Work Text:
Prologue
Junior Karting Days
Dear George,
My ma is forcing me to write this
I am very sorry for calling you stupid.
Please Please Please accept it
Commentators: David Croft / "Crofty"
Nico Rosberg (pundit)
Transcription — Las Vegas Grand Prix 2026
Crofty > George Russell and Max Verstappen at it again! Like I said a few years ago; where George is, Max is, and where Max is, George is.
Going into turn 9 now, both in the fight for P1 — Piastri following closely behind, still holding a large gap on Kimi Antonelli at P4.
WHAT IS HAPPENING IN LAS VEGAS? Max and George bang wheels, Russell goes wide, BUT HE REJOINS BACK AT LIGHTNING SPEED, and now it’s Max who veers off the road! Piastri says “thank you very much” and stakes his claim on that P2, Kimi Antonelli gunning for that podium.
Rosberg > Kimi’s been rather efficient this year, isn’t it? Second year in F1 and he’s 3rd in the drivers’ standings thus far! Kid’s improved a lot.
Crofty > Definitely! Hope to see more of Kimi on the podiums. What do you think Max should’ve done to prevent that mistake at turn 10, though?
Rosberg > Honestly, I don’t think anybody saw it coming. If you look closely, he locked up on the front when trying to overtake Russell. My advice is that he should’ve waited it out and went back for it on the straight since he has more pace than Russell here.
Crofty > Wouldn’t that make such a great race! Well, folks, it is time now, that George Russell secures his fourth win of the season as he meets that chequered flag, Oscar Piastri and Kimi Antonelli following behind to taste that podium champagne! Max Verstappen back at P4 after regaining momentum, but not enough to win. Shame, on that last lap.
Rosberg > Well, what’s done is done, after all.
Crofty > Lewis sure had that pace at Lap 47, didn’t he?
Rosberg > I believe so. Lewis is a brilliant driver, he can set fastest laps in any car, I believe. He has regained some of his old habits, mistakes made that cost him some championships, but he’s still amazing nevertheless. I miss seeing him (pause) alongside me racing.
Crofty > It is nice, seeing your childhood best friend still carrying out the dream you both pursued together, eh?
Rosberg > (nervous laugh) Yeah.
Crofty > That is a wrap for this Sunday! See you all next week at the Qatar Grand Prix.
Las Vegas Grand Prix Post-race Interview — Transcription — Verstappen
Reporter: So, Max, how’d you feel after losing out on P1?
Max: Ah, it was a good race and all, just lost my, uh, momentum, there. (soft laugh, though it sounds tight)
Reporter: Russell has said that you seem to have been driving erratically today.
Max: He said that?
Reporter: Yes.
Max : <…>
Reporter: Do you think that Russell was driving erratically today?
Max: Well, we all drive however we want. Some blokes drive well, some drive like they forgot how— it’s a… it’s a mixture.
Reporter: Are you insinuating that Russell has seemingly ‘forgotten’ how to drive?
Max: <…>
Max: Take it as you will.
Las Vegas Grand Prix Post-Race Interview — Transcription — Russell
Reporter: Congrats on the win today, George! Question, how do you feel after beating Max?
George: Ah, well, it’s not a matter of that. We all win and we all lose sometimes. Max is a brilliant driver, and what happened was unfortunate. I’ve been there a couple of times myself. I know Max will bounce back next race, though it might be more of a threat to me.
Reporter: How well do you think Max drove today?
George: He drove a good race. Made some mistakes, sometimes braked too soon, but it’s all good.
Reporter: And when you say ‘braked too soon’, are you implying that he brake tested you?
George: What? No, no-
Reporter: So are you implying that he drove erratically?
George: I would never sabotage a fellow driver like that for no reason. Max drove well today.
Reporter (whispering to journalist): That’s not a no.
New Headline: George Russell implies that Max Verstappen was driving erratically in Las Vegas.
Summary: How ‘aggressive’ is Max Verstappen’s driving style? Is he a bully on track? With fresh testament from George Russell himself, we now have gathered sufficient evidence to say that Max may not be the ‘rookies’ dad saint’ everyone reframes him to be nowadays.
New Headline: Max Verstappen claims George Russell has ‘forgotten how to drive’ — “take it as you will”.
Summary: The old rivals back at it again! Has George Russell really been driving horribly? Has sheer luck got him his wins? Let’s delve deeper into his history and what it means for his career.
