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“Super job, super drive today George, well done mate, P2.”
“George, really well done. Well driven. Flu does good for you.”
George coughed into the crook of his arm, chest rattling, before he thumbed the radio switch. “Yeah, not bad considering I felt like ass all weekend. Good job, the car was decent.”
His voice was hoarse, stripped bare by three days of fever and fighting, and as the words left him he knew how fragile they sounded.
God, I can’t wait to go to sleep.
Two days ago, he didn’t think he would have been well enough to even get in the car, let alone drag his shitbox to the podium in second place, next to Max and Carlos.
Maybe, it was worth it to haul himself out of his hotel room. After all, thanks to the points that he and Kimi had scored for the team, Mercedes were back in the fight for P2 in the Constructors’ Championship.
Killing the engine in his car, he could feel the buzz of the crowd in the grandstands bleeding through his earpieces and adding to his throbbing headache. Who the hell is blowing that horn?
He usually didn’t mind the roars of the crowd, but today in particular, it was all too much for his system. His helmet felt heavy on his head, which felt even heavier to hold upright on his shoulders. P2. A proper podium. He should’ve been elated, jumping up with his arms in the air, shouting into the radio like it was Montreal, or Hungary all over again.
He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his damp eyes (Damp? When did he start crying?) for a moment, trying to gather himself.
He exhaled, inhaled, and exhaled again slowly, hearing the voice of his personal trainer in his head reminding him to breathe.
When he opened his eyes again, half-lidded and dizzy, he caught sight of Max standing in parc fermé a few meters away with a bottle of water in his hand, like he was mid-sip. His brow was furrowed slightly, eyes fixed on him. The corners of his mouth tugged downward in a subtle frown that George didn’t often see. It looked something vaguely akin to… concern?
Letting out shallow breaths, George forced himself to reach for the seatbelt and hated the way that his gloved fingers fumbled at the stubborn buckle. It wouldn’t catch, or maybe it wouldn’t release; he wasn’t sure. He was too tired to think too hard about it. His hands trembled with exhaustion, and a harsh cough shook his shoulders, leaving him momentarily disoriented.
The crowd was roaring in the distance, the camera flashes more blinding and searing than they usually were, and George could barely register the mechanics shouting from behind the barrier.
In his haze, he noticed a figure that looked vaguely like Max Verstappen moving; with his water bottle in his hand, he made his way across parc fermé. His eyes never left George.
George blinked. Shouldn’t he be celebrating his win with his team? Or maybe, he already had and George was too delirious to even register it. George barely even registered Max approaching him in purposeful strides.
Weird.
When Max reached the cockpit, he leaned casually against the side. His eyes swept over George once, taking in his slumped shoulders and the odd way his hands fumbled at the belts.
“You look like shit,” he quipped softly, clutching his water bottle to his chest.
George huffed out a broken laugh that echoed in his helmet, his voice shredded to a rasp. “Cheers.” He coughed, harsh and rattling, then forced his fingers back to the buckle. “I’ve got it.”
Max didn’t move away. Instead, he watched George’s hands tremble uselessly against the straps, his breaths coming shallow.
“George.” Max kneeled slightly to meet his eye level once he reached the car. The noise around them dimmed in George’s mind; all he could see was Max’s face contorted in apprehension.
George’s throat felt tight. “I… I’ve got it,” he rasped, his raw and uneven voice feeling foreign to his own ears. His fingers fumbled again, the buckle refusing to budge.
Max heaved an exaggerated sigh. George looked up at him through his lashes, feeling the heat on his own face heighten underneath his helmet.
Max was a mess, and George thought absurdly that he had never seen anyone look so good for it. His cheeks were still flushed from the win, grand slam, colour blooming high under the messy strands of hair that clung damp to his forehead. He should have looked wrecked, and yet George couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic in the way his eyes caught the light, sharp blue even through the chaos, like they’d been trained solely on him.
For a ridiculous, drifting second, George forgot about the weight dragging at his bones, the burn in his throat, and the cameras flashing around them. All he could think was that Max Verstappen, reigning world champion, looked at him as if he were the only thing worth noticing; and, George was too tired to stop himself from being captivated by it.
Max’s hand hovered for just a beat before settling lightly on George’s arm, careful but sure. “Here,” he whispered, voice low. “Let me help.”
George blinked up at him, startled, heat creeping across his face under the helmet. Why was his fever spiking again now? “I can manage,” he croaked, though the belts still refused him.
Max’s mouth quirked up as his gloved hand slid over George’s to steady him. “Of course, princess,” he murmured, dry as anything, before flicking the latch open with a sharp tug. The buckle gave instantly. “There. Easy.”
George wanted to argue with him and roll his eyes and snap that he wasn’t helpless, but the words stuck. His throat burned, his head felt heavy, and Max was still too close.
George didn’t know why he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Max’s.
Something in his chest fluttered traitorously, and he blamed it on his lungs this time.
With a shaky breath, George unclipped his helmet and lifted it free, setting it carefully on the nose of the car. The cool air hit his skin at once, sharp against the heat clinging to him, and he shivered. His fingers fumbled with the balaclava, tugging it over his head in one clumsy motion before tossing it aside. Damp strands of hair clung stubbornly to his forehead, curling awkwardly at the edges. He felt his cheeks wet and hot, but when he risked a glance up, Max was watching him, gaze steady and intent in a way that made George’s stomach twist.
Sighing in exasperation, he tried to swing his legs over the side of his car, boots scraping the carbon, but his body betrayed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so sluggish, or pathetic. For one humiliating moment he thought he’d stay stuck there in front of the cameras.
Instead of leaving him stranded, Max didn’t hesitate. He confidently slipped an arm under George’s, fingers clutching his waist, and pulled him up with an ease that felt far too natural. “Come on,” Max said softly, coaxing him. “Up you get.”
George leaned into his touch before he could stop himself, his body sagging into Max’s strength. His cheeks burned hotter but he was too far gone to even care, and grateful that he had someone to steady him.
When his boots finally touched the ground, his knees wobbled, and Max’s hand tightened at his waist to hold him there.
Parc fermé was always noisy, yet now George couldn’t hear any of that noise anymore.
