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He was originally going to leave after sitting ducks in the beginning. He had told the media so. But he chatted with this and that, his own letdown meant George could move up, a little bit of hope after suffering, and so on. Around the second red flag, rip Charles, and George’s outrageous penalty, Max just waved his hand and left.
Their apartment was much nicer, firstly, no longer playing the circus, secondly, their pets were there. Again, much nicer than looking at Mekies’ sorry expression.
He changed, cuddled with Nino, and poured himself an ice-cold beer, mindlessly scrolling through the food options. George would probably not eat tonight. He always spiralled a bit after a bad result, going into a sad mood, losing appetite, and all of that. Max assumed it would be something else for the next week.
He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the air conditioner's soft breeze relax his limbs. He was on his tenth dream, comfortably drooling on the couch, when the front door finally clicked. Max startled awake, rubbing his eyes.
He had less than a pitstop duration before George glared at him. “Don’t start, Max!”
He didn’t even defend himself, there was no use. George was a special brand of bitch when he was in a foul mood.
He sat properly instead, still rubbing his face to get sober, and watched as George sat right next to him, grabbing the stale beer. “It is warm.” Max croaked.
“Shut up.” Another snap. The tightly pressed pink lips now drank from the glass. He was pouting even now.
Max sighed, randomly wondered where the hell everyone had gone, it was eerily quiet in the apartment. He could crack a joke and said the animals ran away from George’s reign of terror, but he was wiser.
With experience of finally having a steady relationship for almost two years, not to mention years of fucking around and finding out, and consistent 6 months of living together, Max was quite an expert on George’s mood.
One, he was sure George wanted to cry. The furrowed brows, shaky, uneven breathing, and unfixable pout were all easy signs. Two, George was well aware where the fault lay, but he had never named it, that strange sense of loyalty he had.
Max was a little bit conscious that the reason they finally found their way into each other after so many years was also a side effect of George’s self-destructive sense of loyalty and love. He just tried his goddamn best not to be one of those people who obviously took advantage of the situation.
He snaked his arm around the pointy but muscled shoulders. Because, third, George wanted to be held now. He was pricklier than a cactus, and declined physical contact on a normal day, but not when things went south.
In the same rhythm, his pretty head placed itself under his chin. The sky was bleeding red outside, the sun itself was gone, and only the remaining darker shades were present. It was dark in the living room and so very quiet for an apartment that hosted 3 cats and a dog.
He knew what was happening as soon as he felt the warm drop on his t-shirt, but Max didn’t break the peace. Instead, he slowly drew circles on George’s skin, still wearing the Mercedes kit.
Sometimes they were two sides of the same coin, sometimes they were polar opposites. He could never be as serene as George in a defeat so gruesome. Quite literally, the entire world saw how quickly he lost his head with his team fumbling in Barcelona last year. In the background, he almost destroyed whatever tentative relationship he had built with George.
But George believed in the next times, he believed in his team, and worst, he genuinely believed and loved Toto. He could rage instead of his boyfriend, maybe even fuel something close to hatred in him as well. However, he knew that wasn’t George’s way. The most rage he had seen from George was to be honest against Max himself.
A hiccup was let out, and Max tightened his hold, burying his lips in the soft hair. “Shhh, it’s not over yet, schat.”
“You couldn’t even start the race.” He heard a muffled complaint and chuckled, diving his other hand to find George’s chin. “Fuck this year.”
He raised his pretty face, something aching in his chest as he took in George’s flushed cheeks and wet eyes. His thumb wiped away a rogue tear, still stuck on his skin. George was always beautiful, breathtaking when he smiled, equally striking with his large eyes, which took on an even brighter shade with the gleam of tears. But this look wasn’t something Max imagined at the beginning of the season. “Personally, I wouldn’t fuck this year.” He smiled as George frowned in confusion. “It is very ugly on one hand.” He continued, keeping his tone light. “On the other hand, I have a pretty boyfriend, so no chance.”
He laughed as George punched his stomach, huffing and sitting back. The sunset shades colored his hair a little bit lighter than his brunette hair. He looked pale and had a very unpleasant slope to his shoulders.
Helpless, Max reached out again, holding his face. “Come, now, schat, don’t look so dejected.”
