Chapter Text
In a truly unexpected turn of events, George wakes up before his alarm goes off.
Figuring out what dragged him out of sleep is not very hard. The feeling is immediate, striking the second he comes to his senses: wrong. Something is viscerally, overwhelmingly wrong with the world. He’s… not quite sure what, exactly. But it gnaws at the pit of his stomach, a phantom nausea. It’s like all the atoms in the universe have shifted slightly to the left, leaving an uneasiness behind that seems impossible to shake.
George manages to gather enough presence of mind to get out of bed. He’s feeling uncharacteristically groggy, so he drags himself to the bathroom, half-awake, to splash water on his face. It works: the cold sharpens his senses, puts the world back into focus. Already feeling a lot more alert, George glances at himself in the mirror-
Max Verstappen stares back.
What?
George frowns. In the mirror, Max does the same, eyebrows scrunching together in a way that somehow looks out of place on his features. George raises a hand, experimentally. Max follows, in sync. George pokes his own cheek, and in the mirror, Max does, too, like he’s actually…
What the actual fuck.
It’s George in the bathroom, but it’s Max in the mirror. George is Max. Or- maybe Max is George’s reflection? George is George, though, he is pretty sure of that. Inside, he’s still fully himself. No Max in his head, save for the little voice in the back of it that tells him he’s two-faced and a fuck-up and slow and- No, no Max in his head, period. It could be a prank. But… it doesn't feel like a prank.
It doesn't feel like something that could happen at all.
Walking back into the bedroom, George is now awake enough to realize that it’s not the room he fell asleep in last night. All luxury hotel rooms are functionally the same, sure, but this one is mostly beige, not blue, and the interior design leans more traditional, less avant-garde than the room he did check into. It’s obviously not his hotel, meaning… it must be Max’s.
George realizes with a start his head is starting to feel dizzy. He is going to pass out, maybe. Sitting back on the bed, he grips the sheets, tight, trying to anchor himself to reality. His heart might be exploding. It’s certainly trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Deep breath, hold, deep breath, hold. George runs a nervous hand through his hair- and finds short spiky strands, not his own usual soft curls. He has to physically recoil.
Desperate for something he has control over, he grabs Max’s phone. It unlocks easily enough with FaceID, thank god. He checks the date and location: Singapore, October 8th, a little before nine. Okay. At least that’s consistent with what he remembers.
Now what?
It's not like he has a lot of options. If Max and him have truly… swapped bodies, or whatever happened that resulted in this mess, George needs to get a hold of Max, first thing. Max, who should have George’s phone, then.
George types his own number in the phone app, and a contact pops up, infuriatingly named gpda princess. He tries to remember his own contact name for Max. It's probably something professional and boring, like his full government name. Fuck, he’s not even pressed call yet and he’s already scornful.
He presses call. The call rings for several endless seconds, before going to voicemail.
A second try meets the same fate.
Either Max is sleeping, or he’s still coming to terms with… all that, or he’s just not in the mood to talk. Or- he’s dead, and so is George, and this is hell. It’s barely more of a reach than whatever the fuck is going on, honestly.
George rubs his eyes. Who else can he call? Someone who could help?
At a loss, he scrolls through Max’s recently texted list: Charles, Isack, Kelly, GP, Daniel, Chris Lully, Seb, Gabi, an ominous Papa — yeah, no, not even touching that one. He scrolls down far enough that he finds Toto Wolff. He doesn’t quite have the self-restraint not to open it, but it’s useless: the whole thread is in German. George closes it immediately, guilt flaring.
The only person he can think to call, really, is Alex. Max and Alex were teammates, ages ago; Max should still have his number, right? George opens the contacts and finds what he’s looking for under williams alex albono, right after willem-alexander (king). George is pretty sure that’s the king of the Netherlands. What the fuck.
He hits call on Alex’s name. After a few excruciating seconds, the line picks up.
“Uh, Max? Hello? Everything okay, mate?”
“Alex, thank fuck,” George starts, and, ah.
He sounds like Max, as well. It’s his raspy voice, yeah, and it’s his accent and his slight lisp, too. It’s like Max’s mouth is used to forming words a certain way, his tongue a little too far forward, lips curling in a way George isn’t quite used to. It’s jarring.
“What’s, uh- do you… need something?” Alex asks.
Right. Of course. Alex is confused. He can fucking get in line.
George takes a second to hesitate, though. Does he need something? The end of this nightmare and a month off, sure, but somehow it stands to reason that Alex won’t be very helpful with that.
Should he really be telling Alex the truth?
