Chapter Text
He’s hunkered in the garage, tossing a ball from one hand to another, absentmindedly nodding along whenever someone says something. It’s a practice session and he’s not even in the car yet, no one’s saying anything useful at this point anyway.
Instead his wandering gaze locks on a man walking past the garage. He’s under an umbrella, held by an assistant standing half in the rain, and Max’s first thought is what an asshole until he sees the man’s face and promptly drops his ball.
It bounces off the floor with an echoing thump and rolls through the garage, eventually stopping right by the man’s feet. Max lifts his gaze, running his eyes over long, long legs, thin and shapely under white pants, all the way to eyes that look huge even from a distance, dropped in the middle of an angular face that reminds Max of a statue.
He watches in daze as the man bends down to grab the ball, delicately grasped between two fingers, rest curled away from the dirt and damp. It’s almost girlish, the way he holds the ball, and Max is both glad his father isn’t here to see it and annoyed they let these prissy models in the paddock.
“Is this yours?” the man calls out to him, voice lilting all sweet and British, and Max can’t differentiate between the different accents but this one sounds fancy and posh.
Max lifts his hand, jogging forward. The man’s face is even more uncanny up close, almost like carved from stone. “Yup, that’s mine. Thanks. It got away from me.”
The man offers the ball to him, manicured nails and soft fingertips brushing Max’s blunt, calloused ones. He has to suppress a shiver at the touch. He doesn’t see the point in fussing over his nails, they’ll be hidden under his gloves anyway. He washes his hands with soap and that’s it.
“I’m George,” the guy – George – says, not offering a hand. “Nice weather out here, don’t know how you race like this.”
Max is busy staring at the pearly whites blinding him. There’s no way this guy hasn’t had work done. Lips like those, plump and pouty, would probably burst if Max bit on them. The paddock has become a cesspool of influencers and celebrities since Netflix came in with their cameras, but it still rubs Max the wrong way, how they prance around knowing nothing about racing and offering their inane opinions.
“It’s fine,” he dismisses, gripping the ball. “I’m good at what I do.”
“I’m sure you are,” George says, flashing another cookie-cutter smile. “Good luck on Sunday, then.”
God, these trite pleasantries are making Max’s skin crawl. He doesn’t need luck, his skill is enough. For some reason, he wants George to know that. “What garage are you in?”
“Williams,” George says and Max almost scoffs. There’s nothing interesting in Williams. The most they’ll manage on Sunday is P9, if they’re lucky. George should stay with Red Bull and watch him drive, cheer for a winner for once.
“If you ever want to have fun, come to ours instead.”
“Invite me, then,” George shoots back, still smiling like there are cameras being pointed at him. There probably are. Max still has no idea who George is. Maybe an actor, but most likely a model. They all have that tall, skinny body and those concave cheeks, wearing clothes that are better suited for Paris fashion week than Silverstone’s muddy paddock.
If Max put George in a car with him, he’d probably snap his neck. Max would have to slow down, be careful with him.
If Max wore clothes like that, his dad would put his face through the table.
He steps back and watches George make his way into the Williams garage, all the way on the other side. His ridiculous high-waisted trousers keep flapping in the wind, showing off the shape of his behind.
It’s a good thing he has the umbrella after all, Max decides. Otherwise the rain would make his pants see-through.
__
George is a model, it turns out.
Max asks around and finds out that George William Russell is an ambassador for Bottega Veneta, fuck if Max knows what that is, and apparently gets paid handsomely to walk a runway.
He’s in the paddock often because he’s somehow friends with Alex and for whatever reason, with Toto. Max doesn’t know how that came to be, but his scrolling through gossip pages late in the night unearthed pictures of those two on Toto’s yacht together.
No Susie anywhere to be seen.
Max doesn’t want to assume, but George looks exactly the kind of person to sleep his way to the top. That’s what his dad used to say when Max was younger and he came to his races. He’d pick the men with limp wrists and expensive clothes who hung around the cameras, and he’d point them out to Max, telling him to never let a man like that flirt him out of his money once he grows older and more successful.
He'd never say that about the women, but then again, he’s never had a problem letting those hang off his arm and pet at his thinning hair. Women are a point of pride for him, apparently, based on how happy he seems when Max’s girl of the day gets plastered all over social media.
It itches, the thought of George sleeping with Toto. It’s just creepy. Toto’s older, has a wife and kids. George shouldn’t be sleeping with someone like that. It bothers Max enough that he ends up inviting George as Red Bull’s guest for the next GP.
He doesn’t actually see George for most of the weekend, busy trying to wrestle the car into pole position – not that meeting celebrities is in his contract in the first place – but before the race on Sunday, George walks into the garage with a heeled boot on, sunglasses in his hair and a smell of something soft and floral following him around.
It raises Max’s hackles immediately, the way his entrance attracts attention. He’s even taller with his boots and he’s way too long-limbed and pretty to fly under the radar. Max doesn’t need to check the monitors to know they’re showing George fitting his Red Bull branded earmuffs over his styled curls on the big screen.
Max has data to go through, last-minute checks before he steps into the car. He doesn’t have time to talk to George, not that he’d know what to say anyway, but his eyes keep wandering over to where he sits, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, back straight and a dainty hand resting on a protruding knee.
Max ends up P2, fucked by a slow pitstop, but he’s still leading the championship and that’s why he lets himself be dragged for the afterparty. There’s no race next week and he can sleep during the flight.
It shouldn’t surprise him to see George there, sitting next to Alex and stirring a straw through a cocktail garnished with a lime and a tiny parasol, but somehow his stomach still gets jumbled, cold sweat springing to the back of his neck.
George’s eyes meet his and Max’s ears start ringing. He lifts a hand, awkward, and the corners of George’s puffed up lips quirk upwards. He waggles his fingers at Max, chin resting on his palm. He seems almost engulfed in the purples and blues of the club’s lighting, the air around him somehow brighter than anyone else’s.
Max flushes, jerking his eyes away. He follows Lando to go get a drink and when he glances back, George isn’t looking at him anymore.
__
They orbit around each other for the night. Max hangs with some drivers at the bar while George is in a booth, locked in a conversation with Albon and surprisingly, Carlos. Those two should have nothing in common, but they actually look into it, George leaning over the table until his spine curves ridiculously.
What’s he like as a conversationalist? He’s probably into clothes and cosmetics, like every airhead model Max has ever come across. Max wouldn’t want to talk about that, he has no interest in anything George has to say. Would he be bored if Max talked about his sim racing?
At one point, George comes up to the bar to order. He doesn’t talk to Max, but his long body folds over the counter like a cat’s, flowy pants betraying the slight but perky curve of his ass. His voice gets swallowed by the music, but Max is painfully aware of every brush of their elbows.