All he could feel was the warmth at his side, and the low hum of Max’s voice when he asked, softer than anyone else would ever hear:
“Are you okay? You look fucking drained.”
George swallowed hard, tried for a grin, though it shook at the edges. “Yeah. Just… knackered.” His voice cracked, hoarse and uneven, and he hated the sound of it.
Max tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You don’t sound like you,” he whisperered, almost teasing but laced with quiet fondness. “I like your voice better when it isn’t falling apart.”
George felt the heat crawl all the way to his ears. He ducked his head, desperate to pretend the dizziness was to blame.
Truthfully, he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His body sagged forward before he even thought about it, forehead pressing clumsily against Max’s shoulder, as if it were the most natural place in the world to rest. He froze for a heartbeat, mortified, ready to pull back, only for Max’s arm to grip tighter around his waist, holding him there. He gasped and felt the breath catch in his throat, carefully inhaling and exhaling against Max’s neck to keep him steady.
“Easy,” Max murmured, his voice lower now, gentler. He shifted, bracing George against him like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
George’s eyes slipped closed, too heavy to keep open. His cheeks burned where they brushed the fabric of Max’s race suit, the scent of sweat and something achingly familiar filling his head. He knew he should move, should stand on his own, but Max was solid and warm and didn’t seem in any hurry to let go.
For the first time all weekend, George let himself give in, just for a moment.
Just long enough to feel the steady rise and fall of Max’s chest, the protective strength in the arm that held him close, and the quiet certainty in the way Max stayed still, like this was exactly where George was meant to be.
For one dizzy, fever-blurred heartbeat, George almost let himself believe it could last.
Of course, it couldn't.
Reality pressed back in and with a reluctant breath, George shifted, pressing a gloved hand to Max’s chest to push him back a fraction.
“You should… go to your team,” he murmured, voice croaky but steady enough to sound convincing. “They’re waiting to celebrate. Don’t worry about me.”
Max frowned, grip still lingering at George’s side. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
George managed the ghost of a grin, crooked and tired. “What, and let them think you’ve gone soft? On me? Wouldn’t want that reputation when you’re fighting for the championship.”
Max rolled his eyes, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Okay, George. You’d be flat on your ass if I hadn’t helped you out of the car.”
“Debatable,” George shot back weakly, already taking a half-step away, though the ground still felt unsteady beneath him. “Besides, I’ve survived worse. Just need a minute.”
“George—”
“Max.” George cut him off gently. “Seriously. I’ll be fine.” He tried for levity, but his voice was frayed, softer than he wanted it to be.
Reluctantly, Max let his arm drop, though his eyes stayed fixed on George.
George turned then, making for his team with a measured pace that disguised the drag of fatigue in his limbs. The cheers of Mercedes swallowed him quickly, hands clapping his back, helmets tapping his shoulders.
He didn’t need to look back to know Max was still watching.
The podium under the floodlights always felt larger than life, but for George, everything seemed too sharp and too loud, his fever dragging at his bones even as adrenaline still pulsed through his veins.
He gripped his trophy a little tighter to steady himself.
P2.
The second step of the podium in Baku, no less.
Against the odds, against his own body, he’d somehow managed a miracle. Truly, he should’ve been elated, but the tightness in his chest dulled the edges of the triumph. His smile for the cameras was real, albeit a bit softer with the edge of exhaustion, and he prayed that nobody noticed it.
On his left, Carlos was grinning like a kid, eyes shining, flashed him a grin so wide it practically radiated across the podium. “Look at you, George! You always pull some magic in that Mercedes when you’re ill.”
George let out a hoarse laugh, coughing halfway through. He covered it with a hand and shook his head. “Don’t tempt fate, Carlos. Next thing you know, Toto will be sneaking germs into my water bottle before quali.” Carlos barked out a hearty laugh at that like George was joking. (George was being deadly serious.)
“Hey, whatever works! Maybe I need to get sick more often, take a page out of your book.”
George rolled his eyes playfully. “Do you remember winning Australia two weeks after your appendix was removed? That was true talent, Carlos.”
Carlos slapped a hand dramatically over his chest. “Exactly! See, I suffer, I win. George suffers, he podiums. It’s a science.”
George smirked faintly, though his throat still burned. “If that’s science, I think Mercedes owes me a research grant.”
Carlos roared at that, his whole body shaking, trophy nearly slipping from his hand. George couldn’t help but smile wider, even if it tugged at the ache in his chest. Carlos always laughed like the world’s best audience, unrestrained, delighted.
George felt a warm smile blossom in his cheeks. “Congratulations, Carlos. First podium for Williams; that’s massive. Feels right, doesn’t it? After all the work.”
Carlos’s grin widened. “It’s history! Williams back on the podium again for the first time since you were in Williams back in… 2021?! Ah, Frank would’ve loved it.” He glanced out at the sea of cheering blue flags in the crowd, eyes bright.
Before George could reply, another voice cut in, dry and teasing.
“Careful, Carlos. Don’t get used to it.”
Max, in the middle step, trophy gleaming in his hand, shot them both a sideways glance. His cheeks were still flushed from the effort, hair sticking every which way under the podium cap. He looked unfairly good like that, sweat-slick and smiling faintly, blue eyes sharp even under the floodlights.
Carlos snorted. “Oh, don’t be jealous. Williams is coming for you, Max.”
“Mm,” Max said, noncommittal, but his gaze flicked back to George almost instantly. “Not sure George looks like he could survive another race like that, though.”
George rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach flipped under the attention. “I survived this one, didn’t I?” His voice cracked on the last word, rough with illness, and he cleared his throat with a wince.
Max smirked, though it didn’t quite hide the concern threading through his gaze. “Barely.”
George opened his mouth to shoot back but was cut off by Carlos, still riding the high of his podium. “Forget barely! Did you see Oscar’s crash? Oh my lord! He nearly took out half the barriers. I thought the car would fold in half.”
George chuckled, though it scraped his throat raw. “Blimey, yeah, I saw it on the big screen.” He coughed again, rubbing at his chest. “Lucky he walked away.”
Max nodded, expression flickering serious. “He’s fine. Checked on him before the podium, he was just annoyed at himself.” Then his mouth curved, and he actually let out a laugh. “Though, honestly… what’s funnier is that Carlos got Williams on the podium before Lewis managed it with Ferrari.”
