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When George rolls up to the P2 sign with Lando barely three tenths behind him, Max still hasn’t climbed out of the car parked in front of the P1 sign that he must have reached some considerable seconds earlier than them. For a moment he considers letting Max have this moment or whatever and wait until he’s standing on the hood of his car, fireworks going off behind him, while he can present the world with his outstretched fingers, open palm, before flinging himself into the arms of his team. Five. Five championships to his name. But it doesn’t happen and eventually George decides to get it over with.
It’s all very strange for the end of a race. P1 and P3 still in their cars, one about to be demoted to P4 because of a five second penalty. Only once George has clambered out of his car, Lando throws his steering wheel out of the cockpit and defeated, dejected, with a for now broken dream, follows. There will be no celebrations at McLaren tonight. George manages to catch Lando who’s beginning to stalk off already. He hasn’t thought about what variation of awe man, though luck, don’t let this crush your ambitions, dreams and confidence too much, you were up against man made horror, hopefully their car is shit all the way down the line next year he’s going to throw at Lando.
Ultimately he says, “I’m sorry.”
Because Lando might just headbutt him if he were to come up with some bullshit like don’t beat yourself up because at the end of the day there was almost no one else to blame. Almost.
Behind them the world explodes with another wave of screams; the soundwave they produce is almost enough to knock them off their feet. Ah, George thinks, he has finally made it out of the car.
“I’m not even gonna say anything,” Lando says, voice entirely crushed, and then he slips out of George’s grip and George lets him go, fully aware that he needs to lick his wounds for another week or two before the self-appointed class of nineteen can meet up for the obsequy for the 2025 World Driver’s Championship and some good old shit-talking Max. (It’s quite funny, maybe ironic even, that Alex out of the three of them is the least likely to shit talk him. George knows that Alex likes Max, as much as you can like your co-workers and rivals, even though it’s him that was left mangled by the unforgiving machine.)
When George turns, he finds Max watching. In the early dark of the evening, the black of his racing suit washes over into that demonic RB21 and for a mere moment the car and he are completely and irrevocably one. His visor is still down and therefore George is presented with an unreadable wall. Behind him fireworks keep exploding in his name and they light up the sky for him and the world around them keeps screaming and moving for him.
Looking back, he’s unable to determine who moved against the other first, but when they find each other close enough, George puts a hand to Max’s shoulder. His visor is already up, Max’s still closed. He leans down. Max bows his head a little, tilts it so that George has better access. Because of their helmets it will make them look much closer than they actually are—something about the helmets always strangely intimate.
“Congrats,” he says very simply. “Don’t think anyone saw that coming.”
Max’s left hand claws itself into George’s racing suit right at his waist—hard enough that George feels Max’s fingertips on his skin. White keeps flashing all around them.
“Thank you,” Max rasps, and his voice sounds very croaky, as if he’s been crying a little ever since he crossed the finish line. Perhaps even before that, when it became clear that George wasn’t gonna catch up and that Lando wasn’t gonna get past George to hunt Max down—when it became clear that it was only in Max’s hands now; to deliver the final minutes of this season. Max being Max, of course he delivered. George wonders if they soon will be referring to 2025 as his best season to date; the season he crawled back from a 104 points deficit in a car that finished third in the WCC. Which brings George to—he has something to celebrate too. Second place in the WCC, hard fought for, not even Max’s WDC could snatch it from them in the end. It’s somewhat of a sour feeling to end the WCC in second place, but the WDC in fourth, but ultimately it gives George hope, a tingling feeling that they finally figured it out and that next year will be their year. The year that Mercedes returns to both championship fights. He has never been more ready for something in his life.
Part of George wished for Max to lose the championship by less than ten points in some form of cosmic retaliation. Teach him a lesson on not driving into other people on purpose. Though, somewhat it's water under the bridge in the grand scheme of things because it had fucked Max's race, not George's and Max ended up apologising a bunch of months later—showing up at George's doorstep, drenched by the rain, giving his best stray dog performance when he slowly crawled into George's apartment, as though afraid George was going to hit him over the head with one of his trophies that pale in comparison to the amount Max keeps stacked. Instead, Max apologized down on his knees, and George—well George made him put in some work.
