Chapter Text
The music was too loud.
Not unbearably loud—Lando would never allow that, because apparently “good parties need good acoustics”—but loud enough that the bass crawled beneath Max’s skin the second he stepped inside the penthouse.
Lights bled gold and violet across the marble floors. People crowded every corner in expensive clothes and louder perfumes, laughter bursting in waves over the music. Someone near the balcony was already drunk enough to nearly topple into a decorative plant.
Typical.
The moment Max entered, someone shouted his name.
“Oi! Max! You actually came!”
Lando Norris appeared through the crowd with a grin stretched across his face, drink in hand and shirt half unbuttoned already.
“You look miserable,” Lando said immediately, clapping a hand against Max’s shoulder. “Which means this party just improved massively.”
Max snorted. “You invited me.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” Lando squinted at him dramatically. “Did hell freeze over? Did sim racing servers finally shut down?”
“I was bored.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Lando barked out a laugh, dragging Max further inside before he could reconsider coming altogether.
People greeted Max as they passed. A few drivers. Models. Influencers. Random celebrities Max vaguely recognized from somewhere but couldn’t place. He answered most of them with nods and hums while Lando continued talking enough for the both of them.
“You know,” Lando mused, sipping from his drink, “I genuinely think you need to get laid.”
Max rolled his eyes instantly. “Oh my god.”
“No seriously,” Lando continued, fully committed now. “You’ve been grumpier lately. More murder-y. Your aura is becoming concerning.”
“My aura?”
“Yes. Very divorced man coded.”
“I’m not divorced. I'm not even married Lando.”
“You’ve got the energy.”
Max deadpanned at him. “Why did I come here again?”
“Character development.”
"Or to be poisoned by the alcohol.”
Lando laughed loudly enough that a few people turned. He's clearly had a few too many drinks already.
Then his gaze flickered over Max’s shoulder and his expression shifted into recognition. “Oh—wait there. I need to say hi to someone.”
“You say that like I’m your dog.”
“You’d bite less than some people here.”
And then he vanished into the crowd before Max could reply.
Max exhaled through his nose, now alone amongst a sea of strangers and expensive lighting.
He grabbed a drink from a passing tray mostly for something to do and leaned against one of the pillars, eyes wandering lazily around the room.
Couples danced near the windows overlooking the city. Someone was smoking on the balcony despite being told not to. The bartender looked exhausted already.
And then Max saw her.
Or—who he assumed was a her.
Sitting at the bar with one leg crossed over the other was a tall figure in a deep burgundy dress that looked almost painted onto their body. The fabric hugged narrow hips and a lean waist before splitting high against one thigh.
The woman had short dark curls brushing against the back of her neck. The colourful lightening made it so much more luminescent.
Broad shoulders.
Defined arms.
Elegant posture.
Interesting.
Not usually Max’s type, if he was being honest. Too tall. Too intimidating-looking. Too composed.
But there was something about her.
Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the way she sat entirely unbothered by the chaos around her. Maybe it was simply the color red beneath low golden lighting.
Whatever it was, Max found himself staring.
And apparently he wasn’t subtle enough, because beside her sat Alex Albon looking seconds away from collapsing from laughter.
Alex kept talking animatedly while the woman took slow sips from her drink, visibly unimpressed by whatever nonsense he was saying.
Max narrowed his eyes.
Alex noticed him first.
His grin widened immediately into something dangerous.
Oh no, that's a look Alex makes only when he's making a bet he feels like he'll win.
Alex leaned down toward the woman, whispered something into her ear, and suddenly looked like he might actually die laughing.
Then, with one final glance toward Max full of evil amusement, Alex shook her hand, stood and disappeared into the crowd.
Max frowned.
That was suspicious.
Still, curiosity won.
He approached the bar slowly, stopping beside the empty stool Alex had abandoned.
The woman still hadn’t turned around.
Up close, Max noticed more details.
The dress was satin or maybe silk. Max doesn't pay attention to the difference in fabrics.
