Chapter Text
📍Melbourne, Australia
March 2026
Melbourne Grand Prix Weekend
Sky Sports Commentary
Lap 47
Crofty: It’s been a rather consistent race thus far, with Oscar Piastri leading from the start. Pole position and home advantage, one would say he’s starting to take offense to the way a certain someone swept the driver’s championship right from under his feet last year. Starting the year off with a grand slam would be impressive, the third of his career now. Clean racing, no rain expected despite the forecast and—
📻 63 Russell Radio
“Thought you said you wanted to win? Comfortable in P3, are you, George?”
“Isn’t it your job as my ******* race engineer to ensure it happens, mate?”
“Ah, willing to listen? At last? Didn’t you say you wanted to drive yourself?”
“Max, for ****’s sake!”
“Box now. Box now, George. We’ll go full recharge and throttle when you’re back in for the final ten laps. What’s that stupid show called again? Drive to Survive. You’re gonna give a masterclass on it.”
“Better be. Embarrassing for you if it isn’t, five time championship winner unable to guide his new driver.”
“My only driver, Russell. Don’t forget it.”
Lap 47
Crofty: Blimey, I reckon that’s the first time Mercedes have let Russell’s radio go public today. Did my ears deceive me or was I hearing the voice of Max Verstappen on the other side of the microphone? But, it couldn’t be—and what a phenomenal pit stop for Russell, only clocking 2.0 seconds! He’s back in the pit lane and will he be able to do it, will he be able to overtake Lando Norris who has been leading him in this race by a maximum of four-tenths at any given point—YES HE DOES! Russell is now P2 after nearly kissing Norris’ tires with that impressive overtake!
Crofty: It seems like Mercedes have dropped an official announcement during the race! This just in, Max Verstappen, recently retired from his seat in Red Bull Racing after winning his fifth championship, has walked out in AMG colors into George Russell's garage, everyone—oh, oh. This is just in from Toto Wolff. Max is officially George’s new race engineer. Wow. Certainly didn’t see that coming.
Lap 52
Crofty: And with that final overtake in Turn 16, passing the home crowd’s golden boy Piastri, ladies and gentlemen, George Russell is your 2026 Australian Grand Prix winner! Take a bow, George Russell and Max Verstappen.
📍Brackley, England
January - February 2026
Formula One 2026 Pre-Season
George thinks he’s hallucinating when he looks at the entrance to the boardroom at Brackley’s headquarters.
“Whoa, Max? What are you doing here?!”
It’s Andrea’s voice ricocheting off the walls, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he kicks back to rush over to the newest figure in the room. George’s face warps with confusion, empty fist curling around air while looking around the room for answers. Across from him, Marcus has the courtesy of grimacing at George’s utter dismay.
What the hell is that supposed to mean, exactly?
“Max, come in, come in. Kimi, let him breathe!” Toto’s voice is the equivalent of a blade lancing into his skin. He’s inviting Max into the boardroom, into their team strategy meeting.
Only then, when George shifts his gaze cautiously to an approaching Max, who accepts Toto’s words with a taut nod, does he fucking see it.
The small Mercedes logo on the corner of Max Verstappen’s shirt.
Five-time Formula One World Driver’s Champion for Red Bull Racing Max Verstappen until his abrupt retirement announcement at the end of Abu Dhabi 2025 after blowing Mclaren out of the water and claiming victory from right under the noses.
Bile swims up George’s esophagus.
He eyes the way Andrea excitedly returns to his seat in the adjacent chair at George’s side, Max awkwardly inching into the room to take the empty one on Marcus’ right. Well rested, slightly sunburnt. Blue eyes burning gold.
Is this the definition of retirement to him?
Why in the world is he in a meeting at Brackley?
The thing is, George is here now, but he doesn’t forget the hell Toto had basically made his life over the last couple of months regarding his contract renewal. When the pictures from summer break surfaced on the internet, he’d assumed the worst, and pushed for more than a one plus one on his contract because he did not want to be a mere seat-filler. This was his place; he’d rightfully earned it and carried the team to P2 in the Constructors Championship.
And yet, it’s a nightmare that continues to haunt him in the daylight, Max Verstappen sitting across him.
“Alright, I’m glad the entire team is here,” says Toto.
