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The light flickered, twice, before settling again, the yellow hue filling the room, somehow making the corners appear even darker. The sound of traffic was filtering in from outside, a livelihood typically associated with the Monacan night life. Closer to the harbor, the yachts would be alight with strobing colors, the pounding bass audible even on the other side of the city.
Somewhere, Jimmy’z maybe, a boy was celebrating, having conquered the streets of Monte-Carlo and claiming the gleaming trophy as his own, fulfilling the prophecy and making his way through the place imprinted on every world champion. Together with him was a team, a force to be reckoned with, mighty in their illusions of family, unwavering in their betrayal.
The Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team.
What a stupid name.
Somewhere else, a hotel room obscure enough to feel private, a man was pacing.
He hadn’t won anything today, hadn’t collected a single point, shunned and abandoned, he was not to partake in the joyous celebrations. Nerves alight with indifference turned irritation turned rage. Skin itching with the need to release it, he digs his neatly manicured nails into gently taken care of hands.
Where is he? A fucking disease, his to carry, and an outlet, his to use.
A symbiotic relationship, formed in an attempt to maintain their sanity. He shouldn’t have to wait so long, overly tense, body begging for release.
As he’s about to reach for his phone, angrily demand an explanation for the unusual tardiness, a knock forces its way through barely concealed panic, makes it way into the foreground of a troubled mind. One step, two steps, angry strides towards the cheap hardwood door, the person awaiting him.
A lion, a beast, blood on his hands, ready to bleed. Harshly gripping the door knob, he rips the door open, focuses his gaze.
Max Verstappen, the only person capable of understanding him, the only person he truly hates.
Desperate eyes, almost as blue as his own. Hunched shoulders, a crumbling team weighing down on him. Shaking hands, reaching towards George. They will waste no time with pleasantries, avoiding chit chat and avoiding small talk, immediately reaching for the hurt, the only relief either of them will get today.
George grabs at Max, tears him inside with a dangerous ferocity, a hunger awakened within him. Max is pliant under his grip, lets himself be shoved against the hotel room, opens his mouth to allow George better access. Predator turned prey, if he’s going to get eaten it will happen on his terms. George bites down on his lip, just as Max presses a knee against the Brits erection.
A symbiotic relationship.
The iron tang of Max’ blood is unmistakably clear in the space between them, teeth stained red as he bares them at George. For once, it’s his, though the thrill it brings is the same, the conclusion of a successful hunt. George revels in it, the thought that he can control the amount Max bleeds.
Relishing in the feeling of it, he manages to lead them to bed, making quick work of Max’ clothes. He sneers briefly as he sees the rising sun surrounded by twin bulls on the t-shirt, the Red Bull logo on top of where his heart would be, disgust curling through him.
Such stupid loyalty, although he supposes that’s what lions are known for.
Max is trapped in a gilded cage starting to rust, and instead of breaking through the weakened bars, he polishes them himself.
Refusing to be media trained but an expert at sacrificing himself, the team that has been with him since before he was at the top of the food chain, he might never leave Red Bull. It’s pathetic.
“Why are you still wearing their logo? Doing your best to be a sponsor‘s dream, huh?“, he spits and, really, George doesn’t know why the thought upset him so, having dedicated such a large portion of a worthless career to making sure PETRONAS and INEOS loved him, filling his closet with Adidas, exclusively using Microsoft.
The smile he wore was polished, eyes glazed as he’d wasted away in meetings rooms, hands shaking as he’d prepared PowerPoint presentations he knew would be neglected. Sponsors adored the persona he’d created, thinking they adored the person he was.
“Contract obligations, of course. You know how it is“, Max answered, somehow sounding dismissive, even as the blood of their shared lust trickled down his chin.
It’s the closest he’s ever come to suggesting they understood each other, and he knew it, blue eyes glinting in the horrible light.
George didn’t bother disagreeing, yanking Max‘ shorts off of him, throwing them atop the cursed t-shirt. A reawakened ferocity washed over him as he bit down on Max‘ neck, the pulse that stuttered below his teeth, relishing in taste of blood filling his mouth.
He could swallow a pint of it before getting sick.
The pained moan Max offered the room, offered him, shot through George’s ribcage, echoed in his lungs and wrapped around his heart. “What are you, a fucking vampire?“, came the hiss he’d been expecting, a desperate edge coloring the words as if Max had been jerking off to Nosferatu.