“My team is waiting for me,” George feels compelled to say, even though he almost feels that he has missed the small window of when the celebratory jump into his teams’ arms is appropriate because he should’ve gone to them first probably. And not to fucking Max Verstappen.
“Yes,” Max says, “yeah, me too.”
When he opens his visor, George finds himself face to face with eyes that are a little red already (but not the weed kind of red that George has witnessed too, mind you) and a little bit puffy too. In a synchronized move, that from the outside must appear almost practised, they let go of each other, and Max is the first to move, flinging himself into the arms of his team ready to tear down the barriers. George finds the arms of his team a few moments later. Hands are clapping down on his back and helmet and for the next hour he forgets about Max Verstappen entirely.
He finds Kimi after the race, having come in an impressive P4, about to be another P3, Oscar close on his tail tail, who ultimately may have gotten away better than Lando. Gave his championship lead away to Lando who lost it to Max. Both of them must feel like shit. As far as their own house is concerned, for once, Toto is happy with both of them simultaneously—with Kimi’s and his’ combined effort they sealed that second place in the WCC.
Eventually, George is whisked away by the celebrations of his team, and at some point later he finds Alex, this year’s best midfield performer hurray, who is ready enough to drown out the season and start the winter break with champagne or something stronger (and maybe complain about Carlos Sainz a little bit).
During a few quiet minutes when he opens Instagram for the first time since before the race day started, he’s bombarded with the YOUR 2025 CHAMPION, MAX VERSTAPPEN posts by several formula 1 accounts and media outlets, as well as countless videos capturing the moment when Gianpiero Lambiase scoops Max up in his arms yet another year and he catches himself smiling, quickly prompting him to close the godforsaken app and pocket his phone again.
Alex drags him off again. We should go find Lando, he’s saying, make sure he hasn’t done something tragically stupid by now. And thus, George lets himself be dragged away from the party and fanfares to attempt finding the saddest person in Abu Dhabi.
They don’t end up finding Lando. Though Oscar is kind enough to inform them, after Alex thought it sensible to ask the person who was Lando’s championship rival for most of the year about Lando’s whereabouts, that they don’t need to worry too much. Soon after, Alex is whisked away by Williams celebrations, who truly enjoyed a stellar year that no one really saw coming, if George’s being honest. He’s happy about it—he needs Williams to do well, or else he gets this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that screams “drive your Mercedes AMG-One off a cliff for repentance.”
All of this is how another one or two hours later, George sneaks into the Red Bull garage without much of a fuss. It’s almost entirely deserted, everyone out partying as if they just bagged the WCC. Knowing Red Bull, for them bagging the WDC is infinitely more important because it means their golden boy will remain with them for another year and another year and another—
Which is why no one’s around to ask uncomfortable questions about why a Mercedes driver, him first and foremost (they probably wouldn’t ask if this was Kimi), is wandering around in enemy territory. The headlines would be out within minutes. ‘George Russell found snooping around in the Red Bull garage ahead of the 2026 season! The snake’s at it again?’ Or any concatenation of synonyms for pathetic and desperate, you name it.
When he steps into the side of the garage that will maintain the number one for yet another year, the uncomfortable knowledge of having grown accustomed to Max Verstappen’s moods spreads in his chest when he actually spots him sitting on top of the sidepot facing George. Stupidly engrossed with his phone though, he hasn’t noticed George yet. He’s changed into blue jeans, that are rather wide leg for him all things considered, and a heavy-looking Red Bull zipper that makes him look somehow cozy, after getting positively drenched in champagne by his team. The zipper is actually deranged because it’s still way too warm in Abu Dhabi—but George can’t tell him that or Max will start his favorite degradation ritual when it comes to George by bringing up the cooling vest. Somehow, he finds it hilarious. Jesus Christ, sometimes George is repulsed by his own decisions because Max Verstappen is really an awful piece of work. And most of the time he isn’t even that funny.