That, and George’s sickly sweet floral scent.
Usually Max doesn’t have to approach anyone, they come to him on their own. All George does is grab his drink and walk away. Max’s muscles are bunched tight, every inch of him pent up and waiting.
He stretches out his neck and decides enough is enough. He downs his drink and lets the bitter burn in his throat propel him through the crowd.
He finds George by the edge of the dance floor, half-heartedly swaying and tonguing at his straw while a man yells in his ear, hands dangerously close to touching.
Max crowds in on him until his chest brushes the back of George’s shirt. He knows he’s startled George when he jolts against him, almost elbowing him in the stomach. George’s abdomen is flat and tight when Max hooks his forearm around it to pull him in.
“Come home with me,” he says into George’s ear, tightening his hold when George shivers enough to slosh droplets of Caipirinha all over Max’s wrist. His neatly cut nails dig into the exposed skin of Max’s forearm.
“Not even going to buy me dinner?” comes his breathless response.
Max scoffs, feeling another shudder run through the slim body in his arms. He doesn’t buy dinner for men, those are reserved for the socially acceptable women he keeps recycling through. Men are quick fucks with the lights off, their pretty faces down in the pillow and Max’s eyes closed.
“Can I afford your taste?”
He feels George’s giggles more than he hears them. “You can’t afford a burger?”
“Thought you’d say you eat nothing but caviar and truffles. That’s what fancy boys like you love.”
“I grew up on a farm,” George says and turns in Max’s arms. They’ve been standing still while the crowd oscillates around them, a grounded calm in the middle of chaos. George is warmth, the sweat beading along Max’s hairline. He’s the tickle in his spine, the stickiness of alcohol drying on his wrist. “I enjoy expensive, sure, but my favorite restaurant, and don’t tell this to anyone because it’s the one place undefiled by paparazzi, is this little hole in the wall burger place in Greenwich that’s kind of a shithole.”
Max stares up at George, the twinkle in his big eyes, the crinkles that somehow transform him into a real person that’s standing here, in front of Max, talking about real things, lips moving and words, real words, coming out of them.
“It might actually be a money laundering scheme because it’s always empty and you have to wait forty minutes for your food, but their sweet potato fries are crispy and they never complain when I ask them to take the patty out of my burger,” George continues, unaware that Max wants to run away and never talk to him again, seal him out of his memory and throw away the key.
Max pulls him closer instead. He needs to commit the cadence of George’s voice to memory in case he disappears, the lilt of an accent that’s inconsistent in its poshness now that he knows to listen for it. “Of course you’d wait an hour for a burger that’s nothing but a bun and lettuce.”
“Don’t forget the tomato,” George teases, stepping away. “That’s how I keep this figure. Sure, I’ll go home with you, Max Verstappen. I won’t even ask for breakfast in the morning.”
Max sways closer like a leashed dog.
__
George tastes like limes and alcohol, his teeth straight and uncrooked when Max traces them with his tongue. His lips are softer than he expected and they give under Max’s teeth, bruising easy.
He’s painfully pretty when Max presses him against the tussled sheets, his thighs tanned and slim and parting easily when Max’s own leg, double the size and covered in blonde fuzz, slides between them.
Max is already straying from the routine. He doesn’t do foreplay with men, they don’t need the fussing women do where he kisses their neck and caresses them until they’re wet and relaxed. Assholes yield with a bit of lube and a prodding dick.
Something keeps Max’s mouth on George’s, though, maybe the greedy hands that grab at his shoulders and back and ass and the back of his head, maybe the sweet uh uh uhs exhaled against his cheek when Max rocks their hips together.
When Max tries to turn George onto his stomach, he resists.
“No, I want it like this,” he breathes, smiling up at Max like it’s normal. He’s an angel on top of black sheets, his hair a halo around him. Max doesn’t know what to do with him. “I like kissing during it.”
Max wants to tell him men don’t look each other in the eye when they fuck, but maybe that’s not true. When his dad had found him kissing a boy at twelve years old, he’d slapped him in the face and then told him how men sometimes might take their aggression out on each other and if Max ever has to take a man to bed, he’ll need to take the upper hand, mount them from behind like a dog might a bitch.
No pussyfooting, no flowers. Men are simple, take or be taken. You have to take, Max, that’s how you win.
Max didn’t kiss another boy for ten years. He’d fucked his first man on his eighteenth birthday, an older one with broad shoulders and chubby cheeks who’d raced against him years before. He’d won.
Max had fucked him so hard he’d sobbed through his release, snot all over the pillow, and he’d taken that win from him, made it his.
“Okay,” he murmurs now, interlacing his fingers through George’s and pinning his wrist to the mattress. They’ll do it like this. Maybe when Max closes his eyes he won’t see his dad on the insides of his lids. “Open your mouth.”
__
After, Max rolls off George and sits on the edge of the bed. He stares at his socks on the floor, his underwear. George’s release is smeared all over his abdomen, a result of his cock being trapped between their bodies while Max was inside him.
George’s eyes on his, their breaths mingling together, legs locked so tight around Max’s hips he couldn’t even thrust properly, just shallowly grinding in circles until they both came. Nausea gathers heavy in his stomach, crawls up his dry throat.
George yawns behind him, sheets rustling when he stretches. Max wants to turn around and watch his naked body contort, maybe run a hand over the swell of his ribs, press his tongue on the moles above his belly button.
“You need to leave,” he mutters tightly, hauling himself up. He needs to piss.
“Already?” George sounds sleepy, confused. When Max glances at him, he’s clutching the blanket close to his chest, knees drawn up and eyelids drooping. “Can I sleep here, I’ll leave in the morning. Don’t worry, no breakfast. I promised.”
He smiles at Max, but it’s not funny, it’s not a fucking joke to Max who just fucked a man like he’d fuck a virgin, soft and gentle and sweet, tongue so tied he couldn’t muster any of the usual nastiness.
Instead he’d wanted to trap George under him forever, hold his trembling thighs in his hands and kiss the divot between his collarbones. Call him pretty or something equally corny. And it’d felt good, wanting to do that. It hadn’t felt wrong and that’s why he needs George to leave.
“I’ll call you an Uber,” he rasps and books it to the bathroom. When he comes out, George is slowly getting dressed, his hair pointing in every direction. He doesn’t look at Max hovering awkwardly beside him, phone clutched in sweaty hands.
“I’ll see you around,” Max tells him.
“Yeah, thanks,” George mutters and pushes past him. He leaves behind mussed up sheets and a bracelet he’d carefully unclipped and set on the nightstand so it wouldn’t break.
Max sweeps it into the drawer with the lube and condoms. Which they hadn’t used because they’d forgotten.
