Norrusstappen Chronicles

by Anna63

Summary:

One-shots of Norrusstappen Soulmate Au

Notes:

For CL (Guest)
Request: George whump (like a subdrop) and worried and guilty Max and Lando.

Chapter 1: Subdrop

George blinked awake to the sound of muffled voices.

For a moment, he stayed still under the heavy duvet, warmth cocooning him, the faint scent of his two soulmates lingering on the sheets—Max’s deeper spice, Lando’s airy citrus. But when he stretched out an arm, he felt nothing but empty space. The bed was cold on both sides.

He frowned.

It wasn’t unusual for Max to be up early, restless as ever. But Lando… Lando was usually wrapped around him like a koala long after sunrise, murmuring sleepy nonsense into George’s neck.

The quiet voices came again, clearer now. Laughing. Plates clinking.

He pushed the covers off with a sigh and padded barefoot to the doorway. The hall was filled with morning light. When he turned the corner into the kitchen, he froze.

Lando was seated on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, still in one of George’s oversized shirts. Max stood between his legs, leaning close, grinning at something Lando had just said. Two mugs of coffee steamed gently nearby. A plate of toast was half eaten between them.

George cleared his throat.

They both turned. Lando's smile faltered into a guilty, sheepish little expression.

“Oh, hey, G,” Lando said. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to start without you.”

Max didn’t even flinch. He just raised a brow and muttered, “Don’t be dramatic. It’s toast.”

George tried to smile. “Right. Just toast.”

 

---

 

The room was warm. Soft light filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the polished wood floor. Lando was curled up on the loveseat, legs draped over Max’s lap as they shared a bowl of grapes. Something dumb played on the television—one of those competition shows Lando liked where strangers got stuck in the woods and had to survive on bugs and duct tape. George didn’t find it particularly entertaining, but they were both laughing, clearly enjoying it. So he said nothing.

He sat at the edge of the couch, tucked into the corner, feet pulled up beneath him. There was enough room to scoot closer, to lean into Max, maybe rest his head on his shoulder. But he didn’t move. It didn’t feel like an invitation was on the table. Max had one hand absentmindedly tracing circles on Lando’s calf, his other hand occasionally reaching for a grape. They were quiet between giggles, whispering something to each other now and then, lost in a rhythm that didn’t need a third voice.

George sipped at his tea—lukewarm and a little bitter—and tried not to fidget.

He hadn’t said more than five words all afternoon, and no one had noticed.

He tried to focus on the show, but his mind kept wandering. It had been like this for weeks now. At first, he told himself it was in his head. That he was being dramatic, overly sensitive, that things naturally shifted in relationships and maybe he was just adjusting slowly. That it was temporary. But temporary was starting to feel a lot like permanent.

It hadn’t always been like this. When the three of them had first come together-three tangled hearts—it had felt like magic. Like the universe had carved out space just for them. Max, with his sharp edges and grounding presence. Lando, all light and joy, endless laughter and soft touches. And George, somewhere in between. Balancing them. Held by them. Needed.

Now he wasn’t sure where he fit.

There had been a movie night about three weeks ago. George had spent half an hour scrolling through the streaming service, searching for something nostalgic—something warm. He’d suggested an old romantic drama he loved, one with long pauses and quiet dialogue, the kind of film that lingered in your chest hours after the credits rolled.

Max had barely looked up from his phone. “It’s slow, right?” he’d asked. “Like, really slow?”

George had hesitated. “Yeah, but it’s—”

“Let’s watch something fun,” Lando had cut in, tossing George a casual smile as he suggested something else entirely. Some fast-paced action flick with dumb jokes and explosions. George hadn’t argued. He’d said it was fine, that it didn’t matter, and tucked himself into the far end of the couch.

Max had pulled Lando into his lap halfway through the movie. He’d kissed the top of his head, brushed his fingers through his hair. Lando had turned to kiss him back, all soft and familiar, and George had stayed curled up in the corner, sipping from a glass of wine that tasted a little too dry.

He tried not to care that Max hadn’t looked his way once.

It wasn’t just that night. There were dozens of small moments. Tiny fractures that he was now starting to realize had become full-blown cracks.