Carlos threw his head back, howling with laughter. “Yes! Finally someone said it! I hope Fred isn’t too pissed off.”
George laughed too, softer, and winced again at the tug in his throat. “You’re evil, Max.”
Max grinned, boyish and fleeting. “What? It’s shocking.”
The marshal appeared with the champagne bottles then, gleaming gold in the lights, and the crowd roared louder.
George’s stomach twisted at the thought of the cold, sticky spray hitting his fevered skin. He instinctively stepped back a little, rubbing his throat, eyes flicking toward Max.
Max, catching the movement, hesitated mid-spray.
Of course Max would notice.
Why did George want Max to notice?
George saw it in the split-second glance, the way Max’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, then smoothed into something unreadable. His sharp eyes flicked between George and the bottle, noticing the slight recoil and the sudden tension in George’s shoulders. He adjusted his stance with a fluid motion, tilting his own bottle away from George and toward Carlos and the Red Bull constructor instead.
Carlos, oblivious to Max’s careful maneuvering, laughed uproariously and unleashed a torrent of champagne over the mechanics, slipping and sliding in the spray; even Max joined in with a devious grin, but purposefully turned his bottle away from George.
George edged further back, grateful, and watched as Carlos all but emptied his bottle on the Williams crew below, who were jumping and cheering like they’d won the championship.
Max, smirk curling at the corners of his lips, kept his attention on George, adjusting his stance so the spray never got anywhere near him. Maybe Max had recognised the same thing that George did; that the cold liquid would only make George feel worse. Max’s protective streak flared, and George felt a flush rise for reasons that had nothing to do with fever.
George’s feelings were a mess.
When did George start wanting Max to care about him?
Finally, when Carlos had gone completely wild with his spraying, Max moved in toward George. His smile unfurled slowly and cheekily, playful at the edges yet softened by something George couldn’t quite name, and it struck him with a force so sudden it almost hurt, how a simple curve of Max’s mouth could undo him. Max’s grin was akin to sunlight breaking through storm clouds, in George’s opinion; there was something so warm and dazzling about it, and the way it slipped past every guard George had ever built.
His chest tightened as if there wasn’t nearly enough space inside him for the heat blooming there. Fever, he told himself, it had to be the fever. But even as he tried to pin the blame on the ache in his bones, he couldn’t stop staring; he was enraptured by the way Max’s eyes crinkled, the way joy seemed to settle into his whole face like it belonged there.
Max held out his bottle carefully. “Cheers?” he whispered, eyes bright and lips flushed with a warm pink. His gaze had an unfamiliar softness in them, one that George had barely ever seen from the man. George found he really liked it when Max smiled at him like this.
George lifted his own bottle, heart thudding. “Cheers,” he rasped back, the hoarseness in his voice making Max’s grin widen in amusement. Their bottles met with a quiet, intimate clink, and George realised he’d been holding his breath.
“Congratulations,” George whispered breathlessly, low enough for only Max to hear. His voice cracked again, but his words were steady, genuine. “Your sixth grand slam? Blimey. You truly make it look easy, Verstappen.”
Max stepped closer, water and champagne dripping down his suit, smile lopsided. “Easy? I had barely any faith in Baku. I can’t stand this fucking track. Well, maybe this puts me back in the championship fight.” His gaze softened. “I think you drove well today; you were really fast.”
George’s cheeks burned hotter, though he told himself it was the fever. “Were you that bored by yourself at the front of the grid? I think you must’ve paid more attention to me than your own race.”
Max shook his head with a wild, devious laugh, champagne flying off in wild arcs and the damp tendrils of his hair catching the floodlights until they gleamed gold. It should’ve been ridiculous; his mop of hair was unruly and sticky, fizz dripping into his eyes and clinging to the stubble around his chin. Yet… George didn’t think it was ridiculous.
Somehow Max looked… luminous. Ethereal, even. It was the kind of glow that only came after a win. George felt a warmth blossom in his chest and felt it creep up to his face. No one had any right to look as beautiful as Max did.
Leaning slightly closer to George, Max pointed a stern finger at the bottle of champagne clutched in George’s fingers. “You don’t plan on drinking any of that, do you? You’ll feel worse”
George huffed a laugh. “Of course I am, I’m making the most of the podiums I get.”
“Funny, Russell,” Max deadpanned, squeezing George’s shoulder, “Well, I know Bottas is itching to replace you in Singapore anyway.”
“I’ll be better for Singapore, surely!” George protested, playfully shoving Max in the side of his stomach, who was uncharacteristically in a fit of hysterics at this point. “God, you fuss about me more than my physio does, and he fusses a lot.”
“Did your physio have to deal with your coughing and wheezing in the cooldown room as well?”
George glanced sideways, meeting his eyes, and the teasing retort caught on his tongue. “You really…” He trailed off, the words too heavy in his throat. He looked down, shaking his head with a small smile. “Never mind.”
Max didn’t press, just smirked faintly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that made George’s chest tighten.
Carlos bounded over then, still giddy, soaking wet, and threw an arm around both of them. “Photo time! Come on, guys, we look beautiful today.”
George stumbled a bit under the sudden weight, laughing hoarsely. Max steadied him instantly with a sticky hand at his waist, subtle but firm, pulling him close as the photographers shouted for attention.
George froze for half a heartbeat, acutely aware of Max’s palm pressed against his side, of the way Max’s body leaned slightly into his as though shielding him from the frenzy.
He couldn’t feel anything else anymore.
Everything else became background noise, a relentless static hissing in the corner of his mind. If George was less delirious from his illness, perhaps he would've been wary of the cameras, and how his interactions with Max from parc fermé were… unusual.
Unusual for Max and George, at least.
Perhaps he would’ve been more careful; he knew the way that the media could twist narratives like their life truly depended on it. The media could fabricate a false truth, maybe one sparking rumours and question about the true nature of the relationship between Verstappen and Russell.
