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The first time they ever hooked up it was a hushed thing, a stolen moment in the darkness of George’s hotel room early on in the 2024 season. It stayed that way for a long time, veiled in the darkness of hotel rooms all around the world, so dark it was almost possible to pretend he was fucking anyone other than Max.
Over time their ‘meetings’ became a thing of light too, afternoons, mornings sometimes, spent in each other’s homes. And the light brought with it a certain kind of softness that they both knew they shouldn’t have indulged in, the kind that breeds feelings.
When Qatar rolled around George thought that would be enough to squash them, to maybe even put an end to the whole ordeal, but they’d carried on anyway.
And so here they are, in Max’s bedroom, days before the first race of 2026, still harbouring those feelings.
“You can turn on the light you know,” Max says, sitting on his bed and watching in amusement as George gets dressed.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, pulling his shirt over his head. It’s just about bright enough for him to see what he’s doing and it feels natural that they should end it in the way they began, basked in silvery moonlight.
Because this is the end.
George has felt it coming for a long time now, and maybe Max has too. They’ll be each other’s main rivals this year and it would be ridiculous to keep doing… whatever this is.
“You okay?” Max asks suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts. “You’re strangely quiet tonight.”
“Yeah I’m fine. I’m just… thinking,” he sighs, reaching for his trousers. He pulls them on slowly, ignoring the way he can feel Max’s eyes on him. He’s fully aware of the fact that Max is probably trying to read his mind, and the knowledge that that is something he’s somewhat capable of now makes him feel off-kilter.
This has to end now.
Because he can’t go into the season with his biggest rival being able to read him like a book. He doesn’t want Max to be in the back of his mind when he’s in the paddock. He doesn’t even want to be in the back of Max’s mind. He wants to focus fully on what might be the most important season of his career, unburdened by feelings like love.
“Max, we can't do this anymore,” George says, finally.
He draws in a deep breath, composing himself, and waits to see Max’s reaction. Though his face is partially obscured by darkness, it seems like his expression doesn’t change.
He doesn’t seem shocked.
George can’t tell if that’s a disappointment or a relief.
“I know,” Max replies eventually. “But stay until the morning?”
There’s a hint of hope twisting at the edge of his voice and it’s the only reason George nods. He’s never been good at leaving, especially not where he feels wanted.
“Okay,” he breathes.
“Okay,” Max repeats. The harsh edges of his face break into a smile and it makes him feel like he’s doing the right thing.
He’s already here. A few more hours won’t make a difference, not in the long run. What is one night compared to the hours and hours and hours they’ve spent together? So he takes off his trousers and pulls off his shirt, leaving them neatly folded on the dresser, and crawls back into Max’s bed.
Max immediately pulls him in close, humming in satisfaction.
“Your feet are so cold,” Max complains as if he hasn’t said the same thing a dozen times before.
George cracks a smile, pressing his feet against Max’s calves and delighting in the way Max squirms.
“How are you always so fucking cold?” Max grumbles.
“Sorry we can’t all be a bloody furnace like you,” George replies, despite the fact that he very much loves how warm Max can be.
There are few places on earth that make him feel safer and warmer than being in Max’s arms like this.
And it’s not just the physical warmth, it’s the air that Max is able to create, the trust that somehow still exists between them. It’s the way they’ve both told each other things that no one else knows. It’s the way George is able to be the truest, rawest version of himself around Max and know that it’s safe to do so.
Obviously he will never forget Qatar, how easily Max said things that he knew would hurt him. But he also knows that there were so many things Max could’ve said that would’ve cut him deeper but he didn’t, even after George retaliated and drew his blood in return, Max never crossed the line.
And that means something to him.
In the time between Qatar and now that trust has only grown, even with the mishap in Spain, and George is honestly starting to feel like Max is the only other soul on this planet capable of truly understanding him.
If he’d only let him.
But he can’t, because a day was always going to come where the only thing standing in between George and a championship, would be Max. And so he hid, not fully but in part.
But that day has come now, and George feels like Max sees him anyway.
He wishes that was something he didn’t have to fear.
He rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting his imagination carry him for a moment, trying to imagine a world where they’re normal people.
“Max,” he whispers, “what do you think you would be if you weren’t a driver?”
Max hums, thinking. He’s always so quick to indulge George in silly little conversations like this.
“I don’t know, maybe a streamer,” he offers quietly.
Typical Max.
“I probably could’ve guessed that,” George jabs, smiling to himself. It’s nice sometimes, how straightforward Max can be.
"I guess it is very obvious,” Max concedes. “What about you? What would you be?”
He feels Max shuffling around, inching closer so that their shoulders are touching, but he doesn’t look, just keeps staring up at the ceiling and letting his imagination run wild.