He tries to imagine it. Alex catching “George’s” eye in the pit lane and finding polite distance where he’s used to fondness. Alex trying to strike up a conversation in the paddock with who he believes is his best friend, except it’s actually- No, okay, George has to tell him.
“Max?”
“Yeah, uh. No, I- I do need something.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need you to believe me when I tell you I’m-” Oh, Christ, there’s no way to actually utter the words without sounding like a bloody lunatic. Full send, then. “-I’m George in Max Verstappen’s body, apparently.”
There’s a very long pause on the other end of the line. It’s long enough for George to second-guess every single decision that led him here. In hindsight, perhaps he should have run Max over with a kart, fifteen years ago, back when they were teammates. At least he wouldn’t be in this fucking mess today.
“Good one, Max,” Alex finally says, weary. “But I haven’t had coffee yet, so-”
“Alex,” George interrupts. “I can list every single one of your bucket list items. I lent you a shirt for your first date with Lily. We spent six hours on the floor of your hotel room when you were weighing the pros and cons of taking the Williams seat. Come on, mate, it’s me.”
“Okay,” Alex says slowly. “Either you two coordinated to pull the most elaborate joke in history, or…”
“Ask me anything,” George insists, all but pleading.
There’s a sigh on the other side. Then: “Um. When we were kids, what did my mum call you when you’d come round for dinner?”
Despite the circumstances, the memory makes George smile. Simpler times. He can still recall the smell of Alex’s mum’s roast, and the taste of her mango sticky rice. Mercifully, he also remembers the Thai endearment.
“Lûuk, was it?”
“Fuck,” Alex says on the other side. “George, is it actually- what?”
“I know. Believe me, I’m just as puzzled as you are.”
“Is Max… ?”
“I don’t know,” George breathes, “he’s not picking up the phone.”
“What are you going to do?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s a Thursday, media day. Assuming Max is indeed in George’s body, it’s a prisoner’s dilemma, in a way. If neither of them show up to the paddock today, everybody will notice something is wrong. If only one of them plays along, they’re only saving the other’s reputation. The only way it can work is if they both manage to act as if everything is perfectly normal.
“Georgie?”
“Well,” George says, somber like a man condemned. “Do I really have a choice?”
And, well. That’s that.
GP clocks him immediately.
He corners George in the Red Bull motorhome, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, not even five minutes after George walks in. It’s a little insulting, frankly. George thought he had been doing a pretty good job of not drawing attention to himself.
“What’s up with you?”
GP’s tone is not unkind, but it’s sharp. It doesn’t leave room for denial.
George tries, anyway: “What do you mean?”
“Don’t start, Max. I know something is going on. You haven’t talked to me at all about your sim results this week, for a start.”
George is going to go lay down on the fucking track and wait for the sweet relief of death. Seriously? This is what does him in? Max Verstappen’s unhealthy addiction to his fucking sim rig?
“You also haven't asked Tim about his wife’s surgery. Or Dave about his vacation,” GP adds, head tilted, as if he’s reading George’s mind.
Oh, that’s just rich. It’s one thing to get exposed because his rival is the bloody poster child for sim racing hyperfixation, it’s another thing entirely to get exposed because the guy is a much nicer person than he is and apparently it shows.
“I’m, uh-” George starts, then stops.
It's not really a question of whether he should tell GP: he reckons he doesn't really have a choice. The man knows Max inside and out; every personality trait, every quirk, every pre-race habit. George is certain GP could pick Max out of an anonymized list of braking times, perhaps even steering inputs. The second George stepped into the garage, never mind the car, GP was always going to notice that something was off, and subsequently, pry. George has to tell him.
The real question is: how the fuck can he explain what's going on without sounding like he needs to be institutionalized?
“Okay, look, GP,” George says, putting his hands up in surrender. Or in protection. He’s not actually sure. GP does look vaguely threatening. “I reckon you’re going to think I'm insane, but I'm not.”
GP raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“I’m not Max.”
A beat. George watches the information register on GP’s face. His concern turns to confusion.
“What do you mean you’re not Max?”
George takes a deep breath. This is where he loses whatever sliver of credibility he has left.
“I’m actually George Russell. In Max’s body.”
GP pinches the bridge of his nose. “Max, this is the least funny prank you’ve ever done.”
“I swear to god I'm not lying, mate. I don't know how it happened, but it's true,” George pleads, a little desperate. “Ask me anything about myself- about George Russell, and I'll answer. Stuff Max wouldn't know.”
GP narrows his eyes.
“Fine.” A pause. George can almost see the wheels turning. “What was the exact lap time of your first pole position at Hungaroring 2022?”