He’d catch Max and Lando whispering in the kitchen in the mornings, laughing about things George hadn’t been there to see. Inside jokes born of stolen afternoons and private workouts or games or god knows what. Whenever George asked what they were talking about, Max would wave him off. “Nothing,” he’d say, smirking. “Just something stupid from last week.” Lando would echo the sentiment. “You had that sponsor thing, remember?”

He remembered. He remembered coming home after a long day, exhausted, desperate for a moment of closeness, only to find Max asleep on the couch with Lando sprawled on top of him, both of them blissfully unaware.

He remembered waking up alone three mornings in a row.

He remembered how Max used to greet him in the kitchen with a kiss. How he’d press one to George’s cheek or neck or shoulder, casual and instinctive, like it belonged there. Now that kiss belonged to Lando. George hadn’t had it in days. Maybe longer.

He hated how much he noticed it. Hated how petty it made him feel, counting kisses like they were rations in wartime.

The television volume dropped for a second and he looked up to see Max tossing the remote to Lando, who caught it with a grin. Max leaned over to say something in his ear. Lando laughed so hard he nearly dropped the grapes.

George forced a small smile.

They didn’t look at him.

He blinked slowly and stared down at his tea again. The cup was nearly empty. The bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

He felt like a guest in his own home. Like someone they tolerated more than included. The realization settled heavy in his stomach, colder than the tea in his hands.

There had been a time Max had said ours when talking about the flat. When Lando had said, let’s make this feel like yours too. When every room felt like it had space carved out just for him.

Now he wandered from room to room like a visitor.

He was tired. Not physically, but bone-deep. The kind of tired that came from giving and waiting and pretending not to notice the slow pull of distance. From telling himself that love didn’t always look balanced. That being soulmates didn’t mean being perfect. That it was just a rough patch. That maybe next week, or tomorrow, Max would kiss him again for no reason. That Lando would fall asleep against his shoulder.

But right now, Max had Lando’s legs on his lap and was rubbing circles into his ankle. Lando was half-asleep, mouth parted slightly, head resting against the back cushion like he was exactly where he belonged.

George sipped the last of his tea and set the mug down carefully on the table.

No one looked at him.

No one noticed when he got up, silent and slow, and padded down the hall to the bedroom.

He didn’t slam the door. That would be too obvious. Too childish.

He just closed it quietly behind him. Sat on the edge of the bed. Stared at the wall. The silence wrapped around him, sharp and heavy, and all he could think was:

Maybe they’re better without me.

Maybe I’m just the part that doesn’t fit anymore.

 

---

 

It was one of those rare quiet afternoons during race week. A lull between media obligations and team meetings. The kind of golden hour where a moment of peace felt almost illegal.

They’d found a quiet corner of hospitality—just the three of them—huddled around a wobbly table with a half-finished plate of fries in the middle. George had a bottle of water cradled between his hands. Lando was sprawled lazily in a chair, phone half-hidden under the table. And Alex, as usual, was halfway through his second Coke and already planning his third.

“God, this feels ancient,” Alex said, tipping back in his chair. “Like a weird reunion episode nobody asked for.”

“Don’t be rude,” George said, grinning faintly. “You’re the one who begged to sit with us.”

“I did not beg,” Alex said, wounded. “I invited. Big difference.”

Lando snorted. “You texted I miss you bastards, meet me now in the group chat.”

“I was being sentimental.”

“You sent a selfie crying into your seatbelt.”

Alex pointed dramatically. “That was private!”

George laughed under his breath. For a second, it felt like old times. The kind of easy camaraderie they used to have before everything got tangled up in soulmarks and media schedules and complicated relationships.

Alex leaned back, propping his elbows on the armrest. His eyes narrowed at Lando, faux-serious. “Honestly, I’m just shocked you even showed up.”

Lando blinked, halfway through stealing the last fry. “What?”

“I mean,” Alex drawled, “considering how you’re surgically attached to Max these days. I thought he’d have you on a leash by now.”

George froze. Just slightly. But no one seemed to notice.

Lando rolled his eyes. “Piss off.”

“No, seriously,” Alex went on, grinning. “You remember when we used to have rookie movie nights? When it wasn’t just Max Max Max all the time? Man’s got you under a spell or something.”

“Maybe I just like spending time with my boyfriend,” Lando said, a bit too defensively. “Sue me.”

