corvid wings and shiny things

by ghani

Summary:

If the GPDA notes were to be believed, only champions had ever received wings after the final race of the season, exclusively in the manageable size described in Seb's notes, like Lando's, in FIA-sanctioned colours. There was no recorded incident of any kind of deviation, but then. Things were not always recorded for a reason, and George had gradually learned that the absence of a thing in the official record keeping held a very different kind of weight.

Still, moments trickled back to George from the second half of the season. Horner's sacking, Red Bull's almost miraculous comeback, Max hunting other cars down for pole positions and podiums. Red Bull gives you wings. The team had, in horrible irony, seemed to have somehow manifested their tagline. Max had embodied that team in a way that had been awesome and terrible to see.

“Max, what—” George hesitated in the doorway, just catching the silhouette of the man who had opened the door.

“Are you coming in or not?” Max's voice was the rasp of the freshly woken, far deeper than George had ever heard it.

George shuffled in, easing the door closed behind him with a quiet, heavy snick. The flat smelled of cleaning supplies, evidence of the housekeeping service they all leaned on when traveling to make sure they had a tidy space to return to. The drawn blackout curtains were just as familiar. Given their continuous hopping between time zones, every driver kept high quality black out curtains in their living spaces to protect their sleep, and George thought he recognized the brand. With the curtains drawn, the short hall felt almost oppressive without any overhead lights on.

“Christ, allergic to sunlight, or are you that hungover?” George winced internally, knowing full well his tone wasn't fair. The man had seemed content with his lot from both his apparent serenity on the podium less than a week before and the snatches of interviews he had seen, but George knew Max, hell, he knew drivers. No matter how many championships he had under his belt, the loss would eat away at his insides, corrosive and bitter in the back of the throat. A bad mood, particularly in his direction, wasn't unforgivable, particularly after that loss.

Two points. George had heard the radio, after.

Is Charles catching him or not?

“Fine, fine, of course.” Max's footsteps were as heavy as his voice, and a moment later the overhead lights flickered on.

George drew in a slow breath as his eyes adjusted, his gaze immediately drawn to the other man.

Max was shirtless, and understandably so, with the huge spread of wings folded roughly against his back. They were too big to entirely compress, the jutting arch of the leading edge lifted from his back to curve beyond the top of his head, before sweeping down to drag delicate feathertips along the floor. The shortest feathers along the leading edge overlapped row by row, each section layering exponentially longer than the last until what should have been the flight feathers were each easily as long as George's arms. George didn't know how he was standing with that kind of weight on his back, hell, didn't know how he was up at all.

Max seemed to be leaning forward against the weight of them, even, as if trying to counterbalance their drag. Their feathered mass blocked George's view of how they attached, but the shape of them spoke, somehow, of speed and power far beyond what any human body could sustain. Still, for all the eerie, uncanny shape of them, it was the colour that held George's eyes. Unlike the gleaming, triumphant silver and gold he'd been led to understand the championship wings usually came in, these were a light-drinking, corvid-black. So dark they gleamed blue under the lights, and as Max shifted his weight, they moved with him with a shuddering, mesmerizing rustle.

“Well? Take your photos,” Max growled, one hand bracing against the wall. “And check the records. This is not normal, though I of course cannot expect you to know.”

The insult was a clumsy one, and as George managed to pull his attention away from the impossibility that sprang from Max’s back, he began to finally notice other things. Max was flushed, his forehead damp, eyes half-closed, and as he breathed, the wings moved with him, heavy and laboured. Nothing in the GPDA notes said anything about someone having lost the championship getting a pair, much less anything about wings like these.

Graceful, Seb had written years before of the Red Bull wings, impossibly light as if for true flight, but the dimensions all wrong to carry any significant weight. Despite appearances, no actual flight seems achievable. In truth, they were much more of a nuisance for as long as they lasted. Span of approximately 1.5 metres, though measuring yourself poses several challenges. Seb's scrawl was somehow both messy and precise, pride in every word, as was the footnote at the bottom of the page. Size appears to vary from year to year with no consistent pattern. 2011 - 1.3 metres. 2012 - 1.7 metres. 2013 - 1.5 metres. The original documentation had continued, almost wry in tone. Championship winners highly recommended to simply sleep as many hours of their existence away until they dissolve on their own. Duration varies, but always a minimum of 36 hours.

Nothing was written of wings that looked as heavily boned as a femur, shining like freshly cooled charcoal and large enough, George suspected, to easily span three and a half metres if outstretched from tip to tip. As they were, the bones folded close against Max’s back, draped in feathers that seemed as long as George's arms in overlapping layers that, he realised, did not apparently lay still.

Max was shivering.

“Right, Max, let's get you back to bed.” George's brain finally came back online as he toed off his trainers and shoved his keys into his pocket. “I don't need you standing for this.”

He could take photos from anywhere with enough light, and Max's abnormal circumstances certainly warranted a change in standard procedure. Even more alarmingly, Max didn't protest, allowing George to step into his personal space enough to get one arm around him to take some of the weight. The nearest wing flinched away, George noted absently, and as he wound an arm about Max's waist he felt the slick rustle against it as the pair of them lifted away. The shift in Max's balance was immediate, rocking his body weight back just as George steadied him.

“Arm around my shoulder, mate, that's it,” George sighed as Max complied, slinging his arm about George and nodding down the hall.

“End, on the right,” Max gasped.

Biting mutely at his bottom lip, George focused on getting them across the flat and into Max’s bedroom. The room was dim with only a single lamp showing the way was clear of any domestic detritus for George to navigate. The black out curtains were drawn imperfectly, allowing cracks of the Monaco sun through in geometric streaks across the floor and bed.

Easing Max down on the bed was tricky; for obvious reasons he could not lay on his back, and even on his side seemed potentially challenging. Instead, George maneuvered the man down onto his stomach, trying not to watch as his wings flexed, dragged, and flared painfully with every movement. He could see, finally, the way they grew from roughly his shoulder blades, powerfully muscled at the base and curving up dramatically when folded, branching out as they extended. They were as instinctively reactive as a cat's tail, and they appeared to struggle to balance themselves. While it seemed that they were appallingly functional, no human body could handle that weight for long; the strain on Max's chest had to be enormous.

“You shouldn't have these at all,” George muttered to himself.

“Seb told me to call you.” Max's voice had undertones of a more extensive insult, but it was smothered with exhaustion and, he suspected, pain.

“This shouldn't be happening,” George repeated more firmly, “your team—” he stopped abruptly, remembering once more what he had heard later on radio. Max's pride, his kindness. He shook his head, knowing this was not the time, perhaps, to question. If the GPDA notes were to be believed, only champions had ever received wings after the final race of the season, exclusively in the manageable size described in Seb's notes, like Lando's, in FIA-sanctioned colours. There was no recorded incident of any kind of deviation, but then. Things were not always recorded for a reason, and George had gradually learned that the absence of a thing in the official record keeping held a very different kind of weight.

Still, moments trickled back from the second half of the season. Horner's sacking, Red Bull's almost miraculous comeback, Max hunting other cars down for pole positions and podiums. Red Bull gives you wings. The team had, in horrible irony, seemed to have somehow manifested their tagline. Max had embodied that team in a way that had been awesome and terrible to see.

George was keenly aware of where he was standing. Of what he was seeing. He knew more than most of the power that the FIA used to grant their beloved driver champions a pair of wings for a few days at the end of the season. The GPDA had always held concerns at the manner of it and kept extensive notes over the past two decades because of the risks involved with tampering, even temporarily, with their biology but this. This was not merely tampering. Without a greater knowledge of what was truly involved in the wings, George could not tell if something had gone horrifyingly, heartbreakingly wrong with the wings themselves, or if something external had interfered. Whatever the cause, the wings that swept from Max’s back were a breathtakingly stunning insult to the injury of the loss itself.

George watched as the wings shivered, trying to furl themselves in but gave up partway as Max groaned, shuddering.

“Is it just the weight?” George asked softly, “can I help settle them?”

Max turned his head only, since the rest of him was mostly pinned, and after a long minute, nodded. “They hurt quite badly,” he answered, “but if you could help draw them in before I hyperextend something. Just. Be careful.”

“What do you mean they—” George began, lifting up a hand to wrap it around what seemed to be the phalanges. The wing jerked, flinching under his grip and he heard Max shudder, a convulsive rustle of fabric and George realised, acutely, that he knew nothing of the actual wings at all. Still, he gripped, lifting where it seemed the bones could handle the pressure and, awkward and trembling, helped the weight of the first massive wing drag inward, folding naturally on itself.

He tried not to think of the silk under his fingertips or the way Max's mouth opened at his touch, lips bitten red as George absently straightened feathers, combing with his fingertips so they would lay properly along the length of their frame.

At last Max managed to tip onto his side, wings twitching restlessly as they sprawled back out across the bed. Max breathed in shallow, sharp gasps that hurt to watch.

Max finally lifted an arm, waved it vaguely in George's direction. “Well, do your thing, unless you only intended to stare.”

“When did they come in?” George asked, more to buy himself time than any real interest. He had never seen the wings himself so close-up, so personally. It was one thing to be in the room at the FIA gala when the trophy was presented and the wings of the champion spread, wide and shining over the heads of those on stage. Hell, he had seen them on Max the years before. That wide, shining grin that had creased the corners of his eyes had made George suspect that the wings had been the only part of the affair that Max had ever actually liked.

After all, what driver wouldn't want to try to take their speed to the sky?

“The tenth,” Max was saying tiredly, “felt them coming in. Felt wrong, so I called Seb.”

George hastily opened his notes app, then kicked over to record instead. Better if this was exactly in Max's words. “I’m recording,” he warned quietly, “All privacy laws will apply. This is a medical concern, at this point.”

Max blinked up at him, slow, then a twitch of a smile. “Of course,” he agreed, and this time George couldn't honestly say if he was imagining the mockery.

“You called Seb,” George prompted. “What did he say?”

“He said to call Laurent,” Max shifted his weight, winced as the wings shifted, then closed his eyes. “And to call you. Said you had notes.”

George rolled his eyes. The tenth was long past. “What did Mekies say?”

“He said…” Max rubbed his hand over his face as if to scrub away exhaustion or pain, maybe both. “He said something about Christian. Something about… decisions made before him that he could not un-make. Too much power taken from next year to try to get that fifth championship.”

George felt a flare of disgust before he could tamp it down, felt his own lips thinning into a line. Teams always made decisions without their drivers, of course, it was part of the sport. Red Bull, though, had seemed as thoroughly built around Max as a cornerstone as any team could be. Even Helmut seemed wrapped about the Verstappen family like velvet encasing a steel fist, but Christian fucking Horner. Well, he was another matter entirely. The man had always seemed to believe the regulations simply didn’t apply to him, beyond reproach, above his own team, untouchable. And, apparently, the bastard hadn't bothered to consult his golden child in his decisions.

“What had Christian done, Max,” George asked quietly, trying to keep the disgust burning in his chest from filtering into audible rage with little success.

“I do not know,” Max grimaced. “I called him. He didn’t pick up. Lando…” Max's gaze drifted towards the curtained windows as if he could see through to where his rival lived. “His were wrong too. I spoke to him.”

“I know,” George shook his head. “He called me when his came in. He’s not as bad off as you are, but at least—” George broke off, but a ghost of a smile touched Max's face. It was a little ghastly through the mask of pain but it seemed genuine enough.

“At least Oscar is there?” Max managed a dry sort of chuckle. “Yes, Oscar will not let him come to any harm.” There was a wealth of meaning beneath those words, things that neither of them had any interest in voicing even in the privacy of Max's bedroom. Oscar and Lando had each other and it was nobody's business but their own.

“You've been alone here,” George ground out. “Max, you should have called me, should have someone staying with you.”

“So they can do what, George? Fuss?” Max glared up from the mattress. “They will fade like they always do.”

“And if they don't?” The words came out before George could get a leash on them. Max's bad temper could go fuck itself at this point. “And how are you eating? Showering? Caring for them? Honestly, it’s a wonder this entire place doesn't stink by now.” He paused, jolted by the stray thought of Max in the shower. That was not a helpful image.

“I have an indoor pool, you know,” Max gestured irritably. "It is not ideal, but I can manage a few days.”

That did even less for George's sanity, imagining those massive wings outstretched in the pool, but it made the most sense. The buoyancy would take the stress off Max's body, give him some time to breathe without their weight, if nothing else.

“The pool?” Was all he could still get out, blank and flat.

“Yes, the pool. The chlorine itches, but it works well enough for now and it— it cools them.”

“Cools… them?” George wanted to kick himself for parroting.

“They feel… burned,” Max shook his head. “Surely Lando mentioned too? They burn, George, like a sunburn. Like they’ve been pulled out of a fire. Didn't you feel?”

He hadn't touched Lando's wings at all, much less how he had gripped Max’s, and, in the moment, he hadn't quite registered the heat they generated. George looked closer, holding out one hand before he could think better of it, but to his surprise Max nodded.