Platform: ‘X’, formerly known as twitter - social media
OFFICIAL STATEMENT
Formula 1 @F1
We do not appreciate the slander of our drivers. Pitting them against each other, especially under false pretense is absolutely unacceptable and the matter will be taken under investigation.
1K comments • 10K reposts • 3M likes
|| Reply to @F1
PastriesPS3 @Piastrimegafan81
Max saying that about George was kinda messed up icl, should know better than trusting weird journalists.
5 Replies • 10 reposts • 50 likes
|| Reply to @Piastrimegafan81
Lolalalaleila@lola63
George is literally getting his words twisted by the media! The nerve. :(
0 Replies • 1 repost • 10 likes
Present
The heat bore down onto his skin. Too much. All too much— shattering every frayed nerve like a last lifeline. A sheen of sweat matted his skin, forming a glossy overcoat. He needed to go home; he needed a shower; he needed someplace quiet.
Instead all he’d gotten was glee guised as sympathy, smiles on the lizards that were reporters. Not the regular kind who actually asked questions related to racing, the kind that wanted to squeeze every last drop of drama, as if formula one was a soap opera and not a racing genre.
The worst part is was that he’d succumbed to it.
He’d regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, leaving a path. A dirty, dusty path that breathed fumes and acid.
Take it as you will.
Russell had always been a rival of his, sometimes an enemy— but a worthy one, if he really had to scale it. George was someone he liked seeing winning; George was someone he liked racing against; George was someone he liked surpassing on track. But never in his life would he have thought George would bring this out again, accusing him of driving erratically.
Maybe it shouldn’t have stung that bad when the reporter parroted it over to Max, but it did anyways. Like rubbing stone against a fresh, bleeding wound, it grated his head until he swore he felt hot needles against his spine.
Him? Driving erratically?
Aggressively, yes, but not enough to slam someone into the wall. He wasn’t a rookie anymore.
Apparently even Russell hadn’t thought so as well.
Max rewatched the recording on his phone, it being clipped and uploaded to twitter. His cheeks growing pale, his fists clenched until his knuckles bled white. The fucking reporter had snatched George’s dignity with his words— and Max had fallen prey to it, trapped in the claws of the talon.
He tried to call George, explain himself. But George wasn’t picking up. It made sense, really. Max never contacted George unless it was for business purposes, like making suggestions for the GPDA. Never even bothered to call.
Oh, but his hand had flickered over that familiar telephone icon about a million times.
He’d just never had the guts to dial.
But he had to fix this somehow.
So he did the usual; he picked up the crappy pen from the hotel desk, a piece of paper tiny enough to fit through an envelope, and snatched one of the empty, unused envelopes from the Redbull motorhome that was supposed to be used to mail driver cards.
A Week Ago
He breathed in the fresh yet familiar scent of champagne on the podium. Felt it against his skin. It prickled, in the good way, responding in sync to the sound of George’s laughter.
George was the winner of the Brazil Grand Prix. He’d put out a great drive, P3 to P1. But that wasn’t the most important thing. It was the fact that Max had placed second— amongst all odds. Despite getting pole position. Despite having great pace. But George had bested him.
The worst part? He wasn’t even mad, not even frustrated. He was happy.
Seeing George’s smile seemed to be enough to get him through his loss.
He remembered his father’s words, that coming in second meant being the first to lose.
But seeing George like this— shining so radiantly, soaked in sunlight and champagne— Max wondered if this could ever mean losing.
No, it didn’t.
Seeing George stand tall on the podium, just above him, elated, was more than he could ever ask for.
So Max let that soft smile creep unto his face, not even bothering to suppress it.
Felt the cold droplets of alcohol on his skin, traced the ones on George’s neck with his eyes (positively ignoring Oscar beside George, though he was happy for him too).
So Max let himself lean into George during phototaking.
Let himself be held by George, gripped by the waist. Objectively loose, but tight enough it felt like he was seen. That warmth creeping through his skin? It wasn’t from the scampering around the podium stage, nor the two hours in the car, it was from George’s touch.
That was when Max had the most devastating thought, right there on the podium, infront of thousands to witness.
A thought he’d never be able to say aloud.
A thought so heavy that he’d wondered if they all could hear it too, if they could see through him— not in the way Russell did— in the way Gianpero did when he feigned contentment.
In the way Toto did when he averted any questions about Russell. In the way Horner did in the past when he pretended he was content after a loose podium finish.
Beat.
He was fucking gone for George Russell.