George is probably dripping Max’s cum in an Uber right now. Fuck.
__
His dad invites him for a visit on his yacht before the triple header. Max sits under a parasol with a can of beer and wipes the condensation on his thighs. His mom isn’t here, but there are two women taking pictures on the deck.
Their lips are big and pouty and Max thinks about George on Toto’s yacht. Did he get on his back and beg to be fucked like a girl then too?
Jos asks him about his girlfriend. Max tells him there’s no girlfriend, they broke up weeks ago.
“You have to settle down some day, Max,” Jos says, watching the women hike up their bikini bottoms with interest in his eyes. “I’m waiting for a grandson, you know.”
__
George keeps popping up.
He’s closer to Alex than Max thought, and his job means he’s often already in the country doing something else which makes visiting the paddock easy. He’s always there, touring garages and eating lunch with the girlfriends, petting this dog and this cat, always in the corner of Max’s eye.
Max needs to leave it alone because every time he goes to bed, he sees George and gets hard, but he can’t leave it alone because every time he goes to bed, he sees George and gets hard.
So he makes his manager get in contact with George and set up a dinner reservation the next time they’re both in London and it’s not a hole in the wall burger place but it’s vegan and you have to wait just as long to get your food.
It’s awful and pretentious and expensive, but Max puts on a blazer over a turtleneck and goes anyway.
George looks apprehensive when he walks in, guided by a server to their table. Should Max get up and kiss his cheek? Pull back his chair for him? That’s what he’d do for a woman, but this isn’t a date and George isn’t a woman.
He ends up hovering awkwardly while George thanks the server and folds himself elegantly into the chair. His lips are shiny and his hair tousled. They stare at each other until George clears his throat, setting his gaze down and rearranging the cutlery.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
George gnaws on his bottom lip and looks up at Max through his lashes. “When you kicked me out of your bed like a second-rate whore, I didn’t think you’d follow that up with a dinner invitation.”
“I didn’t do that,” Max says.
George huffs out a laugh, clasping his hands in his lap. “No, you– you did, kicked me out before I’d even caught my breath. And alright, it’s not the first time a man uses me for an orgasm and isn’t gracious about it after, I’m not heartbroken or anything. Perhaps I just wished for something more.”
“More?”
“Yes,” George says, still smiling, always fucking smiling. “You know, it’s not Alex who I watch during the races, much as I love the guy. Call it a crush, an admiration. You’re who I wanted to be, once upon a time.”
“You wanted to race?” Max asks, leaning back in surprise. “Why didn’t you?”
“The reason most people don’t,” George shrugs. “I didn’t have the resources. As I said, my dad was a farmer. We weren’t poor, but. It’s a huge investment. So I went to school, studied literature, got scouted for an agency, paused my studies. Never picked them back up again, didn’t have a reason to.”
George isn’t just an airhead model, Max realizes that night. He was wrong, his dad was wrong. He talks to George about his season and George keeps up no problem, asking questions that most journalists don’t even think to ask.
He’s not supposed to like George, his dad would have his fucking head if he knew his son was out fraternizing with… he’d probably call George a gigolo, old-fashioned as that is. He’d be wrong for saying that, because George offers to pay once they’re done eating and gold digging prostitutes don’t offer to pay.
He does look pleased when Max rebuffs him, a little turned on when Max tips fifty percent. That’s okay too because Max gets a little aroused as well. He feels like a man, not the man his dad tells him to be, the man who takes and conquers and asserts his masculinity with force, but a man who provides and takes care of his own.
It’s never felt good with women, because that had felt like a performance. An obligation. With George, he wants to do it, to be a man for him. And that feels good.
Later, when Max pushes George against the door of his hotel room and tries to kiss him, he gets gently pushed away. He searches for George’s eyes, confused and hurt. He bought him dinner, was that not enough?
George smiles at him wryly, patting his stubbly cheek. “Stand down, lion. I had fun tonight, but I’m not going to be tossed out on my arse again. I’ll put out after you prove you can be a gentleman.”
He shrugs. “Or not. Choice is yours. I have plenty other people I can call. Goodnight, Max.”
Max watches him slip inside and close the door on his face. He’s pent up, restless and unsatisfied, but he can’t lie and say he’s not intrigued. He’s never had to work for anyone, they flock to him on their own free will.
George will end up proving him right someday, he’s sure, that he’s stupid and vapid and that fucking him will get old. Might as well see it to the end.
__
He and George start seeing each other. It’s weird, it’s unprecedented, because they’re both men and Max is in the spotlight more often than he’s not. He’s paranoid that any moment now his dad will call him and ask him who the fuck George Russell is and why Max was seen carrying his shopping bags.
George makes him uneasy. He’s unapologetic in his femininity and it makes Max’s skin crawl sometimes, the dainty cross of his legs or the easy way he lets Max put him on his back and defile him.
Not that either of them want it the other way around, but it rankles, how George sees nothing wrong with being splayed open and vulnerable and submissive, that he takes pleasure from it. It rankles because Max takes pleasure from it too. He’s finding that he doesn’t want to fight George onto his hands and knees, he likes that he can kiss his sternum and George’s legs open on their own.
They open for Max.
It’s not supposed to be like that, Max’s whole life he’s thought it’s not supposed to be like that. If his father’s wrong, Max’s entire life has been wrong.
He doesn’t like thinking about it so he doesn’t.
Instead he takes George out and loses himself in the cadence of his voice, his enthusiasm for gardening that he satisfies by visiting botanical gardens since his lifestyle doesn’t allow for a garden of his own, and the intelligence that shines through when they discuss Max’s racing strategies.
And during the nights, when the world’s gone to sleep, Max learns how good sex between two men can be. If George notices that Max never puts his mouth on George’s cock, he doesn’t say anything. Max compensates by sticking his tongue in George’s asshole until he sees stars. He spends hours mouthing at dusky nipples, tracing ribs with the tips of his fingers, the bottoms of George’s feet with his tongue.
It could’ve been humiliating, but with George giggling and kicking with his other foot because he’s ticklish, Max doesn’t feel powerless, like he’s licking boots. He feels like a guy playing around with his boyfriend.
__
“Does it bother you?” Max murmurs one night, both of them under the blankets. George is facing away from him, their legs tangled and Max’s lips brushing the nape of his neck. It’s the only reason he feels comfortable speaking.
George hums, tired and probably sore. “Does what bother me?”
“That I don’t… that you suck my dick and I don’t yours. Or that we’re not public.”
George is quiet for a long moment. They breathe together, his chest falling and rising under Max’s arm. “Max, I think… I think you have a complicated view on sexuality because of… I mean I notice you don’t ever talk about your dad. I know who he is, what he’s like, and I think if you stopped internalizing his own prejudice, you’d start enjoying who you are a lot more.”