“You can touch.” Max shifted one bare shoulder in the slightest shrug. “It does not hurt so much when you are careful.”

George held out one hand, steadying his phone in the other and held it just over the arch of one wing. Heat. Like the ambient warmth of an electric blanket, maybe, but more. Far greater than body heat, certainly. Carefully, gently, he set his hand back down over the feathers he had smoothed earlier, and only then did he fully register their warmth. Like Lando had described, they were fever-hot, hell, more than fever-hot. George knew Lando always ran on the cold side, so perhaps the temperature increase seemed less dramatic, but on Max. Max, now that George was paying attention, was radiating heat.

“What do you mean, does not hurt so much? Where does it hurt?” George asked as he watched his own hands slide across the structured silk of those massive feathers, careful not to disrupt their angles but seemingly unable to pull away. The heat increased as he worked his way in, touching along the top arch, sliding down the inner hollow until he felt a shudder. It was his turn to flinch back and look up to find Max's eyes on him, head twisted to try to see, but the angle kept the man from quite following his movements.

“My back, obviously. Shoulders, chest. But the wings. George, they hurt. At first they hurt like bone snapping, when they would extend. It is better now, but to shake them out, to flex them, to try and extend them feels like…” Max paused, visibly searching for words, “it's hard to explain, when you do not have them.”

This time it sounded almost apologetic instead of an insult, and George met that gaze steadily, feeling his mouth do something that might have been a smile. “But it hurts,” he offered.

“They hurt,” Max agreed, sounding oddly relieved, as if he had been afraid he would not be believed.

“Can I open the curtains for some better light?” George asked, “and, I'm afraid I will need you to extend them, if you can, to measure.”

“If you say so.” Max was already shifting. “Do you need me to stand?”

“It would be better,” George admitted, “but I'm not putting you through that just now.”

“Pool,” Max replied, shaking his head at George’s puzzled face. “I can extend them in the water. You can measure, unless you are afraid of getting wet.”

George shot Max an incredulous stare before realising the man was actually trying for a poor joke. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Very well. Let's get you up again, yeah? Where is the pool?”

Max shook his head as he motioned for George to step back, then took a slow, deep breath. When he moved, it was almost an explosion of feathers into motion as his body flexed, wings flexed, and George was abruptly reminded that Max did indeed know how to handle wings after four prior championships. Even if it hadn’t been these wings. He could feel the wind as they snapped partly out when Max rolled to his feet, flaring for balance until Max could get a hand on the footboard of his bed to brace. His grunt was sharp and short as the wings snapped inward again, drawing up and close. They couldn't completely fold against his back like Lando's could nestle against his skin, but they tried, the feathers settling and the tips trailing once more.

The man was cursing in a low stream under his breath, and George was fairly confident he recognized Dutch invectives mixed with English. When George extended an arm, Max took it with only a few more curses.

“Unbelievably heavy,” Max muttered finally as they made their way from the bedroom. George tried not to watch from the corner of his eye, noting that for all their weight and heat, there was nothing genuinely clumsy about them. Max could manage them in bursts pretty well, but George could almost feel the effort that had drained from Max. “It's the balance, more than anything. I can handle a little bit of hurt, you know? But the weight is all wrong.”

“I can tell,” George managed, conscious of Max's arm wrapped tightly about his shoulders, the heat that seared them both like opening an oven door every time the wings flared or flexed. Max steered them through the massive flat unerringly until they came to a door he unlocked and pushed open.

By indoor pool, George noted, it was more of a conservatory. The wall facing the harbour was glass, letting in the sunlight, along with half the roof like a warm sunroom. George had little chance to notice much beyond a reasonably-sized pool and scattered tables before his attention was wrenched back to the man leaning on him.

Max groaned loudly at the brilliance, his face turning into George's shoulder for a long moment before he took in a breath and squinted about them.

“Bloody hell.” Max cleared his throat and, with a shove to remove George from his way, cleared the distance to the pool in a few fast strides. His sleep pants dropped to the ground, kicked off and to the side, but any outrage George might have felt at Max skinny-dipping in front of him was swallowed by everything else.

George lifted his phone just in time to capture the massive spread of those wings as they extended in full in the sunlight for the first time, glorious and gleaming and not black at all.

They were blue. Shining, iridescent blue so deep that every shadow drank in the light to turn them back to black, but the sun blazed across the enormous wingspan in shifting hues so brilliant it nearly made George's eyes ache. For one incredible moment, they seemed to gather as if Max were actually about to launch skyward, glass ceiling be damned, but no. Max merely let himself fall into the water, the wings extending to cup against it with an enormous splash.

“Max!” George gasped as the splash drenched him, though whether his shock was from the dousing or the sight he couldn't have honestly replied. “Bloody hell, they're blue.”

Max's laughter was easier as he shook the water from his hair, then wiped it from his face. “Right? Fucking Horner, the ego on that man. Of course they are blue, when they should not be here at all. It all makes sense, and none of it makes sense.”

He flexed the wings again, and George realised there was some kind of board in the pool that Max had under his chest for support, resting his chin on the edge as his arms wrapped about it to float on his stomach. It allowed him to stretch the wings out across the water without forcibly dunking his own head under the water. For the first time, George could get a clear look at the anatomy of what had been done to Max.

“Just get in where you can see,” Max called, “you can leave your clothes on if you are too much the modest one, but surely, George Russell has nothing to be ashamed of?”

George gritted his teeth against snapping about the improper nature of any of this; any protests at this point would only confirm Max's poor opinion of the entire business (George included) and George's patience with Max's bad temper had its limits.

“Hold on, arsehole,” he called, taking care to strip to just his boxers, placing his watch carefully on his folded trousers before he followed Max to the edge of the pool.

Max's eyes sparkled, the water glittering just beneath his chin making them seem unnaturally bright, the pain briefly washed from his features as he watched George slide in. The water was cool, and George was almost surprised it wasn't steaming where those glistening wings submerged.

“Let me see your back first?” George called, wading carefully towards the other man. Max, to his surprise, shifted easily, obediently in the water, his feet seeming to not quite touch the bottom even though it wasn't all that deep.

“Go between them, mate, stand behind me.” Max shifted again in the water as George half-walked, half-pushed through the water. Max's hair dripped water down the nape of his neck, water trickling down his spine, shoulders shining wetly in the sunlight. As George drew near enough to touch, he could feel the heat still radiating from him, but his attention was captured by the sight of so much bare, wet skin glistening over taut muscle. It was freckled, pale until streaks of blue-black began a gradient, bruise-like up into the unnatural muscles wrapping about the bones that protruded from roughly a third the way down his back. Any lower, and the wings would pull him over entirely. Any higher, and he wouldn't be able to move his shoulders at all. Lando's had been higher, he remembered as he examined the angry red that seemed to surround the shades of blue—clearly Max's own body was not pleased with the magical grafting of the wings, and George couldn't quite tell if there was swelling or just the natural progression of unnatural muscles thickening his back to brace so many extra kilos of weight.

“Can I touch?” George asked at last, handling his phone carefully to film again. “And record?”

“Yeah,” Max breathed so much more freely in the water. “Just… easy.”

“I know, it hurts.” George clicked the record button, then let his other hand slide down Max’s shoulder, over his spine to trace the strands of colouration that brushed the skin. In truth, it looked as though Max had taken a very odd beating, the edges of the blue dissipating like the edge of a bruise into his back.

As his hand traced closer, stroking towards the curve from his back into the first upper arch (George reminding himself to grab the proper terminology later), Max stiffened, a low hiss escaping his lungs.

“I'm sorry.” George was quick to withdraw his hand, but Max was already shaking his head.

“No, just—no, it's fine.” His breathing sounded a touch more laboured.

“Very well.” George kept his touch light, conscious of the expanse of feathers spread out on either side of him, of the way he had never stood close to Max like this, the way his brain helpfully reminded him that Max was nothing but bare, wet skin and the most beautiful feathers George had ever seen. If George leaned any closer, he would be pressed intimately against Max and that didn't bear thinking about.

He stroked along one wing with his free hand, caught by how distinctly he could feel the muscles beneath the wet feathers, the heavy curve of bone beneath the muscle. The feathers seemed to rustle as his hand moved over them, the nerves seeming to quiver in response to his touch, one at a time as his thumb stroked first along the base where the feathers seemed shortest, the skin almost scaled before the longer feathers grew in. Max's breath caught beneath his palm as he stroked up his spine, muscle rippling as his back arched slightly. Water splashed as the wings seemed to automatically extend a little further, swirling the water, and Max's heartbeat thudded just a little higher in his chest, under George's hand.

“Easy,” George found himself crooning as if to a frightened bird, and Max's breath let out in a stuttering laugh.

“I'm still human, you know,” Max remarked, but there was no enmity in his tone.

“Want me to stop?” George asked, though his hand moved out across one wing, dragging down one sleek feather to watch a tiny spray of water come off the edge.

“N-no. No. Fuck. That's actually kind of nice." Max's body dropped a little further over the board and George realised the man was actually floating, leaving George standing between his legs as his feet left the floor of the pool. He could feel the heat of him then, standing so close to his back, his bare ass mere centimeters from pressing against George’s own body.

“Max…” George began, then cleared his throat. “I should measure these. And get some towels. How do you usually dry yourself off?”

“Lay out on a chair in the sun,” Max admitted throatily. “Takes a while.”

“I bet,” George swallowed hard, reminding himself that Max was nothing, could not possibly be such an innocent. He knew what he was about.

“Have you taken anything for the pain?”

“Of course not,” Max sounded almost drowsy, but George could sense the hidden edge beneath. He understood. There wasn't likely so much as a paracetamol in the house.

“Any numbing cream?”

This time Max stirred, twisting until one blue eye framed with lashes as thick and dark as his feathers was visible over his shoulder. “Have some in the bathroom,” Max nodded, something like relief flickering in his gaze.

“Very well.” George made himself shut off the recording, and pulled his hand back from where it was stroking against the base of one wing. “Give me just a minute, yeah?”

“What am I going to do,” Max lifted one arm and gestured vaguely at the glass ceiling before letting it splash back into the water. “Fly away?”

George snorted, “Likely wouldn't be the first attempt,” he shot back as he extracted himself, climbing out of the water and shaking the worst of it from his hair before padding towards what looked like a smaller door to one side of the pool He congratulated himself on his deduction as he found a well-stocked linen cupboard holding what seemed to be several dozen towels, suncream, pool noodles and lilos, along with other supplies any pool could want for. He gathered up as many of the towels as he could carry and hurried out, kicking the door closed behind him.

Max was floating where he had been left, arms crossed on his half-board and his cheek resting against his forearms. George couldn't tell if he was entirely awake or not, but the man looked at peace, finally, so George set the towels down near the steps that led out of the pool. He wrapped one about himself to keep from dripping as he slipped back into the house, trying doors until he found a bathroom with a passable medicine cupboard. He wasn't surprised to find a pair of familiar tubes of the same kind of numbing cream he used himself, checked the expiry date by force of habit, then snagged the one that was already open. George scooped up the hand cream from the side by the sink too, figuring the new skin might be a little dry. The kitchen held the expected electrolytes and protein bars, and George grabbed one of each to tuck with the bottle he already carried.

Everything was easy enough to line up with his phone on the table nearest the pool steps, and once unencumbered, George grabbed the cloth measuring tape from his folded trousers and waded back into the pool.

For all that Max looked asleep, he roused at George’s splashing easily enough, and George couldn't help but laugh as the end of one wing curled, shockingly dexterous, to flick a spray of water in his direction.

“I need to measure these, you twit,” George called, halting into the water up to his navel. “Or don't you want to know if yours are the biggest?”

Max's laughter was easy now, and George watched as the wings flexed again, pressing down into the water and coming back up to let the water stream off the back and sides.

“I think you're too worried about size, mate,” he called back.

George bit back his own amusement as Max, nevertheless, stretched out the wing nearest to George and kept it still as George waved in to lay the measuring tape across the full beam of it, even making the effort to keep it out of water so the tape would lay still and dry as George spooled it out. It wasn't as precise a measurement as if Max could hold the wing out in the air, with someone to hold the other end of the tape in place, but it was close enough to do a reasonably accurate estimate.

“Blimey,” he muttered, getting a face full of water from another sharp flick of a wingtip.

“What?”

“At least two metres, mate, Christ. These are huge.”

“That's what all the pretty boys and girls tell me,” Max retorted, but George could see the flush high in his cheeks that had nothing to do with exertion.

“Bastard,” George muttered, flicking a little water back with one hand.

“How big were Lando's?” Max tried, straightening out his wing once again to allow George to coil the now soaked tape back up.

“Normal-sized,” George retorted, figuring he had gotten about as far as he could with that.

“Mate, these are wings. Nothing normal about any of this.”