He always says he would be a farmer, it’s what he wanted as a child and so it’s easy to hold onto that, but deep down he feels like there are so many other things he could’ve tried. When he was a child, farming was really the only thing he saw, but he is not a child anymore. He knows so much more about the world around him, about himself.
“I think I’d be a good teacher,” he confesses. “Maybe not in a primary school, but I think I’d do well as, like, a professor at a nice university.”
“Yeah I can see that,” Max hums. “You have nice social skills and you’re good at explaining things. What would you teach?”
“I don’t know,” he smiles. That’s half the thrill of imagining, he doesn’t have to know. “I was terrible at most subjects in school but maybe that’s because I didn’t study enough.”
“Did any of us?” Max laughs playfully. “I could see you being a historian or something though.”
“That’s interesting,” George hums. He closes his eyes and tries to picture it.
He’s lecturing students on the cold war or Elizabethan England or whatever and they’re engaged and asking questions. And then he’s packing up his things at the end of class for the next professor but he’s running a little behind schedule and the other professor isn’t very happy with him.
‘Hurry up Russell,’ he’s saying with an all too familiar rasp to his voice.
George looks up and he’s staring at piercing blue eyes.
And sure maybe he’s a little obsessed but the concept of Max being a professor too doesn’t seem that far-fetched.
“I can imagine you as a professor too,” he states, turning to face Max, who just laughs him off.
“Me?”
“Well yeah,” he insists. “You’d be more laid back about it, and probably less organised, but you’re good at explaining things too.”
“Maybe,” Max admits. “Or maybe you just can’t stay away from me, even in your imagination.”
“You’ve got to do something about that huge ego of yours,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes playfully.
But he’s self aware enough to admit to himself, at least, that Max isn’t wrong.
George keeps Max in his mind, because he cannot keep him in his heart.
“That’s rich coming from you,” Max replies, pulling George out of that spiral before it can begin. “You know-”
But whatever he wants to say gets cut off by yawn, which in turn, makes George yawn too.
“We should probably get some sleep,” he suggests. He doesn’t have to be up early tomorrow but with the season starting now he has to take his sleep schedule seriously again.
If they were professors they could stay up all night talking and teasing each other, and go to work with nothing but coffee to get through the day.
Everything would be so much simpler if they were professors instead.
He wakes up after Max which is strange.
His head is on Max’s chest and the dutchman is slowly carding his fingers through George’s hair absentmindedly as he scrolls on his phone. He savours the feeling for a moment, hating how bittersweet it turns when he realises that this may very well be the last time he wakes up like this.
“Morning sleepy,” Max says softly, putting his phone down. “Sleep well?”
“Mhmm,” George nods.
“Good,” he replies, gazing down at him softly.
That’s all it takes for a pit to open up at the bottom of George’s stomach. Because soon Max is going to drive him home and this will all be a thing of the past. There’s a tiny spark of hope that maybe this year won’t be a catastrophe, that maybe after Abu Dhabi there will be the potential to try again.
But he doubts it.
“I was thinking I could make those sandwiches you like for breakfast,” Max says. He’s of course referring to the one thing he actually makes well, fresh bread with eggs, bacon, and avocado.
George does not acknowledge the thought that this will be the last time he has them.
“Yeah that sounds good,” he says, sitting up and stretching. “I’ll just shower first.”
“Of course,” Max nods. “Take your time, there’s no rush.”
Something like desperation creeps in like an invitation in his voice and George knows that’s the closest he’ll get to Max asking him not to do this, to stay.
And so he does. He stays cuddled up in Max’s arms, occasionally being nosy and peeking at his phone, until he starts needing to pee and can’t put off starting his day any longer.
“I’m gonna shower,” he sighs, rolling out of bed. He immediately feels cold without Max’s arms around him but it’s a cold that he’ll have to get used to.
They’ve been doing this for long enough that Max doesn’t have to get him a towel or do anything really. He just watches George go and calls out to him,
“I’ll go to the bakery then, call me if you need anything.”
George grunts affirmatively, and he can feel Max’s eyes on him but he does not turn around. Even if this isn’t it, he does not want to watch Max watch him leave.
He brushes his teeth with his own personal toothbrush and tries not to think about how he’ll have to get rid of it after this. Instead he listens to the sounds of Max shuffling around and the click of the front door closing behind him.
The bakery isn’t far, Max can be there and back within ten minutes, probably before George is even done showering. They’d gone together once, early in the morning during the summer break, after a night of drinking and laughing and absolutely no sleep, been there when it opened and bought a few of the things that are usually sold out later in the day. It was the first time George ever tasted their almond croissants.
He was so drunk that the memory is spotty now. He doesn’t recall eating one but he remembers tasting the almond filling on Max’s lips. He'll never forget it.