Max’s heart clenches. He draws away from George, immediately missing his warmth. The cool air raises goosebumps on his arms. “You don’t know my dad. He’s not perfect, but he’s my dad. He has nothing to do with us.”
“He’s an asshole,” George bites back, rolling onto his back and sitting up. The sheets pool over his lap, but Max is breathing too quickly to pay attention to his bronzed shoulders. “I get that he’s your dad and you love him, but he fucked you up real good. See, you can’t even admit that.”
Max flings himself out of bed, starts pulling his clothes back on.
“Max,” George says, watching. “You think I haven’t noticed how you cringe when I shave my legs, when I show you the photos from shoots where I wear skirts? You think I’m a sissy because I let you fuck me and I don’t find it humiliating, even though you fucking like when I let you!”
“No,” Max denies immediately, though he stops collecting his items.
“Yes. And I understand because I know men like you better than you think. I like you. I could even… I know we’re not putting labels on whatever this is, but we could actually be something. But I’ve been a secret for many, many years of my life and I won’t go back in the closet for the rest of it, not even for you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that at some point, I want to meet your family. I want to be your partner watching you race from the garage. I want you to fully and truthfully be able to say you’re not ashamed of me.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” Max whispers, faint.
George smiles, crooked and unamused. “Yeah, you are. Because I’m a man, because I’m not society’s ideal image of masculinity, because I make you insecure and you don’t like that. Take your pick.”
There’s nothing Max can say to that. He drops his shirt, crawls back in bed, right between George’s legs, face buried in the crook of his neck. George lets him in, wrapping his arms and legs around him, petting soothingly down his bare back.
“My dad can’t know,” Max whispers. “He’ll never… he’ll never accept you.”
“He doesn’t need to,” George whispers back. “You’re a grown man, he has no say in what you do or who you do. Or how you do them. That’s between us. Us only.”
“Us,” Max breathes out, tasting the word between his teeth.
“Yeah.”
They don’t speak after that, and George falls asleep quick, limbs flopping onto the mattress. Max stays awake, listening to the steady breathing in his ear, trying to curb the rising panic. He likes George, he could even love George.
Still, he thinks of his dad’s face when he walked in on Max kissing that boy. How he must’ve known it wasn’t the confused fumbling of two friends practicing for future girlfriends. How he never let Max forget he’s sick and perverted, how he doesn’t respect Max either way, but even less if he ever becomes one of those fairies, the ones who take it up the ass and wear makeup.
How George is essentially one of those. And Max likes it, likes him. That’ll be a crime in itself to his father.
__
They start slow. Max is the one who brings George to the parties and dinners with the other drivers, not Alex, and they never say anything, but the dawning understanding on everyone’s faces when Max guides George around with a palm on his lower back lets him know that they know.
It’s a relief, to be able to sit with his friends and colleagues and have George casually lean on him, head sometimes dipping on Max’s shoulder when he gets tired. Max’s hand never leaves George’s thigh.
The gossip pages have noticed them together by now, how could they not, but Max is seen with friends all the time and it’s not like anyone’s first guess would be him being a homo. They wonder about the strangeness of their friendship and move on to discussing every woman Max has ever breathed around.
The pit in Max’s stomach lessens with each day he spends with George. For a while he thinks, maybe, maybe, he can learn to be a good man for George, one who doesn’t feel shame about feeling pleasure. Maybe he could even be a good husband one day.
Or a father.
__
Max has George sat on the tiny sink in the bathroom of his jet when he’s hit with a sudden desire. George’s shirt is rucked up, his pants unbuttoned around his thighs. His cock is right there, pearling at the tip, and not for the first time Max wants to know what it tastes like.
It is the first time he lets his body follow that thought.
His knees hit the floor, his hands grasp George’s narrow hips like a lifeline. George stares blearily down at him, shifting to hook his heel over the edge of the sink – to give access to his hole, probably, but Max grips his ankle and brings his foot to rest on his thigh.
“Like this, schat. Just… like this.”
“Max?”
The taste is salty. Funnily enough, as Max fits more of George in his mouth, all he can think of is how much better George tastes than Max whenever he’s tasted his own release. A healthy diet versus daily Red Bulls, George would probably say if he wasn’t busy staring down at Max with wide, crazy eyes, mouth open and panting like a dog.
“Holy shit, Max, I– ah–“
Max sucks. Literally, yes, but he also accidentally keeps grazing the delicate skin with his teeth and chokes when he takes too much. George doesn’t seem to mind though, wriggling and kneading Max’s thigh with his toes.
He comes quick.
Surprisingly, when Max comes up to spit his cum into the sink and wash his mouth, he doesn’t feel emasculated. Sucking dick is giving up power, his dad used to say. Not appropriate talk for a teenager, but that’s how men talk, Jos said.
Now, all Max feels is sore in the throat and more than a tiny bit satisfied that he made George feel good.
“Is this how it feels for you?” he asks quietly after tucking himself back in George’s embrace, unbuckling his own belt so George can slip his hand in.
“How does it feel for you?”
Max thinks for a moment. “Powerful.”
George smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s funny, Max thinks absently and shivers when a cold hand grasps his dick, he used to think George looked made out of stone. Now, he looks like the softest silk, warmth etched into every line of his face.
“No, for me it’s not about being powerful,” he says. “When I suck your dick, I feel taken care of. You do that to me, Max, you make me feel taken care of.”
Max comes in three strokes of George’s hand.
__
They’re spending the weekend at one of Max’s summer houses in Lake Como when it all goes to shit.
It’s warm, the water reflecting the sun and creating ripples of glitter that George is especially enamored with. Mountain and greenery surround their little getaway castle, and Max hasn’t known peace like this since… since ever.
He gets to lazily fuck George right on the terrace, sun burning his back and the birds chirping somewhere above them. George wants to swim and go for walks and visit the town for souvenirs and Max goes where he goes, swipes his card, deals with the mosquitos and the fish that try to bite his toes, all without complaining.
George is beautiful under the sun, tanned golden and miles of bare skin just there, all for Max to take.
They’re lounging on a loveseat after a swim, George’s gleaming legs thrown over Max’s thighs while he reads. Max alternates between massaging his feet and absently fondling his calves, just enjoying existing as a person who doesn’t need to be anything.
And then his dad shows up.
Why, how, when, Max has no idea, because he never invited him. Yes, all his family have keys because if he’s not using his vacation home, why shouldn’t they? But his dad never–
They hear his voice first, calling out for him through the open doors to the terrace. George whips around to look at him, toes curling in Max’s frozen hands. Then he comes bumbling outside, sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on where they’re touching.