For a second, George almost leans in and bursts out into an affronted I beg your fucking pardon.
“This is the surprise I have been dying to tell everyone about! Meet the newest member of George’s garage, everyone. His only race engineer going forward, Max Verstappen.”
George’s jaw drops.
At his side, Andrea whispers in awe, “No way, that’s so cool, what the fuck?”
And, really, he’s waiting for the cameras to come out and start pointing out how this is a joke. That he is the main part of the punchline and they’re meant to laugh with rolling stomachs at this point. None of that happens, though. No social media admin pops up. Only Netflix cameras film the beginnings of what might be the ultimate generational crashout of his entire life.
His only race engineer.
What the fucking hell is that supposed to mean? Since when did racing become a one-man sport?
“I don’t understand.” George’s brain is static, cotton-filled, muddled. His voice is grainy, brittle, just short of a crack. “How? When? Why was I not—my contract states I’m to be made aware of important team changes that could affect performance and dynamic.”
“It also states that there shall be compromises for the betterment of the team, especially if it plays a role in securing a Driver’s Championship and Constructors Championship contender from the first race, George,” Toto drawls, chalk on an outdated black board. “Those were exclusive clauses we ensured you agreed with when you re-signed back in November.”
November.
That’s how long they had strung him along, all for them to shoot him in the back with this bullshit. They had to have known back then. It’s the only reason they would have added such a stupid thing in the fine print.
Of all the things he assumed it would mean, Max Verstappen had not been one of them.
Here’s the unusual thing George thinks he shouldn't focus on — the crisp scent of menthol that hovers in the air from the moment Max entered the room. How different he looks without his usual Red Bull shirt and skinny jeans. Peculiar, out of place. Like a puzzle piece looking for a slot to nestle into. Traces of stubble run along his jaw and chin, mustache trimmed and neat, slightly thinned out. The craziest part of this whole thing is how he looks up and meets George’s deathly gaze right in the middle with anything but the vitriol he has held in his eyes.
Why is he thinking about this? He needs to think about anything besides this.
“I guess I did,” George grits out. “Then, I guess congratulations are in order. Welcome, Max.”
Welcome to hell.
🚬
squad ‘19
would you believe me if i said i have a brand new race engineer?
lando
not particularly no, mate
you haven’t complained about marcus since
well, it’s been a while. can’t even remember, damn
singapore last year?
alex
why the sudden change though? doesn’t that fundamentally screw up your foundation of racing since you’ve already established some kind of understanding with marcus
one would think, right?
i don’t get it
i don’t get toto
i feel like he’s just trying to fuck me over because i was ruthless during negotiations last year
lando
if you don’t fight for yourself, who the fuck will, mate
what’s his deal anyway
why’d he change the engineer?
p2 in wcc isn’t horrid, you’ve got a sizable amount in the amg bank, no?
alex
before the start of the new season, too
with the new changes coming in
oddly suspicious
who is it, george?
lando
yeah, who is it?
i mean, i doubt this person even knows much about the new rules to actually put it into effect but i don’t
i don’t get how he’s meant to help me
i can’t say who yet, mate
sorry, it’s strictly confidential until the races begin
team rules
call us mercedes mermaid rules i guess
alex
better than papaya rules
cost you bastards a damn wdc @lando
lando
bruv, i just think no one can stop max, no matter how good the car is
it’s embarrassing but fuck
he destroyed us
he’s not level-headed
alex
depends on what day you catch him
really
still can’t believe the man retired just like that
wasn’t he like talks with ferrari and…
lando
mercedes, obviously
sorry, mate, it’s just the truth
he’s the reason your negotiations went on forever
toto’s fucking wet dream to get max into the team
hilarious
yeah.
i guess
have a meeting now, speak to you guys soon
alex
cool cool
lando
yep 👍
🚬
Liked by alex_albon and others
georgerussell63 Pit stop from the grind 💪
alex_albon Thought you said you had nothing to smile about in life ☹️
🚬
Max Verstappen Updates @MV1_Report
Max has now followed George Russel (@/georgerussell63) back on Instagram!
[Alt text: Image depicting a screenshot from Instagram showing Max has followed George Russel, F1 driver for AMG Petronas F1 Team, back.]