Qatar 2024 — Behind The Scenes
> Max’s Letter to George
2 Weeks after Qatar Qualifying 2024
George,
I’m not very good with my words. Please bear with me.
I’m sorry for calling you so many things. You’re not two-faced, or pathetic, or a loser. I lost control of myself and I just don’t think it’s okay for the two of us to be having this personal hatred towards each other. I really don’t wanna hate you.
You’re a great driver and I apologise for what I said. I do get angry sometimes but I hope what happens on track can stay on track. I am sorry, again.
Max
3 Weeks After Qatar Qualifying 2024
F1 Team Principals
group chat
Christian Horner [ 15:40 ]
Toto, please get Max out of your garage.
Read by Toto Wolff [ 15:41 ]
James Vowles [ 15:42 ]
Christian Horner [ 15:51 ]
Toto.
Toto Wolff [ 15:52 ]
He is just talking with Russell.
James Vowles [ 15:52 ]
Did they make up?
Toto Wolff [ 15:53 ]
😇
Christian Horner [ 15:53 ]
Max is with Redbull.
Toto Wolff [ 15:53 ]
Ok. We know.
James Vowles [ 15:54 ]
Please message privately. This is a professional group chat.
Toto Wolff [ 15:54 ]
James, you sent a meme of kermit sipping tea yesterday because you learnt it from Carlos.
Fred Vasseur [ 15:55 ]
James, How long is Carlos’s contract? Just asking for a friend.
Read by James Vowles [ 15:55 ]
Toto Wolff reacted with a 😂 .
Christian Horner [ 15:56 ]
| Reply to James Vowles
Please DM. This is a professional group chat.
Toto has me blocked.
James Vowles [ 15:57 ]
Ah. Ok.
Read by Toto Wolff [ 15:58 ]
Present
No reply.
No visible reaction, nothing.
But Max knows.
He knows it by the slight twitch in George’s eyebrow when he walks by. By the way George leans in closer to him at first during national anthems, then rips himself away from Max as if he’s being physically stung by Max’s touch.
Oh, he knows.
And he’s gonna make sure George knows that he knows, too.
"Why’re you ignoring me?" Max corners George by the drivers’ room.
"I’m not." George snaps, too defensive for his own good. Max’s eyebrows raise, completely unsurprised by George’s lack of acting skills.
Maybe George has gotten worse at deception, or maybe he’s gotten better at seeing through it.
It’s a comforting thought— that George doesn’t know how to lie with him, and that he can’t really unlearn George. They’ve known each other for so long, now, their lives seem to be inexplicably intertwined.
"I know you got it."
George freezes up slightly.
Max pushes further.
"My letter."
"Some things should be said aloud and not written, Verstappen."
He says Max’s name like it’s a slur, bitter on his tongue.
His eyes bore into Max’s, and they look so broken. Cold. But underneath, sheer tenderness. And Max wants— no, needs— to fix it.
But his lips are pouting slightly, the way they always do when he gets petty. It’s unfair how kissable they appear to be as of this moment.
But Max holds his own, standing tall. It was always going to boil down to this. The two of them fighting, tearing through each other. Ruining each other.
It’d be a shame to even think about getting together.
Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in.
A myriad of possibilities appear before Max— showing him everything that could go wrong.
Them getting caught. George. George is wrong. This is wrong. This can’t be right—
No one knows who moved first.
Maybe they both did. At the same time.
George’s hands are heavy, crowding up in Max’s hair, nearly clawing. But they’re weirdly gentle. George isn’t trying to take anything from Max, but he’s trying to absorb all of Max. And with the way Max is unintentionally clinging onto the scruff of George’s shirt, he might be doing the same, too.
George’s lips are on his, and oh, how soft they are, how good does he feel.
The kiss is horribly sloppy. Their teeth clang sometimes. No tongue, yet. But they’re both gone so deep they don’t realise how they’re both subconsciously pulling each other impossibly closer.
Until George pulls away, disheveled and panting. His lips look bruised. Max distantly admires his handiwork for a hot second.
"Uh?" Is all Max can get out.
"We can’t— not like this, Max." George whispers, averting his gaze.
George is already gathering his things, preparing for the door.
Max follows, but George isn’t even looking at him anymore.
"George."
"Sort out your shit first. I can’t, Max. Words, okay? Something real."
"George."
"Yes, Max?"
George is expecting so much from him, and at the same time, nothing at all. It hurts.
"I— I don’t know…"
"Come find me when you do."
Max knows exactly what George is referring to.