“Last year you were in a much more celebratory mood,” George settles on saying as he creeps closer, watching as Max’s head snaps up. He remembers that night in Vegas where Max became gradually pinker with every half hour that passed, his grin a little wider and his eyes conveying every time George crossed paths with Max a little more that not much was going on up there anymore. All the way until the morning they crossed paths in the hotel both of them shared.
Mercedes and Red Bull have a rather annoying habit of checking in into the same hotels. Kimi loves it. Sometimes he will text George things like ‘just saw Max in the foyer!’ accompanied by a strange combination of emojis to which George never knows what to respond. Is Kimi warning him of Max's presence or…?
Max’s cheeks are very pink, once again, and George notices the slight tremble in his hands.
“Mate, I think I might get a heart attack soon,” Max says, putting his phone down.
“Must be the adrenaline.” George inches closer. There’s an opened Red Bull next to Max on the sidepod. “They should probably stop giving you these though.”
He angles for the red bull can, even though Max protests, in order to dangle it in front of his face. Quietly, he slips between Max’s legs, who widens his thighs, that George likes to sink his teeth into from time to time, almost imperceptibly and without acknowledgement for him. He tosses the Red Bull away, and hopes it's mostly empty. Sickening to think about how it’s a practiced move between them. Now Max has to look up to him and to this day it fills George with some sick satisfaction, knowing that Max Verstappen has to get up on his tip toes to kiss him.
“I reckon you made a lot of people lose a lot of money tonight,” George says, pursing his lips in thought of majority of sport betting addicts who must be really mad right now, and then some select crazy few who bet on Max (maybe even before his uphill battle after Zandvoort started). “And some are probably rubbing their hands like greedy little flies.”
Max stares at him in bewilderment before it settles into something akin to amusement. He tugs an imaginary strand of hair behind his ear and George is pulled up straighter by an invisible string, when something deeply, darkly, and most of all inappropriately possessive starts curling in the pit of his stomach at the gesture. Sometimes, in his more insane moments, George feels as if someone locked him into a haunted house with the ghost of Daniel Ricciardo, threw away the keys and told them to fight. For the affections of Max Verstappen, or whatever. So when Max does that, something so deeply associated with the presence of Daniel Ricciardo, George feels like he’s kicking a man that’s already down when he thinks ‘ha! I can do that to him too!’ He’s sick and it’s terminal, and therefore George has already vowed to not see Max over the winter break. This, in the early night hours of Abu Dhabi would be their last hurra or whatever, before George was going to go cold turkey on him.
“Who’d you bet on?” Max asks, thankfully unaware of the thoughts that keep dancing around in George’s brain. He would not let him live it down. One time, Max had the nerve to tell George that he didn’t know how to, quote ‘handle all that’ unquote, which to George merely served as a reminder that Max Verstappen was painfully Gen Z.
In the beginning of the season, when everything was untainted still, it felt wrong to bet on Lando—class of nineteen and all that—because the pressure was already enough without George and Alex betting on him. Regrettably, they did end up betting.
“Lando,” George says, “but don’t tell Lando that. He'd probably feel even more of a failure.”
He's not sure why he says that because it is quite evident to almost anyone in close proximity to Lando that this particular ship of friendship has not exactly sailed but rather has been sent to the bottom of the ocean by a Dutch Man O’ War.
However, Max only grins at him, causing his eyes to almost close completely, and forming small lines around them. Regrettably, it's cute. He's cute. George accepted the humiliation of finding Max cute a long time ago. With his nose that he had to grow into at first, but now wears reasonably well. It’s like someone went in there with a ruler. And the mole on his upper lip. It's made entirely worse by the fact that Max really isn't his usual type—for starters, George enjoys his dates and flings to be well dressed people and Max Verstappen is anything but. But he's cute and George can't run from that truth any longer. God knows he tried. He really did.
“You can bet on me next year then. It is, after all, a much safer bet than putting all of your money on Lando. But you know that now,” he simply says.
“No chance in hell,” George laughs. “Next year, I’m betting on myself. But don’t worry, I will wave to you through the back mirrors, sweetheart.”
The hues of Max’s cheeks instantly turn from a tender pink to a deep red. It's a horrible realization to have that you want to pinch your rival's, arch nemesis’ even, cheeks because they’re colored a perfect peach pink. George really has the sickness.