If George was well enough to care, he might’ve noticed how Max’s hand lingered low at the curve of his waist, or how their shoulders brushed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But George was too wrung out to think like that, limbs falling from his body like lead. He only knew that Max stayed close, that the warmth of his presence cut through the damp chill clinging to his skin, that every grin Max threw into the crowd seemed to tilt back toward him in the end. It was absurd, how radiant he looked, hair plastered with champagne, face flushed and lit from every angle. Absurd, and yet George couldn’t look away.
Carlos was drunk on joy, fizz raining down on the first rows of the crowd; Max should have been doing the same. Instead, his hand pressed gently, deliberately, at George’s waist, guiding him into place for the photos.
George let him. He told himself it was easier this way, but the truth was, he didn’t want to ruin this moment. Not yet. He felt too… safe?
Maybe, if he’d been truly well enough, George would’ve seen how their ‘moment’ must look from the outside. Two men close enough to blur together, too intent on each other in the middle of a podium meant for three. Maybe he would’ve understood why Carlos’s grin had shifted when he looked their way, softening like he knew something they didn’t; or, he had realised something that neither of them had yet.
Maybe George would have realised it too, if he was paying attention to anything other than the man next to him.
Not even two hours after the podium celebration, George found himself sprawled inelegantly across his semi-comfortable hotel bed, limbs heavy and awkward, like even gravity had grown tired of him. The blinds were pulled tightly shut against the city lights that fought to bleed through the gaps, and still, he swore he could feel them pressing in against his fever-addled skull. The air conditioner groaned from its perch on the wall, cycling too cold and in his current state, it might as well have been drilling directly into his eardrum.
Everything pissed him off when he was unwell. Every small, ordinary thing became unbearable: the texture of the sheets, the faint hum of traffic beyond the glass, the way his throat clicked whenever he swallowed.
For the past hour, he had been rolling from one side of the bed to the other, sheets tangling around his ankles, trying desperately to will himself into unconsciousness. It was cruel, he thought, the way exhaustion could drag him down all weekend, only to desert him the moment he was finally free of responsibilities. His body refused rest, spitefully awake, like it had something to prove.
With a whine of frustration, George sat up and reached for his phone, squinting at the harsh glow of the screen. Notifications cluttered the lockscreen. He swiped past all of them: congratulations from family, his trainer reminding him to hydrate, Carlos and Lewis arguing about some nonsense on the drivers’ group chat. George would catch up with that later.
He scrolled through his chat history and found one of his conversations with Kimi, back when they had only just become teammates, and he had sent him his favourite playlist.
George’s mouth twitched into a fond smile. A twang of guilt struck him in his chest when he realised he had never listened to Kimi’s playlist before, and immediately clicked on the link in hopes that Kimi’s youthful, poetic music taste would calm him down.
Yeah, turns out it didn’t.
A thumping bass drop assaulted the silence of George’s room, echoing and bouncing off the walls like a fucking air raid siren. Some voice, autotuned to oblivion, began chanting about money and bottles and Miami. George winced so hard it made his chest ache.
“Bloody fucking hell, Kimi,” he croaked, fumbling for the volume.
He half-expected the walls to start sweating with how aggressive the beat was. His head throbbed in time with the synths, and the chorus slammed in with a wall of noise that rattled his bones.
He stabbed at the skip button.
The next track wasn’t much better; it was some hyper-pop concoction with a beat so chaotic it felt like being inside a pinball machine. George yanked his pillow over his head, muffling the noise, and cursed into the fabric. Forget the guilt he was feeling earlier.
For a moment he lay there in silence except for the faint throb of bass leaking through the pillow, and he could see Antonelli’s grin in his mind’s eye, smug as anything, the little bastard.
Another skip. Then another.
By the fourth skip, George dropped the phone onto his chest with a groan. He let the playlist keep running in the background at low volume, because shutting it off would mean admitting defeat. His fever-heavy brain drifted in and out with the noise, restless and resentful.
It was limbo: too tired to get up, too wired to sleep. He was stuck in that horrible in-between where all you want is comfort.
And though he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, he found himself wishing for company. Someone who could walk into the room, take the phone from his hand, and fix the whole mess with ease.
The thought barely had time to form before the playlist lurched into its next track, a radio-pop monstrosity with a drop so violent that George actually flinched.
Cursing, he turned off the music and threw his phone halfway across his room because everything pissed him off.
And that’s when the knock came.
A sharp rap at the door, too loud, too sudden, making him flinch again. George groaned into the blanket, resolute. Whoever it was, they could sod off. He was ill, and tired, and in no mood to play polite.
The knock came again, and he groaned louder in retaliation, muffling it beneath the covers like a child pretending not to exist.
Then, horrifyingly, a voice from the other side. “Oh. It’s open.”
George froze. No. No, no, no.
The knock had been bad enough; the creak of the floorboards was heaps worse. George stayed under the covers, clinging to the dark pocket of warmth like a child caught playing hide-and-seek. He could hear the slow footsteps grow closer and his fever-fuzzed brain jumped immediately to the worst possible scenario.
His bedroom door gave a soft groan as it opened. George groaned louder; he didn’t dare peek out from the duvet, but the words tumbled out anyway, sharp and defensive through the cotton:
“Toto, I swear to God, I’m not—”
“I’m not Toto.”
The voice was amused, lighter than it had any right to be, tinged with that familiar dry Dutch cadence.
George stilled. The duvet muffled everything, but it didn’t matter. He’d know that voice anywhere.
“Wow, you’re out of it,” it added.
George flung the covers back, head snapping out so fast he almost made himself dizzy. His throat scraped when he croaked the name.
“Max!?” His voice cracked on the syllable, betraying him further. “What the hell are you— what— what are you doing here?”
Lo and behold, by some diabolical twist of fate, Max Verstappen was framed in the doorway as if he owned the place. His damp hair was curled slightly at the edges, still tousled from his post-race shower, and his cheeks carried the faint flush of champagne and adrenaline, though his eyes were sharp, bright, and fixed squarely on George. In his hands he held… a plastic container? A humble Tupperware holding something warm, steaming at the walls of its confinement.
George blinked, once, twice, as if his fever might be conjuring hallucinations.
“Nice to see you too, princess,” Max drawled, pushing the door shut with his heel. He crossed the room with a confidence that made George’s chest tighten. Max didn’t hesitate, or even hover like most people would at the threshold of someone else’s hotel room. He just… walked in, like he belonged here.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down at George’s side, close enough that George felt the warmth radiating off him. Without preamble, Max thrust the container toward him.