“Jesus, mate, something I remember.”
“Okay,” GP says, decidedly. “I believe you. Max would have known that.”
He has to be taking the piss. There's just no way. Why the fuck would Max Verstappen know that? Sure, the man is some kind of trivia monster, but does he really study every pole lap of every circuit of every year since he started racing?
George isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he goes along with it.
“Uh. Thank you.”
“So,” GP hums, eyeing him. “The real Max is… in your body? At Mercedes?”
George shrugs. “I guess so? I bloody hope so, at least. I’ll get in trouble if he isn’t.”
“You- haven’t you talked to him at all?”
“He’s not answering my calls,” George grumbles.
That particular revelation draws a fond chuckle out of GP, which, rude. George is right there.
“So you just walked in and hoped nobody would notice?” GP adds, raising an eyebrow. “Christ, that’s a strong case for corporate espionage.”
“I didn’t really have a choice, though, did I?” George says, apologetic. “How would it look if I went to Mercedes? I’m sure Sky Sports would eat up ‘yeah, don’t worry, Russell and Verstappen actually switched bodies’. Wouldn’t sound deranged at all.”
“I guess that’s fair enough,” GP concedes. “Hope you’re up to speed on all the Red Bull strategy terminology, then. Briefing in twenty!” he adds, cheerful.
George winces. This is why he needed to get a hold of Max before the day actually started, because everybody is gonna figure out immediately that he’s deceiving them, fuck- he doesn’t really have time to fully spiral, though, because GP is watching him with a lopsided smile.
“Don’t worry,” he says, not unkindly. “I’ll help.”
alleyway in 5, reads the text from Max, the notification bubble covering one of the several cats on the lock screen.
George has been staring at it for a solid minute, waiting for the time. It’s less cryptic than it looks: Mercedes and Red Bull hospitalities neighbour each other, and there’s a narrow passage in between. Max and George have run into each other there, a couple times, both catching their breath in the middle of intensely packed days.
He uses this exact excuse to slip out of the building a few minutes later, muttering something to Mekies and GP about getting some air.
Although he should have been expecting it, it catches George off-guard, the sight of his own body, instead of Max’s, leaning casually against the wall of the Mercedes motorhome.
Max is inhabiting his body, yes. He has the height, the slenderness, the fluffy hair. Except… George knows himself, has been looking at his face in the mirror several times a day for twenty-eight years: it’s off. Max is embodying him in all the wrong ways, George notes as he approaches. His stance is a little too on edge, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set slightly too forward, brows drawn together too harshly. It's a pantomime of the real thing. He’s not sure whether that’s reassuring or not.
“What the fuck did you do?” Max hisses in lieu of a hello, pushing himself off the wall the second he catches sight of George.
Ah. Not a promising beginning. George had been expecting a productive, solution-oriented talk. In retrospect, perhaps it was foolish, to hope for a mature conversation with Max Verstappen.
“Good morning to you too,” George manages with a calm he’s absolutely not feeling.
“Cut the bullshit, Russell. What did you do?”
“You think I did this?” A pause. Max stares at him blankly. “How even-”
“I don’t know,” Max says, venomous. “But if you wanted to be me so badly, you-”
“You’re so bloody predictable,” George cuts him off. “Do you ever get off your high horse? Christ, and I thought you wanted to discuss a plan.”
Max steps closer, fists clenched, shoulders taut. In this body, he looks down at George. It’s downright vexing.
“If you can’t fix it,” he seethes, “just-”
“George!” somebody calls from the end of the alleyway.
They both startle at the intrusion. It’s Marcus, George’s race engineer, staring at them blankly, like he’s considering whether he gets paid enough to break up an actual fight. He seems to come to the conclusion that he doesn’t, because he stops halfway through.
“Engineering brief, mate, come on,” Marcus calls, a hint of exasperation creeping in.
Max shoots George one last furious look and walks away behind the engineer, not even bothering with a fucking apology, from what George can hear.
For fuck’s sake, he’s behaving like a teenager. George is never going to be able to look Marcus in the eye again.
As luck would have it, George and Max are in the same press conference. After being stuck with GP and the rest of the Red Bull engineering team all morning, head swimming with new radio codes, George had hoped for a minute of relative privacy with Max in the hallway, to discuss their… conundrum a little more calmly. It’s not meant to be, though, because Charles is already waiting with a marshal when George gets there. Or, rather, when George gets dropped off by Max’s PR person — a woman named Gemma — because apparently Max is a fucking child and cannot be trusted to make it to important FIA business on his own.