“Right, and George’s what then?” Alex turned, gaze flicking to George with teasing warmth. “Chopped liver?”

George gave a slow, neutral shrug. “Guess I’m not as fun as I used to be.”

Alex squinted, mock suspicion flaring. “Wait, hold on. You’ve got time again. Time. Like, you’re actually here. No Max. No Lando hanging off your arm. No smug ‘soulmate trio’ vibes.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you—wait. Don’t tell me. Did you break up with them?”

George froze, smile caught mid-expression.

Alex didn’t notice. He barked a laugh, shoving George lightly with his foot. “Shit, did you actually break up? Is Max crying in the motorhome? Is Lando in custody for homicide?”

Lando shot him a glare. “Shut up, Alex.”

“What? I’m just asking! We never see them apart.”

“I said shut up.”

Alex finally paused. His grin faltered as he looked between them—at George’s tight shoulders and lowered gaze, at the way Lando’s jaw had gone stiff. He frowned. “Oh. Wait.”

George cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “No break-up,” he said, carefully. “Just… different schedules. That’s all.”

Alex blinked. “Right.”

For a second, none of them spoke.

Lando sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. George stared at a water ring on the surface, willing himself not to flinch under the weight of their silence. Alex looked like he wanted to say something—apologize maybe—but didn’t know how.

“Anyway,” George said, voice too light. “You should be glad I have time for you now, Albon. Consider it a rare honor.”

Alex smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve missed you, mate.”

George looked up. He managed a softer smile this time. “I missed you too.”

 

---

 

The sun was high and hot over the paddock, but George barely felt it.

He stood just outside the hospitality unit, near one of the side gates, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers. His head was bowed, gaze fixed on the gravel beneath his feet, watching how the tiny stones shifted whenever someone walked past. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been standing there. Long enough that the noise around him had dulled to a distant hum—just the occasional burst of laughter, engines revving faintly in the background, the soft hiss of radios in the hands of team personnel.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

His chest felt tight. Not painful—just full. Heavy. The kind of weight that pressed against his ribs without warning. He’d barely spoken to anyone all morning, going through media duties with autopilot charm and mechanical smiles. No one noticed. Or if they did, no one said anything.

They never did.

Not anymore.

The footsteps behind him were soft at first, then purposeful. He didn’t look up. Not until the sound stopped just beside him—and he felt the unmistakable warmth of someone standing too close, in that way only Max ever did.

He turned his head slightly, eyes widening in surprise.

Max.

There was no scowl on his face. No tension in his jaw. Just a strange softness in his expression, his lips tilted in a quiet smile as he reached out and—without saying a word—slid his fingers gently between George’s.

George’s breath caught.

He looked down at their joined hands, as if unsure it was real. Max never did this anymore. Not in public. Not when anyone could see. And yet here he was, grounding, steady, warm. Like he was choosing George in that moment.

“Hey,” Max said quietly, brushing his thumb along the back of George’s hand.

George swallowed. “Hi.”

Max’s eyes flicked over his face, searching, reading him like a map he already knew by heart. “You alright?” he asked, voice low, laced with concern.

George hesitated. Then, a small shake of his head. “No. Not really.”

Max didn’t press. He didn’t ask why. He just stepped closer, lifting his free hand to gently brush a strand of hair away from George’s face, fingers lingering at his temple. The touch was slow, reverent. Like he hadn’t forgotten. Like maybe he still remembered what it meant to hold George like this.

George leaned into it before he could stop himself, closing his eyes.

He didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want the moment to end.

“Max!” a voice called suddenly—bright, familiar, cutting through the warmth like a blade.

George flinched.

Max’s hand dropped immediately. As if burned.

In a single, fluid movement, he let go of George’s hand and turned, already stepping away.

“Lando,” he said, his voice shifting so quickly George could barely recognize it—lighter, teasing, warm in a way it hadn’t been seconds ago.

George turned just in time to see Lando jogging toward them, curls a little damp from the heat, sunglasses perched carelessly on his head. He grinned wide, already reaching for Max.

And Max—

Max caught him effortlessly, arms wrapping around his waist, lifting him slightly off the ground like he weighed nothing. He laughed against Lando’s neck, pulling him in close, kissing his cheek in the way he used to kiss George’s. Lando giggled, arms around Max’s shoulders, leaning into him like gravity didn’t matter.