The heels were criminally sharp.
One hand rested elegantly around the stem of a cocktail glass, fingers long and familiar somehow.
And there was a scent—something expensive and warm.
Max sat down beside her.
“Did Alex finally annoy you enough to leave?” he asked casually.
No response.
Only another slow sip of her drink.
Max glanced sideways. “You know, ignoring people usually means they try harder.”
That finally got a reaction.
The woman turned.
And Max thinks he forgot how breathing worked.
Because it wasn’t a woman.
It was George Russell.
George fucking Russell.
Max physically froze.
The deep burgundy lipstick caught the low light every time George moved his mouth. Dark eyeliner sharpened already unfairly striking eyes while mascara stretched his lashes longer than should’ve been legally possible.
His curls were styled away from his face slightly, exposing sharp cheekbones dusted faintly with shimmer.
The dress fit him obscenely well.
Too well.
And the slit running up his thigh—
Jesus Christ.
George looked at him with complete indifference.
“Yes, Verstappen?” he asked smoothly.
Max stared.
His brain genuinely stopped functioning.
Because this was George.
George, who wore Mercedes hoodies and stupid quarter-zips and looked annoyingly handsome while sweaty after races.
George, who argued with engineers like his life depended on it.
George, who somehow now looked—
Beautiful.
Actually beautiful.
Not funny.
Not ironic.
Not “pretty for a man.”
Just devastatingly beautiful.
Max thought he might be hallucinating.
George raised one eyebrow slowly. “You’re staring.”
Max opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
George took another sip of his drink, entirely unimpressed. “That’s concerning. Usually you never stop talking.”
“I—”
Excellent start.
George’s lips twitched slightly.
Not enough to call it a smile.
But enough to make Max’s stomach do something deeply annoying.
“You alright there?” George asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Max blinked hard. “You’re—”
“Hopefully still George Russell, yes.”
“No, I mean—”
George ever patient, waited for Max to embarrass himself.
Max gestured vaguely at him. “This.”
George looked down at himself lazily. “It’s a dress, Max. I assumed you knew what those were.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Max hated that he suddenly felt sixteen years old.
George watched him unravel with obvious amusement now.
“You came over here thinking I was someone else, didn’t you?” George asked.
Max stayed silent.
George’s smile finally appeared properly.
Sharp. Mean. Beautiful. Everything that made George, George. Unfortunately and Beautifully so.
“Oh my god,” George laughed softly. “You thought I was a woman!”
Max groaned immediately. “Don’t start.”
“This is incredible!”
“You’re never letting me live this down are you?”
“Absolutely not!”
George looked delighted now, leaning slightly against the bar as he examined Max’s still visibly stunned expression.
“You know,” George mused, “Alex owes me fifty dollars.”
Max blinked. “What?”
“He said you’d realize immediately.” George swirled his drink. “I said your observational skills are catastrophically bad.”
Max stared at him again despite himself.
George caught him instantly.
“You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Max looked away first this time, jaw tightening.
George’s grin widened knowingly.
And somehow that was worse than the dress.
The bartender slid another drink toward George, clearly already familiar with him tonight.
George accepted it with a quiet thanks before glancing back at Max, who still looked like someone had hit him over the head with a brick.
“You’ve gone unusually quiet,” George observed.
“You look ridiculous.”
George gasped dramatically. “And here I thought we were having a moment.” he frowns.
Max took a long sip of his drink just to buy himself time.
It didn’t help.
Because every time he looked at George, his brain seemed to short-circuit again.
The dress was fitted through the waist but looser lower down, elegant rather than flashy. The slit exposed flashes of toned thigh whenever George shifted on the stool, and the heels somehow made his legs look even longer.
Max needed Lando to come back immediately.
Or maybe never come back.
He wasn’t sure anymore.
George rested his chin against his hand. “So,” he said lightly, “how long were you staring before you decided to approach me?”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You absolutely were.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Max,” George said dryly, “you nearly walked into a waiter.”