He wants Max to apologise in person, to tell him everything he’s felt about him, to know him more. Not a flimsy letter. Just him.
And Max wants to, he really wants to, but the moment he tries his throat clogs up and his voice gets trapped inside the hollowness of it once he tries.
He’s never allowed himself anything he wanted.
Deep down inside, he knows that this isn’t just about him insulting George’s driving style. It’s nothing like Qatar two years ago, when he’d called George a number of high-school level names. Because that was about wanting to win, wanting to secure more points.
This was about trust.
And for some reason, trust had never been something Max could handle.
So he has to meet George’s expectant gaze in silence. Piercing, ruthless silence that ran thick through the air.
George closes the door behind him softly. Max doesn’t pursue him further.
Something peculiar makes its way to the Redbull motorhome. It’s owner? Not far away. Maybe even diagonally across.
An intern hands the cardboard envelope towards Max with shaky hands, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
Max recognises that cardboard instantly— Redbull’s own.
On it, scrawled angrily in all capital letters in black marker: RETURN TO SENDER
His own letter, making its way back to him.
A sliver of hope fills his chest.
He tears open the envelope, finding his own letter still inside.
Nothing accompanying it.
Max laughs dryly at the universe’s curse on him, looking up at the sky in misery.
He needed a drink.
> Max’s Letter To George
Post Las Vegas GP 2026
Dear George,
I’m sorry for not trusting you.
Please take my words as heavy as they’re meant to be.
Max
Junior Karting
Max was seething.
On his left, George, who’d rammed into the side of him.
On his right, empty benches of crowds that had never came. That will never come.
In front of him, their two karts, badly bruised and smashed up against each other.
"You’re fucking stupid, you know that?" Max hissed. George’s eyes narrowed into slits.
George had never liked course language. Max liked to use that to his advantage whenever he saw an opening.
"You didn’t give me room!" George yelled.
"All you do is crash and ruin everyone’s race, huh?"
Max’s voice had dropped down by a few tones, mockery dripping on the edges like sour honey.
George furrows his brows. He’s found out something Max hasn’t. And Max can’t be bothered to pry.
"What—"
"You don’t give a fucking crap about what happens when you rail others off the road!"
George’s expression changes to understanding, then pity in an instant.
Pity.
Max doesn’t want it, or need it.
"Max, it’s one crash." George tried. His voice is softer, now, and it only makes Max’s blood boil hotter.
"It’s going to ruin everything!" Max rebutted.
"Max—" George tried again, placing a warm hand on Max’s shoulder.
"Idiot." Max cursed under his breath, shoving George’s hand away as he stalked off.
"Max, you say sorry to that boy right now!" Max’s mother jammed a finger into his chest, brows furrowed, eyes crazed.
"He pushed me off." Max whispers.
"Max Emilian Verstappen."
His mind shifts back to George’s pitying gaze, his sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
He hates how good it felt in the first place.
"I’ll apologise. But I won’t… I won’t say it to his face, okay?"
"Then how? You gonna write a letter?” His mother commented sardonically.
It was meant to be sarcastic. It wasn’t meant to be taken literally, or even considered. Apologies should’ve been done face-to-face.
Except that it didn’t really sound half-bad.
Max slipped out an envelope and a piece of paper from his Mother’s study, along with a crappy ballpoint pen he used sometimes for school.
He felt the ink slide, imprinting itself unto the paper’s soft fibre. Heard curses escape his mouth unintentionally as he scrawled. And finally— after a truck-load of pent-up rage passive aggressively put into one neat envelope— he held it up like it was a piece of art, admiring it up-close, embedding the poetry it was into his mind.
Oh, George was going to hate this.
The following week, George had forgiven him instantly.
Not because of the letter he’d begrudgingly handed over to George— George literally shot him the most iron-curdling glare from his garage— but because he still cared about Max in that same way as he did the week before, when his lips had pursed and he’d gone quiet, when he looked at Max like he mattered.
Max couldn’t have that.
It didn’t matter because he’d won again this time round, stealing what appeared to be a promising victory from George.
It didn’t matter because his mother was now under the impression that he and George were on good terms again.
And maybe they were, now, that George finally stopped taking pity on Max.
And Max discovered he’d quite liked it that way. The power that spilled from winning. It was oddly reminiscent of bloodshed, not glory. Max had so many fears pulling him down, that victory, to him, was a hassle. It was expected, so it became a duty. He won. And he left.
So maybe George was right to pity him, because George had always been able to see through him, but it didn’t matter one bit. Because he’d won.