Charles claps him on the back enthusiastically and launches into a whole spiel about some shit his puppy did at breakfast this morning that, honestly, George wouldn’t care about even under normal circumstances.
Where the fuck is Max? They’re expected at those press conferences ten minutes early, always. If Max thinks he can dodge media obligations now because George will be the one to deal with the aftermath- he’s got another thing coming.
George is trying to think of a way to ask about Max’s whereabouts without being suspicious, when he does show up, right as Ollie, Alex, and Checo are coming out of the first presser. The switch-off is swift. They barely have time to greet their competitors, but George makes sure to half-hug both Checo, for Max’s reputation, and Alex, for his own sanity, before they get ushered into the room by the FIA volunteer.
Max pointedly takes the far end of the sofa, stubbornly refusing to even look at George.
Well then.
Even Charles seems to clock the tension, because he looks confusedly between his two friends, before settling in the middle of the sofa. George takes the remaining spot and tries to emulate what Max looks like in a press conference: bored, mostly. Legs spread a little wider than is polite. He’s watched enough of those to make a convincing impression.
After eight years in the circus, George knows the press conference lineup choice is either random or extremely pointed. Today though, Max, Charles and him? The three drivers leading the championship standings? Yeah, not a chance that’s not the point.
He’s proven right a few moments later, when the first question drops.
“Sofia Dias-Hernandez, for Motorsport.com. We’re about three quarters done with the season, so far. Being the three title contenders, do you feel the pressure heightening?”
Charles starts. While he prattles on about confidence and maximizing results, George steals a glance at the opposite end of the couch. Max is sprawled back against the cushions, arms crossed. Infuriatingly, he seems to have skipped shaving this morning: a hint of dark stubble is starting to show on his jaw. George hasn't skipped shaving in public for literal years, but that's fine. Not brand-destroying at all.
Max also looks downright standoffish, which is a word George would prefer to keep out of the headlines mentioning his name, please and thank you.
“Max?” the moderator prompts as Charles concludes.
Out of the corner of his eye, George can see Max, in his body, reach for the microphone. He just about holds back an eye roll — honestly, not even a crumb of self-awareness — and coughs pointedly.
Max lets go of the mic like he got burned.
George picks up his own, and tries to bullshit his way through how Max Verstappen would respond.
“Uhmmm,” he starts, testing the waters, exaggerating the sound just to be annoying. “Not really, to be honest. I’m lucky enough to have a few championships to my name already, so I have a bit of experience with that. I have already accomplished everything I wanted in Formula One. I’m mostly just having fun racing.”
He’s pulling stuff out of his arse, honestly, but it seems to be working. Nobody jumps him. People take notes. The journalist, whose name he already forgot, nods a thank you.
George feels himself relax a little bit. Maybe this whole shitshow is actually doable. Now he just needs Max to play along.
“George?”
This time, Max seems to realize the moderator is addressing him. Small mercies.
“Yeah, uh,” he stammers, “the pressure is of course there.”
He puts the microphone back down. Taken aback by the brevity of the answer, the moderator blinks a few times. George holds back an eyeroll — Max had at least a minute to brainstorm a semblance of a coherent response, come on.
On the floor, the journalist tries to coax a little more out of him:
“Is it increasing? The pressure? With Max now being only two points behind?”
“I stay focused on my own performance.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. George could scream. The answer itself isn’t that bad, is the thing, with the reporter clearly trying to get a rise out of him. But the attitude — curt, tight-lipped — couldn’t be further from what George usually tries to portray. He wants to stand up and yell some sense into Max: it’s George’s own hard work he’s undermining here, goddammit.
Instead, he grits his teeth and steels himself. If Max doesn’t want to play the part, fine. George knows how to act for the cameras. He can be convincing enough for two.
The questions come in quick succession, ranging from overused (Singapore is one of the most physically taxing races on the calendar, how do you feel about that?) to tedious (The weather changes especially quickly in South-East Asia in the fall. Is the risk of rain going to impact your strategy?) to boring (Charles, Ferrari has announced an upgrade package for this weekend, can you tell us a little bit more about that?).
While Charles answers, George tries to catch Max’s eye. He tilts his head, a silent confrontation, but to no avail: Max keeps his gaze firmly in front of him, toying with the microphone wire like a jittery seven-year old who forgot his Adderall.
Fucking fine. If that's how he wants to play it.
“Eloise Grant, for BBC Sports. Question for George. You won here last year, does that give you extra confidence, coming into this weekend?”
Ah, finally. That's a lovely question. Building him up instead of tearing him down. Gotta love British press. Shame Max is the one who has to answer.