George tossed the tape back to land before wading carefully about the extended wing, keeping one light hand along the top for balance. “Has it affected the muscles in your shoulder or chest? If not, that would be some of the discomfort. If it hasn't altered your chest, your body cannot sustain the weight—”

He broke off as he realised Max had pushed the half-board aside to stand in the water, still a foot or two away with the board floating to the side.

“I told you, I can hold them better in the water,” Max smiled. “All four metres of them.”

“You’re never going to let this go,” George groaned, but his gaze was already drawn to the muscles of Max's chest. He was hardly an expert in the particulars, but even he couldn’t avoid noticing the way the pectorals seemed to have filled out, tapering to a sinfully small waist. Even for a driver it was disproportionate, but George could already tell it was insufficient for the sheer size of the things.

His concentration was broken as water poured abruptly over his head, the sun blotting out. Max's laughter was warm and close as his other wing came up and more water cascaded over George, effectively soaking him entirely and plastering his hair to his head.

“You bastard!” George choked, lunging to grab Max and drag him down into the water with him. This time, the weight was against him despite his great reach, and Max fended him off easily as he snagged his wrists between his fingers. Panting, George twisted one arm free and reached again to try dunking him under the water when it finally registered why the sun was gone.

Those massive wings caged him in close, overlapping behind. George could only stare at the water trickling down the sleek, glimmering feathers, arms going lax in Max's grip as he looked about himself.

“If you don't close your mouth, then I must close it for you.”

George twisted, catching a glimpse of Max's shining smile, and then there was a hand on George's cheek, one against his neck and a thumb pressing along his jaw.

“Unless you bite,” Max added, something shy as his smile dipped, warmer and sweeter than George could ever remember seeing.

“Only if you say please.” George's breath was short in his chest, conscious of those massive wings hiding them from the outside world, their own little bubble of unreality where Max didn't seem to hurt, and George didn't have to worry. He wondered, abruptly, what the previous years had been like for Max when the wings hadn't come in so wrong. Who else he might have caged in like this. All that confidence and joy, the surety of a champion that George craved for himself. It was hard to believe in the moment that Max had lost for all that those wings shone like grackle feathers and were easily double the size they ought to have been.

“I'm very polite,” Max reassured him. “I would certainly say please.”

George laughed softly, the thrill too heady to really hear what was coming out of his own mouth.

“You've never struck me as the type,” he confessed, but Max's thumb was gentle as it brushed across his bottom lip.

“Maybe not,” Max admitted, and George watched in fascination as the muscles on his chest flexed with a minor adjustment of his wings. George could feel the heat of them, the heat of the man still touching him like a furnace. It was an oddly protective gesture to enfold both like this, hiding them from the world and the world from their view, and George reached up one hand without looking to drag his palm down the feathered wall of the living cage.

George saw it this time, the way Max's eyelashes fluttered, the way his lips parted. “Are they sensitive?” he breathed. “Do you like that?”

“They're…” Max searched for a word, his hands sliding from George's face and neck. “They ache,” he tried the words out slowly. “I can feel every touch like… like a current. They usually feel less… just—less. They usually are merely an extension, you know? These… they almost responded on their own and I feel everything. Like every sensor dialed up until the input is too great.” He sighed, shaking his head as his hands settled on George’s shoulders.

“I am sorry they hurt,” George murmured, reaching at last to push Max’s hair back from his face. “I know they shouldn't. If I can… help.” He didn't quite know what he was offering, but the shape of what he wouldn't say no to was heavy between them in the water.

“George,” Max began, then fell silent as George mirrored his earlier touch, cupping his cheek, feeling the heat that went far beyond a flush.

“If you say please,” George teased, but before he could elaborate on just what he thought Max should be asking for, Max was leaning up, up until wet lips pressed against his.

Max's kiss was as shy and gentle as his touch, as careful as the wings that wrapped about them. It wasn't until George's own lips parted that Max became a little more bold, until George's arms slipped about his waist to pull him in that Max finally melted, wetly wrapping about George's neck and those great wings shivering about them like the rustle of an entire flock taking off. Wet fingers tangled in George's wet hair as Max's mouth opened sweetly under his, head tilting as Max's tongue slid against his own with the softest of moans.

“Oops,” Max finally drew back enough to press the end of his nose against George’s cheek. It was a very Dutch oops, all lacksadaisacal and thick in his mouth. “I forgot to say please.”

“And I didn't bite,” George reminded him, feeling a ghost of a smile to match his own brush against his mouth.

“Please?”

George hummed low in his throat before catching Max's bottom lip between his teeth, easing together slightly, barely a pinch and a tug before he let go and bent his head lower to scrape his teeth along the stubble that darkened Max's jaw.

“George,” Max began, and George shivered as he felt the hard press of Max's body against his own just as hot as before. “I didn't… they're not…”

“They're beautiful, Max,” George murmured, “like the rest of you.”

“But I didn't—Lando's are, they are just. I didn't mean to, George, I would never.”

“I know, Max,” George lifted his head, caught the rustle of a wingtip as it lifted, fluttered restlessly and settled back again. The ends still draped in the water, their weight buoyed up even as Max raised their leading edges higher. George could see nothing else as Max cradled them within a tiny, fragile world of his wings.

“I know you wouldn't.” George touched his cheek again, cradled his jaw in his palm, and remembered being boys, once upon a time a decade before. Back when Max could make anything he touched fly, back when they all took their turn hating the rosy-cheeked boy that beat them all at everything with a father whose face was carved from stone when he didn't win by enough. “Lando knows you wouldn't. Let me handle this, Max. Let me investigate. Drivers shouldn’t pay for decisions made out of their hands. Not like this.”

They had all been the victim of a bad strategy call, but this went so far beyond strategy. Whatever Christian had done, Max was paying the cost, and George could feel a premonition of rage not yet realised, not yet felt. That could come later, he promised himself as he bent to draw kisses down Max’s jaw and focused instead on wondering how many kisses it would take on that stubble to make his own lips sore and swell.

Max's head tipped aside, obliging, but the effort of holding his wings up out of the water was beginning to take its toll. The sun returned by degrees as the great things drooped slowly back into the water, splashing as Max drew them back into himself, letting the water take their weight once more. George let his lips travel, his hands sliding down those bare hips and around before skimming back up. As his hands closed about the base of those wings he felt another shudder wrack Max's frame, a groan peeling free from the throat under his lips. It was all he could do to keep from lifting the man in his arms, find a way to push him back and tumble him over the edge of the pool where he could explore more of his body, that promising press of heat against his thigh and the way those wings seemed to pulse with Max's heartbeat even as it raced.

“Max,” his own voice was thick in his ears, “any chance you want to get out yet?”

Max's laughter was breathless as he smiled against George’s neck instead, allowing George to slid his arms around him, taking his weight except for his wings. “I'm not… entirely sure anymore,” the man admitted thickly, “It's nice in here, but I need to eat and these take forever to dry.”

“Very well.” George could imagine just how heavy the wings were when waterlogged, turning the problem in his head as he told his libido to cool its jets. Later, he told himself once again. “How do you usually get out?”

“Climb out the steps,” Max admitted, “drag them a bit.”

“You drag your wings?” George snorted, “for fuck’s sake Max. Someone should be staying with you.”

“Well, it’s not like they can be carried,” Max grumbled as George began to walk him to the edge.

In truth, George wasn't entirely sure how they could do this any more gracefully together. Max was right, unfortunately. The wings could not be carried, and the most George could likely do was stand behind him and grip the radius to lend some support. In the end, it took them both a little shoving and pulling. Max managed to stagger into the cushioned lounge chair as George gripped the sweep of a wingtip in each hand, taking as much of their weight as he could without digging his hands too hard into the bones.

“Honestly,” Max wheezed as he settled on his stomach, apparently wholly uncaring that his arse was bare to the sky. “They're the closest thing I think anyone has had to something they could fly with if you didn't actually have to get lift off on your own.”

“I swear, Max, if I catch you out on your balcony,” George began before he caught the grin on Max's face. “Christ.”

“I would not do that,” Max reassured him, but his grin was bright as he watched George begin working to spread out his wings. Water still trickled from them and it was clear Max didn't have the strength to shake the water free. George, privately, was relieved it was Max and not Lando who had gotten this end of things. Lando was as strong as any of them, but his build was so slight compared to Max, the man wouldn't have been out of bed for days, much less able to make it to the FIA gala. Max, for all that he seemed to be gaining some control, simply could not be seen with these even if he had the strength to carry them through the event.

“Have you got a hose, mate?” George asked, glancing around.

“A what?” Mac asked, blinking in surprise.

“You said the chlorine begins to itch. Let me rinse them with fresh water.”

Max blinked up at George, then a small, slow smile touched his face. “Over there,” he pointed towards where a hose was coiled neatly against the wall. “Normally I would just shower off but… well.” He shrugged that slight, minimal shrug again, then relaxed down against the lounger once more.

It took very little time at all to pull the hose over and begin rinsing Max's wings clean of the pool water, even with George taking pains to sluice it beneath the feathers in easy trickles, making sure they weren't too disrupted or yanked askew by the water flow. Max drowsed, or so it seemed, his face in his arms and his body outstretched, a picture of repose as George worked.

Eventually he estimated it was as good as he could manage without help, and he shut the water off, but he left the hose out in case they needed to do this again. It was anyone’s guess how many more days the wings would stick around, and George knew that whatever his original motivations had been, he had already committed himself to staying. Gathering the towels, George began to work them over the wings, careful to only move the fabric with the direction the feathers naturally laid, and discarding them as they soaked the water in.

He was on to the second wing when he first realised Max had groaned, a shudder working through his back and shoulders and his face taut.

“I'm sorry.” George carefully pulled his hands away from where he had been dragging the towel along one massive pinfeather. “I can leave the rest to dry.”

“No,” Max's voice was thick, “No, it... it feels good.” His ears were flaming pink, and not just his ears. The flush turned the nape of his neck scarlet and threatened to spread down his shoulders.

“Oh.” George couldn't have hidden the delight in his voice if he tried. “Oh. So it doesn't hurt, does it.” He slipped his fingertips beneath the next feather and watched with great interest as a shiver traveled down Max’s spine in time with the drag of the towel that soaked up the water as George caressed it more gently between his hands. “Well. I can stop.”

“No, God, no. Don't—I….oh, fuck, George,” Max groaned again and George chuckled. This was going to be far more fun than he had anticipated.

“Well then,” he murmured, taking his time about the remaining feathers. Max was squirming, ever so slightly in the corner of his vision as the next towel was tossed aside for a fresh one.

“Almost done, lovely,” George murmured, catching the sharp glance Max threw his way and choosing to ignore it.

The last of what should have been his flight feathers were gleaming in the sunlight, and George counted six massive sheet towels sodden on the ground. His own boxers were still dripping uncomfortably, and he unfolded himself from where he was crouched on the ground to wriggle out of them before wrapping a towel around his hips. He was half-hard, but that seemed a distant thing compared to the way Max was shifting, hips moving slightly against the canvas of the lounger that couldn’t possibly be comfortable against his dick.

He snagged the bottle he had taken from the fridge and after quickly snapping the cap off, pressed it into Max’s hand, then grabbed the protein bars and tore the wrapper. “Drink,” he said gently. “Your body is likely craving calories with how much it’s having to expend with those. And you’re likely still a bit dehydrated.”

Max opened one eye, blinked, then groaned as he got an elbow up under himself to better lift his head to drink. The lack of protest was almost alarming, but George had no interest in adding another worry to his list. Max’s exhaustion was still visible, though he clearly looked better than when George had arrived. The water had helped, though George wasn’t so sure leaving the wings in the sun for long was going to do Max’s temperature any good. Lando’s description of feeling feverish had been borne out by Oscar who, to George’s great approval, had actually bothered to check it. It wasn’t dangerously high, but it was elevated. It made sense, he supposed. The human body was not meant for surprise additional appendages, and it wouldn’t be too surprising if the magic of them wasn’t perfect; the body might be making an attempt to reject the foreign things attached to them.

Absently, George broke off a piece of the protein bar and held it out to Max. The man gave him a long look, jolting George back to his senses. He flushed slightly as Max took the piece and popped it in his mouth, then held out the rest of the bar to him.

“I’m really not actually a bird that hit your window, you know,” Max spoke mildly, but his amusement was visible as he took another bite and chewed.

“I know that,” George snapped, “But you keep looking at me with this stunned sort of look. Has anyone checked you for any kind of head trauma?”

“I think I’d know if I had a concussion, mate,” Max replied, desert dry and utterly unruffled. “Silverstone was more of an education than you might think.”

George’s glare wilted a little under Max’s composure, and he settled himself slightly in the nearby chair as Max finished the bar, then the bottle in the lingering quiet. It wasn’t quite an uncomfortable silence, but it took George a minute or two to work out quite how to break it.

“The numbing cream?” he finally offered, picking up the bottle and giving it a small shake.

“It’s worth trying,” Max grimaced. “My back isn’t quite on fire the way it was earlier, but it’s sore. The muscles…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Everything hurts,” he repeated once more, the misery a little quieter, but Max was no longer attempting to hide it.