George purses his lips and ponders for a moment.
“That is, if you can get close enough. You and your shit car will probably be stuck in P14.”
“Yeah, sure,” Max finally musters as a comeback. His voice cracks a little on the last part. It’s an extraordinarily weak comeback, to be honest. For once, he’s not even meeting George’s eyes, instead keeping his gaze focused on where his nimble fingers play around with the hem of George’s t-shirt—his fingers grazing George’s skin occasionally, but George has long learned how to not react.
“Why not P22?” Max then asks.
“That's going to Cadillac obviously,” George dismisses. “And you're not that shit. Maybe Hadjar will be P20.”
“You're really callous, sometimes. But of course you know that already.”
“You tell me all the time, honey.”
Max gets that look on his face when he realizes that George is mocking him for the color on his cheeks. Once the realization hits, he tends to scrunch his nose, a frown burying itself deep into the space between his eyes. He hollows out his cheeks and pushes his tongue against one side. George loves it, especially when he recently spent too much time with his friends that have already gotten botox. He delights whenever the expressions in Max's face change and George gets to effortlessly read what is going on inside of him—knowing that he was responsible for provoking this reaction.
Feeling the alcohol induced bravery seep through him, George takes Max’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts Max’s head up, who audibly gulps, eyes falling shut as he leans into the touch. Not only is he cute, but Max makes it soo infuriatingly easy for George.
Somehow, Max never felt that he had to particularly hide from George that he wanted him—something which George was dead set on doing with Max. Of course it was fitting, because Max never felt the need to hide any emotions breaking out of him, whether appropriate or not. Even worse, off-track Max has always been surprisingly docile—he goes pliant with a few carefully crafted hand movements and George’s brain responds to this knowledge like a drowning man gasping for air. But it also makes his on-track behavior so much worse—it makes George want to step in front of the press after a race sometimes and announce to the world that Max Verstappen is a whiny little thing that only listens to shutting the fuck up when you take him to bed first.
And yet, when George touches Max's face and he goes with it, like a magnet implanted right into his brain is drawn to George’s hands, George feels some sort of primal instinct take over him.
“Aren’t you good?” George mutters. Because Max is like one of these Malinois dogs—too good at what they’re trained to do and a creature from hell that will bite your arm off if not raised with boundaries. There probably is a Malinois out there named Max, because Max is a dog's name, or maybe he’s young and even named after Max Verstappen himself, that is exactly like Max too. All teeth, tilting its head to decide when to pounce on you and sharp eyes that will notice every falling out of line—like Max alerting GP that Lando was over his grid box in Bahrain immediately. He’s been getting a lot of dog content on Instagram the past few weeks.
“If I would ever get a dog, I would get a Malinois, I think,” he adds.
At that Max opens one eye. “What?” he deadpans. His hair sticks out at both sides of his head. He looks like a little demon paired with the sparse yellow freckles in his eyes.
“I reckon, I could probably train him to bite holes into your tyres,” George muses.
“You're like insane, you know that?”
Max draws his right leg up to the sidepot and wraps his arms around it, pillowing his face on top of his knee. When he looks up at George, his cheek squishes up—his eyes stay entirely trained on George.
And then, because George likes to sow a little chaos from time to time, maybe confirm Max's accusations just this once, he says, “Yesterday, I came so fucking hard thinking about you.”
And Max promptly chokes on his own spit. His body hinges forward as he coughs, head knocking against George's abdomen where it stays for a moment. When Max looks up, his pupils are blown wide.
Slowly, George reaches up until he can rest his thumb against Max's bottom lip. It's plump, like a fucking peach. There's no resistance from Max when George pushes his index- and middlefinger between Max's lips and into his mouth, who patiently sucks down around his fingers. His cheeks are hollowed out, and his gaze is still firmly trained on George.
“I must say, I imagined that you'd lose today,” George hums, pressing his fingers down on Max's tongue. At that Max nips at his fingers a bit. A little reprimand. “I thought about you coming to me then. We could have looked back together on—crikey!”