Max withdraws like burned, George’s legs falling to the side as he stands up and moves towards Jos. He doesn’t look back at George, willing him to understand. “Dad, what’re you–“
“Can’t I visit my son?” his dad says, pulling Max into a rough hug. “Who’s your friend here?”
Max turns to George, heart racing. Fuck, fuck. George stands up slowly, warily, arms crossing over his chest in a protective move to hide his near nudity. Max flinches and removes the towel he’d slung over his shoulders to stop them from burning. He offers it to George now and George takes it, something grateful in his eyes.
“This is, uh, that’s,” Max stutters, watching the suspicion darken his father’s eyes. “One of Alex’s friends, uh, Albon’s, I mean. We’re… hanging out.”
George’s lips tremble when he tries to arrange them into a smile. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Hello, Mr. Verstappen. I’m George.”
It becomes quite apparent Jos doesn’t believe a single word out of either of their mouths. The dinner that follows is the most uncomfortable experience Max has ever had, tense and silent and full of passive aggressive remarks.
Jos keeps poking at George, asking questions about his job and family and hobbies, but it’s clear it’s not in good faith. George’s shoulders keep rising higher and higher with each underhanded remark on his masculinity, his choice of vocation, even Alex Albon and his lack of success in Williams.
Max watches like in a trance, toes and fingers frozen and a hundred ton weight placed on his chest. He should defend George, he should say something to his dad. This is what George was talking about. He’s letting his dad into his business, into George’s business, and he hates it, hates himself, but he can’t get himself to speak.
After a while George excuses himself with a tight smile and Max and his dad are left alone, on opposite sides of the table. Jos’ eyes are hard and his fist clenched on the table.
“Dad–“
“Did I raise you to be a faggot?” Jos says conversationally. Max flinches. “Look at him, he’s a fairy. Couldn’t even find a real man to stick your dick in.”
“Don’t– Dad–“
“What you do is your business,” Jos continues, eyes boring into Max’s, “but don’t be surprised when he leaves you after you’ve opened your wallet. He wants one thing and one thing only. You think he loves you? You think you love him? Men don’t love other men, they use them.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down with a clink before getting up and leaving without another word.
It takes Max a long time before he can unstick himself from the chair. He finds George in the bedroom, quietly packing his suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
Is that his voice? He’s never heard himself sound so weird, like gravel pushed through grinding metal.
George doesn’t look at him, but his hands falter in folding a shirt. “Leaving.”
“Where.”
“Home, Max,” George bites out, giving up on folding and slamming the piece of clothing down. “Somewhere without Jos Verstappen’s humiliating comments about how I look. Thank you so much for defending me, by the way.”
“He’s my dad, George, I can’t just–“
“I manage just fine with my own, thank you very much. Did you know he still asks, every Christmas without fail, when I’m bringing a wife home? He’s known I’m gay since I turned fifteen and told him.”
Max stares at him, his wet, watery eyes and heaving chest. “George.”
“He’s awful, Max,” George whispers, wiping roughly at his eyes. “And every year I tell him there won’t be a wife, but there might be a husband. I could easily lie and say some day, dad, but I don’t because I don’t want to lie about who I am. You seem to find that so easy.”
“Easy? You think it’s easy?” Max finds his voice, feeling angry and terrified and sad and like he’s fucking ruining the one good thing in his life. “I hate it. I hate that he hurt you and I hate that I just fucking sat there. But my dad and I, it’s– it’s different.”
“He’s poisoned your fucking mind, Max,” George says, voice hitching with unsteady sobs, but he’s strong, he won’t break down in front of Max. Because Max has lost his trust. “And you sit there and you let him. That’s what I hate the most, that you think it’s normal.”
He’s not wrong, somewhere deep inside Max he knows he’s not wrong, but all the same, at some point in his life, Max’s wires have gotten crossed so badly that there’s no uncrossing them, George can’t uncross them. He’s damaged, fucked up beyond belief.
He responds with anger because that’s all he knows.
“Maybe he’s right, you know.”
George stares at him, sooty lashes dark and wet. His eyes look haunting like this, wide and unblinking, none of their usual humor in them. “Don’t say it. Don’t ruin this any further.”
Ruin? It was already ruined when his dad saw them together. It was ruined when Max looked at George and didn’t feel indifferent. It was ruined when Max kissed a boy at twelve and his dad walked in on them.
Max’s mouth moves like he’s possessed, watching from inside as someone else, someone mean and spiteful and vengeful uses his voice. “Maybe what this is, what you are, isn’t real. Maybe you’re turning me into a fucking fa–“
“A faggot? Oh, I’m turning you into a faggot? You already are! You’ve kissed me and fucked me and taken me on dates and now you want to turn around and push me away because you hate that your dad doesn’t love you if you’re not playing a role,” George spits out, face pale. “And you’re insecure because I’m comfortable with myself and you’re not, you hate that I’m not like you and you love that I’m not like you and you hate yourself for being confused.”
“Sometimes when I fuck you,” Max starts, an instinct to clamp his teeth around a deer’s neck and maul. Predators lash out when cornered and that’s what he is, isn’t he? He’s a predator, George is the prey, wide eyes and delicate wrists and delicate skin that bleeds so easily. “I think you’re pathetic, letting me have you so easy.”
“I like how we have sex,” George says, weakly. “I know you like it too. It means something, it’s not just fucking.”
“It’s me indulging you. I like to fuck fast, rough, brutal. You just fall over and spread your legs, there’s no challenge.”
George sniffs, reddened eyes twisting Max’s guts like he’s reached through and grasped them with his own fingers. “It means nothing to you?”
No. Yes. No yes no yes no yes.
“It doesn’t,” Max agrees. His voice cracks.
George swallows with a nod, gingerly setting himself down on the bed. He pushes the suitcase to the floor with his foot, clothes tumbling down and messing up his anal color-coded packing order.
“George?”
“If it means nothing to you,” George says, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers, “if I mean nothing to you, then… prove it.”
Max’s mouth is dry, his words sticking to his tongue. “What?”
“Come fuck me,” George challenges and cocks his chin up, defiant even in distress. He refuses to lie down without a fight, even now, Max realizes, even with his entire body shaking and shivering. He’ll never run away from something he wants like a coward. Like Max. “Come wrestle me to my knees and fuck me dry, like you did to everyone else before me. Make it fast, hard. Brutal.”
Max shakes his head. “George.”
“That’s what you like, right?” George sounds manic. “You won’t respect me until you’ve bloodied me up, that’s what you said. So come here and commit to what you’ve fucking said. Make me bleed.”