19:14 • 2025/02/09 • 23K Views
💬 398 🔁4.6K ❤️9.5K 🔖387
📍Shanghai, China
March 2026
Shanghai Grand Prix Week
Max is all anyone can talk about.
See, George had expected it in his hypothetical scenario, but seeing it play out in front of him is a completely other story, one that rubs grains of coarse salt into his Mercedes-inflicted wounds.
It starts in the media pen immediately after stepping out into Parc fermé, parking behind the P1 standee. It’s a thing of emotion built on a background of inevitability, the hope of this moment coming back to him over and over again.
When he launches into the team behind the barricade waiting for him, Max catches his eye.
In his head, for the briefest, oddest moment, his mind flashes back to 2023. Watch the onboard, is what George had told him then. Now, he fucking lives in his brain during races. How the tide had shifted more than George could have ever imagined, against his favor.
Truthfully, it isn’t bad. But, they have history. Mostly bad, some neutral. The point is, history. It matters in the scape of things.
He’s drawn out of his head when Andrea launches into him after he heads back to where the others are. Oscar is next to him, Lando on the other side, George sandwiched by orange as the sun sets behind him.
“George! George! You won, mate! You fucking won! Whoooo! I’m so happy, did you see I made P4? Double points in race one!”
He’s practically vibrating out of his skin, and George is a little surprised, because Kimi doesn’t actually do this. While he’s plausible he’s simply excited because he had qualified in P11 and managed to work his way up to an impressive P4, George holds some apprehension, but the cameras are quicker than his neurons, so he discards the sleeve of questions lining up in his brain. Holds a helmet in one hand, wraps the other around Andrea’s shoulders.
Shortly after weighing, his living nightmare begins.
“Max being your race engineer was not on anyone’s cards this year.” Fucking stellar journalism, he’ll give them that. Were they just handing out degrees to anyone on the road nowadays? “How did it come about?”
Nothing about a good race. Nothing about his driving. Nothing about the fact that he almost lost a couple years off his life due to the sheer stress he put himself in by going so close on the inside to overtake Oscar that he almost took both of them out at the same time. Nothing about that, really.
It’s all about Max.
“Not sure, exactly. Those terms weren’t discussed with me, he just entered a board meeting pre-season and I was informed,” George plasters a fake smile onto his lips. “Classic Max Verstappen, hey? Never let them know your next move.”
“Well, it’s a good thing, no? Your first win since Canada last year? How’s it feel, right at the start of the season? Do you think the team and the car are, situationally, in a place to be proper title contenders?”
“As you said, it’s only the start of the season,” George shrugs. “There’s no telling how anything will turn out. There are twenty three races left. The car was decent today, no complaints. Everyone’s been working exceptionally hard to put together something that makes it easier to drive out there. I’d love to say we are, but then again, it’s only been one race, as I said. Can’t get too ahead of ourselves.”
He has the cool down room and podiums left. How long will this take? How much more of it will revolve around Max?
“I think we can, though, if we consider Max as part of your team. How’s the dynamic in your garage been? Is he difficult to work with? That radio was pretty intense earlier.”
“Max and I have history,” is all George thinks, says, feels. “It’ll bleed into dialogue. It’s obvious. Four months ago, he was in a car next to me on the track. Now, he’s in my ear, telling me how to drive. It’s a transition period, truthfully. Races are races, things said, things done. You compartmentalize and move. Best bet. Cheers for the interview, mate. I’m being called, yeah.”
Then, he’s off. Out of the media pen, ignoring the cries of his name. George feels his bones ache in a way he hasn’t been intimate with in ages, dulling when he spots an oddity on the way to the cool down room. Max and Andrea stand at the entrance of George’s garage, the younger speaking animatedly between the two. He’s always been expressive. But, Max reciprocates.
Has he seen this man speak this much since January? George doesn’t think so.
It leaves the underneath of his skin itchy with discomfort, like a scratch he cannot reach. One he ignores for all he can manage, even when it manages to linger through the national anthem. God save him, not just the Queen. King, now, really.
Everything happens in slow motion. Champagne pops, Lando bathes him in it, Oscar targeting his just. George is soaked from head to toe, elevated. Golden liquid drops trickle down his mandible, hair curling into itself from the impact. Toto picks up his Constructors trophy, and George gives him a courtesy champagne shower, clinking bottles with Lando.