Now, Max's teeth are sharp around George's fingers, just like his words, as if he filed them down himself. It wouldn't even surprise George in all honesty. Perfect for catching prey by the neck.
“Alright, alright,” George continues softly, “I got the message.”
The height difference, because Max is still sitting down, makes things a little difficult—for what George is actually planning. There's a wet plop! when he pulls his fingers out of Max's mouth, in order to sneak one arm around his waist and haul him to his feet. Their hipbones knock against each other, and Max digs his hands into George's shoulders to regain balance.
“George,” Max whines against him. “Please…I—”
“Do you not want it?” George asks, only to make Max admit what he so very evidently wants from him. He's not even quite sure himself what it is. Only that Max is already half-hard against him. And George is not above that either.
They can’t do it against this race car. Stupid race cars—they're way too low. Oh, they could do it against his Mercedes, but not against Max's stupid boy car. Like always, Max is the problem in this equation. It's not an issue though because George is quick on his feet, so he spins Max around, who goes without protest, pushing forward until the back of Max's back meets the empty spot of wall next to one of the metal sideboards standing around in the garage. He has seen videos of Max, posted by the Red Bull admin, sitting on them, sipping on various Red Bulls throughout the year talking to his mechanics.
Their faces are separated by a few centimeters when they come to a halt. A glance to his left tells George that the door is not entirely closed. Someone could walk in on them. Unlikely, though not impossible if someone of the mechanics, or worse the demon on Max's shoulder, were to notice their golden boy's absence.
“Come now,” George probes further. “Tell me, what do you want? I promise, you'll get it just this once. Your championship reward.”
Max stares at him like he cannot quite believe it's real. Which is naturally stupid because they have been in this situation many times before. Then he surges forward and crashes his lips against George's, his hands finding their way to George’s cheeks. Air is pressed from his lungs and George can't stop the quiet moan that escapes his mouth, as he wraps his arms around Max's waist. It's so small. It makes him a little crazy. Like a man possessed, he slots his leg between Max's thighs and presses.
Hands dig harder into him as a response, followed by a strangled noise that travels right into his stomach. Max lets his head drop to George's shoulder, breathing hard into the crook of his neck. George slides his hands down to Max's hips until he's got enough leverage to drag Max across his thigh.
“You can be so well-behaved, do you know that?” George whispers, as Max continues grinding against George's thigh. He whimpers a little. If he continues doing that George might just come untouched. He’s going to hell. If Alex or Lando knew about this they would stage an intervention. Maybe he should tell them. Maybe Lando would stop speaking to him. Hopefully only after the intervention.
“Fuck youunnh—” Max's words are swallowed by him biting down on George's shoulder. See, he's like that Malinois that George might get at some point in the future. Maybe he will call him Max. See what kind of field day the media would have with that. He could sit in the press conference and go ‘Yeah, Max has been a really good boy recently, we’ve been training a lot.’ pause for a second, even better if human, five time world champion Max were to be in the room with them, and then go ‘my dog of course’ and the journalists would laugh, some uncomfortably of course—those with enough social awareness to feel the crushing mood in the room—and maybe human Max would glare at him from across the sofa, another poor soul caught sitting between them, but maybe his cheeks would turn pink like they do when he’s drunk and on race day he would do anything but behave, maybe crash into George a little. Threaten it at least.
What snaps him back into reality is that grinding of Max’s turning abruptly uncontrolled, all rhythm seems to have escaped him entirely, the crook of George’s neck feels damp and when George looks down there’s a little wet spot on his jeans, where the blue is darker than the rest. He has to put a little more work to hold Max into place. Control the rocking of his hips.
Still, one hand is enough if he keeps the grip on his hip tight enough. With the other he takes a fistful of Max’s blond mop of hair and pulls until their eyes meet again. Shiny blue burns into him.
“You can come,” George tells him, “You deserve it.”
Max kisses him again. This around it's more teeth than anything. Another whimper claws its way out of Max's throat—George swallows it whole. Bruises will be left behind by the fingernails that dig into George's arms. A reminder. A thank you. A souvenir that he can carry into the winter break. The muscle in his thigh screams at the resistance George is making it undergo, holding it steady against Max's hips.
