening on stage. After all, he was human too, and the information really wasn’t new. Let him rest.
All this interaction did not go unnoticed by Alex, who was glancing towards the slightly odd trio: Lando, who was casting disapproving glances at George despite clearly enjoying Carlos’s company, and Pierre, who for some reason was giggling every time he looked at Charles. Oh, this promised to be interesting.
Meanwhile, Max was dozing peacefully, paying no attention not so much to the drivers around him, but even to the subject of the meeting. After all, getting up at 5 a.m. is unnatural.