There’s a party after, because of course, there is. Someone puts a glass in his hand and the next thing he knows, he’s down five tequila shots, lime bitter between his teeth. In the middle of it, he’s kissing someone. Petite, slim, his hands encasing her waist. He doesn’t go home with her, though. Stumbles back to his hotel until he’s on the balcony, heels of his palm pushing into his eyes.
“Party over? This early?”
It’s the same voice that was taunting him inside his head earlier. Except, it’s on the other side of the balcony, a cigarette tucked between his lips, hands in pockets, overlooking the city lights.
“Yeah, well,” George struggles to answer with something he doesn’t particularly consider lame. “I left. Too loud.”
The music, the liquid, the people. It’s not his ideal scene, sometimes. He has to be in a mood to enjoy these things. Today was an anomaly, his brain stuck in a loop of my only driver, Russell. Why? Why is he even thinking about it? Max was being literal in the sense that he is the only person he focuses on during races.
“Didn’t know you were the type to not enjoy parties,” Max comments off-handed.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” George manages to kick out of his gut. His eyes are glassy, blurry, vision filled with blinding lights. “Nothing new there.”
We used to be friends, George wants to add on. Now, you're retired, and I’m still here.
Max doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. George is well aware the conversation has come to a full stop. Without wanting to wait more, he turns on his heel, ignoring the way menthol infiltrates his nostrils.
“George,” says Max.
Shoulders set firm. He doesn’t turn around. Refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“Drove pretty well today,” Max compliments. “But, both you and I know you can do better. It came too close today.”
And, the thing is, George knows. A win is a win, but the fact that it had taken him that long to secure his place, for how long it took for him to pounce on the Mclarens for any minor mistake, it shouldn’t matter. Yet, it does. That’s why he wasn’t able to celebrate properly—Max is right, he can do so much better.
“As long as I don’t die, I think I’m safe. No stress, yeah?” George bites out, already walking inside. The last thing he sees is an ocean of hazy blue pouring into his body, piercing deep.
He doesn’t wait to see or hear whatever Max has to say as a rebuttal. Quite frankly, George does not give a fuck about it, either.
🚬
In all honesty, George forgets he’s sharing a private jet with Lando, Alex, Carlos, Andrea and Charles tomorrow. It’s quicker and decreases their fuel consumption, but it’s hardly something they pay attention to these days given the nature of their work.
Obviously, he’s cornered as soon as he takes a seat, Alex sitting opposite him with a shit-eating grin. George would smack it off him, but he’s not in the mood to argue with Lily over bruising her boyfriend.
“So, the new race engineer, huh?” Alex hums, elated.
The highlight of Alex’s year, George figures. How lovely for his nosey best friend finding purpose in life once more.
“What about it?” George responds, nursing a splitting headache simultaneously.
Somehow, Max’s freakish menthol tendrils flooded through the cracks of the balcony door and George felt it settle over him like a goddamn blanket, thick and suffocating. Sleep had not been fun at all, nor had it come easy.
“Y’know Charles invited him to join us today, right? He’s likely gonna be still traveling with us like this, just like before,” Alex grimaces when he catches George’s unenthused reaction to the news. “Come on, George. Speak to me, mate.”
“What do you want me to say, Alex?” George deadpans. “Truly, what? Did I even win yesterday? It’s everywhere. It’s like—” He stops abruptly when movement in his periphery alerts him to new entrances made into the plane. “Leave it, okay. One of those things. Live and move on, I guess.”
“No,” Alex rolls his eyes. “That’s not how things work.”
“It’s how it’s working for now, then,” George gets the last word in, no intention in entertaining anything else Alex has to say to him. He’s a mirage of polished edges and will not be swayed to crack in the face of one hurdle in the name of Max Verstappen. “Please, Alex. Leave it be.”
The nice thing is Alex doesn’t push, which gives George a semblance of peace which lasts for a brief period until the pilot has them safely in the air.
“George,” Charles grins, finally remembers the existence of everyone around him after sticking to Carlos for the last fifteen minutes. It’s fair, he can’t lie—it’s just that their honeymoon phase has lasted for almost two years now, which is sickening, in a way. “May I ask a question?”
Andrea and Max are seated together a few rows behind, something George had only spotted when he stretched his limbs out after the seatbelt sign had been turned off. He wasn’t looking per se. Why would he be looking for trouble?