“I can’t imagine,” George answered honestly. He couldn’t. Not quite. Of course they all dreamed of earning themselves their own pair of wings for their team, but not like this.

There was no reasonable way to bend over Max to apply the cream, not without making it painfully awkward that George was attempting to avoid touching him, and George sighed as he gave in to the inevitable.

“Sorry about this,” he murmured as he settled his knees on either side of the other man, his towel barely clinging on as he knelt astride those long thighs, trying desperately not to think of the gorgeously rounded bare arse, perfectly angled for George to grab with both hands.

“It’s alright.” Max’s laughter was choked into his arms as he buried his face. His ears were pink again, George noticed hopelessly, and tried to turn his attention to the muscles surrounding the base of his wings.

The first touch of his fingers made Max hiss at the cold. George murmured nonsense apologies as he worked the cream in measured sections over the base of each wing, then up the muscle that wrapped around the heaviest bone that jutted from his back where the strain would be greatest. Max let out a low groan of such relief that George paused, placing his palm gently on the small of his back.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Let it sink in. It’ll feel even better in a minute, yeah?” Stroking the soft skin with his other hand, George worked the thick liquid up the other wing, careful to stop at the base of the shorter feathers that encased the bone in overlapping layers. There was no reasonable way to work it into the skin beneath them, unfortunately, for all that he was sure it was needed.

Max’s whimpers were low in his throat, but almost as steady as his curses had been when George had first arrived. If George guessed right—and he was certain he had—this was the first relief the man had gotten since the wings had first grown in, and the numbing cream would be much akin to an ice bath on fatigued muscles. Painfully, gloriously wonderful as the burning was finally numbed to nothing. Even as he watched Max seem to relax, his breathing shuddering, easing out as if it were the first time he’d taken a full breath in days.

“Better,” Max finally managed hoarsely, reaching one trembling hand up to push his hair back from his face. “Fuck, that’s better. I thought of trying it, but I cannot reach back there so well.”

“Someone should—” George began, then clawed the rest of the sentence back. Someone from his team should have been there. Someone should be caring for their golden child, but either Max could not bear for those he trusted to see what his trust in the team had done to him, or he didn’t want the risk of word getting out about their mistakes. Regardless, it had been his decision, and George knew he could not take that away from him. He bent to one side to snag one of the wet towels to wipe the cream off of his hand before it could sink in before tossing the towel aside again.

“I’m alright, George,” Max’s voice was unbearably gentle as he lifted his head, a lopsided smile turning his face younger than his twenty-eight years. “It will not last forever, I’m sure.”

But it might, George didn’t say. This had gone horribly wrong, they shouldn’t have been on his back in the first place, much less dragging him into the ground. There was no telling what else had gone wrong with the magics, whatever deal Christian had made and had no interest in correcting. Whatever bargain he had made, whatever he had been offered in return, Max was paying the price of their drive to win, and George knew in his bones that he, likely, would have made the same choice ten times over. Most of them who had bound their loyalty to a team when they were young would have done the same.

“I’m sure,” was all he said instead, and bent to press a slow kiss to the delicate vertebrae of his spine where they counted down the base of his neck. “You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

He couldn’t help layering the kisses down that gorgeous back, skipping only where the cream sat drying on his skin. His towel slid away as he shifted his weight back, his mouth wet where it pressed one slow, open-mouthed kiss after another until he reached the dip of his lower back, dragged his mouth across the gentle swell, his chin dipping the cleft of Max’s ass. There George paused, glancing towards the glass that walled off the sky, then eyed the wide panes of glass that covered the far wall. There were no buildings visible through that view and the flat was high off the ground, but without Max’s wings encircling them it still felt public.

“George,” Max groaned, and George looked up to see he was braced up on both elbows again, his head twisted ineffectually to try to watch George’s progress down his back.

“I’ll stop, if you want,” George murmured as he turned his attention back to the hot skin beneath his mouth, “But I want to keep going, if you’ll let me. I want… Max, please.” He licked his lips, bare knees framing on either side of Max’s where he straddled him, cock hanging heavy between his thighs. He burned to keep going, to lick his way down and hear all the pretty moans that Max could give him. He wanted more, but Max was, perhaps, in no shape to be enjoying anything of the sort.

“If you stop there,” Max finally twisted, his wing flattening as he reached down over it to drag his fingers through George’s damp hair, “So help me, I will find a way to shove you back in that pool.”

George buried his laughter in another kiss, bracing harder to steady himself as he finally grabbed that gorgeous ass in both hands and gripped, pressing his thumbs along the seam to drag Max open enough to lick a wet stripe across the delicate skin hidden from the sun. Max gasped as if shocked, and George opened his eyes just in time to catch the rippling shudder of those wings in answer.

“Christ,” George swallowed hard, “This is…” He trailed off, felt Max’s knees pressing against his thighs and helpfully shifted his weight one leg at a time to kneel between his legs instead.

With Max spreading himself open so helpfully, George could free one hand to slide beneath him, flattening it beneath the heavy press of his cock to give him something to rub against that wasn’t the canvas of the lounger. Max whimpered above him, hips rolling as he dripped against George’s fingertips. George slid his hand a little higher so Max could rut against his palm instead. He gathered enough precome to slick his hand as he kept up his slow licks, pressing one long finger into Max to curve down and in. Max was gasping frantically somewhere above, and George wanted to watch, to see those wings tremble, but Max’s body was sucking his fingers in, musky and salty on his tongue where he licked and drove it in beside his fingers until he felt the man beneath him tensing, his body gathering despite the awkward position.

George closed his hand about his cock, marveling at just how wet it was already as Max’s hips thrust, quick and sharp and juttering as George’s fingers drove deeper, scissoring and pressing harder until Max threw back his head and cried. Even then, George just hummed and pressed again, licking between the spread of his fingers to taste him, to feel Max shudder under the added stimulation.

“Will three be enough for you?” George whispered, scraping his teeth against the hot flesh of one cheek. “Or am I going to need to get four in there before you feel properly full?”

“N-George, fuck,” Max bucked back against one hand, then down into the other, and George dragged his fingers up his cock harder, adding pressure to the slick glide, and Max was gone.

George watched in awe as the wings lifted as if on their own, shaking out with a violent snap that jolted Max’s entire frame before fluttering, falling back to earth in little tremors and fits as Max spilled over George’s hand, the muscles pulsing tight about his fingers in little pulses that, George realised distantly, matched the tremor of his wings as they draped across the tile once more. Max was whining softly again, and George cursed undoing all his good work with that unnecessary exertion, but Max seemed little worse for wear as he panted for air.

“I’ve got you,” George murmured, careful to keep himself far enough back so he wouldn’t press himself against Max’s ass, no matter how badly he wanted to rut against it. “Oh my word, look at you, fuck.” He pressed a kiss to Max’s hip, kissed his way up the small of his back again before carefully removing his come-slick hand from beneath the other man.

Max twisted, trying to look back over his shoulder with wet eyes, his face so flushed that George ached to roll him over and steal more kisses from that lovely mouth. “What the fuck,” he gasped, sounding faintly outraged, but his eyes were still too hazy with pleasure to put anything resembling any sting in his words.

“What the fuck,” George agreed placidly as he met his gaze and, slowly, began to lick his own hand clean.

“What the fuck,” Max choked, somehow going a fresh shade of crimson.

“Try to remember to breathe,” George shrugged, reaching down to wipe the rest of the come off his hand and onto one of the sodden towels that was still within reach. His own towel he re-wrapped about himself, gingerly snugging it back over his own erection. He could do something about that later, he supposed. Maybe just not when Max was about to achieve liftoff inside his own poolhouse. “What…” Max’s voice trailed off as he let himself slump back down, face pillowed once more on his arms as George carefully pulled himself free from between his thighs and helped him settle comfortably once again, allowing his legs to close and stretch out again.

“Rest a bit,” George encouraged, grabbing another damp towel to work gently beneath the man. Max whined as George cleaned him up, but the experience had taken enough out of him that there was no further protest when Goerge used a clean, dry towel to drape across his lower half.

“You?” Max opened one eye, attempting to see around to where George was settling into a chair just within his reach. “Did you—”

“Don’t worry about me,” George smiled faintly, “I’ll take care of that later.”

Max’s brow furrowed, but sleep was already coming down like a thick curtain, and George let him go.

By the time Max had roused again, the sun had set, and George had allowed himself to go through his videos and photos so far, writing up his measurements into a proper report. He sent a few texts to Seb as well, letting him know he was looking after Max. Seb had a few choice words about the entire situation, and George couldn’t help but agree; this could not be allowed to happen again.

“Fuck, I’m hungry,” Max finally roused. “And I’m getting stiff laying here.” The great wings twitched a little, but this time when Max folded them in, they moved a little less laboriously. Max seemed less aware of the effort involved, and when he stood, it was without George’s help.

“Better,” George remarked, shifting his own weight before standing and stretching out his own muscles. “Think you can sit out on the balcony to eat? Those flight feathers still look a bit damp to me.”

Max shook his head, “I’m not putting pants on just for that,” he grumbled as he led the way back inside the flat. The barstools at the extended breakfast bar were of the right height for him to slide onto without having to move his wings any further than absolutely necessary. “Can you heat something up? Or I can order in?”

George re-examined Max’s kitchen with a more critical eye this time, and was pleased to discover his pre-packaged meals were not only filling, but a little more creatively put together than George was accustomed to.

“I’ll heat these up,” he agreed. “Shall I grab you a drink?”

Max nodded gratefully as George grabbed him a beer from his fridge. They all still ate healthier over the winter break, but a few drinks weren't going to do them any harm this early. Max took a grateful sip as George placed the first meal in the microwave to heat before grabbing a bottle for himself.

“You saw Lando already?” Max asked suddenly, fidgeting a little with his bottle.

“I did,” George nodded cautiously. They were all friends and he knew Max and Lando had spoken, but he had been visiting Lando in his GPDA capacity, not purely as a friend. Some things stayed private, even when it was likely the information was already known.

“I saw them,” Max replied, his gaze lost in the middle distance. “He sent a short video. I don't know what will help, if they can be fixed, but he deserves better, George. The teams can't fuck a driver like this.”

They obviously could, but George understood that wasn't the point. “I know,” he agreed as he rifled through Max's drawers for cutlery. “There’s very little I can do besides lodge a complaint, but I can get things moving. It's well known the drivers choose nothing about the process and that we have no influence. We're merely the… beneficiaries.” His smile felt tight even to him. “Yours seem to be a bit better, at least.”

“Perhaps,” Max sighed, glancing back to where his wings folded against his back, flight feathers trailing against the floor at their tips. “Or I am adjusting.” His shrug was still a careful lift of his shoulder, but his wing coordinated smoothly, rising and falling with the motion.

“Mate, you could barely stand when you opened the door,” George pointed out as he pulled the first box from the microwave to replace it with the second.

He set the first in front of Max, and the man thanked him before tucking in. His appetite was good, George eyed him critically, and he picked up his phone to make a few more notes. As he typed, a notification buzzed and he smiled faintly.

“Seb would like the notes and video I've taken,” he remarked, turning his phone around and showing the text to Max.

“You can send it to him,” Max nodded. “He knows what is safe."

George hesitated, but attached his notations, his measurements, and the short video, the one of Max plunging into the pool with the wings fully outstretched.

All that came back at first were several German curses and George snorted. Then his phone rang, and George rolled his eyes. “You talk to him then,” he directed, handing his phone to Max.

Max looked unimpressed, but readily answered the call, uselessly placing Seb on speaker. As soon as Seb realised who had answered, the conversation switched to rapid German and George tuned out everything but the cadence of their voices, the rise and fall of the guttural consonant clusters.

“George!”

George roused with a start from his own meal where he had been picking aimlessly at the last few carrots. Everything had been quite good, but they had done something to the carrots that wasn't quite right.

“Yes?” He blinked up at Max, then glanced at the silent phone. “Is everything quite alright?”

“It's fine,” Max smiled faintly, his drink empty. “Seb was very impressed by four metres.”

“I bet he was.” George rolled his eyes. “For God's sake, you’re like a pair of schoolboys.”

Max's grin was gleeful, if tired around the edges. “Yes, well, I should be allowed to enjoy something when I'm getting fucked out of the championship and still getting fucked by the Red Bull wings for losing, hm?”

George winced, not liking the sense of punishment Max's words implied but understanding the sentiment well enough. “Are you comparing this to hell, but at least your dick is still bigger than Lando's?”

“Is it?” Max's delight was plain, and George slapped his own forehead with his palm.

“You know as well as I, mate,” George sighed and rose to clear their dishes away, dropping the forks into the dishwasher before turning to eye Max critically. “Those wings must barely fit in the bathroom. Can you manage getting ready for bed? I have a few things I need to do.”

“Are you staying the night?” Max asked, chin resting in his palm, elbow propped on the bar top.