George didn’t bother responding, instead taking the opportunity to rid himself of the dreadful clothes he wore, the shame that had been clinging onto him. They formed a truly dreadful coalition, him and Max, a gladiator and the beast he’d tamed.
Together they’d hungered, just to find their hunting grounds bare, overpowered by otherworldly creature and, in fear of starvation, they’d resorted to cannibalism.
Comfort lied in the familiarity of the flesh they tore into, the map he’d made of Max‘ body existing deep within George. Desperate for more, he offers the Dutchman his fingers, watches greedy lips stretch around the two digits, spit being the only lube he’d be getting today.
George wasn’t cruel.
Violent at times, maybe, begging for the control that had been taken from him, sure, but he wasn’t cruel.
Max, though.
Max was a masochist, the venom he secreted acting both ways. What good was the fire raging within him when he couldn’t relish in the burn it provided, what good was the hunger he thrived on when he lacked the ability to punish himself for it.
Sex wasn’t about pleasure for them, it was about getting what they deserved, what they thought they deserved. Max thought he deserved pain, and second to just putting a gun against Max‘ head and painting the wall with his brain, George had taken to not prepping him carefully enough.
Curling his fingers against Max‘ entrance, hearing him gasp and feeling him squirm, George feels dominant.
George thought he deserved dominance.
A symbiotic relationship.
Tentatively he breaches the barrier, emboldened by Max‘ reactivity, the whimper that escapes his mouth and bounces around the room. With a carefulness that belies the urgency of their situation, George starts to open him up.
He uses his other hand to hold Max still, to press down on the soft flesh of his hips, the caging of a wild beast. Denying him the movement he so desperately craves, George impersonates the bonds tying Max down, wings clipped, claws pulled. One finger properly inside, he adds another one, noticing the pain written onto Max‘ features. It’s belied by the desperation with which the Dutchman presses up against him, the sounds spilling from parted lips still stained red.
The combining of all the desires within him, he wants more and he wants worse.
George isn’t one to deny Max more and he surely won’t deny him worse, scissoring his fingers, he carves himself into Max, inch by inch, relishing in the sight and the sound, the show of his control.
A symbiotic relationship.
Psychologists would love to study them, just as scientists would love to dissect them, artificial lab lights, scalpel at the ready, pen in one hand, paper in the other.
They’d find hate in their hearts and terror in their souls, analyze the series of events that made them the way they are.
Cutting open their brains, they’d find stand stills of silent car rides, disappointed faces, trophies they never won and the love they never felt.
Their fathers were their models for god. If they failed, what about god?
Lewis might know. Lewis, who believes his success is a divine gift, who relies on prayer and church attendance instead of punishment and dimly lit hotel rooms.
Maybe George should worship him.
A pained wail, a thrashing Max. He wants more, he wants worse, it will never be enough, he thinks it’s too much. George adds another finger to compensate, loosens his grip on Max’ hip to compensate.
A symbiotic relationship.
He’s greeted with incoherent nonsense, senseless sounds that bounce around the room, the labyrinth that composes his mind. With a gun barrel between your teeth you speak only in vowels, with three fingers pressing against your prostrate it seems to be consonants.
An attempt at maintaining control, Max refuses to fully let go. Teeth stained red, he grinds them against one another instead of letting the liquid trickle down all the way, a living organism tracing a path down Max’ chest. He succeeds only in motivating George, awakening within him a desire to hear Max, the screams that seem to reverberate throughout his very soul, the drawn out moans sweeter than any song.
He feels like a dog delighting in squeaky toys because the sound reminds it of a small animal dying, the last remnant of a brutal past.
He takes out his fingers, relishes in the way Max reacts. What should’ve been relief from the pain becomes the very source of his suffering, an emptiness begging to be filled. A dying team, he feels alone.
A thriving team, George feels left out. He needs to be needed.
A symbiotic relationship.
The Briton doesn’t hesitate any further, lines up with Max’ hole and pushes in, as quick as he should’ve been on track, as precise as his team should’ve been handling his penalty. An agonizingly slow thrust, Max is the personification of pain, a learning opportunity for those who live in luxury, a mockery for those who live through worse.
The Dutchman tries to scramble away, flight instead of fight. The pain he craves is welcome in his heart, rejected by his body and George has to hold him down.