“Yes, Charles?” asks George, exhausted.
It’s a long-haul flight to Shanghai; how much more of this must he be subjected to?
“What’s it like having Max as your race engineer?” He chuckles, leaning against the back of his seat. “Is it more intense than it seems?”
“Yeah,” Lando chirps up quickly. “No heads in the wall yet, mate?”
Nearly hissing at Lando, George scowls. “Not yet, thanks for the concern, Norris.”
“I am still very curious, George, Max,” Carlos leans in, eyes flitting between the two. “How did this even come about? Weren’t you telling Charles you were looking forward to settling down?”
“And now you’re suddenly in the Mercedes garage talking George through it,” Charles grins slyly. “The race, of course, Max. Don’t let your mind wander.”
“Your frontal lobe is not fully developed,” Max murmurs, shaking his head. Still, he pays attention to whatever Andrea had been showing him on his phone, unperturbed. “Things change. Things, people, everything. Simple as that.”
“But, George?” Lando cocks his head, curious. “Am I the only one who remembers the time they were like they’ve completely lost respect for each other?”
“You’re not,” Alex shakes his head, trying to hide his smile. “You’re just the only one who brings it up every three working days because you wanted them to keep fighting.”
“What’s life without a little entertainment, mate?” Lando wiggles his eyebrows.
George cannot believe Max has put them in this situation. What are the odds of him wanting to keep things drama free lasting for less than one race in the new season?
“George hasn’t said anything,” Lando continues. Could he catch a hint or would George genuinely have to speak through this throbbing headache to get him to shut up? “Seriously, jokes aside, George. You okay? You and Marcus took time to settle, but it was eventually okay? What’s Toto’s deal here? Couldn’t get Max in a seat so he wanted him behind it?”
George’s entire body turns to arctic levels of cold. If possible, he thinks his entire body would resemble bruised blues and purple. The mere insinuation feels like someone has cut every internal organ in his body and left him to bleed out.
He’d thought of this being a possibility, is the thing. However, he didn’t think it would hit this close to home so soon.
Max being in the one in his head, the new mastermind behind the scenes. Orchestrating, commanding. George is the one who will drive, but because of history, because of how things are and have always been, Max will get the credit. They are the perfect antithesis of each other; he swears Toto even mentioned how perfect their personalities are suited, but George didn’t see it.
Whenever Max is in the same room as him these days, it feels like all four walls are on fire and he is voluntarily standing in a burning room, waiting for his end.
George had hoped he would still be taken seriously, at least. But, if this is what his fellow drivers on the grid think, what would be the opinion of people in general? He no longer belongs to himself, in essence. He hasn’t belonged to himself in a while, but this one is easier to digest because the sensation is palpable.
“Just peachy,” George murmurs, slipping his airpods in, his cue for not wanting to be disturbed further on the flight.
“Now you’ve upset him, what a dick move, Lando,” Alex slaps his shoulder, pushing Lando away from them. “What, if Oscar had to become your race engineer, would people suddenly be saying he’s the reason you’re doing better?”
“Well, no—”
“It’s not the case for George either,” Max intrudes gently, unbothered to look up at the intended audience. “He hasn’t been driving for years just to have his skills chalked up to someone in his ear. Relaying a strategy isn’t the end all, y’know. You’ve gotta be able to execute it well.”
“We’re not saying that, of course,” Charles defends Lando. “George, it’s not like that at all. We’re just surprised, and I’m more surprised by you,” Charles narrows his eyes perceptively. “We’ll talk in Shanghai, Max.”
No one speaks about it again, and at some point of the flight, Andrea cajoles his way into the seat next to George’s and doesn’t leave his side.
The feeling of smoke invading his lungs doesn’t end, even if all he can fathom is the ghost of menthol running tracks through his mind.
🚬
The social media team is sometimes the bane of George’s existence.
The moment they touch down in Shanghai, George is given exactly one hour to recalibrate before they’re leading him and Andrea by an invisible leash under the guise of content creation. On the plane, they’d been sent videos of possible foods they would like to try to eat. After choosing, they were told to be ready. He doesn’t get the idea behind a vlog, but it’s a nice way to get it off his mind.
The it in question is not up for discussion.