“Sit the fuck up. Eat it.”
George squinted at him, suspicion and disbelief warring with exhaustion. “You got me food?”
“Yeah, you’re ill,” Max deadpanned smoothly. “Eat it or I’ll shove it down your throat.”
George’s mouth twitched despite himself. “What is it, then? Cold leftovers from the Red Bull hospitality tent?”
The look Max gave him was pure offence. “It’s erwtensoep.”
George blinked, fever-fogged and thoroughly lost. “...Pardon?”
“Pea soup,” Max translated, rolling his eyes. “It’s… Dutch. I always have it whenever I’m ill, it really clears you out.”
George frowned, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The absurdity of it all made his head swim. “Did you… cook this?”
A pause. Max shifted on the mattress, expression flickering, like he was defensive. “Yes. No. Sort of.”
George arched a brow.
“My Oma— my… my grandmother used to make it for me every time I was ill when I was younger,” Max explained, voice softening almost imperceptibly. “I called her earlier and, well, asked her for instructions. She says…” He looked down at the container, muttering the words like they weren’t his own, “‘Get well soon,’ by the way.”
George stared at him, throat tightening in a way that had nothing to do with infection. “You made me soup.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Max snapped, though the grin tugging at his lips was sheepish. “I’m a lovely fucking cook. Sometimes.”
George let out a laugh that immediately dissolved into a cough. He grabbed the blanket with one hand, tugging it higher over his flushed cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re here instead of celebrating your win— go and celebrate! I can take care of myself. You don’t need to… babysit me.”
Max gave him a look. “You looked like you were going to collapse every time you breathed a little too hard, George. I’m not a fucking psychopath, I know you never take care of yourself properly.”
George made an outrageous noise of offence. “I never take care of myself properly?! Awfully rich coming from you of all people, you’re the most dangerous bloody driver on the grid!”
Max groaned. “Remember when you had pneumonia and still got in the car? You’ve got zero survival instincts whatsoever.”
“Yeah, and I still won Las Vegas. What’s your point?”
Max smirked at George’s snarkiness and thrust the plastic container into George’s lap. He gave George a little tap against his arm until he reluctantly accepted it. “Eat before it gets cold, smartass.”
George looked down at the plastic tub, then around the state of his room. His damp towel hung crookedly from a chair; his discarded race suit was crumpled on the carpet; empty water bottles littered the nightstand. Heat flooded his face, and maybe it wasn’t just fever this time.
“Sorry,” he muttered, grimacing. “It’s a mess—”
Max waved a hand, dismissive. “Looks like my place most weekends.”
That earned him a faint huff of laughter, weak but genuine. George dared a glance up and found Max already watching him, blue eyes steady, unflinching, unbearably warm. For a moment, George forgot to feel self-conscious.
“You’re awfully bossy.” he muttered, fumbling at the lid with clumsy fingers.
“Whatever gets you to shove my soup down your annoying throat,” Max drawled, smoothly reaching over to pop it open for him with one easy flick. The rich, savoury scent of herbs and smoked sausage wafted up between them, filling the small space. “Go on. If you don't, you're personally offending my grandma.”
George groaned at the persistence, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile. “Fine. I’ll do it for your grandmother.”
Max leaned back against the mattress, planting one hand casually near George’s hip as if staking a claim. “Good choice, princess. I know you’ll like it.”
George shook his head, but the words lodged somewhere in his chest, warm and heavy. He lifted the spoon Max had tucked inside the lid and stirred the soup. Steam curled upward, carrying a smell that was both foreign and comforting.
“You even brought cutlery,” George murmured, the slightest bit touched at the gesture.
Max gave a one-shouldered shrug. “What? Didn’t expect you to eat it with your fingers and get your perfect nails dirty.”
George gave him a weak look and scooped a tentative spoonful, blew on it, and tasted. The warmth slid down his throat like balm, soothing the raw edges. He exhaled slowly, almost a delighted sigh. “Bloody fucking hell. That’s… actually really good.”
Max’s grin turned smug. “Told you! Oma knows best.”
George glanced sideways at him, watching the way his expression softened around the edges, pride threaded with affection. His chest constricted again, sharp and sudden. He blamed it on his fever yet again, though even he knew that excuse was feeble.
He dipped the spoon back in for another bite, slower this time, savouring it. Silence settled between them, comfortable, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the soft scrape of George’s spoon against plastic. Every mouthful felt like it soothed some part of him that had been burning all weekend: his throat, his chest, the restless ache in his bones.
“How’s the seasoning?” Max said, smugness creeping in, though his voice was softer than his usual bravado.
George swallowed carefully, wincing at the scratch in his throat, then turned his head just enough to give Max a tired grin. “It's… perfect.”
“You look too surprised.”
“Well, yeah!” George mumbled through bites, “I didn’t know what to expect! I thought you’d serve me something from a can.”
Max scoffed. “What the hell? Do I look like a man who serves canned soup?”
George raised a brow. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”
That earned him a shove on the shoulder; not hard, just enough to jostle him under the blanket. George chuckled, though it immediately turned into a rough cough. Max’s hand was on his arm before he’d even finished, rubbing soothing circles through the fabric.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” George rasped, embarrassed by the crackle in his voice. “You’re fussing over me an awful lot.”
“You’re coughing like a ninety-year-old smoker,” Max countered. His tone was light, but the crease between his brows said otherwise.
George ducked his head back into the steam of the soup, hiding the flush on his face. “You’ve got to stop staring at me like that. You’ll put me off my dinner.”
Max leaned back, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s soup, not dinner.”
“Pedantic,” George muttered, spoon clinking against the container.
For a while, they sat in a rhythm that felt strangely… normal. George ate in slow, steady bites, and Max sat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world, one arm slung lazily across the mattress, close enough that George could feel the heat radiating from him. Every now and then, Max reached over: straightening the duvet, nudging the water bottle closer, brushing crumbs from the blanket. Little touches; the kind that made George’s chest flutter in a way he refused to name.