George stood frozen. One hand still half-raised, like he could hold onto a moment that had already vanished.

He looked at Max, but Max wasn’t looking at him.

He looked at Lando, but Lando hadn’t even realized he was there.

And for the second time that day, George looked down at the ground—at the gravel beneath his boots, at the shadow stretching from his body, long and empty—and tried not to feel like a ghost.

The warmth of Max’s hand still lingered on his skin, but it felt borrowed now.

Unreal.

As if the universe had offered him something soft and fleeting only to remind him, once again, that it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Not really. Not fully.

Not when Lando was around.

He clenched his jaw, blinked hard, and turned away. Slowly. Carefully.

The gravel crunched beneath his feet.

No one called his name.

 

---

 

The hallway outside Max’s driver room was dim and quiet, tucked away from the chaos of the paddock. George’s hands were shaking as he stood there, waiting, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to steel himself. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on it—something heavy and unbearable.

He couldn't do this anymore.

Not without understanding why.

When Max finally emerged from the room, looking relaxed and slightly flushed from post-session interviews, George stepped into his path without hesitation.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

Max blinked, surprised. “Can it wait, sweetheart? I told Lando I’d meet him at the sim trailer in ten.”

“No,” George said, firmer this time. “It can’t wait.”

Max sighed through his nose, but gave a tight nod. He turned back into the room, letting George follow. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the paddock entirely. George was already pacing the small space, wringing his fingers.

“You’ve been distant,” he started, words pouring out faster than he could think. “You’ve been... cold. I’m not stupid, Max. I can see it. I can feel it.”

Max looked at him, then leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

George kept going. “You barely talk to me unless Lando’s not around. You haven’t kissed me in days. You don’t touch me like you used to. You barely look at me unless we’re alone and even then—” His voice cracked. “Even then, it feels like I’m not really there. Like I’m just a placeholder.”

“George—”

“I need to know what’s happening,” George cut in. His breath was trembling. “Did I do something wrong? Did I mess this up?”

Max let out a long breath, like he was trying to keep his patience. “You’re overthinking again.”

“Don’t.” George’s voice sharpened. “Don’t do that. Don’t smile and brush me off like I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s nothing, darling,” Max interrupted, flashing a tired, hollow smile. “I promise.”

George’s heart sank. He hated that smile. That fake reassurance. That lie.

“It’s not nothing,” he whispered. “I feel like I don’t exist to you anymore. I feel like I’ve been replaced. And I get it—Lando’s fun. He’s easy. He’s always smiling. But I’m your soulmate, Max. I’m—” His voice broke, and his eyes welled up with tears he tried desperately to blink back. “I’m yours. Aren’t I?”

Max’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do this, George.”

“Then tell me what I’ve done,” George said, stepping closer. “Tell me why you keep pulling away from me. Why you hold Lando’s hand in public but won’t even look at me when we’re all together. Why I feel like a guest in my own relationship.”

Something flickered in Max’s eyes—anger, maybe. Frustration. Pain.

And then, in one swift, violent movement, Max shoved George back against the wall, his hands pinning George’s shoulders hard enough to sting.

George gasped, startled.

“You really want to know?” Max spat, his voice a roar. “You want to know why I don’t treat you the same anymore?”

“Max—”

“Because he’s not our soulmate, George!” Max shouted. “He’s not yours or mine! His soulmate died before he could even fucking remember him. And now he’s here, with us, and we let him in, and every day I have to watch him pretend like he’s okay when he’s not.”

George stared up at him, stunned, breath caught in his throat.

“You think this is easy for me?” Max snarled. “You think I don’t feel like the outsider sometimes? Like I’ll never fully have you because some part of you will always wonder what it would’ve been like with someone normal? Someone who doesn’t scream or snap or ruin everything they touch?”

His hands trembled against George’s shoulders. “But Lando? Lando looks at me like I’m enough. Like I’m not a monster. And I love him, George. I fucking love him. And you—you say you do, but the second I give him more than you, the second I look too long or laugh too loud, suddenly you’re sulking, suddenly you’re the victim.”