The place they go to is Andrea’s choice, and George rolls his eyes in amusement when the younger practically jumps out of his seat while picking the crab roe noodles. George opts for something safer like the dumplings, remembering the fact that the camera is on them a few seconds too late.
“Uhum,” He clears his throat. “You’ve been excited to try this, haven’t you, Kimi? It’s weird, I didn’t think you’d like this.”
“I mean, the videos looked good,” Andrea nods, grinning, taking George’s cue. “It would’ve been nice if Max joined us. I’ve been telling him about these since last week.”
George tries not to show how difficult it is to swallow the bitterness Andrea’s words bring to him.
“Next time, then,” George pretends the words don’t come out like cut glass scraping down his throat. His attention turns to the person behind the camera. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin. That only means you have one of your games for us to play.”
“Fancy a round of This or That while we wait for your food? Speed edition?” She offers, like she had it up her sleeve this entire time.
Really, he could say no. He won’t, though, because Andrea sort of lights up at it, and George has the biggest soft spot for him.
“Yes, he’s agreed!” Andrea cheers. “George first, because what if he changes his mind?”
“I mean, I won’t, but sure,” George agrees. First in, first out. Isn’t that how the saying goes? “Alright, hit me with it.”
“Your 2024 wins, Austria or Vegas?”
“Vegas,” He answers immediately. “No Toto telling me I can win this while I’m on the braking sure made it better. Plus, it’s Vegas. Lights and all.”
“Lewis or Kimi?”
Even Andrea is intrigued, leaning closer on the table.
“Having a seven time world champion as a teammate wasn’t bad, it was just a measurement, y’know? That I’m up there to be able to compete with the best, in the same team, no less. That was a real vote of confidence. But, Kimi is wonderful, so Kimi. I have nothing against Lewis, we’re great mates, but Kimi’s seriously like my own child.”
“We have only nine years between us,” Andrea huffs, indignant. “But, you are my favorite too, obviously. I learn so much from you.”
It’s sweet. George knows he’s always genuine about it, too.
“Okay, earlier to a party or later?”
“Later,” He answers.
No brainer.
“Peaky Blinders or House of Guiness?”
“Peaky Blinders, what even is that question?”
Summer or winter?”
“Winter.”
“Max or Toto?”
“Max—”
The stop comes abruptly.
George’s eyes widen. Andrea’s eyes widen. Even the admin’s eyes turn into saucers. All that can be heard is the restaurant’s background chatter, the foreign language falling into deaf ears. There’s tinnitus, a full minute of it, his fingers grasping around nothing but invisible straws.
Fixing this would be easy. Like how he explained the others, he could continue. Max is new, Toto has always been there. Max isn’t even an adequate comparison. Max doesn’t deserve to be involved in this segment at all.
He doesn’t.
“Remove that last part,” is all he says, their food arriving at the table right at the moment.
The short vlog doesn’t make it onto the AMG Petronas F1 Team Tiktok page.
George tries to forget about it.
(He can’t.)
🚬
The 1.2km stretch of straights in Shanghai gives George time to think on the track. Right between Turn 13 and 14.
For a few minutes, that is. Then.
“Don’t lose power,” Max’s voice beeps through the radio. “Focus. You’re on softs. This is only FP1. You’ve got a qualifying sprint next.”
“Wow, race engineer of the century,” George replies, sarcastic. He’s about to get back onto the track for a new lap, Charles currently with the fastest of 1:31.06. Max is annoying like that, enjoys giving the exact number to the last digit to be precise. Currently, his last lap was 1:31.24. He’s close, tasting P3 at the moment. “I can finish first here, I’m sure.”
“Alright,” He pictures Max nodding slowly. “What’s it gonna take for you to get it?”
“Not much,” George has to admit. “Car is… decent, again. I’ve just gotta get into SQ3 and then place for pole tomorrow.”
This is one of the tamest conversations he and Max have had over the radio.
“You will,” Max is so calm it’s mildly eerie. “Race as you have. As you do. Be careful around the corners, but this track isn’t bad. You got yourself a podium last year.”
“The lowest one,” George replies.
“Then get the highest one this year,” Max hums. “Balance it out.”
“Is it that easy?” George cannot believe the quiet in his voice, the misted calm. A normal conversation. “Just to ask. Really?”