By the time the container was half-empty, George leaned back against the headboard with a soft sigh. “You’ve ruined me. Nothing’s going to taste this good again.”
Max smirked. “That’s the fever talking.”
“Or your cooking,” George shot back, lips quirking.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Max said, but his ears tinged pink.
George laughed, low and hoarse, then let the spoon rest inside the container. “Seriously though… thank you, Max. For this. For… being here.”
Max’s expression flickered into pride, then something softer, something George couldn’t quite pin down. “You’d do the same for me.”
George tilted his head, considering. “Would I?”
“Yeah, you would,” Max said simply, like it was fact, not up for debate.
The conviction in his tone knocked George quiet for a moment. He looked down at the soup, fingers tightening around the container. His chest felt too small, stuffed full of something he didn’t have the energy to unravel.
To distract himself, he asked, “Did you talk to Carlos after? He must be over the moon.”
Max chuckled, leaning back on one elbow. “Yeah. He’s still buzzing. You can’t shut him up about that podium.”
George grinned, genuine despite the ache in his body. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Williams back on the podium. Who would’ve thought?”
Max’s mouth curved, though his eyes stayed on George instead of some distant memory. “First time since you, back in 2021 right?”
George felt a tiny smile of pride tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“I’m glad you’ve finally got a championship winning car at Mercedes.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, I lied, you really don’t.”
That pulled a bark of laughter from George, one that ended in another cough. He pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes watering. “Don’t— don’t make me laugh, Verstappen, I’ll choke.”
Max reached instinctively for the water bottle, unscrewing the cap before handing it over. “Here. Small sips.”
George took it, still chuckling weakly. “Blimey, you sound like a nurse.”
“A very good one,” Max chuckled, watching until George drank properly. “Maybe I should change careers.”
George lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, swap the car for a stethoscope. I’d pay to see that.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Max deadpanned, but his lips quirked into a smile. “Wouldn’t be as stressful.”
They fell quiet for a beat, the weight of the day pressing back in. The hum of the air conditioner, the muffled city noise outside, and the faint clatter of George’s spoon against plastic all blurred into a hazy background. Max’s hand drifted back, fingers brushing lightly against George’s arm where it rested on the duvet.
George cleared his throat, softer this time. “Singapore’s next, isn’t it?”
Max nodded, eyes flicking back to him. “Yeah, the night race. You think you’ll be ready?”
George shrugged, leaning further into the pillows. “Depends. Doc says it’s respiratory. I just need rest, and fluids. Maybe another miracle podium to keep me going.”
“You should sit it out if you’re not fit,” Max jumped in immediately, tone firmer now, protective in a way that made George blink.
“I’m not sitting it out,” George said, amused despite the rasp in his voice. “You know me better than that.”
“I do, princess,” Max admitted, his voice dipping. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
George rolled his eyes, but his chest warmed in a way that was entirely separate from fever. “This is so… weird. You’ve never cared about me this much.”
Max’s fingers tapped gently against his arm, absent but rhythmic. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
George shook his head, sinking further into the pillows, letting the soup warm him from the inside while Max’s presence did the rest. “It’s not. It’s just… unexpected.”
“Get used to it,” Max murmured.
The words hung between them, simple, unadorned, but they landed heavy. George busied himself with another spoonful, even though he was nearly full, just to have something to do.
Silence again, but not uncomfortable. Max watched him eat, expression softened, relaxed in a way George rarely saw outside the cockpit. The kind of look that made George want to lean into him, let the weight of the weekend slide off his shoulders and onto someone else for once.
George’s eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion. The spoon dipped lazily into the soup, slower each time. Max noticed, of course he did. He reached over and plucked the container gently from George’s hands.
“You’re done,” Max said firmly. “Before you spill it everywhere.”
George huffed, too tired to argue.
Giving him a satisfied look, Max stacked the spoon inside and set the container on the nightstand. He reached past George to straighten the blanket, tucking it properly over his shoulders, like his movements were practiced.
George let himself sink into it this time. “I don’t know what I’d do without you right now,” he muttered, half delirious.
Max stilled for a fraction, then leaned back, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Good thing you don’t have to find out.”
George closed his eyes, pulse fluttering against the inside of his throat. The soup sat warm in his stomach, Max’s hand lingered warm on his arm, and for the first time in days, he felt the edges of peace.
He must have dozed off for a while, though he wasn’t sure how long. The next thing he registered was the sound of the clinking of porcelain on porcelain and the low hiss of the electric kettle tucked away in the corner of the suite’s kitchenette.
He blinked blearily, throat dry, head still foggy, and dragged himself upright against the headboard. Through the crack of light spilling from the kitchenette, he could just about make out Max, frowning with the seriousness of a surgeon as he fiddled with a mug, teabags, and, heaven help him, the hotel’s tiny milk pods.
George croaked, voice hoarse with both sleep and amusement, “What the hell are you doing over there?”
Max glanced back, startled, caught in the act like a teenager raiding the fridge. “Making tea,” he murmured defensively.
George squinted. “Tea?”
“Yeah. Tea.” Max held up the mug as evidence. “Isn’t that what you lot practically live on when you’re ill?”
George let out a cracked laugh, his whole chest rattling with it. “You? Oh my days. Max Verstappen is making me tea. I’ve seen it all now.”
“Shut it,” Max muttered, turning back to his task. “You’ll like it. I looked it up.”
“You googled how to make British tea?” George teased, voice still scratchy but lighter now.
“No,” Max shot back quickly, ears pink. “I called Lando.”
That made George wheeze, covering his face with his hand. “You called Lando!? At this hour? For tea advice?”
Max didn’t answer, which was answer enough. He brought the mug over, steam curling up, and pressed it into George’s hands. “Here. Drink.”
George eyed it warily. The colour was… suspicious. A strange beige, somewhere between weak and milky. He bit the inside of his cheek, then forced the softest of smiles as he lifted it. “Cheers.”
The first sip nearly made him choke. It was all wrong: watery with an oddly sweet edge, like Max had tipped too much milk in, then panicked and added sugar to mask it. Who puts sugar in tea? But George swallowed, ignoring the urge to grimace, and hummed softly. “Mmm. Perfect.”
Max’s shoulders visibly relaxed, the faintest flicker of pride tugging at his mouth. “See? Told you.”