Now he was somewhat of a god, running solely on hunger that could only be aided by victory.
Present
No matter what, the person who held your hair back while you puked all over yourself without judgement could only be described as a true friend.
Nico Rosberg— the Britney spears— the man who’d beat Lewis Hamilton in equal machinery seemed to be that person.
Max was crying, so hard, he hadn’t realised it himself until he pressed a hand to his own cheek and felt it had become slick with tears.
"Easy there," Nico observed, patting Max on the back as he helped Max get up from his knees. Max placed both hands on the sink next to his toilet for support, breath coming in wisps.
Max croaked as he ran water all over his face haphazardly, his handprints pressing into his cheekbone, his gut curling.
2 Hours Earlier
It had meant to be a short drink between old friends. Though ‘friends’ might have not been the best way to describe their relationship in the past. Max, a menace as a teenager, terrorising Nico on track every chance he got whilst Nico was fighting for a championship.
He hadn’t known why he’d dialed Nico in the first place— they had interacted after Nico retired, but barely. Just short exchanges when they’d seen each other around Monaco.
Maybe it was the fact that he’d seen Nico as a professional when it came to fall-outs with coworkers.
Or, whatever you’d call Max and George’s odd relationship.
Nico was the only other one on the grid who’d experienced it— that sharp rivalry that transcended into something raw and ugly and devastating.
Max had said he’d wanted to catch up with Nico once he’d found out that Nico was in Vegas, too, doing a short vlog for his Youtube channel. Nico obliged almost immediately, being the gentle soul that he was.
But before he knew it, he’d started telling everything to Nico. All his pent-up, suppressed emotions flooding out of him. The more shots of bitter whiskey he gulped down, the more ludicrous he began to sound. Nico had became somewhat of a father figure to Max, their relationship aging like fine wine, amidst the classic 90s bar flooded with the scent of cold whiskey and menthol smoke.
Because he was someone that understood.
And after about more than ten shots, Nico had slowly slipped away from any control he’d held on himself.
He’d started blabbing too, about his fallout with Lewis, and now the both of them were grovelling over letting the people they loved the most slip past them.
Love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
It felt so good, so relieving to voice aloud. When he’d not been able to think before he spoke. And Nico had too. So now they both spurred on about love and love and more love. Something that had used to disgust Max. Something that Max was full of, now, for George.
Something that Max thought he’d never find.
"Georgie has these pretty eyes. They go like uh— like the ocean. They’re pretty pretty. Not just pretty… they have a, a shine. And I want to stare at them forever. Oh, he’s so pretty. I hate him. Urghhh." Max sighed, rubbing his temples absent-mindedly.
"Lewis is— oh, he’s a saint. He’s the best person I know. And now we never talk. ‘S… ‘S sad. I’m sad. I miss him. Lewis, come back." Nico slurred, downing another shot, the bartender eyeing the two of them in concern.
"You both alright? You both ain’t driving, right?" The bartender’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, halfway through making someone else’s margarita.
Seeing margaritas made Max think of George.
He didn’t like it.
"Ehh, he hates me." Max sighed, bowing his head.
Nico tutted at him, shaking his head as he shook Max’s shoulders.
Max took a swing of the beer bottle on the table he’d ordered earlier, chugging it down instantly. It was warm, he realised. Tasted like everything horrible, being bitter and sour at the same time. Still, he wanted more of that burn, so he continued to chug until his throat went dry and the ends of his vision blurred.
"Let’s… go…" Max murmured, holding on to Nico as he attempted to get off the bar stool, nearly tripping in the process. Nico still held some tact of soberity, so he’d managed to stabilise Max. Maybe his fatherly instinct was kicking in now.
Max managed to land on his feet with a sharp thud, his right foot wobbling to the side a tiny bit.
That wasn’t good.
And oh, why did he feel so sick?
"Max!" Nico shouted as his eyes went wide.
Max’s back ached.
Ah, he was keeling over.
Just like that, hot, gross vomit begun to rise up his throat, making its way upwards to paint his cough-drop coloured tongue.
He felt himself being shifted as he was hoisted up by Nico towards the bathroom, and now he was on his knees throwing up into a crappy, dirty bar toilet— Nico holding his hair back warily.
What a way to end his night.
Present
"Alright, Max?" Nico asked, brows furrowing in concern as Max was hauled into the back of a taxi. Nico following right after as he climbed into the seat beside him.
"Yeah. Yeah. Need to see Georgie." Max whispered. His head was pounding, his heart was racing with adrenaline, and all he could think about was George, George, George.