“That’s not true—”

“You can’t handle it,” Max said, bitter and cold. “You can’t stand it when I’m happy with someone else. You want to say you love him, but you flinch every time I kiss him in front of you. You freeze up when we make plans without you. You glare when we joke about stupid shit that you weren’t there for. So don’t act surprised when I stop trying. When I stop choosing you in public.”

George swallowed hard. His voice was barely a whisper. “I just miss you.”

Max looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, he faltered.

His grip loosened, his expression crumbling.

George’s chest was heaving, eyes glassy. “I don’t care if Lando was meant for us or not. I love him. But I love you too. And lately... lately, it feels like you only love him. Like you’ve forgotten what we had before he came into our lives.”

Max said nothing.

George pressed a hand to his chest. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re unhappy. I just want to be enough.”

Max turned away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “George, I—”

But George didn’t wait.

He stepped around Max, opened the door with shaking fingers, and left—before Max could finish, before he could try to backtrack, before George could fall apart any further.

Because if Max had to scream to be honest, maybe George wasn’t the only one pretending something hadn’t already broken.

 

---

 

t was long past sundown when Lewis finally made his way through the quiet corridors of the paddock. The energy had died down—media cleared out, most team members gone for the night, and the grid’s lights dimmed down to safety mode. But he hadn’t left.

Something was off.

He hadn’t seen George since hours ago—since before the Verstappen storm cloud had rolled in. And now, no one had.

That wasn’t normal. Not for George.

And Lewis trusted his instincts. They’d kept him alive for this long in a world that fed on power and silence.

So when he found George—curled up on the floor of an unused hospitality suite, legs folded under himself, fingers twitching slightly on the floor—Lewis stopped short.

“George?”

No response.

His first thought was that George had passed out, but as he knelt beside him, Lewis noticed the subtle rhythm in his breathing. Shallow. Calm, but not right. His eyes were open, glassy, entirely unfocused. His pupils dilated unnaturally wide. Lips parted, but not moving. There was a faint tremor in his shoulders.

“Shit,” Lewis muttered under his breath, hands moving to George’s shoulders, shaking him gently. “George. Hey. Hey, look at me.”

Still nothing. No flicker of recognition. No blink. Not even a sound.

Lewis recognized it now.

Subspace.

And not the safe kind—not the kind subs fell into after either intercourse or intimate moments with their dom. This was the bad kind. The too-deep kind. The kind that came from being overwhelmed, overstimulated, unanchored for too long.

And George was alone.

“Okay, okay, mate,” Lewis whispered, voice gentle now as he rubbed his palms over George’s arms, trying to coax some warmth back into his limbs. “You’re alright. I got you.”

He glanced around the empty paddock, then moved with purpose. He picked George up—cradled him close to his chest like he weighed nothing—and carried him out into the quiet night, footsteps urgent but steady as he made his way to his own motorhome. His was close. Safe. Private.

Inside, Lewis laid George down gently on the bed, dimmed the lights, and grabbed a blanket. George’s skin was cold with sweat. His eyelashes were damp. Every once in a while, his fingers would twitch or curl like he was dreaming something he couldn’t escape.

“George,” Lewis whispered again, sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “You’ve got to come back, alright? You’re not alone.”

He pressed a bottle of water to George’s lips, tipping it carefully when he felt the faintest reflex to swallow. He wiped the sweat off his face with a soft towel. Changed the too-tight wristband that George had clearly been digging into his own skin with. Kept whispering his name like it might pull him closer to the surface.

“You’re okay. Whatever happened, we can talk about it later. You just need to come back. Come on, pretty boy. Come back to me.”

Nearly an hour passed.

Lewis didn’t leave his side once.

And finally—finally—George blinked.

Just once. Then again.

His body twitched like it was startled by its own return, and his chest rose with a deep, almost panicked breath.

“George,” Lewis said instantly, leaning forward. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re safe. It’s me. Just me.”

George’s eyes were wild for a moment, then confused. Then heavy with emotion.

“I—” he croaked, trying to sit up.

“Slow,” Lewis warned, hand pressing gently to his chest. “Don’t push too hard yet. You were under for a long time.”

George winced at the touch, not from pain—but shame.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to... I didn’t mean to go that deep.”

Lewis frowned. “You didn’t mean to? George, you were alone. Something happened.”