“I…” George paused, realising he had been making assumptions. “Would you… like that?”

Max's smile was small but it wasn't shy, and he threw back the rest of his drink. “Of course I would like you to stay,” he said as if it were obvious, waving towards what George assumed was the bathroom. “Go do what you need. I have clothes that might be a little short on you but they will fit enough, and extra bathroom things for you. I can get ready for bed myself.”

George hesitated a moment more, then bent across the counter to press a kiss to a corner of those full lips. Max's hand caught his cheek before he could pull away, guiding him down for something a little more thorough and a lot less formal. George was breathing just a little harder as he pulled away, and Max patted his cheek with something like his old confidence before letting go.

“Don't you…” George glanced around, a memory tickling at the back of his mind. “Don't you have cats? Pets that need to be fed?”

Max grimaced, shaking his head. “The cats hate the wings,” he explained as he carefully eased himself off the barstools. “As soon as I felt them coming in I called their usual sitter to pick them up. They will chase birds, but these wings are like nothing they have seen and the first year was a bad time for all of us,” he chuckled, a little forlorn. “These would have been much, much worse. I wish you could have met them.”

Privately, George wasn't so sure the cats would have liked to meet him at all, but the sentiment warmed him regardless. “Perhaps I will another time,” he offered.

Max's answering smile made that burgeoning warmth glow and spread deep in his chest as he realised that Max too might be thinking this could be more than a single weird day or two in each other's company.

With Max calling directions from the bathroom, it didn't take long for George to locate a spare charger cord, the promised extra toothbrush and a comb. His skincare for the night was a bit of a loss, but George managed to find a reasonable moisturizer in Max's cupboard, and even retrieved both the hand cream and the numbing cream from out by the pool. It was unlikely Max would sleep well, but it was the best he could do to help him snatch at least a few hours of rest.

By the time he was padding into the bedroom on bare feet, a pair of Max's soft sleep pants loose about his hips and a bit short at the ankles, Max had already collapsed into bed. One wing folded up neatly enough, but the other sprawled a bit messily across the bed, a measure of Max's growing fatigue as his body began to run out of strength once again.

“I've got the numbing cream,” George called, “if you can let that other wing stretch out enough for me to work.”

Max nodded, reaching to tug the wing clear with his fingers. Once it was settled, Max reached over to smooth the feathers, combing what he could reach into place, scratching at a wing joint with blunt nails. George set the tube next to his bare hip and joined in, working his fingertips across any feathers that looked ruffled or out of place, using them to preen them clean and straight. They still ran hot enough that each time George's fingers dug near the skin it was like flicking them close to a candle flame, but it no longer felt like heat was shimmering off the ends.

A soft sound distracted George halfway through the soft feathers that covered the base of one wing, and he glanced up to see Max, head tilted to the side and lips parted. His arms were sprawled haphazardly above his head, one hand loosely wrapped about the edge of the pillow. Another low groan escaped as George watched, his fingers trailing absently across another. He told himself, absently, that if this lasted another day he was going to have to learn the names of the different types of feathers, and possibly look into their proper care in case Max needed any additional help. He knew the champion wings usually only last two or three days, but it was eminently clear that these were something else entirely.

Skimming his hand along the soft arch of the spread wing brought another groan from Max’s lips, and George couldn’t help but smile as he stroked along it. There had never been this kind of heat between them, but there had been… moments, he supposed. An unexpected rapport, moments of looking perhaps a bit longer than would be expected. He’d seen Max looking, occasionally, but it had never meant much to him before this. Lots of people looked.

“Here we are then.” George smiled softly as he settled next to Max’s hip. The man hadn’t bothered with clothes and George couldn’t exactly fault the practicality. Any kind of bending down with these wings on his back was liable to be difficult, and a shirt was going to be utterly impossible unless it was created specifically to be worn for these few days by the champion. George didn’t know if Max still had anything laying around from the previous years, but he doubted it.

Unscrewing the cap once more, George gripped the left wing to steady it as he began to glide his fingers about the base of the wing, then down into the surrounding muscles once more. This time Max’s groan was clear relief as the numbing cream began to do its work..

“The real ones,” George found himself asking softly as he worked. “They cannot possibly be this heavy. I know they should be about half the size of these. Seb’s notes said they were light, and he made no such mention of causing trouble for his back.”

Max nodded, the wing in George’s grip twitching, stretching, and George was treated to the sight of the muscles ripping in Max’s back as the wing retracted again. He used that as a guide for where to slide his fingers, his eyes tracking where those muscles extended as they relaxed again.

“They don’t hurt,” he said quietly, “Unless you overextend something or try actually take off with them.” Max smiled wryly. “Every first-time champion gives it a shot, I suspect, but they’re simply not large enough to get your weight off the ground. If Yuki ever wins a championship, the FIA might need to think about scaling things a little,” he laughed.

George snorted quietly and climbed over Max to settle on his other side. “I shudder to think what you tried,” he teased, then nudged at the other wing. “Extend it again so I can see the muscles.”

“Oh, you want to see my muscles, hm?” Max laughed again when George smacked lightly at his shoulder. Still, he obediently stretched out the massive thing, the wingtip trembling slightly at the extension. George had to peel his eyes away to watch Max’s back move, drawing wet lines with his fingertips and wishing he could get an X-ray of the damn things, maybe a proper MRI. If they didn’t fade, there was going to have to be an entirely different set of questions asked.

By the time George finished, Max was sprawled comfortably again, his body more relaxed than George thought he’d seen since he had arrived. He closed the tube and rose, placing it on the nightstand, quickly returning to the bathroom to wash the cream from his hand before returning back to the bed.

“I should like to get you on your back,” George sighed. “I’d work some of the muscles in your chest, try and loosen things up there too.”

“Mmm,” Max lifted his head, his eyes lidded. “I'll sit up. That sounds good.”

“You should have your trainer here, perhaps,” George began, breaking off when Max shook his head.

“No,” the Dutchman sighed as he pushed himself up, the wings curving, adjusting back as he maneuvered himself carefully onto his knees. “I don't think anyone would know as much as perhaps another champion, and as far as I know, Lewis never had any trouble.”

“Your trainer would have seen the wings before,” George felt obliged to point out.

“I know,” Max grimaced. “I’ve let him examine them in previous years, but what can he do, assign a few stretches and a diet change?” George rather thought that a scathing dismissal of the man's abilities and his silence must have been judgment enough as Max continued tiredly. “Rupert’s gone home for the holidays, mate, it’s been a long season and he’s with his family. I’m not calling him back to stress about something he has no control over. If they linger, I’ll call him,” he promised.

George grimaced, but then his expression softened. Their trainers knew their bodies better than anyone and could frequently work miracles, but this wasn’t merely a sore back or sprained ankle. He likely would have hesitated to call Aleix if he were in Max’s shoes.

“It‘s your choice,” he agreed quietly as Max settled on his knees. “Shall I sit behind you and reach around, or in front?”

“Behind is fine.” Max glanced back, his grin a little wicked. “I already know what good work you can do from behind.”

George's answering laugh was strangled, and he felt his cheeks turning hot as he settled on his knees behind Max to wrap his arms about him. It was odd, his arms sliding beneath those wings, feeling the brush of feathers across them. Max's chest was distracting, once George flattened his palms across it. Heavily muscled with the same development as George, but with an additional layer that George quickly realised was unnatural beneath his fingers. He could feel them flex when the wings move, the same unconscious clench and twitch as when Max moved his arms but greater.

Working his fingers into the muscles, George felt another low groan escaping Max, the man leaning back against him with a quiet sigh. It was an odd sensation to feel the sweep of feathers against his arms, the press of the base of his wings joints against his chest, but it wasn't unpleasant. Max's wings rustled faintly as they resettled themselves as George began to work his fingertips into the expanse of muscles across Max's sternum, up his ribcage and beneath the heavy pectorals. Max’s form felt strangely familiar to his own, likely from the same weekend workouts for the last twenty years. Still, the additional musculature from the wings had created a layer of tension that George set to work on, searching out knots and easing the stress as best as he could.

He hadn't exactly intended to drag his index fingers over those small, taut nipples, but when Max stiffened in his arms, wings shivering against his chest, George couldn't help a soft groan. At some point he realised he had tucked his face against Max’s neck, lips pressed beneath his ear and he could feel the softest of moans vibrate against his lips.

“My turn for oops,” George chuckled, his own breath hot against Max’s neck.

“Yes, I can hear how very sorry you are,” Max laughed breathlessly, making no move to dislodge him. George could feel Max’s heart quicken in tempo under his hands, and placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss below one flushed ear just to feel the butterfly-like flutter under his hand in reply.

“I'll stop, if you like.” George's smile was slow, one he was certain Max could feel against his skin.

“You keep asking that.” Max lifted one hand to wrap it about George's wrist. “Are you always so polite?”

Any reply George might have made dissolved before reaching coherence as Max guided George's hand up to his mouth. Soft, damp lips browsed along George's index finger before it was enveloped in wet heat and Max’s tongue deftly explored the sensitive skin between his index finger and middle finger. A groan slipped out of George against Max’s neck, his teeth grazing his skin in a ghost of a bite, testing the give of the sensitive skin there in turn.

“Seems only right to be polite when you're… ah,” George mouthed Max’s pulse point, “not at full capacity.”

Max's laugh was throaty as his other hand captured George's free wrist to drag down his body, wrapping George's fingers around the thick length of his cock even as he gently pressed his teeth against the finger in his mouth.

“Full capacity?” he asked thickly, “Are you sure about that?” George could hear the bright grin without needing to look.

“And if it's not your dick I'm interested in?” George challenged, withdrawing his hand from Max’s mouth and finally allowing his hips to rock back up against Max’s bare ass. The borrowed joggers were nearly tissue thin, hiding nothing of how hard he had gotten again.

“Did you hear any complaints by the pool?” Max's hips shifted, the feathers against George’s arms pressing as his wings moved with him. “Or is it something else? I thought of asking you, you know.”

“...What?” George blinked at the apparent non sequitur.

“If I won this year.” Max's hand tightened around George's where his grip had loosened on his cock. “It is not quite a tradition to invite someone to celebrate the wings with you, but…” Max broke off as George's hand tightened beneath his own in a slow stroke, thumb skating across his dripping tip.

“But it's not not a tradition, either,” George finished dryly. “So I've heard.”

Everyone had heard, naturally, and the stories had ranged from the absurdly sentimental to the fantastic. George knew the truth likely varied somewhere in between from year to year, from one champion to another. He was about to continue, absently rubbing his thumb over a fresh slick spill of precome when Max whined, high and thin as his hand tightened over George’s.

“Too much?” George asked, solicitously pulling his hand away, bringing up his slick thumb to press it against Max’s lips. Max mouthed something that might have been a curse against George’s thumb, but Max licked it clean without any further hesitation, tongue dragging lower and lower with every flick until George pulled gently away.

“Bastard,” Max finally got out, panting lightly. “I was trying to tell you. This year I thought, maybe, of inviting you to spend the night if I won, but it seemed so unlikely that…” his shrug was full-winged and full-shouldered, the sound of feathers whispering in the room. “And here we are, it seems, regardless of my plans.”

“Me?” George questioned, trying to make sense of what sounded, vaguely, like a confession. “You were going to invite me to… what? Fuck you if you got your fifth set of wings?”

“You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that,” Max complained, reaching for George's hand again. “We got along well this year, yes? It might be nice, I thought.”

“Nice,” George echoed faintly. Max's tongue was sliding up his pinky, those soft lips browsing up the pad of his ring finger.

“Well, only if you wanted to, but who else might I have asked this year? Certainly not Lando.”

“Certainly not,” George agreed automatically, then abruptly found himself backpedaling. “Hold on just a moment there, I was your last resort?”

“Of course not,” Max defended. “I invited nobody last year. You and I were not so fond back then, and,” Max chose that moment to suck lightly on the pad of George's middle finger, pulling away with an aggressively suggestive slurp that wholly derailed what George had managed to cobble together of his own thoughts.

“And…?” he managed, barely, still uselessly parroting Max’s words back to him.

“And… hell, George, is it really so bad that I wanted to ask you?” Max sounded plaintive as he half-twisted, unable to completely turn around to look at George without a wing sweeping him to the side. All George could see was his profile, one earnest blue eye peering back at him.

“You’re utterly impossible,” George muttered, pulling his hand from Max’s grasp to flatten it once more against his belly. “And unless you'd rather I didn't, ” he bent his head to nip at the top of Max's shoulder, “I’m going to fuck you until you can't see straight.”

Max laughed, pushing his hips back against George’s crotch in a slow, sinuous roll that George would have sworn him incapable of just a few hours before.

“Fucking finally, mate. I thought I was going to have to spell it out for you. Maybe using those idiot blocks they give to toddlers for—”

George wasted no time in pushing two fingers back into Max’s open mouth, cutting him off as George began to press kisses back down his neck once more.

“You could’ve just asked,” George muttered, sinking his teeth into Max’s trapezius.