Long, slender fingers usually fitted in blue gloves now grip soft, gentle hips usually covered by fireproofs. Gloves that hide an ability to bruise and fireproofs that hide the outcome of said ability, now gone.
The outcome is a vulgar display of violence, the bruising of tender flesh, the mark of a masochist. Max will delight in seeing the purple hue, will embrace the sting and the stimulation it provides.
He’s alive and the pain will prove it.
That’s a show for the morning though, cold tiles and a locked door, a pathetic visual the bathroom mirror will have to live with.
The position Max finds himself in right now paints him as a victim, a terrified pet abused by a terrible owner, the taming of a wild beast. George lets him claw at sheets already stained red, lets him scream at the yellowed wallpaper, lets him fight.
He didn’t get to on track today, seated in a failing car built by a dying team, confronting a silent apartment and missed opportunities earlier than he had wanted to.
But George didn’t get to dominate today, patience having faded over the course of 78 laps, and his mercy extends only so far before he’s moving within Max again.
Gentle thrusts at first, a strategy playing out successfully, a sub-two-second pit stop. He relishes in the cries that escape a bloodied mouth, the acceptance of George’s dominance, the body underneath adjusting to fulfill his needs.
He enjoys the way Max’ body finally gives in, submitting to the will of a madman, acceptant of the pain its host so firmly desires. It’s a muffled fuck leaving the red confines of Max’ mouth that does it for George, the same curse he’d wanted to include in his radio messages throughout the entire Grand Prix, when he’d wanted to ask Marcus what the fuck are we doing here, like the greats used to do, a transcription shown to the whole world, proof of the dreadful situation he finds himself in.
The same curse he’d been willing to receive a fine for, if only to show Toto he’s still here.
The same curse that never left his lips, held back by fear, the image of a younger George fighting for a seat in F1.
Max doesn’t have those thoughts, never even considers the apprehension other drivers carry, the only foreign word he speaks without an accent.
George thrusts take on a brutal pace, the Dutchman pliant beneath him, speed running the five stages of grief and settling on acceptance. The whimpers he occasionally let out, the sobs George received following a particularly hard thrust, were the only proof of Max’ consciousness.
An endless loop, relieve and receive, a room painted by pain, the obscure stage they perform on with nobody to watch.
George fucks until his muscles burn and his veins pump battery acid, a toxic reaction between two elements that should’ve never been combined.
A fucking disease and its carrier, Max arching back against him.
He wants more, he wants worse, the pain has mingled with pleasure and the bleeding has stopped. George bites down on his shoulder, dull teeth breaking skin, relishing in the taste of copper.
Max moans, aware enough to still be a masochist, delighting in yet another wound he’ll be able to admire in the morning, if he manages to twist and turn enough to see it.
A horrific display of what a bad race can result in.
George’s rhythm breaks, a flat spot on his tires, a collision in turn one. He reaches around, wraps one hand firmly around Max’ dick, starts jerking him off. His thrusts are sloppy and it’s not the best hand job he’s ever given, but it gets the job done.
It doesn’t take long before he comes, still inside Max, overwhelmed by pleasure, the need to dominate fulfilled.
Yet another bite and the Dutchman follows him over the edge, a broken sob and shaking hands clenched around bloodied sheets.
They stay like that for a moment, an attempt to regain their composure, a desperate effort to regulate their breathing. George pulls out slowly, watches the come leak out of Max’ hole, lazily pushes it back inside. Max jerks away from the action, hisses some insult at George, doesn’t bother getting up.
It’ll be a while before he attempts to move again.
The Briton doesn’t have such restrictions, doesn’t hesitate to put some distance between himself and the mess they’d made on a borrowed bed. He watches Max for a moment, a sex crime victim, underwear inside out and bound in electrical tape. He’s curled in on himself, distrusting of George even now, dried blood sticking to bruised skin, tears still flowing from hollow eyes.
A pathetic sight, something a tortured artist would conjure up in a fever dream, high on unnamed drugs.
He’s seen Victorian paintings with less depth, each detail a careful brushstroke, thought through and executed perfectly.
If George were any crueler he’d document the scene.
Instead he turns, collects his clothes from the floor, makes his way to the shitty hotel bathroom. They don’t do aftercare, especially not after a race this horrendous. Max wants it to hurt for as long as possible and George is too angry to bother. It’s perfect this way.
A symbiotic relationship.