George took another careful sip, hiding his amusement behind the rim. “You’re a natural.”
“Don’t patronise me,” Max said, narrowing his eyes.
“I’d never,” George murmured, fighting back a grin.
They sat in silence for a few moments, George sipping dutifully, Max watching him like a hawk. The tea was dreadful, truly, but George’s chest felt warmer than it had all weekend; not from the drink, but from the gesture, and from Max Verstappen, calling Lando Norris for tea-making instructions. That was something he’d carry to his grave.
Eventually, George set the mug down on the nightstand, eyelids growing heavy again. His body was begging for rest, pulling him under despite his best attempts to fight it.
He drifted in and out for a while, vaguely aware of movement around him. He recognised the sound of bottles being gathered, clothes folded, the zip of his suitcase being tugged closed. When his eyes cracked open, he caught a glimpse of Max crouched by the floor, tucking George’s discarded trainers neatly against the wall.
“Are you… cleaning my room?” George croaked, voice muffled by the blanket.
Max looked up, unbothered. “It’s a mess.”
George huffed a tired laugh, sinking deeper into the pillow. “Max, go out and celebrate. You don’t need to stay with me.”
“Shut up, I’ll do what I want,” Max snapped before shooting him a quick grin before standing and reaching for George’s phone. He plugged it into the charger with practiced ease, setting it carefully back on the nightstand.
George watched through half-lidded eyes, warmth blooming in his chest. He wanted to say something, thank you, maybe, or a soft joke, but sleep pulled him down again before he could form the words.
The next time he stirred, it was to the faint smell of cocoa powder. His eyes fluttered open to see Max in the kitchenette again, this time stirring something in a mug, humming faintly under his breath. The sight made George’s chest ache, sharp and sweet all at once.
Then the air hit him. Too cold. A shiver rippled through his body, teeth nearly chattering. He groaned, dragging the duvet tighter around himself, then pushed off the bed with clumsy limbs and stumbled toward the air conditioner controls.
Max’s head snapped up instantly. “George?”
“I’m—” George cut himself off with a frustrated groan, twisting the dial off with more force than necessary. “Bloody thing. One minute I’m sweating, the next I’m freezing. Doesn’t make fucking sense.”
Max crossed the room in seconds, worry etched into every line of his face. “Sit down,” he ordered, steering George gently back toward the bed.
“I’m fine,” George insisted weakly, though his trembling legs betrayed him.
“You’re not fine,” Max countered, pressing the back of his hand to George’s forehead without hesitation. His touch was cool, steady, domestic in a way that made George’s stomach twist. “You’re freezing cold, what the hell?!”
George leaned into it despite himself, closing his eyes briefly. “Told you. I’ve been like this all bloody weekend.”
Max frowned, scanning him head to toe. “You’re in shorts and a t-shirt. No wonder you’re cold.” He glanced toward the suitcase tucked against the wall. “Where’s your jumper? Or something thicker?”
George blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, suitcase, maybe?”
Max was already moving, kneeling by the suitcase and rummaging through with brisk efficiency. “You need a hoodie. Or, fuck, do you own anything thicker than this? This is paper thin.” He held up one of George’s training tops with clear disdain.
George felt heat rise in his cheeks, watching Max sift through his belongings so casually. “I can do it myself,” he protested, pushing off the bed.
Max looked up, unimpressed. “You need help?”
That did it. George’s ears went scarlet. “No. Absolutely not.” He snatched the jumper Max had discarded, tugging it over his head with stubborn determination. The effort left him slightly breathless, but he forced himself through it.
Max crossed his arms, waiting until George had dressed himself before stepping closer. “Better?”
George tugged the sleeves down, still shivering faintly. “I guess.”
Max’s eyes softened, worry flickering again. He hovered, clearly searching for another solution. “Still cold?”
George shook his head, then thought, then slowly nodded. There was no point in lying to Max. He knew him too well.
Better than George thought he did.
Max hesitated only a beat before saying, “Wait here.”
George blinked. “Wait— Max— where are you going?”
Max was already heading for the door, grabbing his room key from the counter. He glanced back once, eyes steady, voice gentle but firm. “Trust me.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving George in the quiet hum of the hotel room, bundled in his jumper, heart racing far too fast for a man who was supposed to be resting.
The silence in the hotel room stretched on, the hum of the air conditioner filling the void where Max had been. George sat perched on the edge of the bed, drowning in his jumper, heart thudding far too fast for someone who was supposed to be half-dead with fever.
He hadn’t meant to care that much when Max walked out, but the hollow ache that settled in his chest said otherwise. His throat tightened, part fever, part something else he couldn’t name. For a second, he considered dragging himself up, storming out into the corridor, and demanding to know what the hell Max thought he was doing.
But his body was too heavy, too worn down, and the duvet was too warm. So he sat there, eyes fixed on the crack of light beneath the door, waiting.
Five minutes. Ten.
By the time the lock clicked softly again, George had half convinced himself Max wasn’t coming back at all.
But then he was there: pushing through the door with his usual brisk ease, arms full. George blinked. Max carried a ridiculously fluffy blanket, folded under one arm, and a bundle of clothes under the other.
Max shut the door behind him, balancing the load with casual competence. “Wow, you didn’t even move,” he said, almost approvingly, like George had passed some unspoken test.
George frowned, throat scratchy. “What… what is all that?”
“I had to go get something,” Max said simply, dropping the clothes onto the chair. His voice was steady, casual, but his eyes swept over George for just a moment too long.
“You came back?” he rasped.
“What, you think I would leave you freezing to death?”
George rolled his eyes, though it was half-hearted. “Would’ve managed.”
“You looked about five minutes from hypothermia. I wasn’t going to just sit there watching you shiver.”
George tugged the blanket higher, hiding the faint blush warming his cheeks. “So what, you’re… moving in now?”
Max smirked faintly, but didn’t answer. He tugged his t-shirt over his head, casual, but George swore the air shifted with it, like the whole room tilted sideways.
Bloody fucking hell.
The lamplight spilled across him in warm patches, gilding the breadth of his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the ridges of muscle that moved without thought. George had seen Max in overalls, in polos, in fireproofs, but bare like this: it felt obscene, almost intimate in a way his fevered brain wasn’t ready for.