“I was going to,” Max began, the words a muddle about George's fingers. “But—”

George shoved in a third finger and pressed gently down on Max's tongue to still it as he lightly bit the man’s shoulder again. Those impossible wings fluttered, almost an irritated little twitch, but Max made no further move to protest. His tongue moved under George's fingers in slow flicks, rubbing against them in maddening curls and flicks as George groaned into his hair.

“Hungry for it, aren't you?” George crooned. “Starved as if you haven't already come once today.”

Max whined around his fingers, the vibration sending a thrill up George’s arm and he pulled them free, brushing over his lips and chin in favour of reaching down, the side of his hand skating against Max’s cock, fingertips nudging below the low hang of his balls to slide the wet digits down between his cheeks.

“Thought about fucking you by the pool.” George circled his hole with one finger, pleased when that evoked another whimper. “See how you looked out in the sun like that on my cock, all spread out and wet.”

“Could have,” Max gasped. “Your mouth felt so fucking good.”

“Didn't want to push too much.” George smiled as he pressed a kiss to Max’s back between the heavy wing joints. “You were so tired. Seems like the nap and some dinner did you good, though.”

“George,” Max whined softly.

Relenting, George pushed one finger inside him, pleased to find the muscles taut, but yielding easily to the pressure. Max shifted his weight back, pressing easily against him and George wondered how long it had been since the man had gotten fucked. He hadn't heard any rumours of anyone Max might have been seeing, even among the close-knit circle that was the driver's gossip mill.

“Lube?” George prompted. “Condom?”

“Drawer.” One tanned arm extended to gesture vaguely towards the nightstand. “Don't need condoms unless you do.”

George shivered as he pressed another kiss, this time to the arch of one wing before smoothing his free hand across the dark feathers. It trembled under his touch, and George could see goosebumps forming along Max’s shoulders, down his back. They matched his own, he realised as he found his shoulders shifting with anticipation, hunger coiling in his own body like a compressing spring.

“Hang tight,” he murmured, reluctantly pulling his finger free and easing himself carefully off the bed.

A discreetly labeled bottle of lubricant sat inside the drawer, partially used next to a mostly-full box of condoms. George checked the expiry date of both out of habit, amused to discover the condoms weren’t relatively far off from their expiration date. Either Max simply wasn't having a lot of sex, or he was having a lot of unprotected sex, and while George knew some might have been surprised by the former, he was inclined to think it to be more likely. He knew better than most the challenges of their schedules, particularly in a year as difficult as Max's had been. Of course, this might simply be the box that sat at home while he traveled. He tried not to think of his own opinions of Max having a sex life as apparently dry as his own. George fished out just the bottle of lubricant and returned to the bed, smoothing one gentle hand over the nearest half-extended wing as he moved.

“I know these wings aren't right,” George realised his voice was hushed, throat dry, “but they really are beautiful, Max. If they weren't so painful, I'd say they suit you.”

Max’s laughter was husky as he glanced down the length of the wing George's hand rested on, his glance almost tender. “I wish you could have seen the real thing.”

He sounded almost wistful, still faintly apologetic, and George leaned over the wing to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I'm still glad I'm here.” George nudged his nose against his cheek before pulling away and settling behind him once again.

The momentum had slowed, but after dropping the bottle to the side, George took the opportunity instead to trace his hands down Max’s hips, marveling quietly at the strength there. For all they did the same job and were only a few inches apart in height, their builds were markedly different. Where George was lean muscle and angles, Max was almost soft and rounded by comparison, as if he were built, perhaps, for another profession.

On the other hand, George mused grimly as he sucked a purplish bruise into the lowest curve of Max's ribs, considering which of them had four championships, perhaps it wasn't Max who was built wrong. Shaking his own insecurities from his mind, George turned his attention to sliding his hands down Max’s heavy thighs and calves, chuckling as Max squirmed impatiently above him.

“Fuck me now,” the man called back. “You can admire later.”

“I could fuck you later too,” George retorted before glancing up. Any plans he might have had for drawing it out any further slid from his grasp as he took in the sight of Max above him, knees braced wide on the bed and his wings spread on either side of his body in graceful curves of feathers and skin wrapped over hardened muscle and bone. His own chest clenched as he tried to brand the sight into his memory, tried to etch it in his mind until he would see it on the back of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. Nothing he could remember would compare, could compare to this.

“Bastard,” Max shot back, but his true retaliation was apparent as he dragged a pair of pillows over to shove under his chest before settling his upper body over them, wings curving up, up until they paralleled the line of his arms in an arch.

George swallowed hard, and it was his turn to curse as he grabbed the bottle of lube and climbed back up to kneel between Max's knees. “Point taken, my word, Max,” he groaned, feeling the heat in his own body trying to match the warmth radiating from the other man’s wings.

“Shouldn't take much,” Max mumbled, wings relaxing slightly to drape over each side of the bed.

“Tell me if I need to move my hand,” George warned as he coated first his own cock, trying to get that out of the way before the sucking heat of Max’s body had him too riled up to be thorough. It was already almost overwhelming, and George grit his teeth as he dragged his own hand away before he could rut into it. He clumsily re-capped the bottle and dropped out of the way. His clean hand he reached to grip the joint of one wing, careful to only steady himself instead of using it as leverage.

It would have been incredible, he reflected as he worked two careful fingers past Max’s rim, to see Max ride him properly, wings outstretched in counterbalance even as Max worked himself on his cock but that simply didn’t seem feasible with the state of the wings as they were. Perhaps soon, soon, George might earn his own pair, wrap Max in silvered feathers chased with gold, curl them about him as they moved together. Perhaps.

Another groan from Max broke through George’s reverie, and he smiled as he stroked his fingers down the shining silk of the midnight feathers under his hand. Much like teasing Max further, other fantasies could wait when he had something utterly fantastical, beyond his own imagination actively complaining beneath him to get properly fucked. These wings suited them both a little better, he thought, and trailed his fingertips along the feathers’ base to watch Max squirm and shudder. Whatever other problems they might be causing, Max hadn’t been exaggerating their sensitivity. Were the situation less troubling, George wished he could spend a whole night teasing just how sensitive they could be if he applied his mouth and his tongue with some creativity. The very idea was enough to send his pulse pattering in his ears, and he reveled in the answering rustle of feathers as he pressed a tender kiss to the other wing’s graceful arch.

Adding a third finger had Max whimpering, his fingers gripping loosely at the headboard’s crossrail as he thrust his hips back against George’s hand. He wasn’t begging just yet, but sweat shone across his shoulders, heat building as George teased with his fingers, crooking and pressing like he had earlier that afternoon. Max moaned beneath him, helpless and eager as he rocked his body back so sweetly against him.

“That’s it,” George murmured, smiling, finally pulling his fingers free to wrap them about his cock instead, gripping to steady himself as he pressed the tip to where Max was dripping, lube trickling down his crack to leave a shining streak across his taint. Unable to help himself he rubbed the tip down, dragging it across the soft skin to nudge behind Max’s balls until he heard a low, frustrated growl escape the man.

“You can play later,” Max insisted, wings rustling as they shifted under him. “For fuck’s sake.” George nudged upwards again, pressing just the tip of his cock in until the outer ring of muscles caught, dragging answering groans from them both. When George hitched his hips just enough for his dick to pop free instead of dipping inside, Max’s whine lifted in pitch. George thrust his cock between his cheeks, gasping at the hot, wet slide between. He could fuck those pretty cheeks another time, he told himself, despite several frantic, abortive thrusts of his hips as his body did its best to slip his iron control.

“I’m not playing,” George rasped, his voice hoarse with want as he let go of the wing under his hand in favour of slapping lightly at Max’s hip, dragging his own hips back to press the tip at his hole again.

To his surprise, the wing he had let go of lifted, stretching, shaking itself out hard enough for the air to almost snap about it. George felt the heat of the wind it created on his skin almost like a furnace and he stilled, gripping Max’s hip where he’d smacked it.

“Max,” he began cautiously, “was that you, or do those things have opinions about where I move my hands.”

“Put your hand back,” Max demanded, his back curving into an arch almost as impossible as his wings as he twisted around to glare back at George. “Put it back—fuck, that was good.” His face was flushed, lips almost scarlet enough to look like he had been biting them.

George moved slowly, carefully resettling his hand back onto the wing where his hand had been gripping, wrapping his fingers and feeling the corded muscle that flexed beneath them as the wing extended then settled once more.

“Oh, fuck,” George hissed as his slick hand gripped the base of his cock, partly to control himself and partly to steady it as he finally began to press inside.

It wasn’t that he worried the man would or could hurt him, per se, but the wings were almost uncanny, preternatural in their grace and flexibility. It felt like an obvious thing on the face of it. Nothing about the wings were natural, after all, but the way they telegraphed Max’s desires, the way they moved with him, a part of him and yet, clearly an extension. As the day had progressed and Max had gotten both some calories and some proper sleep, his control over them had increased, and it seemed his discomfort had ebbed. It might have been the distraction George was providing, but even the heat seemed to have lessened with time. Still, they were plenty warm, and as George’s fingers stretched out, the feathers seemed to shift to encase them until his fingers disappeared between them, covered by the soft barbs.

“You’re going to have to tell me,” George ground out as the head of his cock popped past Max’s rim. Once past the first pressure of muscle, Max’s ass had no further resistance and George had to rein himself in to keep from pressing home in a single thrust. It may have been easy, but that didn’t mean it was comfortable, no matter how gloriously he squeezed George’s dick.

“Tell… tell you what?” Max’s lower back curved again, lifting up, then rolling back until George had no choice but to meet him with a slow thrust of his hips.

George’s entire body thrummed with the heat that surrounded him, searing him beyond anything he had experienced and scrambling his senses. “How—how they like to be touched,” He finally gasped. “Never… never touched the wings before.”

He hadn’t. So few people never got more than a mere look at them, and there was nothing any photo or even high quality video footage could capture that could ever do the champion’s wings justice. These, both stunning and itching of wrongness at their very core, held something just this side of menacing in their gleaming blue-black pinions, the vast stretch of bone that seemed closer kin to something prehistoric than the delicate hollow bones of modern avian creatures.

“Just—for fuck’s sake, George, just touch them,” Max gasped beneath him, panting, sweat beading in the hollow of his spine as he ground himself back into George’s lap until George cried out, feeling cheeks against his groin, fully embedded in his body before he entirely grasped what the man was doing.

George dragged his wet hand across the blankets in an effort to clean the worst of the lube off, hoping to avoid needing to re-clean the feathers later before he fastened both hands about Max’s waist to force him into stillness.

“Give me a fucking minute,” he breathed, bowing his head until his forehead touched the center of Max’s back. “Or I’m going to come, and there won’t be fuck all else I can do for you.”

Max’s answering laugh was soft and breathless as he sank back into George’s lap, lifting his torso up until his wings had to lift with him, the shining mass stretching, lifting back until George could feel the press of the joints against his own chest as they moved. They extended enough to not crush the flight feathers into the mattress as Max let his head fall back against George’s shoulder, head tilting to the side.

“Can’t… begin to tell you how this feels,” Max whispered, reaching down to gently set his hands over George’s where they gripped his waist. “One day, maybe. I’m sure of it.” Max’s eyes opened, bright as a seer and far more coherent than they had any right to be with George’s cock buried in him before his eyelids slid shut again.

George felt it like a shock of recognition, of being seen by something he couldn’t quite identify and he closed his eyes for just a moment before his own imagination took him places he did not have the capacity to process just then.

“Alright, Max,” George finally pressed a soft kiss to Max’s shoulder, taking in one steadying breath, then another. “Alright. Now tell me where to put my hands. I don’t want to hurt them.” It seemed ludicrous just then, but the memory of the way they had first flinched at his touch when he arrived was still vivid.

“I can’t reach myself,” Max laughed softly, “I need your hands, George. They’re so fucking big, and they feel incredible, just… where you were before. Above the joint, but not the top of the arch, yeah? That way—” Max broke off as George moved first one hand, then the other to grip where indicated.

It was a little awkward for leverage, but Max’s weight shifted in his lap until George could hang on, fingers buried amongst the whispering feathers, silky soft and alive to his touch. The skin beneath was downy, and George in truth could not tell if he was touching skin or simply gripping layers upon layers of feathers. They overlapped so heavily, so thickly that he could only luxuriate in their softness and heat, body thrilling at the way they moved under his touch, breathing with Max’s slow gasps for air.

“Fuck, Max,” George breathed against his hairline, mouthing at the nape of his neck. “Can I move? Please, let me move. I need… Please.”

He hadn’t meant to be the one who begged, but for all his protestations there was nothing about Max that seemed wholly human anymore, and George was there to worship, to touch what he was told to touch and move when he was told to move.

“Yes,” Max groaned, full-throated as he reached to grab a pillow for something to hang onto.