Max gasps. His entire body tenses—caged between George and the wall. In George's arms and the knuckles of his fingers, wrapped around George's biceps turn white. Then, just as quickly, he goes entirely slack. His body sinks against George's. Serves as a painful reminder that he's still fucking hard in his pants. Because he did not just ride someone’s thigh into oblivion. Oh goody. It's hot. It's going to grant George the biggest ego trip of his sexual activities career.
The fact that it's Max Verstappen, who now hooks his chin across George's shoulder, otherwise limp in his arms—now that's just the cherry on top of it. And what a fucking cherry. Oh, how he would love to tell Alex and Lando about this. Realistically, the only person he could potentially tell about this exhilarating high is his sport therapist. But he'd take George for a sex pervert then. Probably. Even though that would be egregious. Maybe he’d take it better if George could follow up with having conducted a case study on positive effects on race performance if they’d do this before one.
George sneaks a hand under Max's shirt and drags his fingers across his spine. “I cannot believe you came just from rutting against my thigh.”
“Shut up,” Max groans, like someone who knows very much that George is never going to let him live this down.
“Awe, come now,” George tuts, “you can’t help it, you’re just such a good boy.”
He pinches Max’s ass and laughs when he jumps with nowhere to escape other than further into George’s body.
“You’re a freak, George Russell,” Max hisses without any real bite in his tone. Some people might call it bite, but not George. No, George has heard Max speak to him with enough venom in his voice to kill a small child. This is nothing in comparison. “You get off to that? When someone can just walk in?”
A small pause. Then, “We're never doing this again actually,” Max announces firmly.
Having seemingly regained his strength, Max pushes himself up—but still lets himself be crowded against the sideboard next to them until he’s half leaning, half sitting at the edge, while George lets his left shoulder sack against the wall.
George smiles. “You tell me. Want me to bend you over and fuck you on your beloved car until someone walks in? You seemed to enjoy it, considering that you just came in your pants like a shy virgin, not me.”
“He’s not my beloved car, it’s—”
“Rocky,” George interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know about your boy car fetish that warrants intense psycho-analysis and I know that this one is not it.”
Very typical of Max to focus on that, and not the offer to get fucked on his car. So maybe George can take him up again on this matter. He’s pretty sure he could get off to that. Unfortunately, if Max is involved it’s a safe bet. It’s a good thing they’re not going to see each other over the winter break.
Now that George’s head is clear again, no longer fogged up by the arousal of Max Verstappen fucking himself on George’s thigh and all that, he can potentially see how this could be considered the tiniest bit of inappropriate. If someone heard them, tomorrow, before the first day of the winter break can even begin, anonymous gossip pages will be whispering about an F1 driver who likes to do inappropriate things in his garage. Thus, the witch hunt will begin, and because Toto has a case of terminal control issues, he will be not questioning Kimi and him exactly but he will be telling them to keep it ‘clean’. The Mercedes family aesthetic doesn’t pair well with what Toto would call degenerate behavior, and entirely unbecoming of an F1 driver. And George will have to sit through another three rounds of media training just because of Max Verstappen and his dainty whimpers.
“Want me to spill the rest of your Red Bull on you?” George adds, pointing to the stain on Max’s jeans that’s still drying.
“No,” Max snaps. He eyes George for a moment who crosses his arms in front of his chest, waiting for Max to speak up. “Are you taking me out?” With a pointed look to George’s crotch he adds, “Repay you the favor.”
“Don’t you have a party to attend?” George returns the question, knowing that Max hates the game of returning a question with another question—something which George loves to do.
“You could come with me.”
Max sounds so earnest when he says it, it makes George a little sick to his stomach. And that’s really the problem with Max. He says what he means and he means what he says and he puts it all out there in the open, and part of George fears getting sucked into that. There’s no carefully crafted narrative that he can control when he’s in proximity to Max because Max doesn’t stick to a script. Instead, he takes a look at the papers that George hands him and tosses them up in the air, and always leaves George looking like an idiot control freak.
“What do you think people would say?” George says. “Your team would probably kick me out, Max.”