And goodness help him, it wasn’t the muscles that undid him. It was everything else. The constellation of faint freckles scattered across Max’s collarbone, like someone had painted them there by hand. The pale scar that dragged faintly across his ribcage, one George had never noticed before, hidden away beneath layers of Nomex and Red Bull livery. The soft scatter of fair hair trailing down his stomach, catching the light when Max shifted.
George’s throat went dry. He tried to look away, he really did, but his eyes were greedy. He drank in the small imperfections, the little reminders that Max’s body wasn’t just engineered strength, but lived-in, human, real. A faint nick on his hipbone, probably from some long-forgotten karting accident. A mole near his sternum, darker than the rest, that George found himself tracing in his mind like it mattered.
“You’re—” George croaked before he could stop himself. His voice cracked, and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth like that might shove the words back down. Too late. “Blimey, you’re beautiful.”
Max froze mid-motion, his jeans half-undone. He blinked, then glanced at George over his shoulder, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard him right.
Max’s smile spread, amused and disbelieving. “You’re delirious, princess.”
George groaned, burying half his face into the pillow, heat licking down his neck. But he didn’t take it back. Couldn’t.
“You are,” he mumbled into the cotton, muffled but insistent. “Bloody fucking gorgeous. With your stupid freckles and your stupid scars. Not fair.”
A laugh escaped Max, low and incredulous, like he didn’t know what to do with it. He pushed his jeans down his legs, still chuckling to himself, and the sound made George’s heart clench so hard it almost hurt.
George peeked again, he couldn’t help it, hopelessly drawn, and found Max standing there in nothing but his plaid pajama trousers, torso still bare, skin glowing faint in the lamplight. He looked like he belonged, absurdly domestic, like slipping into George’s world was the most natural thing on earth.
And George, fever-blurred and raw and reckless, let it tumble out, quiet but devastatingly sincere: “I think I could watch you forever.”
The words landed heavy in the quiet.
Max’s smirk softened, eyes flickering, caught between amusement and something deeper, something he didn’t let show often. He shook his head, as though brushing it off, but his cheeks carried the faintest flush, and George swore the corners of his mouth trembled around a smile he couldn’t quite hide.
George ducked back into the pillow again, groaning at himself, but he didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
God.
George felt fevered, but not entirely from illness.
He had expected Max to settle into the chair. Instead, Max tugged back the covers at the other side of the bed and slipped in, the mattress dipping with his weight.
George jolted upright, scandalized. “You can’t! I’m ill—you’ll get sick, Max.”
Max leaned back against the pillows, utterly unfazed. “So?”
“So?” George gaped at him. “So what if I infect you?! My doctor said I wasn't contagious but I didn't really trust him, he's been really dodgy. What if I'm contagious and you get ill?! If I’m the reason you miss Singapore, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Max turned his head, meeting his wide, fever-bright eyes. Then, softly: “You think I give a shit if you’re contagious?”
George’s breath hitched.
Max’s voice was low, certain, the kind that settled into bone. “I don’t care if I get sick. I’d rather be here with you.”
George groaned, dragging the blanket over his face, muffling his reply. “You’re a bloody psychopath.”
“Yeah, probably,” Max admitted easily, tugging the covers down enough to see him again. “But you’re still shivering. Move closer, princess. Let me warm you up.”
George wanted to argue, to insist on protecting him, but the warmth radiating from Max was too tempting. With a weary sigh, he shifted, letting Max draw him in.
The blanket cocooned them both, George tucked against Max’s chest, his cheek brushing the soft cotton of Max’s white tee. Max’s arm curved around him, steady, protective, while his other hand found George’s hair and threaded through it lazily.
George let out a shaky exhale, finally sinking into the heat. His fever made him woozy, but the solid press of Max beneath him felt like the first thing in days that made sense.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” George murmured, already half-drifting.
“Yeah, me neither,” Max said, his thumb brushing slow circles against George’s temple, “Imagine if the press found out you’re falling asleep on me.”
George let out a breathless laugh. “Suppose there are worse places to fall asleep.”
Max pressed a feather-light kiss to his hair, voice rumbling against George’s ear. “Not for me.”
George stirred faintly, words slurred with exhaustion. “Did you just— lick me?”
Max froze, suddenly still. Then he drawled, “I did not fucking lick you. Can’t you tell the difference between a lick and a kiss?”
George nestled into the corner of Max’s neck. “You kissed me? That was a kiss? Bloody hell. You should do it more,” he murmured, delirious.
Max huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers never stilled in George’s hair. “You’re going to kill me if you remember this in the morning.”
“Nah, I think I’ve always wanted this,” George whispered, barely awake, but still smug enough to land the hit. His lips curved faintly against Max’s skin, the ghost of a smile brushing the line of his jaw.
Max looked down at him, truly looked, at the flushed cheeks, the half-lidded eyes that fought to stay open, the ridiculous mop of dark hair plastered every which way. His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with champagne or trophies or podiums.
“Yeah,” Max admitted softly, the word almost a confession. “I think so too.”
George hummed, content, the sound vibrating against Max’s throat. The fever tugged at him, pulling him under, but he clung to Max’s warmth like an anchor.
And just as his breaths began to even, Max bent closer, lips grazing George’s temple again, gentler than before. “Go to sleep, schat.”
George stirred faintly at the word, his lashes fluttering. “What’s that mean?” he mumbled, though his voice was already dream-heavy.
Max smiled, pressing his cheek against George’s hair. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll work it out.”
The hotel room was still, save for the steady rhythm of George’s breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioner. Max glanced around at his mug half-forgotten on the desk, George’s phone charging neatly beside it, and the mess of discarded clothes in the corner; for the strangest moment, it felt like a home.
He let his eyes fall shut, chin resting lightly on George’s crown, fingers threading lazily through dark hair that was still damp at the roots. George stirred faintly, catching the edge of the words even through the fog of fever. His hand found Max’s shirt, curled weakly into the fabric like he’d been doing it all his life. “Stay,” he whispered.
Max pressed another kiss to George, in the corner of his eye, chaste.
“As if I’d ever go anywhere."