George shook his head, face tight, avoiding Lewis’s gaze as he pushed the blanket off and moved to swing his legs off the bed. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t—fuck. I’m sorry, Lewis. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“George,” Lewis said, brow furrowed. “You don’t have to explain everything right now, but—wait, where are you going?”

“I just—” George’s breathing was picking up again, panic creeping in at the edges of his voice. “I need to go. I’m sorry. I can’t—he’ll think—” He paused, biting down hard on his bottom lip. “This was a mistake.”

Lewis stood, gently taking George’s wrist. “George. Don’t run. Please.”

But George didn’t stop moving.

He stepped back, shook his head like a wounded animal trying to escape, and mumbled again, “I’m sorry,” before slipping past Lewis and vanishing into the night without another word.

And Lewis stood there for a long time, staring at the half-empty water bottle, the discarded blanket, the faint warmth still lingering on the bedsheets.

Something was very wrong.

 

---

 

The house was silent when George pushed the door open.

It was nearing 2 AM. The night had settled thick and heavy, moonlight pouring through the wide windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. He stepped inside on quiet feet, his body sluggish and trembling from exhaustion. His skin still felt raw, like it hadn’t quite fit right since earlier that evening. Since Max’s words. Since Lewis’s careful hands. Since the spiral.

George wasn’t sure what he expected—maybe a quiet house, maybe the chance to shower and disappear under the covers unnoticed—but what he didn’t expect was the soft, amber light spilling from the lounge.

And the voices.

“George?” Lando’s voice cracked first—relief and surprise bleeding into it.

Lando was on his feet immediately. He darted from the couch where he and Max had clearly been waiting, a blanket bunched beside them, mugs half-finished on the coffee table, the television paused mid-frame on some background show they hadn’t really been watching. His curls were messy, his hoodie slightly oversized, like he’d been twisting the sleeves between anxious fingers.

George didn’t even have time to speak before Lando threw his arms around him, warm and tight, the scent of familiarity rushing over him.

“Oh my God,” Lando breathed. “Where the hell were you? We’ve been calling—George, I thought— I thought something happened—”

“I’m fine,” George muttered, voice low, brittle. “I just needed—space.”

“Space?” Lando pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t even text. I was this close to calling the paddock again. I thought maybe you got into an accident or—God, anything.”

George tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

From the couch, Max hadn’t moved.

He sat rigid, hands clasped tightly in his lap, jaw clenched so hard George could see the muscles ticking under his skin. His eyes were fixed on George—sharp, unreadable—but not with softness.

“I told you,” Max said, his voice hard and cold like steel pulled from ice, “you can’t just disappear.”

George’s body stiffened. Lando turned to him, hands still hovering uncertainly near George’s waist.

“I told you, George,” Max continued, rising now, slow and deliberate. “Do you have any idea what you put us through tonight? Where were you?”

George opened his mouth to explain—half-formed words about needing air, needing to escape, not wanting to be screamed at again—but Max was already raising his voice.

“You didn’t answer a single fucking call! Not one! You left without a word, and we had no idea if you were safe or if you’d—if you’d done something stupid.”

“Max,” Lando said sharply, warningly. His tone was quiet, protective, aimed at keeping the peace.

But Max didn’t stop. “No. I’m serious. He does this all the time. Runs away when he doesn’t want to face things. You think that’s fair to either of us? You think it’s okay to just vanish like that? What if it had been worse—”

“I wasn’t—”

“You don’t get to decide what’s too much!” Max snapped, his voice echoing in the quiet space. “You’re not the only one hurting!”

“Okay, okay, enough,” Lando said, stepping between them now, tone shifting into something firmer. “Max. Calm down.”

Max bristled but didn’t reply. His chest was heaving.

And now Lando turned on George.

“You should’ve texted,” Lando said, brows furrowed. “You can’t just show up in the middle of the night after ignoring us for hours. What were you thinking? I know you needed space, but we’re not fucking mind readers, George.”

George’s hands clenched at his sides. He was so tired. He had nothing left to give tonight—not after being pushed into subspace, not after Lewis carrying him like a broken thing, not after being screamed at by his soulmate. And now Lando—Lando, his sweet, soft Lando—was scolding him like he was a burden.

And something inside George just snapped.

“Jesus Christ, I said I’m fine!” George exploded, voice cracking. “Can’t you back the fuck off for one second?! You’re not my bloody keeper!”