Max frowned. “I did not.”
“You did. I saw it in the reflection of Alex's eyes.”
That explained why Alex looked seconds away from cardiac arrest earlier.
Max groaned quietly into his glass.
George looked far too pleased with himself.
“You know,” George continued, “this might genuinely be the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“I didn’t compliment you.”
“You crossed an entire room because you thought I was attractive.”
Max nearly choked on his drink.
George laughed—actually laughed—and Max hated how good it sounded.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Max muttered.
“Obviously.”
George turned slightly on the stool now, finally facing him properly.
Which was a mistake.
Because before, Max only had partial glimpses.
Now he had the full picture.
The deep red of the dress against George’s skin. The shimmer at the corner of his eyes. The glossy lipstick. The elegant curve of one leg crossing over the other.
And God, George knew exactly what he was doing too.
“You clean up nicely,” Max admitted before he could stop himself.
George blinked once in surprise.
Then his expression softened into something smug and pleased.
“Well,” he said smoothly, “that almost sounded sincere.”
Max hated that his ears felt warm.
George noticed immediately.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, delighted. “Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m literally not.”
George leaned slightly closer, studying him with infuriating concentration. “You absolutely are.”
Max looked anywhere except directly at George.
Which unfortunately only made things worse because now his eyes caught on the slit of the dress again.
George followed his gaze downward.
Then slowly looked back up.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly the teasing atmosphere shifted into something tighter.
Heavier.
George’s amusement dimmed just slightly.
Not gone.
Just… quieter.
“You know,” George said softly, “most people tonight realized it was me immediately.”
Max cleared his throat. “Good for them.”
George hummed. “You didn’t.”
“The hair threw me off.”
“My hair?”
“And the makeup.”
George smirked faintly. “Not the dress?”
Max’s eyes flicked down involuntarily again.
George caught it.
Again.
A dangerous sort of satisfaction settled into George’s expression now, subtle but unmistakable.
“You really can’t stop looking,” George murmured.
Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“And you approached me voluntarily. That sounds like a you problem.”
Before Max could answer, a drunk voice suddenly cut through the moment.
“George!”
Both of them looked over as a heavily intoxicated man stumbled toward the bar, grinning too widely.
George’s entire demeanor changed instantly.
Not scared.
Just irritated.
The man leaned far too close. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
George’s smile turned visibly fake. “Tragic.”
“You disappeared after one dance.” The guy laughed like that was charming. “Bit rude, don’t you think?”
“I think we had very different interpretations of that interaction.”
The man either ignored the dismissal or was too drunk to process it.
His gaze dragged down George openly.
Max’s jaw tightened before he could stop it.
“You look incredible, by the way,” the man continued. “Seriously. Fucking unbelievable.”
George gave a polite nod clearly intended to end the conversation.
It didn’t.
The guy leaned even closer, hand landing against the back of George’s stool.
“Come dance again.”
“No thank you.”
“Awh, come on.”
“I said no.”
Still smiling, but firmer now.
The man sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun.”
“And yet somehow I survive.”
Max watched George carefully.
The irritation. The forced politeness. The way his shoulders had subtly stiffened.
Then the guy tried touching George’s arm.
And that did it.
Max reached over before he even properly thought about it, catching the man’s wrist easily.
“Mate,” Max said flatly, “he said no.”
The guy blinked at him.
Recognition dawned a second later.
“Oh. Shit. Verstappen.”
“Very observant.”
The guy awkwardly pulled his hand back. “Didn’t realize you two were—”
“We’re not,” George interrupted immediately.
Max ignored that. “You should go.”
The man looked between them once more before raising both hands defensively and stumbling away toward the dance floor again.
Silence settled briefly afterward.
George stared at Max.
Max stared into his drink.
“…Thanks,” George said eventually.
Max shrugged like his pulse hadn’t spiked violently the second that guy touched him.