"How come you’re not drunkey-drunkey, Britney?" Max questioned, still slurring his words.
"Comes from hanging with Lewis. Ah, back when— back when we used to go out…" Nico sighed.
"You should call Lewis." Max blurted out. It only made sense.
"Can’t. I can’t."
"Why not?"
Nico only gave him a wry smile.
"It’s been too long. But you and George, fresh. You love him, Max. Go to him."
Max raised his eyebrows.
Somehow, hearing that he loved George came as no surprise to him. Maybe he’d loved George all along and he’d always known, deep inside.
"Huh? Go to him? I— I can’t…"
"You can, now."
"So, what do I do? Knock on his hotel room door?" Max laughed, only to realise it wasn’t such a bad idea in the end. His laughter died down instantly.
Nico’s gaze had hardened. He was serious.
"Go to him?" Max doubled down, but he didn’t need any more convincing. Max realised his words had stopped dragging on when it came to this.
"Go to him."
George was enjoying a peaceful evening alone after Vegas, all cozied up in his hotel room with a singular margarita he’d gotten from the hotel bar.
That was, until Max had come banging on his door. Disheveled, pupils diluted.
"Max." George gasped.
"Georgie!" Max laughed, speaking at a volume much too high than socially acceptable as he wrapped his arms around George’s neck, smelling of alcohol and vomit.
It suddenly hit George, the realisation that Max was drunk.
"Max, are you alright?" George pressed a hand to Max’s neck, checking his pulse.
"Yep. Yeah! Britney is uh, somewhere."
"Britney? Nico? Is he okay?" George furrowed his brows.
"Hehe, I made him call Lulu!"
"Lulu?"
"Ham."
"Ah." George pieced everything together, closing the door behind Max as he sat Max down on his bed.
"Didn’t even buy me dinner first, Georgie." Max laughed, wagging his eyebrows. George felt his face flush as he smacked Max’s arm gently.
"Not happening, you idiot." George sighed, though it came out much more fond than initially intended.
"I came to tell you, I hate you." Max deadpanned.
George’s heart sank.
Of all the things he’d had to say when he came to George, it was this.
Something George knew for ages but couldn’t quite digest. It was a different feeling altogether when it was being thrown into his face like he was nothing. Max liked to look at him like he was everything, and maybe George had revelled in it far too much. Took it for granted, almost, and had gotten blindsided by it.
"Okay." George chewed on the inside of his cheek, averting his gaze as he settled on bringing Max some water to sober up.
He’d wake up tomorrow morning pretending like everything was alright, that he was still mad about Las Vegas and had no clue of what happened tonight, that Max hadn’t said anything aloud and it was all fine and well—
"No, George, really. I hate you. I hate— I hate your pretty blue eyes, I hate your nice long neck. Your nice hair. Your uh, your pretty lips. They feel so good… I hate you." Max muttered, mostly to himself.
But George heard every word.
George froze as Max continued.
"I hate you so much, George!" Max was blubbering now, tears streaming down his cheeks. His voice had raised significantly, like he was preaching something sacred. Something that had to be known. Like he couldn’t just stomach it any further.
"You’re so good for me and I always ruin it, I love you so much and I… I always hurt you and I said you can’t drive but you can and you look really hot on the podium!" Max monologued. George would’ve laughed at that last part if it weren’t for Max’s abrupt confession.
I love you so much.
Beat.
George held up a cup of water to Max’s mouth, resting his hand on the back of Max’s nape as he carded his fingers through his hair.
"Easy," George mumbled gently. Max leaned into George’s touch, and how George’s heart ached,"Okay, go sleep. Come on, lie down."
"Ooooh, yes, taking me to bed, George?" Max giggled softly, pulling George close.
George’s pulse stuttered as he fought off amusement. He was already huffing from laughter, and he wasn’t hiding it very well.
"No, Max." George insisted, fighting back a smile.
Max tugged harder on George’s shirt.
"Stay. Please, schat? I love you."
George shook his head, the previous lightheartedness formed now ebbed away as he grew to be on the verge of tears. He didn’t want to even think about the name of endearment slipping off Max’s tongue so easily. Didn’t want to consider how right it felt.
"You don’t mean that, Max. You don’t." George’s voice was straining around the edges, pain evident. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Max or himself.
But Max, brain fuzzy and clouded, hadn’t noticed.
"Love you so much it hurts me, George. I can’t say it to ‘ya like I want to."