Max’s feet walk him to the edge of the bed without his permission, because this is George and George is begging, telling him to do something, and sometimes it feels like Max was programmed to do what he says. Still, he doesn’t want to–
But doesn’t he? Hasn’t he, on some level, always flashed back to his father when George clutches at him and tells him so good, Max, feels so good, because it’s not supposed to feel good, that’s what Jos has always said and if Max doesn’t do what Jos says he’s a bad son and he can’t– he doesn’t want to–
It’s been his dad and him against the world his whole life. He wouldn’t have the career he has, the money he has, the success and the admiration and the lifestyle, without his dad. The ruthlessness that sets him apart from others, that’s from his dad too.
Jos doesn’t want his son to be a limp-wristed pansy, that’s the one thing he’s asked of Max in return. Every time Max lets himself suck George’s dick, every time he gets hard at George’s easy submission, every time he comes so hard he sees stars because he’s been grinding slow and sweet inside George for an hour with nothing but soft sighs and mewls in his ear, he’s betraying his dad.
Falling in love with George is betraying his dad.
If here’s an opportunity to prove to himself that he’s not too far gone, that his dad isn’t wrong, he has to see it for himself.
He sets his knee on the bed, watches with bated breath as inch after inch of bronzed skin is revealed, stark against the white sheets. George watches him, unblinking, while he undresses and when he’s finally bare, he lies there, flat stomach rising and falling, otherwise unmoving.
“Well?” he whispers.
Max swallows, fingers itching to trace the grooves of George’s ribs, down to his hipbones, back up to his navel. They’d fucked not even ten hours ago, in the warm bubbles of the hot tub, but Max feels ravenous, cock hardening despite it all.
He topples over George, crashing their lips together. George wants rough, Max can give him rough. He thinks back to how he used to kiss men and bites George’s lip. His flinch makes Max flinch and he draws back, brushing a thumb over where he bit.
“Shit–“
George slaps his hand away, lip red. “More.”
“But–“
George pulls him back into a rough kiss and tears at the collar of Max’s shirt, no consideration for the tearing fabric or that he’s choking Max out. It escalates until they’re both undressed, George tugging at him harshly and telling him to get on with it.
Max tries to press his lips to the freckle under George’s nipple, but gets tugged away by his hair. He tries to soothe the sting of his bites with his tongue and gets rebuffed. George has no patience for his attempts at giving him pleasure this time.
“Get on with it,” he hisses when Max hesitates with his hands on George’s hips. “What, you not man enough to take it without me helping you?”
Max flips him over, drags him to his elbows and knees. They don’t do it like this usually, almost never. If they’re not looking each other in the eyes, it’s George on his stomach, sleepy and snuffling, Max guiding himself between his thighs and not an inch separating them.
The sight of George spread open like this, spine arched and head bowed down, it makes Max’s stomach flutter with cold panic. He wants to see George’s eyes.
When he goes to fetch the lube, George stops him with another frustrated hiss. “Dry. You wanted it rough, I’m letting you have it rough.”
Max’s stomach seizes. George might still be a little loose from earlier, but not to the extent of taking Max’s cock unprepared. “No, George, you’ll tear–“
“Isn’t that the point?”
No, it shouldn’t be about hurting George, Max doesn’t want to hurt George, but isn’t this what he’s asking for? This is how sex between two men is supposed to go. It’s never felt bad before George.
Sucking in harsh breaths through his teeth, Max spreads George open with one hand and tries to guide his flagging erection to the tight hole that’s not relaxed enough, slick enough. His hands trembles, it takes a moment to line them up.
His brain is screaming at him, he’s crawling out of his skin, nothing about this is right, but still, he pushes.
It hurts, he knows it’s hurting by how George tenses, the muscles in his back bunching and his body trying to push him out. “George, fuck, I can’t–“
“Yes, you can,” George gasps out, tears falling down his temple when he turns his head to the side. “Is it good, is it what you wanted?”
Max doesn’t cry, he’s not capable of crying, but his eyes sting and his mouth tastes like blood and none of this is good, how could any of it be good, he hates himself, he hates his dad, he hates he hates he hates–
He pulls out and throws himself out of bed, scared to look at his cock, rapidly softening, in case there’s blood. In case he–
“George,” he gasps and collapses to his knees by the foot of the bed. He leans until his hot forehead is pressed against the cool bedding. “Fuck, George, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
There’s no noise other than slight sniffling and the rustle of sheets. Max can’t lift his gaze from the carpeted floor.
“Do you respect me now?” George finally says, voice shot to hell. “Is your dad going to shake your hand now and tell you he’s proud of you?”
Max shakes his head desperately, hands clutching bruises on his knees. He’s going to throw up.
The sheets rustle louder and Max watches from the corner of his eyes as George gingerly gets out of bed. He’s moving weirdly, limping. There’s a lump in Max’s throat preventing him from getting a proper breath of air.
“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” George continues hoarsely, slowly dressing himself. “I knew it’d hurt. It’s why I told you to do it. To prove a point.”
“Are you leaving?” Max whispers.
“Yes. Tell your pilot to take me back to England. I’m just going to… finish packing in the meanwhile.”
“You’re hurt, you… you need to rest. A bath, I’ll– I’ll warm you dinner and you can eat it in the bath–“
“Max,” George interrupts and he sounds almost gentle. He kneels beside Max and lifts his head with a damp palm on his cheek. His face is blotched with red, lashes sticking together, and Max did that. Max put that look on his face, that bruise on his lower lip. “I don’t blame you. You’re not a bad person, don’t feel guilty. But I went through this with my dad once already and I’m not putting myself through it again.”
“I was wrong,” Max says, faint, desperate. George is leaving, he can’t leave. “My dad’s wrong, there’s nothing wrong with you, I love– I want–“
George smiles sadly when Max trails off. “You’re saying that now. The moment your dad comes knocking again, I’ll be nothing and I think you know that. I won’t… I don’t want to be humiliated again, Max.”
Fresh tears bubble in his eyes, wiped away by impatient hands. “Oh, look at me, crying again. Not much of a man, am I? Maybe your dad was right.”
“George, what do I need to do, I’ll do it, I promise–“
George shakes his head. “I wish you could. In fact, I hope you do. I want you to heal. Seeing Jos Verstappen’s face when you finally tell him to fuck off would be really, really nice as well. But I don’t want to stick around and be collateral damage while you work up the courage to do that.”
He kisses Max, a soft, dry press of their lips that doesn’t last longer than a second. “If you ever figure it out, let me know. Now, please go call your pilot and give me some time to finish packing. Please.”
And Max wants to hit something, settle the confusing tangle of feelings inside him with his fists, but it’s George and there’s nothing Max can do except do as he asks.