He throws his toothbrush in the bin when he’s done.
In the shower, he uses Max’s soap. It’s a 2-in-1 shampoo-shower gel that he used to tease him endlessly for but overtime he’s started to like it. It smells nice. He briefly considers buying himself a bottle of it later but the thought is too pathetically self-pitying for him to entertain.
He almost wants to take back what he said last night about this being the last time. Maybe it would hurt less that way, letting things play out naturally.
It would be easier to walk away after a fight, angry and hurt, than it is to leave things like this.
With piles and piles of potential.
He’s always hated ‘what if’s but he knows he’ll carry this one for a long time. Because what if it works? What if he's about to end things with the only person that could ever truly love him or know him for no reason?
But he can’t afford to think like that.
He hates Max for doing this to him. They’d started hooking up out of convenience, sex without an nda and with no feelings involved. Yet somehow George has still ended up here, heart full of an emotion he’s not brave enough to name.
Max feels it too.
He hasn’t said it but George sees it anyway, feels it even. It’s in the way he seeks George out in the paddock, the way he lays himself bare for George to learn. It’s in his voice when he praises George after wins, when he consoles him and builds him back up after tough races.
It’s everywhere.
It’s been there since Vegas in 2024, and for a while George had been able to ignore it because someone who loves cares about him wouldn’t do the things Max did in Qatar.
But in the year between then and now the thing that Max feels has become more and more obvious, too strong for George to pretend that it is not what it is. Still, he’s ignored it and if he’s lasted this long, then he can certainly last another year.
As for his own feelings, well, he’s always been good at managing those.
“Schat how much longer are you gonna be in there?” Max calls through the door. George hadn’t even heard him come back. “Are you trying to bankrupt me with the water bill?”
“Fuck off mate,” George bites back, scowling even though Max isn’t here to see it. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Ten minutes later he’s strolling into the kitchen-dining room.
Max doesn’t notice him too focused on his washing up as he stands by the sink, with his back to the door.
So obviously George decides to sneak up on him.
“Boo!” He shouts, grabbing Max’s shoulders.
He immediately jumps, whirling round, “fuck.”
George bursts out laughing at the sight, but Max gets his own back immediately, smacking him gently with a wet hand.
“Shut up,” he grumbles when even that does nothing to stop George’s laughter.
“You should’ve seen your face,” he wheezes.
“Yes yes very funny,” Max huffs, rolling his eyes. “Your food is in the microwave but it’s probably cold anyway now. I could’ve driven a whole race in the time it took you to shower.”
George doesn’t say anything back, just pulls a face, and wanders over to the microwave. True to Max’s word, their sandwiches have gone cold but he doesn’t heat them up because he doesn’t want the bread to get soggy. He carries them over to the table, while Max finishes with the dishes.
“You’ll never guess what they had at the bakery today,” Max says over his shoulder.
“What?”
“Those almond croissants that you liked.”
“Really?” George gasps, delighted. He’s only ever had them that one time because you literally have to be there when the doors open to get them before they sell out.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Max chuckles. “Apparently they tried to experiment with a different menu today and so they made extra.”
The slightly more delusional part of George wants to say that it’s a sign. The rare treat they shared together once, becoming more common on today of all days must be the universes way of telling him to keep going.
But the more rational part of him knows that croissants are just croissants. There are no signs.
“So where are they?” George asks, eyes scanning the kitchen. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get them.”
“I got a box of four,” Max grins, walking over. “They’re in the car. I don’t want you to forget them when I drive you home.”
When I drive you home.
George nods calmly despite the way a pit opens up again in his stomach at that last part. He’s not sure how Max can say that without caring but maybe he too is trying to ignore the fact that this is the end.
“Thanks,” he smiles.
Max just waves him off, sitting down across from him at the dining table.
The sandwich is indeed a little cold, as Max said it would be, but it’s still nice. These sandwiches are genuinely the only thing Max knows how to make that George is certain won’t give him some sort of food poisoning and he knows Max likes doing little things like this for him so he always indulges. Even though he should probably be committing to his diet.
“It’s delicious,” he says, just to fill the silence.
“It’s cold, that’s what it is,” Max replies. “You should have told me you wanted to spend ages in the shower. I wouldn’t have made it so early.”
“I lost track of time,” he chuckles, bewildered. “And I gave you a compliment, Max. Most people would just say thank you.”
“Yeah well most people also don’t spend ten years in the shower,” Max shrugs.
Argumentative prick.
They carry on eating quietly but the silence doesn’t feel so heavy now. It’s just another morning, with familiar company and familiar food. The final bite comes too soon and the taste lingers on his tongue.
And he prides himself on rational thinking so he doesn’t listen to the thought that he may taste it again someday soon.