"Max—" George resisted, but he himself was already getting under the covers, curling the blanket around both of them.
"I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."
Max wouldn’t remember this in the morning, right? He was far, far, gone— and maybe George was, too, in a different way.
Gone for Max.
George kissed Max’s forehead softly. A gentle peck, and nothing more, but he’d felt Max lean into his touch, so much so that they’d become intertwined, flush against each other.
For once, he didn’t mind the fact that Max reeked of alcohol and vomit. He just wanted Max. And maybe that was incredibly terrifying, but it was a nice thought regardless.
Then, he’d said something uncontrollable.
"Remember this."
He sounded desperate, almost on the edge of pleading.
"I will, schat. I love you."
Max didn’t know whether he wanted to simultaneously bury himself alive or scream his lungs out on an abandoned hill. Maybe both.
It all came back to him in glimpses.
First, the headache. Agonizing pain that assaulted his temples and bled all over his scalp.
Next, finding George staring at him. Looking ridiculously pretty, all stressed over packing his luggage. He still clutched some Mercedes clothes in his hand, all neatly folded.
Then, seeing the bottle of mineral water on the bedside table.
Then the memories.
Then horror.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou
Words from last night, chanting back to him like a mantra.
George was still staring.
He was still staring.
"I— have to go." Max stuttered, standing up abruptly to grab for his things.
Then the headache found its way back to him, like a tsunami washing over him. And then George was there, steadying him, grabbing his waist and setting him back down— like the air he needed to breathe.
"Careful." George whispered.
He looked hurt.
Max knew exactly why.
He wanted to reach out, take George’s face in his palms and smoothen all the wrinkles he’d formed from being worried about Max. He wanted to grab George’s back and pull him close, nuzzle into his chest. But he couldn’t.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou
Max wasn’t replaying it anymore, he was thinking it— accepting it. Processing. Because every word of it was true.
"Alright, uh, I got you some pills here, and I ordered some room service. Go take a hot shower first, okay?"
Max downed a pill first, then sauntered towards the bathroom.
He felt the hiss of the shower come to life, steam unfurling around him as droplets of hot water danced on his skin.
Still, all he could think about was George and everything he’d said.
George, George, George.
In the end, it all came down to him. Them.
He felt the airconditioning prickle his skin back to life as he came out of the shower again, hair dripping, redressed in the hotel robes. George stared for a bit, then averted his gaze instantly when Max caught him.
It was during breakfast when George popped the question, while Max was half-way through cutting up a bratwurst.
"So, Max."
Beat.
"What do you remember from last night?"
Max’s eyes widened.
"I don’t remember anything," he lied.
George stilled.
"Nothing at all?" He asked for good measure, his brows furrowing.
"Nope." Max insisted.
"So, you don’t remember you shamelessly flirting with me and telling me to ‘take you to bed’?"
Max’s face burned scarlet.
"No."
"And you don’t remember saying… saying…"
"Saying what, George?" Max questioned with false sincerity.
He wanted George to say it.
Even if it wasn’t meant like that.
He wanted to hear it.
"Saying…" George tried again.
I love you.
George’s voice had dropped down several decibels.
Then faded into nothing.
They ate breakfast in silence, aside from the occassional clanking of silverware and chewing.
Verstappen Radio
Qatar GP 2026
GP > Okay, keep checking on tire temps. Doing good so far. Sustaining P2. Careful when approaching turn 5, minor debris on track, a safety car will be called shortly.
MV > What happened there? Is that a Mercedes?
GP > Russell’s out into the barriers
MV > Is he okay?
GP > Just focus on the race, Max.
MV > Is he okay?
GP > Max, calm down. They are still checking.
MV > ‘we are checking’ what is this, Ferrari? Is Russell okay?
GP > Max, tire temps are too high.
MV > I will go into the pit lane if you don’t tell me if he’s okay. You care about the points more than me.
GP > He’s okay. He’s being sent to medbay for checkup.
MV > (heavy breathing, muffled audio)
Platform: ‘X’, formerly known as twitter - social media
Charles Legleg @bananaleclerc69
Max sounded so concerned for George there 😭 poor Georgie with the DNF, glad he’s alright!
11 replies • 151 reposts • 1K likes
#1 Gax Fan @russtappenfl
RUSSTAPPEN CANNON AAAAAHHHHH
5 replies • 1K reposts • 15K likes
nico rosberg my beloved @nr6supremacy
something tells me this isn’t just good sportsmanship. max has literally never threatened to do his own drive thru penalty! 😭 oh my heart aches for these two
42 replies • 5K reposts • 20K likes
maxmaxmaxsupermax @maxisthegoat
’you care more about the points than me’ ooooh he ate gp up!!!