George gave him a sad, pathetic smile. “Am I not?”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
To that, he received only a shrug. Sometimes, Max wanted to have that back straight, forever looking-forward version of himself that George supported for fans and media. He believed that confident asshole would actually go and scream at Toto’s face. Instead, he had George’s premium version to himself, all the vulnerabilities and love included. Well, Max was grateful.
He kissed George’s forehead, then his cheekbones, then his eyelids. “When you ill treat yourself,” Max whispered against his mouth, “It makes me feel very heartbroken and helpless, baby.” Then he kissed the pouting lips.
“S’not like you were popping champagnes in AD.” George shot back because he had to piss off Max even at his lowest. A life mission for his boyfriend.
“Well, it is not December, is it, George?”
The Brit flopped back after that, sprawling over the couch, his kit stretching up and revealing a sliver of his skin. “Toto was on the podium.” He sighed, covering his face with his hands. “Saw it on telly.”
Max hummed, back to leaning over him and, forcefully, yes, forcefully, making George lend him a hand so he could interlock their fingers together. “He was partying in ’21 after slamming a headphone.”
George snorted, his stomach moving with the motion. “Should I be grateful for the scale of my miseries?”
“No,” Max answered immediately, squeezing the lean fingers as a warning. “But you can be a bitch to Toto if you really want to be bitchy, you know.” George opened his eyes and glared at him again. “He is deserving.”
George pulled his hand back, and Max got up with a heavy groan. “Well, like it or not, you’re eating food tonight, Russell.”
He decided to order Spanish even as George protested and whined in the background.
He did fairly well, considering George barely drank water after Canada. His phone was banished, Max saw to it after every race. He also cringed a lot knowing where most of the hate originated from.
They were back to being cozy and watching a documentary about Amazon birds with the cats perched on them as if neither of them had walked away from the horrors of racing a few hours ago. Max kept stealing glances at George’s face, even though he was literally lying with his head in his lap, George’s fingers petting his hair. In his next try, he received a sudden slap to his cheek. “What the fuck, George?!”
His pissy boyfriend looked down at him. “Stop fucking staring, Max. If I wanted to wail, I would go to the bedroom.” Then he received a mean pinch to his neck.
“Fuck,” He sat up. “I should leave you to die on your own.”
“It’s better than getting pity.”
Max scowled. “I am not pitying you, dumbass. I couldn’t even fucking start the race!”
“Are we doing pity sex tonight, too?”
“Shut the fuck up, George.” Max spat out. “Don’t shake hands with Toto, then come back steaming.”
“Why?! You always lash out at me when things don’t go your way!” George was genuinely angry. Max couldn’t believe his eyes that he deadass wanted to take it out on Max.
“You threatened to leave me twice last season!”
“Well, I didn’t!” George yelled, his hands flying around and a suspicious shine in his eyes.
“Why are you fighting with me?!” He really wanted to know.
But he saw the trembling lower lip and all too familiar look in his lover’s face. Therefore, he leaned forward and gathered his wounded deer in his arms before George could splutter more bullshit after boiling over in his silence.
George clung to him, like he was drowning and Max was the only escape. His nails hurt even over the material of the t-shirt, but Max buried his nose deeper into the long neck, putting soft kisses on his skin, under his ear. “That’s alright, baby, you’re okay.” He moved George more comfortably into his lap, his knees bracketing Max’s hips.
“I’m sorry.”
Max shushed him before hiccups could let his boyfriend speak more heartbreaking things with his wobbly voice. “It will get better.” He kissed his once more damp cheeks, trying to steal a look at his eyes. But George didn’t turn his beautiful head. “Promise, it will.”
George let out a chuckle, his head shaking, finally looking at him again. “Liar. You’re a terrible liar and comforter, Verstappen. Should have gone for Alex.”
Max smiled. He first kissed the side of his mouth, then picked up the soft hand resting on his shoulder and kissed his knuckles. “No,” Max spoke confidently, “you wanted me, and you came to me, baby. No shame in admitting.”
George pouted, neither denying nor accepting, and lay his head on his shoulder again, and Max simply rubbed his back and put kisses on his hair till it could be enough to soothe the forest fire within his boyfriend.