It was insufficient, George knew, but it would have to do because any further maneuvering was beyond him as his hips rolled, sinking deep into that scorching heat. Their moans drowned the susurration of Max’s wings as they moved with every roll of George’s hips, every jolt of Max’s body. Each frantic drag of his lungs for air was as organic from his shoulders to the tips of his wings, and George didn’t dare close his eyes to the sight even for a moment. Not with something so fleeting as this moment in time.

Typically George would do his best to care for his lover first, ensure the angle was just right, get a hand on their cock, give them his full attention and let his own body take what it needed later if all had gone well. This time his own loss of control was beyond anything he could pull back from the brink. Max was drinking him in, unearthly, yet filling his senses so completely that George could feel nothing else, think nothing else but the smell of his hair and the softness of his wings, the taste of his sweat and the sight of dark blonde hair and corvid-black wings filling his vision.

“Max,” he whispered, biting high on his neck, sucking in a bruise to match the colouration of his wings first on one side of his throat, then the other as Max cried out in his arms, finally collapsing forward, inward, and taking George with him as he buried his cries in his arms.

It didn’t take long for George’s vision to blur, shedding more control with every thrust, biting across Max’s upper back, sucking at his flesh, burying his face in one wing as it lifted close enough for him to turn his head and feel the heat on his face for a moment. Max was chanting his name softly, urgently, but George didn’t dare remove his hands from where they’d been told to grip long enough to reach for his dick to help get him there. All he could do was move his hips, hope the sounds escaping from his lover were answer enough as to whether he was giving him what he needed, and let himself unravel deep within the other man.

Coming was a mess of heat and sound, Max lost beneath him and George adrift inside him on a wave of heat and pressure that overwhelmed everything but the snap of wings that once again cut through all other sound. Max’s body jolted hard against his own, and George hung on with what grip he had left, whining his own soft pleas into his hair as he sagged against his back, fire racing through his veins.

“George—”

George wasn’t sure if it was the first time Max had said his name, but the man sounded just as out of it as George felt as he forced his spine straight, lifting his head and blinking blearily at the room. Max’s wings had sprawled out in as much disarray as the rest of Max’s body, arms akimbo above his head, one hand shining wetly with his own come in evidence of managing to help get himself off. His hair was wild, and several deep blotches were beginning to bloom around the flush that pinked his neck, shoulders, and down his back until it melted beneath the deep blue of the unnatural colouration of the wings that deepened the closer it got to night-dark feathers.

“Yeah,” George coughed, clearing his throat and tried again. “I’m here.” He swallowed hard, and carefully, gingerly unclenched his hands. He hoped he hadn’t pulled, hoped he hadn’t dislodged so much as a single pinion or pinfeather on those gorgeous wings, and when his fingers came away free without any barbs clinging to them, he breathed a shaky sign of relief. Regardless of how Max may have felt about it, George didn’t think he could have forgiven himself if he had yanked any feathers free, no matter the reason. Both wings shivered slightly as his hands moved away, and he quickly returned both of them to stroke soothingly at the spots they’d left, smoothing the ruffled feathers and grooming them pin-straight once again with trembling fingertips.

“Fuck,” was all Max managed at first, lifting his head at last to blink about them. “Oh, holy fuck.” He laughed weakly, starting to lift one hand, pausing as he realised it was dripping still, and lifted the other instead to push back his hair from his damp forehead. “And I of course can’t fit in the fucking shower,” Max’s chuckle scraped low, and George couldn’t remember if either of them had been yelling. Probably, judging by how hoarse they both sounded.

“I’ll clean us up,” George promised a little boldly for how shaky his limbs felt just then. “In… in a minute.” He rubbed his hand over his face, then gently, cautiously began to slide back out of Max. The man gasped as he was shifted gently forward out of George’s lap, then allowed his legs to go lax as George carefully deposited him on his stomach, allowing his legs to stretch out fully as George ran that same soothing touch across his lower back as he had his wings.

“Yeah,” Max groaned, wedging one elbow beneath himself to try lever himself up to see a little better. Whatever he saw of George made him smile, his eyes softening almost unbearably as he reached his other hand out to touch George’s cheek. “Fuck, that was fucking good.” He cupped his hand about George’s jaw, pressing his thumb shakily to his bottom lip before urging him up for a slow, meandering kiss.

George sank into the touch, turning his cheek into Max’s hand and opening his lips to his to feel the gentle slide of lips and tongue together. While the fire was fading, a glow still persisted, far deeper, far sweeter than anything that had preceded it. Max's hand shook as badly as George's as it slid through his hair, snagging errant strands and tucking them back as Max slowly tapered the kiss into gentle nudges of his lips and nose against George’s cheek.

George couldn't come up with anything to say that felt adequate and kept his peace, letting his hand speak for him as he gently pressed it to the side of Max’s neck. One kiss led to two, then a third as Max seemed just as disinclined to try find words for the moment.

“Here,” George finally roused, pressing his forehead against Max's for a moment before pulling away. “Let me clean us up, yeah?”

Max nodded and let George clamber stiffly to his feet on trembling legs, glancing about for a moment before making his way to the en suite bathroom and digging a few hand towels out of the linen closet. The first he held under the faucet in the sink until the water ran warm, and he quickly cleaned himself up before rinsing it out and grabbing a second towel. This he wrung out to avoid dripping across the floor before returning to the bed.

Something caught his eye on the way over and he bent, wincing in dismay as he carefully gathered up a pair of feathers, lifting them to examine in the low lighting.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed, returning to the bed and holding them where Max could see. “My fault,” he offered, though he had been fairly certain he hadn't managed to pull any out.

Max blinked, reaching up to take them in his hand, then laughed softly. “Unlikely,” he reassured George. “They're too big to be from where your hands were gripping. Likely they just…” he shrugged a full body sort of shrug, wings fluttering. “I didn't feel it, if that's your concern.”

George grimaced, but couldn't help a faint, wry grin as he used the warm, wet towel to begin cleaning the come and lube from Max’s skin as best as he could.

“That's certainly a first for me,” he replied at last, finally chuckling as he pressed a kiss to Max’s spine between the great wings.

“For me, too,” Max admitted as he moved his legs at George’s gentle direction.

“Blimey, if I had even an ounce left in me,” George gently slid the wet cloth between Max's cheeks, aching to bury his tongue back inside him again to lick him clean from the inside.

“You're impossible,” Max squirmed, and George watched with great delight as his ears turned pink at the unspoken implications.

“Are you sure…?” George's fingers traced the path of the cloth, stroking over the overstretched skin, hot and damp beneath his fingertip. “See if we can shake a few more feathers loose?”

Max’s flush spread as he squeaked, but he didn't say no. George bent, dropping the towel to one side to grip his cheeks in both hands to spread him wide enough to drag his tongue across his rim in a slow, thorough lick. Max's whine was badly muffled by the pillow he had shoved his face into, and George chuckled against his skin.

“Could do this for hours,” he admitted, “can't get enough of hearing you go all sweet when you come apart for me.”

George licked again, then again before spearing his tongue inside. Max's answering wail was a tiny, fragile thing in his ears, his wings shivering out of sync with his frantic gasps. George set to work with a will, sucking on the silky pucker of his rim, working past the chemical tang of the lube until he tasted himself on his tongue. His fingers followed the path, working easily inside past muscles stretched with use until Max was clawing at the bed, rolling his hips uselessly down against the blankets, unable to stop but just as incapable of demanding more.

Working one hand up between his thighs, George cupped his balls, rolled them gently in his fingers before sliding his grip upwards yet. His fingers found Max hardening again, or at least attempting to get there. He was still slick and sticky with his own come, and George had no problem stroking him until those heavy shoulders bunched, just as he had that afternoon. Those massive wings rose, lifting higher and higher as George stroked mercilessly inside and out, pinning his fingers against his prostrate until he felt Max’s hips bucking hard between his hands.

“George, please,” Max sobbed, fighting to get his knees underneath him and unable to close his thighs with George nestled between them. “I need, I need to—”

“Can you come again for me, Max?” George crooned, “just one more for me? I wanna see you again, gorgeous, just one more time for me.”

Max thrashed, wings fluttering above them both, stroking helplessly against the air hard enough that the baking heat stirred the air about them in waves. George watched, awestruck as one last gasp, one more cry wracked Max's frame, and he dropped, wetness spilling weakly over George’s fingers as Max gave the last his body had, an orgasm wrenched free so hard it had to ache.

“So pretty,” George whispered, easing his fingers back out of his body to stroke gently over his ass, sliding his palm across his hip. His own body throbbed from the front row view, his heart thundering in his chest as if he had shared the exertion. Grabbing the cooling towel, George wiped both his hands clean on one end, then slid the other beneath Max to wipe him as clean as he could before tossing it aside.

“Can't,” Max's voice was ragged. “Can't believe you did that. Holy shit.” He laughed shakily and reached back to beckon for George. The wing he lifted out of the way was almost as shaky as his hands, and George climbed up as quickly as he could, sliding beneath the feathers in order to sprawl at Max's side.

With no small effort, Max heaved himself up to drape his body over George’s, his cheek on George's chest and one leg thrown across his hips. The wing itself managed to partly furl across them both like an electric blanket. George reached down to trace one hand across its curving ridge, stroking it gently with his fingers.

“Kind of can't believe you let me,” he confessed after a few moments of listening to Max try to catch his breath. “Never seen anything quite like you before. You drive me absolutely mad.”

“Yes, well,” Max groaned as he nuzzled against him, his eyes already heavy. “Just for that, perhaps I will not offer to get you off again.”

George snorted quietly, his other hand stroking through Max's hair. “I'm quite content to go without.” He combed Max's hair back. “Perhaps in the morning I might ask for some relief. Sleep now, while you can. I'm guessing you've hardly rested since the wings came in.”

In truth, his own muscles were shaking, and he wasn't entirely certain he could go again if he tried; though the thought of Max's lips around his cock was an image he fondly tucked away for later.

“Not well,” Max admitted tiredly, settling an arm about George's waist. “The topical stuff helps so much more than I thought.” He peered drowsily up at George, “Lando's are not so heavy. I do not think it would help him nearly so much.”

“I doubt it,” George sighed, endeared by Max's concern for his rival despite the fact that the man had beat him. Their friendship, he knew, ran deep, proof that even a championship could not fully pull all friends apart. Perhaps it was because Max had never expected to win in the first place, or the fact that he already had four trophies to his name, but George wasn't so sure he could be quite so kind as the man who was beginning to doze off on his chest.

“Ice packs,” Max mumbled. “For him.”

“Yes, now hush. Oscar will take care of him.” George smoothed his fingers once more through Max's hair and felt the other man relax even further against him. His wings seemed to still at last, lifting just enough to draw up onto the bed in a loose cascade of darkness.

George stretched out one arm, able to just reach the switch of the lamp by the bed to plunge the room into darkness and finally let his own eyes close.

*

Morning dawned painfully bright through Max's bedroom windows, and George groaned, exhausted, as memories from the night before trickled in. While the blackout curtains hadn't been thrown open the day before, neither had they been securely sealed against the day. Max slept on regardless, his body a dead weight against his side, and cool air prickled George's skin. George couldn't quite piece together what was strange at first until his eyes blinked properly open and he looked about, trying to process a degree of normalcy that didn't quite sit right in his head.

The wings were gone.

Where the feathered masses had been stretched out across the bed, there was only Max's bare body huddled against George’s side for warmth. They hadn't even tried to get the blankets up over their bodies; one near-scalding wing had been more than sufficient. The temperature had dropped enough overnight to leave a chill in the air, and George couldn't help a small shiver as he turned to get a better look at Max.

The man was sleeping peacefully on his stomach, face half-buried in a pillow with one arm still tightly wrapped about George. He shifted slightly, Max's body pressed against his, checking for any remnants or lingering distortion to the muscles.

There was still heavy bruising where the wings had been connected to his back, blotches of purple and blue like someone had used a board to beat him mercilessly for hours. With any luck it went no deeper than bruising. That kind of weight on most bodies could plausibly crack a rib and they had not, precisely, been careful the night before. George knew his immediate smile at the memories was at odds with his concerns, but couldn't help it. Nothing about the day before had gone as he had expected, but he could honestly admit that there was nothing he regretted.

Shifting cautiously, George managed to ease a blanket out from underneath them. Max shifted as the bed moved, but his exhaustion ran deep enough that he only squirmed as George dragged at the fabric, then settled again beneath its warmth as the blanket was pulled back over his shoulders.

“Sleep,” George murmured, reaching for his phone to send a quick text off to Oscar to check on Lando before setting it back on the bedside table.

Max made a soft noise, stirring a little as George curled back around him, drawing him into his chest. “Sleep,” he repeated, gently placing an arm back about Max and closing his eyes.

To George’s surprise, sleep returned easily for him too, and the sun was peeking over the top of the windows by the time he roused again. Max was stirring in his arms, pressing away from him as he opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly as he registered the angle of the cracks of light flooding past the curtains, then flicked over to George in his bed, visibly recalibrating as if each system was taking its time to come online.