2 replies • 15 reposts • 50 likes
Sean Davis @seandavis1179
Fangirls are ruining the sport. 😂
36 replies • 2 reposts • 2 likes
|| Reply to @seandavis1179
PastriesPS3 @Piastrimegafan81
pack it up unc 😇
2 Replies • 10 reposts • 100 likes
Podium champagne never really tasted that great, anyway.
Max wanted to be out of there as fast as possible.
The moment the last fireworks had burst into the night, Max was already by the Mercedes’s medbay, sitting by an unwilling George’s bedside.
The doctors had left the two of them alone, one throwing them a knowing look. Max didn’t know how to react to that.
"How’re you feeling, George?" Max whispered, staring at a disheveled George in light-blue scrubs. He still looked pretty like this, slightly disoriented and pissed. Max hated it.
"Go away, Max." George croaked— voice weak, but not from physical pain. He was declared well by the doctors already. George averted his gaze away.
"George, look at me. Please?" Max pleaded.
George shifted.
"I was worried."
"I saw your radio. Offering your own drive-through penalty?" George giggled. Max couldn’t help the small smile that escaped him as well.
"He wasn’t telling me!"
"He knew you’d worry."
Their laughter died down as they stared at each other in silence. Max admired the deeper blue flecks in George’s eyes, crowding together to make his irises appear like waves in the ocean.
George admired the grey flecks in Max’s— that made his eyes resemble ice. Ice that George could thaw so easily.
"I’m sorry, George. For that day. Saying you were incompetent. I lost control of myself. I always do when it comes to you— when they— when they spread the rumour that you said I was driving erratically I was shocked." Max laughed dryly before continuing, "your insults hurt me the most, and I wish I knew why."
George smiled softly.
"I think we both know why."
Max outstretched his hand, holding it out for George to take, and so George did. Warm hands blended into each other, melting together. Max slotted his fingers into the webs of George’s hands, and felt the smooth skin of George’s palm against his. A soft, gentle promise.
Max sighs as he uses his free hand to crowd George’s neck, pulling him so close to the point their noses were nearly touching.
"Can I kiss you?" Max breathes.
George answers by leaning in first.
Their lips slot in a slow dance— chaste, tender, and sweet.
But they both need more.
They find themselves inching closer as Max’s hand that was on George’s neck trails upwards to grace his cheek, cupping it gently as he opens his mouth wider.
George gasps softly before responding in kind, balancing his free hand in Max’s hair. Not pulling, just clutching. Steadying.
This is what the kiss with the boy you’ve pined years for should be like, Max thinks.
He can’t get enough of it.
They pull away after a little while. George wets his bottom lip further a bit. Max’s eyes follow the movement before he presses a gentle peck to George’s jaw.
Their hands stay intertwined, warmth seeping through their veins.
"I love you, Max." George whispers.
"Say it again. Please." Max mumbles, burying his face into the crook of George’s neck, on the same side he kissed.
George rummages a hand through Max’s hair absent-mindedly, planting a soft kiss to his head and the corner of his mouth.
"I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you, too."
"I know."
Epilogue
3 years later
"So you guys have finally kissed and made up?" Jested Lando, irises bouncing between the pair in glee. Alex stood at his side with his usual kind smile, bubbly in hand, still fizzing slightly at the top.
It all seemed so long ago, Jack Whitehall teasing Max and George. Now he would be their guest speaker.
George rolled his eyes. Max placed a hand around his shoulder, pressing a soft but warm kiss to his head softly, causing George's face to flush an unnatural shade of red.
"Eughhhh," Lando groaned, "you lot disgust me. Quit snogging.
"Grow up, Lando." Came a familiar voice, light around the edges, carefree.
Their apartment door creaked softly as Nico entered, Lewis following closely behind.
Nico held the door open for Lewis with his free hand, his other interlinked with Lewis's.
"Nico! Lewis! You came!" George laughed, fist-bumping Rosberg and bringing his old teammate in for a hug— inevitably detaching himself from Max (who was sulking but also smiling).
"So it's finally happening?" Lewis grinned.
George nodded sweetly, Max’s gaze following the movement of his jaw.
"It’s happening." Max confirmed, his voice tender.
"Then let’s make this the best wedding ever." Alex grinned.