“He was annoying.”
“He was,” George agreed softly.
Another pause.
Then George smiled slightly.
“You got jealous.”
Max nearly snapped his glass in half.
“I did not.”
George looked deeply unconvinced.
“You looked one second away from killing him.”
“He was bothering you.”
“Mhm.”
“That’s normal.”
George took another sip, still watching him over the rim of his glass.
Max hated how attractive that was too.
Tonight was becoming genuinely unbearable.
“You know what’s funny?” George asked quietly.
“What.”
“You came over here trying to take me home.”
Max froze.
George smiled sweetly.
“And now you can barely look at me.”
Max rubbed a hand down his face. “Can you stop saying it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I committed a crime.”
George laughed softly into his drink.
Max stared at him for another long second before finally asking the question that had been circling his brain since George turned around.
“…Why are you wearing a dress?”
George blinked once.
Then he looked down at himself dramatically. “Wait. This is a dress?”
Max kicked lightly at the leg of his stool. “Be serious.”
George grinned.
The expression looked unfair with the lipstick.
“It’s not that public,” George said eventually, gesturing vaguely around the club. “This place is private. Half the people here are too drunk or rich to remember tomorrow anyway. Plus Lando had everyone sign NDAs. Like he always does.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
George sighed theatrically. “Fine. I lost a bet.”
Max immediately perked up. “To who?”
“Lando.”
“Never a good thing.” he smirks.
George looked genuinely offended. “In my defense, the challenge was rigged.”
“Sure.”
“It was!”
Max snorted quietly.
George leaned back slightly against the bar, clearly resigning himself to humiliation now.
“There was poker involved,” he explained. “And alcohol. Which, apparently, makes Lando insufferably good at bluffing.”
“Or maybe you’re just bad.”
George ignored him. “Anyway, the agreement was that the loser had to let the others style them for the next party.”
Max nearly smiled. “The others?”
George looked deeply betrayed by the memory. “I tried fighting it.”
“You lost again?”
“I was outnumbered.”
Max could already tell this story was going to be good.
George pointed accusingly with his glass. “Lando was useless because he spent the entire time laughing. Alex encouraged him. Charles—”
Charles appeared suddenly in Max’s imagination looking far too entertained.
“Charles helped pin me down,” George said darkly.
Max choked on a laugh.
George narrowed his eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“No, no, continue.”
“I’m serious. They physically held me in place.”
“By who?”
“Alex and Charles.”
Max lost the fight against laughter then, shoulders shaking slightly as he ducked his head.
George looked horrified. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m imagining Charles restraining you.”
“It was traumatic.”
“I’m sure.”
George groaned into his drink.
“And then,” he continued bitterly, “Lily and Alexandra decided my face was apparently a public art project.”
Max grinned openly now. “You let them do your makeup?”
“I didn’t let them do anything.”
“You sat still.”
“I was threatened.”
“With what?”
George deadpanned. “Lando said he’d post the videos.”
Max burst out laughing again.
George looked personally offended by how funny Max found this.
“It took several attempts,” George muttered. “Apparently I blink too much during eyeliner.”
Max could picture it perfectly.
George swearing while someone tried to hold his face still.
Alex crying laughing in the background.
Lando filming the entire thing.
Charles somehow being both helpful and unhelpful simultaneously.
And Lily calmly fixing George’s makeup while George threatened murder. As Alexandra tried to comfort his distressed state with polite words.
Max smiled before he could stop himself.
George caught it instantly.
“Oh, that’s evil,” George said. “You’re picturing it.”
“You looked terrified, didn’t you?”
“I looked dignified.”
“You absolutely did not.”
George rolled his eyes but there was laughter hiding beneath it now.
“And then,” George continued, “they put me in this thing.”
He gestured down toward the dress.
Max’s eyes followed automatically.
Mistake.
Again.
Because now George was leaning slightly sideways against the bar, exposing more of the slit along his thigh and the sharp line of his waist.