Lando flinched.

It wasn’t a huge reaction—barely a recoil—but George saw it. Felt it deep in his bones.

His stomach dropped. The words left an acidic taste in his mouth.

Lando’s eyes widened just a fraction before he stepped back, silent now, hurt blooming behind his expression.

And Max saw it too.

George didn’t have time to explain. Didn’t have time to say I didn’t mean it, or I’m sorry, or I’ve been stuck inside my own head for days and I feel like I don’t exist to either of you anymore—

Because Max lost it.

“You don’t yell at him,” Max growled, closing the space between them in two strides. His hands shoved George back hard, pinning him to the wall. “You do not get to raise your voice at him when all he’s ever done is care about you!”

“Max—”

“No, fuck this. You want to know why I’ve been distant?” Max spat, voice rising. “Because I’m trying to balance this shit, George! I’m trying to make Lando feel like he belongs in something he was never born into! But every time I look at you, it’s like you’re waiting for me to fail! Like you resent him—like he’s intruding on something that was just yours!”

George’s eyes were wide, breath caught in his chest.

“And guess what?” Max shouted. “He’s not our soulmate! His soulmate is dead. You think this is easy for him? Watching the two of us bond, knowing he’s the one out of place? And now—now you want to act like the victim?”

“Max, that’s enough,” Lando said quietly, but he didn’t stop him.

Max kept going.

“You say you love him—but the first second I’m happy with him, the moment I give him attention, you break! You shut down! You walk away and disappear and make it about you! You can’t even handle my happiness without fucking falling apart!”

George stopped breathing.

Something gave way inside him like glass cracking under pressure. The tears that had been sitting just behind his eyes now streamed freely, unbidden and hot, down his cheeks.

He wasn’t standing anymore.

He was sliding.

The world was dimming.

He couldn’t feel his hands.

He couldn’t hear Max anymore.

The only thing he could feel was the roaring emptiness inside his chest, the unbearable weight behind his ribs. His vision blurred, sounds folding in like cotton, like static, like nothing.

He dropped to his knees, curling in on himself, arms wrapping around his torso like they were the only thing keeping him from dissolving.

He was falling again.

Deep.

Too deep.

Subdrop.

And this time, there was no one there to stop it.

 

---

 

George crumpled like paper.

His knees hit the floor with a soft thud, body folding in on itself, trembling fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. His breathing had gone shallow—too fast. His lips moved like he was trying to speak, to explain, to beg—but no sound came out.

And Max froze.

“George?” he said, voice instantly shifting—lower, broken. The fire was gone. “George—shit.”

Max stumbled back a step, his hands trembling. He looked at Lando as if searching for an answer, but Lando had already moved—kneeling in front of George, his heart thudding in his chest, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.

“No, no, no—George, look at me,” Lando said quickly, fingers reaching out but not touching yet. “C’mon, baby, breathe—please—you’re okay, we’re here, you’re safe—”

But George didn’t hear him.

His eyes were glassy, wide, distant. His breathing was erratic, chest stuttering with every inhale like it hurt to exist.

“He’s in subdrop,” Lando whispered, his throat closing. “Max—he’s deep.”

“I didn’t—” Max stumbled forward, panic starting to lace every word. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t think he’d—”

“You yelled at him,” Lando snapped, eyes still on George but voice cracking under the weight of his fury. “You pushed him too far and then tore him down when he was already—God, Max, he was already slipping.”

Max’s knees hit the floor beside them. “George. Angel. Please look at me.”

George didn’t respond.

He was trembling, eyes unfocused, body curling tighter, as if trying to disappear inside himself.

“Fuck,” Max breathed. “Fuck. This is my fault. I shouldn’t’ve— I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Lando’s hands hovered again, not touching George’s skin yet. “He needs grounding. He’s too far gone.”

“He shouldn’t have been alone this long. He shouldn’t have had to come home to this.”

Max reached out, hands shaking as he gently touched George’s knee. “George, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry—I was scared, okay? I was scared I was losing both of you.”

George twitched at the contact, but didn’t respond. His skin was cold.

“Get a blanket,” Lando said suddenly, snapping into motion. “And something warm. His system’s crashing.”