“So…” Max says quietly, blue eyes drilling into George with an emotion he can’t quite place. “Are you ready?”
He ignores the way his heart drops in anticipation of what comes next. "Yep."
“Then let’s go.”
It is perhaps the most awkward car ride they’ve ever shared.
It’s so quiet that George can hear the movement of croissants shifting inside their little white cardboard box, where it lies upon his lap.
Even when they’ve fought in the past, the silence wasn’t quite this charged. George can practically hear Max’s brain whirring and churning out thoughts and he knows that he’ll never get to hear any of them. The same way Max won’t hear his thoughts either.
It’s almost comical.
They always have so much to say to each other, hurling heavy insults or lighthearted jabs out before they’ve even turned into fully formed opinions, but now they have all these fleshed out feelings and neither of them are brave enough to voice them.
So many words they’ll never say, and words they’ll never hear.
But it doesn’t have to be this way, George thinks. What is stopping them from being honest for once?
Because even if this is the end, they can at least lay all their cards on the table first, leave with the full picture at least. If they don’t say anything, George is going to head into the season with so many questions.
Does Max really love care for him? Did he ever? Does he know that George felt the same? Would knowing have changed things? Are they making a mistake?
Max turns onto his street and George’s heart lurches. It’s now or never.
“Max I...”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Max says immediately, cutting him off. “I know.”
What do you know? George wants to ask. Because even he isn’t sure what he was about to say, I love you, or I’m sorry.
Max looks away from the road momentarily, eyes fleetingly locking with George’s. It only lasts a moment but it’s enough for George to see everything he’s been feeling reflected in Max’s eyes.
The worry, the sadness, the care, the love.
There is so much love and George feels it too.
And it sucks that this is when those feelings are bubbling up. He’s known Max for half his life and at any other time, maybe they could’ve tried to make it work. But this season it’s him versus Max and they can’t have a relationship in the background of that. Because George knows, however strong their feelings may be, they don’t love each other more than they love winning.
They don’t have the depth or the history to make something like this work. It would inevitably blow up in their faces. Their fight at the end of 2024 was painful and cruel and they weren’t even half as close as they are now. If something like that were to happen again today, it would be catastrophic; the way they’d be able to hurt each other, how deep the wounds would go, is something he can’t even begin to imagine.
So the choice is made for them.
End it here and end it now and leave it beautiful.
But Max is parking now and he’s turning off the engine and he’s looking at George, who is looking right back at him and willing himself not to cry, and it’s all just too much.
It hurts.
Even if this is the best possible outcome, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
“Max,” he sniffs, unsure what to say. He’s stalling, not quite ready to step out of this car and leave it all behind.
“It’s alright schat,” Max promises, voice quiet and raspy. He brings a warm hand to the back of George’s neck, fingers brushing against his nape. “It’s okay.”
He trusts him when he says that. It just doesn’t do anything to numb the ache.
“Can I just hold you for a moment?” he asks, lips quivering.
“Of course,” Max nods, a slight sheen to his eyes. He reaches out across the console and pulls George in flat against his chest.
And that’s all it takes to get the first tears to fall. He doesn’t mean to cry, hates that he’s making a scene like this, but it hurts.
“You’re okay, schat,” Max murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
He runs one hand over Max’s back, lets the other travel up his nape to cradle the back of his head, and tries to memorise the feeling.
“I- thank you for everything,” George whispers, crying softly into the crook of Max’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to thank me. You never have to thank me,” Max replies firmly, voice catching. His fingers weave lightly through the hair on the back of George’s head. “I really enjoyed everything we’ve done and I… I feel like you’ve helped me grow as a person.”
He cries a little harder at that, remembering all the nights they spent awake talking and healing. Max has helped him heal in so many ways.
“I’m gonna miss you,” he sniffs.
Because even though they’ll see each other in Australia soon, he’s going to miss this- the Max who is holding him and playing with his hair and not judging him for crying.
He can’t have that Max in the paddock; he shouldn’t even be having him now.
“I’m gonna miss you so much,” he sobs.
Max holds him impossibly closer. “It’s okay Georgie. It's all okay.”
He lets himself believe that, breathing in Max’s scent, feeling each and every time Max breathes, remembering the warmth of his embrace. He commits the moment to his memory as he slowly begins to calm down. The tears stop and eventually Max's grip on him slackens a little and George knows the moment, the past two years, all of it, is over. So he blinks the tears away and tries to compose himself.
And when Max clears his throat, he holds onto that composure.
“Okay schat, come on,” he says, pulling away. He won’t meet his eyes and George thinks that maybe that’s for the best. He wouldn’t be able to leave if he did.
Neither of them say goodbye.
George steps out of the car, careful not to drop his croissants.
When he hears the engine of Max’s car start up again, he does not turn around to watch him go.