Max swallowed once.
George noticed.
Again.
His mouth curled slowly upward.
“You know,” George said softly, “for someone who keeps pretending this is ridiculous…”
Max sighed immediately. “Don’t.”
“…you haven’t looked away once.”
“That’s because this entire situation is psychologically damaging.”
George laughed quietly.
Then, unexpectedly, some of the teasing faded from his expression.
He glanced down at his drink.
“They almost put me in heels taller than these,” he admitted.
Max blinked. “There are taller ones?”
George looked horrified. “Max. The pair Lily picked first looked like weapons.”
Max snorted.
George shook his head. “I nearly snapped my ankle walking to the car.”
“That explains why you were sitting when I saw you.”
George pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Max smirked faintly. “Coward.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
But George was smiling again.
And Max realized something deeply unfortunate then.
George looked comfortable now.
At first he’d looked unimpressed, sharp-edged, almost daring people to laugh at him.
But now, sitting at the bar with flushed cheeks from alcohol and amusement, he looked relaxed.
Confident.
Pretty.
Max’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.
George caught him staring again and tilted his head slightly.
“What?” he asked.
Max opened his mouth.
Nothing intelligent arrived.
Because the truth was horrifyingly simple.
The dress wasn’t the shocking part anymore.
It was the fact Max genuinely thought George looked beautiful in it.
Max should’ve left hours ago.
That became clear somewhere around George’s fourth drink.
Or maybe Max’s fifth.
Time had become slippery after a while, melting beneath warm lighting and alcohol and George’s laugh growing less restrained as the night carried on.
Because that was the real problem.
George laughed more when he was drunk.
Not the polished polite chuckles he gave reporters or the exaggerated ones he used around cameras.
Real laughter.
Messy laughter.
The kind where his head tipped back slightly and his lipstick-smudged mouth opened without restraint.
Max discovered very quickly that he would do almost anything to hear it again.
So he bought George another drink.
And then another.
And somehow they stayed at the bar for nearly two hours trading insults and stories while the rest of the party blurred around them.
At some point Lando Norris returned only to stop dead at the sight of them sitting shoulder to shoulder.
George was mid-story, one heel dangling dangerously from his foot while Max leaned against the bar listening with suspicious attentiveness.
Lando looked between them slowly.
“Oh my god,” he whispered dramatically.
George squinted at him. “What.”
“You’re flirting.”
“We are not,” both Max and George said immediately.
Lando grinned like a man witnessing divine intervention.
“You are,” he insisted. “This is insane. I need photos.”
“Leave,” Max told him.
“You bought him drinks!”
Max frowned. “People buy drinks.”
“You hate buying people drinks.”
“That’s not true.”
“You once made me pay you back for gum.”
George burst into laughter beside him.
Lando pointed aggressively at Max. “See? You’re making him giggle. This is getting serious.”
“Go away,” George groaned, shoving lightly at Lando’s shoulder with the heel of his hand.
Lando staggered back theatrically. “Wow. Violent. Fine. I’ll leave you two alone before wedding bells start ringing.”
“LANDO.”
But he disappeared into the crowd cackling before either of them could retaliate.
George dropped his forehead briefly against the bar with a groan.
Max stared at the exposed curve of his neck for a second too long.
“You know,” George muttered without lifting his head, “he’s never going to shut up about this.”
Max smirked faintly. “He’s going to make it unbearable.”
“He already has a groupchat named ‘Maxfellfirst.’”
Max nearly inhaled his drink.
George looked delighted by his horror.
“He what?”
George laughed again, cheeks flushed pink now from alcohol and amusement. “Alex made it originally as a joke.”
“There’s a groupchat about me?”
“There are several.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“You should hear the Charles theories.”
Max rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t want to.”
George looked at him lazily over the rim of his glass. “One of them thought you’d crack first because you stare.”
“I do not stare.”
George hummed knowingly.
Max hated that George was close enough now for him to notice tiny details.