Max grabs his mic. He only looks mildly uncomfortable. It's a little jarring of an expression on George’s face, but it could pass for pensive, probably. It's fine. Max opens his mouth, and George braces himself.
“Uh, the cars are of course quite different this year, with the new regulations, so it doesn’t quite carry over,” Max starts, “but Singapore is historically not a bad track for Mer- for us. And of course, the fact that I already won here is a nice bonus as well, so, yes, I am feeling positive.”
George lets out a breath. That was… surprisingly not terrible. He’ll live to see another day.
The respite is short-lived, because the next journalist takes the floor:
“Naud Jagers, De Telegraaf. Question for Max. Max, Red Bull hasn’t always been on top of the game on sprint weekends, historically, and yet you’ve been performing spectacularly on the last few sprints. What do you think makes you good at sprints specifically this year, and are you confident for this one in particular?”
“That’s actually two questions,” George counters. The journalists laugh, and George allows himself a satisfied little smirk. It’s refreshing, being allowed to be snarky. So refreshing in fact, that he can’t help but do it again: “Sprints are… not my preferred format, so I’m good at them because I can’t wait for them to be over.”
The room laughs again, which is a bit on the nose, honestly. It wasn’t even that funny. Is it always so easy to be Max?
“Sorry, I’m joking. No, I think, uh, our Ford engine has gotten very good as the season went on, and it particularly excels at short stints, so I reckon that’s what gives us an edge on the sprints. As for confidence, well, uh. Yeah, I’m on a good dynamic at the moment, so, I’d say I’m fairly confident.”
Sponsor praise, check. He should be getting paid for this.
The next few questions all kind of blur together. Charles gets a particularly heinous one about whether Lewis is nearing his expiration date, which he rightfully refuses to answer. George almost intervenes, but he’s Max, and Max wouldn’t do that. He bites his tongue until he tastes copper.
After that, it’s the usual circus. It’s easy, in a way: this far into the season, the narratives are ready-made, the questions a rehashing of every single press conference that came before. Charles’s impossible chase, George’s mid-season “slump” — god, he fucking hates that word — and Max’s stellar comeback. George hasn’t been briefed on Red Bull’s PR angle, but he’s shared enough couches with Max that he could recite the answers in his sleep, so he makes sure to highlight the team’s efforts and dedication.
Finally, the end nears, and the moderator calls for the last couple of questions.
“Daniel Koh, for The Strait Times. Max, with your victory in Madrid earlier this year, Singapore is still the only circuit you haven't won on the current calendar. Do you think this year is the year?”
“I don’t really think about that,” George replies slowly. He’s pretty sure Max couldn’t fucking care less where they race as long as it has a pit lane and a finish line. “It would be a fun statistic, of course, but- at the end of the day, it’s just a race.”
The man thanks him, and they wait for the next question in the telltale iPhone-keyboard noise of notetaking.
“Hi, I’m with Auto Motor und Sport. Question for all three of you: Singapore has a reputation for being very punishing. With no run-off and the walls so close, one mistake means race over. Does that affect your confidence, or how much you’re willing to push?”
“No,” Max answers immediately. The tone is very Max-like, assertive, unable to comprehend that anyone could disagree, but for once, George actually agrees with the sentiment.
“No,” he confirms.
“Also no,” Charles adds, watching who he believes is Max with amusement. “Always full push.”
“Do you not think about it at all?” the reporter insists.
“What, crashing?” Max scoffs. He sounds so offended George surmises he’s never thought about crashing in his life.
The journalist nods. Max is frowning like the guy just asked about last year’s missed championship. George can just tell Max is about to be a little bitch. As stupid as the question is, he’d really prefer to keep his good will with the press, so he takes pity on Max and interrupts:
“You don’t think about it,” he says. “You don’t have much time to think, during. And if you let it affect your times, you might as well not race.”
Max finally, finally turns to look at him.
He’s still mad, evidently: jaw set, brow furrowed. It’s thoroughly unreasonable, especially since George would very much like to think they’re in this shit together, but, well. When has Max Verstappen ever been described as reasonable? Except- under the anger, there’s something else. In the way he’s pouting a little, in the slight tilt of his head. In the way he stares at George unabashedly. Something like… reluctant acceptance.
Perhaps Max has speedrun all five stages of grief, and he’s finally ready to talk and cooperate. That would be a real headline.
The second they get back to the hallway, George pounces:
“Russell. A word?”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Max scoffs.
“Don’t be a fucking child, come on.”
Charles watches the exchange in confusion, glancing between “Max” — uncannily composed, ice-cold — and “George” — a begrudging deer in the headlights.