Max doesn’t see George out. He sits on the edge of the bed with the sheets still mussed up behind him, stares at his interlocked fingers until he knows for sure the house is empty. There’s nothing here for him without George anymore, just an empty skeleton of a mansion.
Why the fuck did he even buy this piece of shit place? It’s cold and big and isolated, like a prison. He wants out of here, back into the warmth. His– George is on the jet right now, on his way home so there’s not much for him to do in the meanwhile except sit around and figure it out.
Just like George asked.
__
What follows are the most miserable four months of Max’s life.
He’s snappy – snappier than usual – in his interviews and press conferences, he and GP keep butting heads over the radio because he just… fucking sucks now. His head is nowhere to be found, his concentration and steady hands replaced by constant mistakes and impulsive lunges that usually result in damage.
He’s ruining his own season and he doesn’t even care. Good fucking riddance. He’s fucking tired of the regulations and the shitty set-ups they put in his car and the fact that it’s raining every. Single. Week.
He’s been pathetically moping around, holed up in his apartment when he doesn’t have work responsibilities, resisting the urge to check his social media just for a hopeful glimpse of George. Sometimes his recent posts hit his feed, sometimes they don’t. He refuses to sink so low as to actually search his account up, so he’s stuck with the crumbs.
He looks good.
As tan, as radiant, as smiley as always, not a hair out of place, sponsorships and collaborations and photos of his ski trips, it’s all driving Max fucking insane.
Existence without George is misery. Nothing’s different from how it was before him, except somehow everything is. He has no interest in hooking up anymore, doesn’t remember the last time he even mustered enough interest to jerk off.
Each time he tries, images of George on his hands and knees, snotty and crying, flash through his mind and his already pitiful erection wilts fully.
He’s fucked up, truly, genuinely fucked up. He’s let a man burrow so deep underneath his skin he’d have to cut himself to even begin to get him out. It’s taken days and weeks and months of nights spent staring at his bright screen, reading articles and books and George’s comments because yes, he caves in and searches him up, every single time.
He knows he fucked up. He knows his dad is… saying it out loud feels like betrayal, still. His dad was, is, abusive. It doesn’t make him love his dad any less, but the word fits. And he’s coming to realize maybe he can love him without becoming him.
He’ll never stop disappointing Jos. He’s tried and he’s tried but his sexuality won’t change, even if he tries kissing woman after woman after woman. Even then, Jos would know the truth.
So Max has tried making peace with that, reconciling the man he idolizes and owes everything to, and the man he hates and resents and fears. He still hasn’t. Probably never will.
He’s known he needs to see George for months. Hell, the first night after he left, Max had trashed the bedroom and then called his dad. It’d gone to voicemail and he’d lost all courage, hanging up before the robotic voice had even finished its usual spiel.
George was right in the end. He’d been right to leave and that’s the only reason Max hasn’t already stormed to London and dropped to his knees on his doorstep. If it came down to his dad and George, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – choose George.
So he’s spent months trying, even went to see a hack specializing in child abuse and internalized homophobia and it’d rankled every bone in Max’s body, having to sit there and spill his secrets to a shrink, but he’d done it because he knows George wouldn’t take him back if he doesn’t.
George always swore by therapy. Max thinks it’s all ridiculous pseudo-bullshit, but he’s come out of their sessions with the ability to say he’s gay without feeling guilty about it, so maybe that counts for something.
That, and the ten million resources on LGBT+ history and culture that he’s had to read through gritted teeth. Yeah, it’s important shit, but Max isn’t one of those gays, the ones that participate in Pride and wear rainbows.
He’s just Max. He knows it’s not socially acceptable to say faggot and that’s enough for him.
Fuck, would George want to attend Pride? He’d have to go with him, of course. Hopefully not. The idea of George with glitter and paint on his cheeks is… fuck, it’s not awful. It’d be just like George, wouldn’t it.
Pretty and colorful and entirely unashamed.
__
In the end, it ends up being on the most uneventful and gray Tuesday that Max finally figures his shit out and tells his dad to fuck off.
He’s eating lunch with Jos, one of those obligatory meetings they do to imitate a normal father-son relationship, and the entire time his stomach protests the casualty of it, like the man in front of him isn’t the catalyst to everything going to shit in his life.
The irritation builds and builds until one comment, fairly inconspicuous in the grand scheme of things, sets him off. Max can’t even recall, after, what the comment was, something to do with crying and weakness and champion mentality, but it’d thrown him back in time straight to George in his bed, teary-eyed but so fucking strong despite it.
An image that has haunted him one too many times now.
“Dad, I’m gay,” he blurts out impulsively, adrenaline making his hands shake. He can’t even tell if it’s anger or terror that he’s feeling. “George, you remember George, we were together. I fucked him, I kissed him, I took him on dates, I watched him paint his nails and I fucking liked it.”
His dad is frozen for a second, body tense until he relaxes, setting his napkin down with a forced calm. “He’s gotten to you, then.”
“Yeah,” Max spits, “he’s dug his gold digging fingers into me and I fucking let him. Whatever you want to say about him, you say to someone else. If you even breathe in his direction, I’ll know.”
“Have some sense, Max,” Jos snaps, fingers clenched. “He won’t even matter in a year! You’re throwing away everything I’ve taught you over a–“
“Don’t say it.”
Jos glares at him. “Over a man. If the press find out about your little trysts, your dreams of another championship are as good as dead.”
A sudden calm falls over Max. All his dad has ever wanted was to live out his failed racing dreams through Max. That’s what it’s always been about. And if he wins his fifth, Jos will want a sixth. It’ll never be enough. He’ll never be enough.
If the press find out, huh.
Max tosses a few bills on the table, his food half-eaten and drink unfinished. Doesn’t matter. He’s done.
And what a wonderful fucking feeling that is.
__
Max doesn’t even realize George is in attendance until he happens to glance at the monitors and George’s face is staring right back at him.
He fumbles with the strap of his helmet, fingers suddenly fat and clumsy. The feed cuts to showing the crowd, but that one second of George is enough to throw Max’s insides into a frenzy. He’s in Williams again.
It’s not like he used to frequent every GP, but since their… that night in Italy, George hasn’t attended a single one, at least as far as Max has noticed. Has he seen how bad Max has been racing lately?
Embarrassment dances over his skin. He’s used to being the best and while he doesn’t care about what anyone else says, the idea of George witnessing him making stupid mistakes itches. His therapist would probably say it’s another internalized pressure in pursuit of perfect masculinity his childhood has instilled in him.
Max thinks it’s just him wanting to impress a man he’s interested in. Nothing more complicated than that, just basic biology and hormones.
This time he manages to not humiliate himself and brings home a P2, except the podium tastes like nothing but impatience. He wants it done and over with.