The smudged edge of lipstick from drinks.
The faint glitter still sitting beneath his eyes.
The way the warm lighting softened his features.
And the fact George kept leaning closer every time he spoke.
Not consciously, Max thought.
Or maybe consciously.
Max wasn’t sober enough to tell anymore.
“You’re doing it again,” George murmured suddenly.
“What.”
“That thing where you zone out looking at me.”
Max blinked once.
George smiled slowly.
“There he is.”
“You’re very smug tonight.”
“I'm british.”
Max scoffed but didn’t deny it this time.
George looked oddly pleased by that.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The music pulsed through the floor beneath their feet while voices and laughter echoed around them.
Then George sighed dramatically, shifting in his seat.
“These heels are trying to assassinate me.”
“You’ve complained about them seven times.”
“Because they’re evil.”
“You’re drunk.”
George looked offended. “I’m elegant!”
“You almost fell getting off the stool.”
“That was the stool’s fault.”
Max laughed quietly into his drink.
George stared at him immediately afterward. Not teasing this time. Just staring.
Max felt it low in his stomach.
“You have a nice laugh,” George said suddenly.
Max blinked hard.
“That’s the alcohol talking.”
“No,” George said honestly. “You just don’t laugh much.”
Something about the softness in George’s voice made Max’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
So he deflected.
“You’re very talkative drunk.”
George pointed at him lazily. “You’re very stare-y drunk.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now.”
Max shook his head, smiling despite himself.
George watched the smile appear like he’d personally won something.
Then his expression softened unexpectedly.
“You’re prettier when you smile too.”
Max nearly choked.
George looked entirely sincere.
Which was somehow worse.
“You can’t just say things like that,” Max muttered.
George frowned lightly. “Why not?”
Because Max already couldn’t think straight around him.
Because George in that dress already felt unfair.
Because hearing compliments from George while tipsy and warm and smiling at him like that felt dangerous.
Max exhaled slowly through his nose.
George tilted his head.
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep staying though.”
That shut Max up.
George’s gaze dropped briefly to Max’s mouth before flickering back upward.
Neither of them moved for a second.
Then George leaned back again with a quiet sigh, breaking whatever that moment had almost become.
“I should probably head home soon,” he admitted. “Before these shoes actually kill me.”
Max looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Flushed cheeks.
Smudged lipstick.
Bare thigh visible beneath burgundy fabric.
Soft eyes from alcohol.
And suddenly the thought arrived fully formed and devastatingly simple.
Max wanted to take him home.
Not even just for sex.
Though that was definitely part of it now.
But more than that—Max wanted George beside him for the rest of the night. Wanted to keep hearing him laugh. Wanted to see what George looked like outside flashing lights and crowded rooms.
Lando’s voice echoed mockingly in his head.
You need to get laid.
Maybe Lando was an idiot. But maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong.
Max set his drink down.
“Come home with me.”
George blinked once.
No joke.
No teasing.
Just quiet surprise.
Max held his gaze steadily despite the alcohol buzzing through his system.
George studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curled upward.
“Alright,” he said softly.
No hesitation.
No protest.
Just that.
And somehow that affected Max more than if George had flirted.
George slid off the stool carefully, immediately wobbling slightly in the heels.
Max instinctively reached out, steadying a hand against his waist.
The contact hit both of them at once.
George went still beneath his hand.
Max’s breath caught.
The satin fabric was smooth and warm under his palm.
George looked up at him slowly.
Close.
Too close.
“You’re very handsy tonight,” George murmured.
“You’re drunk in six-inch heels.”
“Four-inch.”
“Still dangerous.”
George smiled lazily. “You gonna take care of me, Verstappen?”
Max’s grip tightened slightly before he forced himself to let go.
“Someone has to,” he muttered.
George’s expression did something strange at that.
Something softer.
Then he grabbed his clutch from the counter and gestured dramatically toward the exit.
“Well then,” he said. “Lead the way.”