“Oh, you guys are fighting again?” he asks with a yawn.
“No,” Max says.
“Very astute, Leclerc,” George says at the same time.
It’s only when Charles does a double take that George remembers he’s supposed to be Max, and that Max Verstappen wouldn’t say that. Eh, well, a few out of character moments won’t kill them, especially off camera. Charles looks like he’s about to say something, but a woman in a rosso corsa polo calls him from the end of the hallway. With a last look, he shrugs, visibly deciding it’s not worth it, and leaves.
As soon as Charles is out of sight, George grabs Max’s arm — it’s infuriatingly easy, to wrap Max’s long fingers around his own slender wrist — to drag him to a more secluded corridor. Max shakes his wrist free immediately, but he follows, nevertheless.
Once hidden from view, George attacks again.
“What the fuck was that, mate? You could have at least tried being convincing, blimey.”
George thought he was being very reasonable, honestly. If the unimpressed look Max is throwing him is any indication, he doesn’t share the sentiment.
“Enjoy playing the part for the cameras, don’t you, Russell?”
“Oh my god, of course you’d say that,” George mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Like it or not, you’re gonna have to. Or would you rather be found out and charged with corporate espionage?”
Max opens his mouth, finds seemingly nothing to say, and closes it.
“And for the record,” George adds, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I didn’t cause any of it. Obviously.”
“How would I know? You seem to be adjusting well.”
“I’d rather have my team and my car, are you fucking stupid?” George snaps, indignant. And then, because he can be a vindictive bastard when he wants to be: “If anything, you’re the one who’s been gagging all year for a taste of my rocketship. Careful what you wish for.”
“Keep telling yourself that. If I wanted your fucking car, I’d be in your seat right now,” Max says almost dismissively, rolling his eyes.
“Genuinely, do you hear yourself talk? Or are you so far up your own arse that the sound is muffled?”
“Who’s on the attack now, princess? Didn’t you say we need a plan?”
George begrudgingly chokes back another jab. He might have said that. Maybe it’s whatever essence of Max Verstappen left in this body that gets so easily riled up. He forces himself to breathe; as much as it pains him to say, Max is right. They need to coordinate, to figure out solutions and to establish ground rules if they want to make it through the weekend unscathed.
“What we need,” he grits out, trying to swallow down the fury, “is to make sure we don’t kill each other for the foreseeable future, so if you could stop being a right dick, that'd be great, cheers.”
With a non-committal noise, Max leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is carefully blank, but George knows he has him. Max is smart; more than enough to have reached the same conclusion: if they really are about to switch places for god knows how long, they’ll need each other’s support.
Eventually, Max nods, once.
“Lovely,” George says drily. “Let’s be productive, then, chop chop.”
Max pulls a face. His expression of horror would be comical under different circumstances.
George ignores him, and keeps talking: “First rule. Cardinal rule, even: for the love of god, we need to play each other’s part. And be convincing.”
“I don’t-”
“No, I’ve seen the damn Heineken ad. You’re a decent actor, so-”
“I was playing myself!” Max argues. “It was not actually acting!”
“We’ve known each other for fifteen years, Max. I think you can do an impression of me.”
“Of you, sure. Of the PR robot that you become when you step foot in an interview, I don’t-”
“At least try,” George snaps, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “For the cameras.”
At the mention of the word ‘camera’, Max’s expression shutters.
“You know I hate all that media shit.”
“That's not-” George starts, raking a hand though his hair. It’s so short, it still makes him wince a little. “I'm not asking you to pretend to- Okay, okay, I guess I am,” he adds, raising both hands in surrender when Max looks like he's going to argue. “This is bigger than you, alright? Both our teams depend on us. If the press, or even the FIA, figure out something is up… the investigation would ruin us.”
“Who could even figure it out? It’s mad. I barely believe it myself.”
“Yeah, I know,” George grimaces. “But we live under constant scrutiny. If we aren’t convincing, I wouldn’t put it past the most deranged fans to put two and two together. And if the kooky theory gets enough traction…”
“Fine,” Max relents with a sigh. “But you stop with the weird British slang, then. I’d never be caught dead saying chop chop.”
“Would you look at that, you do care about your brand.”
“Fuck off. I just don’t want to raise any questions.”
“Duly noted. What else?”
Max worries at his lower lip. His gaze flits around the empty hallway, as if looking for inspiration, but he stays quiet.
Honestly, it’s like pulling teeth.
“Work with me here, mate,” George grumbles after a moment of silence.
“Um,” Max finally says. “We don’t tell anyone about this.”