“Pretty much is if I believe in my driver,” Max responds, smooth. “Push to P1, George. You can understeer around the next one and then go full power, or reserve for the sprint. It’s up to you. Either way, I know you’re finishing with a win this weekend.”
“You frustrate me,” George replicates the calm, watching the kilometers tick up. That much confidence, he doesn’t even have it in his own self sometimes. Yet, here Max is, as if all George should do is believe. “You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met in my life, Max Verstappen.”
“Okay. That’s fine. Picture me at the finish line and come fight with me, then. Come to me, George.”
For FP1, George Russell’s name is at the top of the leaderboard.
🚬
Eight points in the sprint. Twenty five points in the Shanghai Grand Prix. Fifty eight points on the board.
Two for two.
Ideally, George should be on top of the world.
Yet, when he picks up the trophy in his hand, his stomach grinds and twists and gnaws into itself. The sense of impending dooms is strong. The sense of security cannot be worked in, because he feels odd. Like a blanket of insecurity, clouded by a falsehood of praise. These people on the ground may be looking at him, but they see Max. He knows this, he feels it.
Imposter syndrome.
This is supposed to be everything George has ever wanted in his entire life, yet he cannot help but think like every single person out there in the crowd probably does — this does not belong to him, this is only because of Max. It feels like the very foundation of his entire being has been shattered into remnants of what resembled a whole.
But, then it happens.
George looks down.
All he can see is an ocean of blue looking up at him, simultaneously drowning him from the inside out.
🚬
Max’s hotel door opens after three knocks.
“Something you need?” Max asks, curious, letting the door run backwards.
Freshly showered, plain white shirt. Black sweatpants. Menthol radiating off his figure. The habit is made of filth of lack of discipline; George doesn’t even know when he picked it up.
“You to answer a question,” George doesn’t realize how raspy his voice is, hours of disuse showing signs.
Max rolls his shoulders, waiting for George to continue.
“What’s going on with you? How are you so calm? How are you so normal? This isn’t you, I know you. You’re a terror and irrational with the biggest fucking ego I’ve ever seen on anyone in my entire life—”
“Like looking into a mirror,” Max mumbles under his breath, but George is so immersed in his turmoil that he doesn’t notice the murmuring mid-crash out.
“—and it’s absurd to me because your radios have gone viral, your behavior has been everywhere. You can’t tell me that you’ve thrown away the near ten years of personality you curated around this fucking sport and just expect me to be okay when I don’t know who I’m going to encounter every single day for the foreseeable future, Max! We’ve fought! You fucking cornered me and threatened to put my head into the wall, you bloody dickhead. Why the hell are you switching up?!”
Max’s lips are thin, unamused.
“Why won’t you say anything?” George has lowered himself to practically begging. This is the equivalent of getting onto his knees and groveling for an answer. His pretty crystal eyes, blue and blurred, are spotted with red from straining and tearing up out of frustration and confusion. “Max, I don’t—it’s so strange and I don’t know, I don’t know what your plan is here, I don’t understand your angle or what you’re trying to pull, but I’m not gonna just take it, okay? I refuse to—”
The first time Max had threatened to put his head into a wall had been violent. George had felt a thrill down his spine, the type born from fear of the known. See, he knew Max. Thought he knew what he was capable of. It was two years ago, but it was a running thing. They didn’t speak for six months, and then, they were fine. Fine. Life just fucking happened, really.
The first time Max actually puts George’s head into the wall is because he pulls him into his hotel room, pushes George back into the now closed door, and smashes their faces together, lips colliding into a painful, messy mix.
Here’s the part George doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to explain: he kisses Max back with equal fervor, matching his energy and movement, biting into his lips, dangling arms crossing over his back, wrists locking at the neck to keep Max in place. Max’s hands find purchase at his hips, lower segment of his spine over the door handle while it is being dug into the bone.
Menthol is inhaled into his gut, and all the anxiety George had been riddled with is immediately settled.
Max kisses George within every inch of his life, and George doesn’t think this is an ideal answer, but this is the only one Max is willing to give him for now.
So, he shuts up and kisses back harder.
“Bed,” He demands.
“Whatever you want,” Max agrees.
There he goes again, sending George right into the deep end of the ocean.
This time, he willingly drowns.