After, he tracks down Alex – no George with him – and grills him on any afterparties. Vegas always comes with afterparties and usually he doesn’t attend, but now he has a reason to.
Alex has been surprisingly cordial with him even though he has to know what went down between them. Everyone must’ve noticed, with George no longer coming to dinners with Max. Hell, Max no longer comes to dinners. They’ve always been chores, briefly made fun and meaningful with George by his side. Now they’re back to being chores.
Alex has every right to be pissed on behalf of his friend, yet all he does is purse his lips together and tell him the name of the club.
“Will you tell him…” Max trails off. “Or will he even–“
“What he does is none of my business,” Alex tells him. “He’ll be there or he won’t.”
__
He’s there.
Max is frozen, stuck in his spot at the bar where he’s been sitting, watching the entrance for a flash of a familiar hair. He’s there, but not with Alex or anyone else by the tables. Not even at the entrance trying to find them.
No, George is sitting tucked away from everyone in a lone corner, nursing a drink and making googly eyes at another man.
Blood rushes into Max’s head. Of all the fucking–
He restrains himself, forces himself to take a sip of his beer. Only after he’s counted to hundred and three does he feel any calmer. And George is still there, long and slim and showing too much skin. With another man.
Max slams his glass down. Enough. George can listen to him or he can tell him to fuck off but he’s ending this miserable charade now.
“George,” he says when he’s waded through the crowd to where he’s sitting with that… man. Ugly man, with slicked hair and a mustache. Skinny. That isn’t George’s type. “With me.”
George turns his head slowly, eyes wide. He’s beautiful, sweater falling off his shoulders and exposing prominent collarbones, angular planes of his face painted by colors. The other man is appalling in comparison. Where he got the audacity to think George is anywhere near his league is beyond Max.
“Max,” George says, lips pursing into a pout. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“You knew I would be here,” Max dismisses. “Come with me.”
“I was having a conversation,” George insists, whines.
“And you told me if I ever figured my shit out, I should come find you,” Max says, losing his patience. “Was that just bullshit, then?”
“That depends on whether you’ve actually figured your shit out,” George shoots back. His fingers are restless against his bottle, tearing at the soggy label. “I said I wasn’t going to be collateral. I meant that.”
It occurs to Max for the first time that George is nervous. His leg bouncing where it’s crossed over his knee, his death grip around the bottle. He knew Max would be here, that’s why he found the first man he could use as a shield.
Suddenly Max feels very tender. That man isn’t a threat to him. George is still his as long as Max is still on his mind.
“George,” he says again, gentler this time. “Will you come outside with me?”
George breathes out an unsteady breath. He searches for something in Max’s eyes and must find it because his shoulders slump with surrender. “Alright.”
“Alright,” Max repeats, relieved. Alright.
He leads George outside where the wind immediately whips their faces. Max instinctually tugs George closer to his side before he realizes.
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, letting go. “I’ll go get you a jacket.”
“That’s fine, I didn’t bring one,” George says, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“I’ll get you mine,” Max says, eyeing George’s exposed shoulders. “I’m not cold anyway.”
The pink spreads down George’s neck. “Okay.”
Once Max has retrieved his coat and helped George snake his arms into the sleeves, he guides him to sit on a bench. “It might be a little cold.”
George smiles faintly. “My arse has gone through worse.”
Max flinches. “Don’t… don’t joke about that.”
“Oh, no.” George’s eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I was– It was just a bottoming joke. Max, seriously, I told you I don’t blame you for what happened. I was the one who told you to do it.”
Max sits down next to George, rubbing his hands over his thighs. “Was your… were you okay? After.”
“Yes,” George smiles at him softly. “I’m not some delicate virgin, it’s not the first time I’ve tried putting something in without enough prep. I took a bath and iced the muscles, any pain left after a day. I’m fine, Max.”
“Okay,” Max exhales. “I worried.”
“I know. I told you you’re not a bad guy.” George looks away suddenly, fidgeting with the sleeves of Max’s coat. “I just… I feel a little bad. Leaving like that, making you do that in the first place. I wanted to prove a point and I felt humiliated and angry, but I’ve realized it was a…”
He blows out air harshly. “I realized it was a shitty thing to do. Really shitty. Like, borderline sexual assault. I knew you were just posturing, talking about rough sex like that. You never wanted to do any of that with me, but I didn’t know how else to make you understand that. I’m really sorry, Max.”
Max reaches to take George’s cold fingers. He cups them in both of his hands, tries warming them up. “I was a dickhead. You could have smacked me in the face and I still wouldn’t blame you. I hate that I hurt you, but you were right. I was wrong and you were right.”
“I usually am,” George whispers with a watery laugh. Max smiles.
“Yes. I told my dad to fuck off. I would tell you what his face looked like, but I can’t remember. And I’ve been seeing a shrink. Um, a therapist.”
George is looking at him with an unreadable expression. It could mean anything, but Max forces himself to continue.
“I treated you unfairly. I like you as you are, whatever that may be, and I don’t want you to be like me, or like what my dad thinks a man should be. I like the way we have sex, I like how you look and sound and feel. I hated when I couldn’t see your eyes or when you wouldn’t let me kiss you. Uh, and if you wanted to, or wanted me still, I would– I could, uh, come out. For you,” Max stutters out the last part, cursing internally. “I fucking wrote all this down, I lost the fucking paper. Sorry. I just–“
“Stop,” George says and Max’s jaw snaps shut. When he looks at George though, he’s not mad. His lips are twitching, trying to stretch into a smile. “That’s a lot. Wow.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s not bad,” George says and smothers a smile into his palm. “I’m proud of you, Max. Really. I, um. I’ve missed you.”
The knot in Max’s stomach eases. “What does that mean?”
George lays his hand over where Max’s is cradling his other one. They look stupid, probably, sitting there just holding onto each other, but George doesn’t seem to care. Max sure doesn’t. George’s eyes are bright and crinkled in the corners. He’s beautiful.
It’s ridiculous Max could’ve ever thought otherwise.
“It means that I’d like you to take me out on a date,” George hums, bringing their hands to his lap. He slips his left one free and unfolds Max’s fingers so he’s holding George’s thigh instead. “After which I’d like you to take me to your bedroom, or any room, really, so we can redo our last, horrendous attempt at sex.”
“Done,” Max promises, squeezing George’s thigh. Fuck, he can’t wait to christen George’s body and replace the awful things he’d done to it with better ones. “I already know where to take you. How do you feel about burgers?”
George giggles, shifting closer. “Only if they come with sweet potato fries and a forty minute wait.”
Max can’t help himself, he pulls George into his side and presses his lips to his temple, closing his eyes. He’s finally, finally home. “And no patty. Yeah, I remember.”