That would be a given. Unfortunately…
George considers lying. But- well, hopefully they’ll get back to the correct bodies at some point. GP will tell Max, eventually. Perhaps they’ll laugh about it together, hey, remember that mental weekend where the universe glitched and then that loser George Russell had to try to impersonate you?
Shaking off the thought, George sighs:
“I… may have already told GP.”
“Oh, well that’s fine, of course. He would have guessed anyw-”
“And Alex,” George cuts him off. “In my defence,” he adds quickly when Max starts frowning, “you weren’t answering the bloody phone.”
“That didn’t give you the right-”
“I was freaking out! Who else was I gonna call from your contacts? Fucking Helmut Marko?”
“Okay, fine,” Max says after a moment, matter-of-fact. “Let’s switch phones, then. We can keep our actual phones.”
As much as George would love to have his own phone back, there are at least twenty reasons why that’s a stupid idea. He settles for the obvious one.
“Oh, sure, that’s not gonna be suspicious at all.”
“We have the same phone model, anyway”, Max argues. “We can say we switched cases as a dare, or something.”
“And what happens when somebody from Mercedes tries to contact you and they reach me instead?”
“I mean, you can forward me the text-”
George stares at him blankly.
“You have got to be taking the piss,” he says. “That would be a logistics nightmare, not to mention all the times we’re unable to access our phones-”
“You’re being difficult,” Max says with a frown. “I’m sure it could work.”
“Okay,” George exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I get that you’d rather have your own phone, but obviously that's not going to work. What would make you more comfortable?”
“Having my fucking phone,” Max mutters.
How is it possible to be so fucking annoying all the time? Really a question for the ages. George swallows down the fine then i’ll just leak Nelson Piquet’s number on twitter if you want to be a git, and chooses to keep the peace.
“Mate. I’m trying to help.”
“I know,” Max sighs. He pauses, then: “Stay out of my photos and texts.”
“Texts are sort of… what if I miss something from your team?”
“Fine. Stay out of anything personal, then,” Max amends. “Nothing from Charles, Daniel, my sim team, or-”
The frown is crash-quick, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it haze over Max’s eyes. But George knows his own face; he catches it.
“-or my family,” Max finishes eventually. “Don’t contact them.”
“Alright,” George says, agreeably. “I don’t reckon I speak Dutch, anyway, so-” He pauses, the idea coming to him suddenly. “Wait. Do I?”
He tries to conjure up a Dutch phrase, anything, really, as Max stares at him dubiously. He can sort of feel the familiarity of the words floating around, but they stay firmly out of his reach.
“Hm. I don’t think so. Shame, that,” George sighs. And then, another stroke of inspiration: “Do you?”
“Ben je dom of zo? Natuurlijk spreek ik gewoon Nederlands,” Max says, and immediately frowns in disapproval. “Oh, mate, what the fuck is that accent?”
“You’re the one speaking!”
“No, it's your mouth, it's like you can’t even make the sounds! Jij bent het probleem, man,” he tries again, experimentally. “Wow, that's so bad. I’ll never make fun of you again for the way you say Hugenholtzboch.”
George laughs, and he feels his whole face scrunch up in mirth. He’s seen Max happy enough times — usually, above him on the podium — to know his happiness is communicative. So much so that it looks… almost endearing.
Max himself is staring, like he’s seeing it for the very first time. Maybe he is, George realizes. Most probably, Max is not the kind to obsess over how he comes across in every second of footage: too mean, not palatable enough, too dry, not-
“How about you?” Max asks, drawing George from his thoughts. He’s eyeing him curiously, head tilted. It looks so much like an expression GP would make that it's almost comical.
“Hm?”
“We went over my rules. How about yours? Or can I just read all your texts?”
“Oh, um.” He hadn't thought that far ahead, too focused on getting Max on board. “Same thing, I guess. Fair warning, Aleix, my trainer, will probably figure you out, but he can be discreet.”
The silence stretches between them, full of the huge, all-encompassing question they have yet to address. The elephant in the room, in a way, though it’s made of carbon fiber.
“As for the racing…” George starts, and trails off. He’s not too keen on being the first one to show his — Mercedes’s — cards.
At the mention of racing, Max predictably perks up.
“Scared you won’t be able to drive my car, princess?” Max taunts, but it’s mellow, probably more out of habit than actual anger.
“I reckon I can figure it out, cheers,” George says with an eyeroll. “Actually, I was more worried about you.”
“Are you fucking-”
“I have GP, he gave me all the documents I need,” George interrupts, “but you don’t have anyone on the technical side. What good is being able to drive the car if you don’t know its engine modes, genius?”