“Come on,” Max responds, a little pout to his voice, “you’re not Lando. Or like Zak Brown.”
“Yeah,” George deadpans. “To them I'm probably worse.”
There’s no sense in pretending otherwise. In pretending that Max’s entourage doesn’t hate George’s guts. He’s not particularly bothered by what a bunch of mechanics think about him that have probably given their life to Max in a demonic ritual of securing him the next ten championships.
“But you have fun at your party.”
Secretly, George delights a little when Max scrunches his face together—looking almost dejected.
“You can start thinking about what you’ll get me next year after I have driven all of you into the ground.”
“We’ll see about that,” Max muses.
With a small hum George leans forward, steadying himself by putting his hands on Max's thick thighs until their lips are almost touching again.
“Don't call me over the winter break,” he says. A butterfly kiss against Max's plump lips—when he pulls back Max's eyes have fallen shut. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Max needs the cold turkey more than he does.
His attempt to pull away is fruitless when Max grabs George's waist, holding him firmly in place. And George is a really weak man at the end of the day, who will truly go to hell, who doesn't protest when Max slips his tongue inside George's mouth as he kisses him. It's a fair treat. A treat for this fifth championship and it's George. He's the treat. George crowds between Max's thighs once again. He nips at Max's lower lip, eliciting a groan from Max's throat. Okay, so maybe he can call George over the winter break. If still possible at this point, Max tightens his arms around George's body. He noticed it a while ago. George usually tends to kiss first, because Max tends to get like a deer caught in the headlights from time to time, but once they're in it, once they have made contact, gone in the gravel, Max kisses harder. Tongue, teeth, lips—it becomes a swirl, fogs up George's brain until he can't think straight.
Until he can only think about how he may be taller than Max, a fact he loves to revel in from time to time, but Max is broader and George loves it just as equally when Max wraps his broad arms all around George's body. Jesus, he's never getting soft if they continue like this.
So he stops mid-kiss. Max's mouth is open and wanting against him. “I think that's enough of that, Max. Or they'll send a SWAT team for you.”
Through half-lidded eyes Max gives him half a nod. Like he's not properly fine with it. Ultimately though, he allows George to untangle himself from Max.
“Enjoy your winter break,” George says. Before Max can sweet talk him into something George wants to do but shouldn't, he turns around on his heels and walks out of the garage.
He doesn't get far. Just around the corner before he collides with someone. He stumbles back. Oh blimey. He hopes Max keeps his NDAs on stand-by. It wouldn’t particularly surprise him if he didn’t. When his vision clears, he finds himself face to face with the demon that sits on Max's shoulder every weekend, and whispers needling comments into his ear. He’s the one who drops the leash every weekend and lets Max out to play with his food.
Gianpiero Lambiase narrows his eyes at George, like he's thinking really fucking hard about just immediately calling security on his ass. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Russell,” he drawls. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm not snooping.” George rolls his eyes. “If that's what you think. I believe your car is going to suck really hard next year.”
“And why would I believe you?”
George sighs. Alright. Enough of that. He points his thumb over his shoulder.
“Your champion is back there too.”
GP is naturally not stupid. George can positively see the cogs turning in his bald head, deciphering what George is telling him. The way his face twists into something that's equally disbelieving and disturbed, and the way he puts his hand over his mouth like he’s gonna throw up, tells George all he needs. He gets it.
“Can't fucking believe this,” he mutters under his breath as he pushes past George without another comment.
Maybe he should be more bothered by this but it’s GP. GP, who would rather lose his tongue than yap to this about someone if it meant putting Max’s reputation in harm's way. A few seconds pass.
Then he hears a loud “Max!” followed by something which sounds like a slap to the back of the head. George imagines Max jumping out of his skin at the first mention of his name because he's jumpy when it comes to loud noises, scares easily. It's a little sweet.
George walks off, he can’t decipher the answer that follows. It's good. Because it's entirely up to George what kind of words Max will find for him.
When he's out of the paddock, and onto the streets of Abu Dhabi, still unsure how to spend the rest of the night, his phone dings, announcing a new text message.
Max: I'm free on the twenty-seventh.
George grins.