“It is very late.” It did not quite sound like a complaint, but Max stretched sleepily, his eyes closing again as he pressed his face into George's chest.

“Thought you might like to sleep.” George touched his hair with cautious fingertips. This was unexplored territory. They had not discussed what would happen when the wings were gone, and while George was relieved Max seemed to have no inclination to kick him out of bed, it hardly felt like bog-standard morning after protocol was appropriate.

Max hummed thoughtfully, and George tensed a little as he felt one big hand wandering, tracing down his belly and down his hip before settling thoughtfully over his exposed cock. He hadn't exactly been hard before, but Max's touch was excellent persuasion, and he could feel himself swelling under Max’s palm.

“Max,” George began, feeling that hand cup around him, palm to sensitive flesh and fingers pressing down.

“Never quite managed to get a taste,” Max mused. His voice was thick again, as throaty as when he had first answered the door the day before, and George swallowed hard.

“Max, the—” he tried again, but Max had already ducked his head beneath the blankets, his mouth closing over the soft tip of George's cock and beginning to suck.

George arched, hips lifting and his head falling back against his pillow at the first touch of hot breath, then writhing as Max's lips sealed around him. Unable to see what Max was doing only intensified the sensation, and George's eyes searched for something to focus on in vain. His hands settled first on the blanket hiding Max's head, then as Max seemed to wiggle-–honestly how could he make the movement of a blanket seem obscene-–his hand slipped to grip at the sole bare bicep that the movement left exposed.

“Max, I—wait—” George felt a low whine in his chest as Max did something with his tongue that sent sparks of heat through him.

Max made an odd sort of pleased sound, muffled by the blankets, the muscles in his arm shifting under George's fingers as George felt himself slipping deeper into his mouth, a slight nudge as he bumped the back of his throat. George couldn't think. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten so hard so quickly, and Max seemed to be relishing the effect he was having.

“Max.” George groped under the blanket, aiming for the man's hair, but the angle was wrong and his hand slipped over his shoulder, grasping at his back instead.

Max yelped, and even the sound of slight pain was somehow vulgar. George gasped at the sudden cool air as Max’s head popped free of the blankets. Blue eyes blinked in the sunlight, round with astonishment.

“They're gone.” Max sat up, eyes still wide. “Fuck. Okay.” He blinked down at George again, sitting back on his heels, hastily dragging half of the blanket back over George’s hips, then grabbed the remaining corner to cover himself as he sat up, legs folding beneath himself.

“Are you okay?” George managed, but his heart was still knocking about in his chest.

“I'm fine.” Max tried a shrug, wincing, and pulled the blankets a bit more closely about himself.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realise they were gone, you should—” he cleared his throat, a flush painting his cheeks. “I mean you can go, it's fine, I'm fine.”

“No, I mean, I didn't mean to—”

“No! It's okay, you don't have to, like. Stick around. They're gone now, and thank god for that,” Max pushed away, glancing towards the small nightstand for his phone. “I should check with Lando, see if—”

“Max, The bruising—” George stuttered to a halt, eyes narrowing as Max's words sank in. “What do you mean, I should go because they're gone?”

“That's why you were here, yeah?” Max was nearly crimson as he reached for his phone, still clutching the blanket around his hips. “The wings. I know how much you like them and—”

George's arousal twisted in his gut, outrage trickling in, slow and thick. He had, of course, initially shown up because of the wings, sure. Max wasn't wrong about that. But that was before the kiss. Before Max had told him he had planned to invite George to join him if he won. Before everything.

“Did you really think I did all that because you had wings?” George began, a fresh, unwelcome heat clawing at his stomach. “That I couldn't get a pair of my own, and Lando was unavailable, so I—”

“No!” Max interrupted hastily, “I meant, of course I thought you liked them, you said they were beautiful, but I didn't—not because I thought you couldn't—”

“And I would just fuck any champion that—” George's voice rang with incredulity as Max groped for his phone, knocking it off the table instead.

“Damn it, George, why else would you be here?” Max raggedly drew himself up, dragging a hand back through his hair. “I didn't win this year, I shouldn't have any wings. They were all fucked up and then—what?”

George stared, his words catching between his growing anger and a cutting dismay, one hand covering his mouth.

“What?” Max demanded.

“Christ, you thought the only reason I would have spent the night with you was because I…” George trailed off, groaning and starting again. “Max, you bloody idiot, I can still like you if you lose.” He watched with some small satisfaction as Max's mouth snapped shut, eyes still very wide. “You spent half the year losing, do you really think I'd stop liking you now?”

Max looked very much like he wanted to disagree, but pulled his eyes away to glare unseeing towards the windows instead. “You never said anything about liking me,” he muttered.

“What is this, secondary school? Must I tick a box for you on a bit of paper that says ‘do you like me, yes or no'?” George let out his breath explosively. “Fuck’s sake, Max, do you think I would shag any man like that just because—you know what? Don't answer that. You complete and utter bastard, I should—mmph!”

George's tirade was still winding up when Max, apparently done with the lecture, lunged across the bed. One big hand wrapped about the back of George's neck as Max pressed their lips together in a messy, hungry kiss that dragged a groan from George's chest. He couldn't quite figure out where to put his hands, not when Max's back was clearly off-limits, but the problem was solved for him when the blanket slipped free from Max’s hips and he straddled George's lap.

“Like what?” Max's words were muffled against George’s mouth as his arms slid around his neck.

“I… what?” George's mind was entirely too full of Max's heavy thighs gripping on either side of him and the way Max was twining one hand into his hair.

“You wouldn't shag any man like what,” Max prompted, lips pressing hot kisses between each word. “Are there other ways you shag men? Because I would like to know them all.”

“For Christ’s sake, Max,” George tried, but Max was rolling his hips and any sentence that might have tried to follow dissolved into a groan.

“I don't think I can lay back yet, but I’m sure I could manage other positions.” Max's smile didn't have to be visible to be distracting, not when he was licking his way across one side of George's collarbone.

“I…” George swallowed hard, “saw before. That's some terrible bruising.”

Max sat up at last with a small wince, shoulders shifting uncomfortably. “Feels a bit like I've been in a shunt,” he admitted. “or possibly thrown against a hot stove. I would not turn down more of the numbing cream later.”

“And perhaps an ice pack,” George grimaced. “It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid.”

Max sat back, balancing himself easily over George’s thighs. “That's never happened before either,” he sighed. “But I'm not too surprised, they were extremely heavy, and very hot,” his smile returned. “At least I have you here.”

“So you want that,” George asked, hushed as he searched Max’s face. “You actually want me to stay.”

Max lifted one hand to brush his thumb over George’s lips, his fingers gentle where they cupped across his cheek. “Of course I want you here. I told you, I had planned to ask you in the first place.”

“You know,” George began, biting softly at Max's thumb, “You didn’t have to wait to win the championship. If you had asked me properly to dinner, like a civilised human being, I might’ve actually said yes. “

“You’re an idiot, George Russell,” Max grumbled, but didn’t pull his hand away. “And who said I wanted you for dinner, anyway?”

George snorted a laugh and bit softly at the heel of Max's hand, wrapping one arm around his back, careful of pressure.

"Breakfast, on the other hand—" Max murmured, reaching to reel him in, placing both hands on his chest and pushing him back down into the blankets for another kiss. “I wasn't done, before.”

George laughed breathlessly when the kiss broke, and Max, despite the angrily mottled bruises down his back, managed to squirm his way back down the bed. The blanket went with him, and it was only a moment before plush lips were wrapped back around George's half-hard cock again. His erection had certainly flagged in the meantime, but Max's clever mouth set back to work with a will.

“Fuck,” George choked out. Being able to see him this time was, in fact, a far cry from only being able to feel him. Bright eyes glanced up to meet his as one hand pressed his hip down into the bed, and George wrestled against the weight of his grip as the heat surged through him again.

Max chuckled, somehow, a slick noise that vibrated hard enough that George whined. He didn't have any clue how much experience Max had at this, but he wasn't about to complain when the man folded his lips over his teeth and sucked him back down his throat.

Another gasp dragged free, and George’s fingers moved of their own volition to tangle into Max’s hair. It was so soft, and for just a moment, George dragged his fingers through it, reveling in the way it tickled against his fingers, silky as down. Silky as his feathers had been. Another shiver worked its way through his body as he realized Max was still watching him. It was his dick in Max’s mouth, and yet he felt he was the one performing, his singular audience member watching him as raptly as any spectator.

Heat built the way an engine warmed, and George could feel Max’s mouth moving, the stroke of his tongue and pressure of his lips like the most skillful coaxing to keep every part of him perfectly in alignment. When Max lifted his head, spit dripping from the corner of his mouth, lips shining red and slick, George choked on the breath of air he had just taken. They had known each other for years. It shouldn’t have been possible to learn new ways Max could look, to only now discover how gorgeous he was with his shining mouth and hungry eyes, his cheeks flushed scarlet. It certainly felt, in an abstract sort of way, far too late to find himself so addicted already that he could not look away.

“I like that.” Max settled himself more comfortably between George’s thighs, one bicep flexing distractingly as he draped it over one of George’s legs.

“Like… what?” George swallowed hard, fingers still combing through the unruly mop of Max’s hair.

“That you still can’t stop looking.” Max’s smile was sweet rather than triumphant or smug, and George reached his other hand to cup the nape of his neck as gently as his shaking hand could manage.

“Never really could,” he admitted, pressing lightly to try to coax Max back up for a kiss.

Max came willingly, strong thighs lifting him up George’s spare frame to press their lips together. George could taste himself on Max’s tongue, felt him groan, melting against him as George buried both his hands in his hair. It was, he thought, always going to feel like feathers to him. Eventually Max pulled away, returning to his place back between George’s legs. He didn’t linger, didn’t tease.

Searing wet heat and Max’s clever tongue undid George faster than should have been possible, though the tiny choked whimpers Max was making certainly seemed to make impossible things likely. George could hear his own voice gasping, but underneath it, every time Max fucked his own mouth on George’s cock just a little deeper, he seemed to whine. It was those noises that were pulling George apart, those noises and the way Max moaned when George gripped his hair hard enough to keep his head still. George could feel the tip of his cock pushing the back of his throat until Max’s eyes streamed, and still, Max made no move to pin him back down.

George finally had to close his eyes, coming a few helpless jerks later. Max swallowed, choked, then swallowed again as George unclenched his fingers enough to pull them carefully free from his hair. He had barely collapsed back into the pillows when Max was climbing up his body, face still wet, still panting as he dropped down over George, face burying in his shoulder as he whined.

“Please,” Max pleaded, straddling George’s hips. He was so hard he dripped, his cock heavy where it pressed between them, sticky against George’s skin. “Please, I just need… Can I?”

“Yeah,” George swallowed hard, trying to figure out what Max needed. “Whatever you need, Max, come on now. I’ve got you.”

George gingerly wrapped his arms about Max as the man ground down against him, rubbing himself through the mess he was dripping across George’s stomach. Before he even had a good grip on the man, Max was coming in hitching, panting whimpers, burying the sound in George’s chest as he spilled hotly between them. George groaned softly as he smoothed a hand down Max’s side, down his flank, and settled on the curve of his ass.

“All right then?” he whispered as he cradled Max, one thumb moving in gentle circles over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Max sucked in a deep breath and let it out hard as if to reboot his lungs, then glanced up at George with a sly, satisfied smile. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve had a proper systems check,” George snorted, but he could feel himself grinning.

George’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, and as he scooped it up to check the message, Max flopped bonelessly onto his side with a pained little grunt. Patting him absently, George opened Oscar’s text and felt his smile widening further.

“Look.” He opened the short video that had been included to full screen and held it where Max could see.

Lando’s wings had come in properly at last, full and perfect, shining silver, edges trimmed in the purest gold. Oscar’s quiet laugh could be heard in the background as Lando turned, the wings appearing every bit as lightweight and graceful as Seb had described.

“Oh.” Max’s smile shone as he leaned up to see the scant seconds replay. “Finally.”

George shut off his screen before he had to see that smile fade and bent to kiss Max again, drawing him gently back into his embrace. “Finally,” he agreed between kisses. “Looks like we’re all back where we were supposed to be.”

Max opened his eyes, clear and blue as a summer sky. “Even you?” he asked, searching.

“Especially me.”

 

END

I have been blessed by some absolutely stunning work from the incredible Danny_oh, and they have very kindly given me permission to post it here. I'm quite certain they reached right into my brain and pulled out the images. This is absolutely incredible work, THANK YOU!!

 

Notes:

My eternal gratitude to theshippingcontainer for talking me into (and out of) all of the right things, and listening to me panic while I push buttons on the microwave. honeysuns, isa_n_kio, danny_oh, for being kind, supportive, and endlessly funny as fuck - y'all are brilliant.

Thank you to anyone who reads! Never written for F1 before, so here's to brave new worlds. Come say hello, if you like, on Tumblr!