Max stares at him blankly. With a sigh, George carries on:
“As long as you pay attention during the strategy brief, you should be fine. But, tell you what, I’ll show you where to find the engine recap from this summer.” He levels Max with a hardened stare. “If it leaks, I'll know it was you.”
“Yeah yeah,” Max drawls. “Believe me, secrecy is also in my best interest.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
They exchange a look. The weight of the agreement is palpable, an unexpected alliance in what is, to be fair, just as unexpected of circumstances.
Stupidly, George holds out his hand.
Max raises an eyebrow, and his lips curl upwards slightly, like he’s thinking of a jab. He holds it in, though, wordlessly shaking the offered hand.
“And shave, will you?” George adds. “This is…” He searches for the right word. “…not like me.”
“Ah, but we already shook on it. Too late to add terms now.”
He's being a little shit on purpose, of course. George can see it in the glint of mirth in his eyes.
“You’re impossible,” George grumbles, but it's almost warm.
“Me? Or you?” Max says, mischievous. “I’m lost now, who do you mean?”
And, well. Isn't that the million-quid question?
That night, back in his room, George distractedly decides he’s going to go for a shower. Mechanically, he removes his shoes, socks, that ugly bright blue team polo, jeans-
Ah.
He’s suddenly faced with both the enormous mirror in front of the bed, and the fact that the black boxers he has on are the only thing still protecting Max Verstappen’s dignity.
He went to the bathroom, during the day, of course, but it was easy to do it absentmindedly, then. It's significantly harder, alone in his hotel room, now.
Unable to turn away, George stares at the mirror. His gaze traces the broad expanse of Max’s shoulders and chest, dotted with a mesmerizing constellation of moles. Max is muscular; solid where George is sharp. George is entranced by the way his body moves, how the skin stretches over the muscles. It’s unnerving, almost disturbing, to move and feel something soft where he usually only sees lean. It’s also-
He can’t describe it any other way than inviting.
Earlier, when they talked about boundaries, Max never mentioned oh by the way, don’t jerk off. But it's not like George is delusional enough not to realize that would be crossing several lines. Max didn't mention it because he didn't think he had to. Unlike George, Max isn’t some kind of deranged pervert with an unhealthy fixation on the milky stretch of skin between the edge of his boxers and his navel. How could he have known George would be going around gawking at Max’s hips and pecs and thighs?
Although. Technically, those are his own hips and pecs and thighs. At the moment. Inhabiting a body requires existing in the physical space of it, or something.
Tentatively, George lifts a hand. Max’s reflection does the same. It’s not often, that he has the leisure of watching. It feels- unnatural, forbidden, after a lifetime of aborted glances. In the mirror, Max’s hand reaches his hip, fingers pressing into the softness like an indent. George’s breath catches, and he slowly drags Max’s fingertips up his body, shivers erupting in their wake. He draws a path of goosebumps upwards, up his stomach, over his ribs, and finally, to the thick plane of his chest. George is proud of his own body, of course, he’s an athlete, but with his height and the weight limit, he can’t bulk up as much as he’d sometimes like to.
Max, though. Max’s tits are soft when his hand closes around one. He kneads the flesh, watching with fascination the little ridges around the shape of his fingers. The skin is warm, too, and for George who’s always a little bit cold, it feels almost fiery.
As he slowly moves his hand, the palm brushes the nipple, and- oh, fuck.
A spike of pleasure zips down his spine, and it takes everything in George to hold back the honest-to-god whimper that threatens to rip out of his throat. He hadn’t even thought- George’s own nipples are not very sensitive. He thought that was every man’s case, really.
Experimentally, he does it again. On purpose this time. He rolls the hard little nub between his thumb and index finger. The pleasure is- hot, instantaneous. Max is absurdly sensitive.
George has no idea what to do with this information, and his heart — Max’s? — is beating wildly. From the pleasure, or the knowledge? It gets worse: George realizes with a start he’s completely, achingly hard, Max’s dick standing proudly in his boxers.
Okay, that’s- if groping Max’s tits and ogling him in the mirror wasn’t already a grave overstep, and it was, anything involving his dick is absolutely off-limits. Severely so.
Gritting his teeth, George lets his hands fall back at his sides and exhales slowly. He flexes both hands once, twice, trying to erase the firsthand knowledge of Max Verstappen’s body he’s just acquired against his will. He glances at himself in the mirror. Still Max. His cheeks are red, and the flush stretches down his neck and the top of his chest, almost reaching-
Oh, for God’s sake. He needs a cold shower, and to get a fucking grip. In that order. He has a whole engine map to learn.