Max didn’t argue. He shot up and disappeared down the hallway, returning with the softest knit blanket from their bed and a hoodie George always stole—Max’s scent embedded in every thread. Lando gently wrapped the hoodie around George’s shoulders while Max knelt and covered him with the blanket, murmuring soft, broken apologies the entire time.

“George, sweetheart,” Lando whispered now, one hand brushing soft curls back from George’s damp forehead, “you’re okay. You’re not alone. You’re safe.”

Still, George didn’t speak. His lips were parted, silent, eyes closed now—but his chest was still rising and falling in those shallow, uneven gasps.

Max swallowed hard. “I yelled because I’m a fucking idiot. Because I hate how much I love you and how scared I get when I think I’ve hurt you. I didn’t mean it. Not any of it. I see you, I always see you. I just… I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I thought you didn’t want either of us,” Lando added softly, eyes shimmering. “But even now, you’re the one hurting most.”

Max moved closer, fingers gently stroking over George’s knuckles. “I shouldn’t have shouted. I shouldn’t have let myself lose control. You were already—God, George, please come back.”

Minutes passed in silence.

Then—

A weak sound.

Barely more than a breath.

“‘m sorry…”

George’s voice was so small it barely registered. But Max’s head shot up like he’d heard a gunshot. Lando’s eyes widened instantly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Lando said fiercely, cupping George’s cheek.

Max’s hand closed gently over George’s. “No. No, angel. We’re the ones who should be begging for forgiveness.”

George’s fingers twitched in Max’s grasp, and Lando felt his body finally—finally—lean into his touch.

He was coming back.

But he looked fragile. Too quiet. Like all the weight of the bond between the three of them had fallen on his shoulders tonight.

And Max and Lando both knew—they had let him carry it alone.

 

---

 

George was still trembling, but slower now. The worst of the drop was behind them—barely. Lando could feel it in the way George’s fingers weakly clutched his sleeve, like a ghost of the boy who used to hold their hands with so much certainty.

Max sat still beside them, rigid and silent, one hand resting carefully on George’s back. But the rest of him looked like he was in free fall.

He couldn’t stop hearing the sound of George’s voice cracking when he asked why his soulmate didn’t love him anymore. Couldn’t unsee the panic, the hurt, the breaking point when George had snapped at Lando—something he never did—and the way Max had exploded in return.

He’d lost control. Again.
And this time it wasn’t a rival, or a mechanic, or a media outlet on the receiving end.
It was George. Their George.

Max’s jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.

He’d been so focused on holding it together for Lando—being the strength Lando needed, being patient, guiding, reassuring, loving—he’d thought George was fine. He’d let himself believe George was handling everything, that the silence from him wasn’t warning signs but just his usual quiet moods.

But now he knew the truth.

George hadn’t been quiet.

George had been slipping.

Max looked down at the boy in his arms, his chest tightening painfully as he saw George’s lashes flutter, his expression soft and worn out and completely vulnerable. He looked younger. Smaller. Defenseless in a way he hadn’t been since the very beginning, back when their bond had barely started blooming.

“I thought I was protecting us,” Max whispered, voice cracking with something raw. “But all I did was push you out.”

Beside him, Lando was still holding George’s hand, stroking his thumb over the knuckles, grounding him gently. But his mind was racing, too.

He couldn’t get the image of George flinching out of his head.

Lando had never seen that before. George was many things—sarcastic, brilliant, quietly competitive, proud. And when he was with them, he was usually cheeky and sweet and soft and brave. But tonight, when Max yelled, when he did too, when they both came at him with raised voices and sharp words—

George had flinched.

And that hurt more than anything.

Lando blinked hard, willing himself not to cry.

He hadn’t meant to snap at him. God, if he’d known George had been in subspace, he would’ve never let it go that far. But he’d been worried. Then scared. Then annoyed. The mix of emotions had clouded his own judgment, and he hadn’t noticed that George wasn’t meeting their eyes, that his body was too loose, that his voice was too soft, too absent.

They’d missed it. Both of them.

And now George was curled into himself, looking like he didn’t believe he was wanted anymore.

Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to George’s temple, whispering gently. “We see you. We love you. I’m so sorry I didn’t say it enough.”

He looked up at Max, eyes swimming with guilt. “We weren’t there for him.”

Max nodded, jaw locked so tightly it hurt. “I thought he was pulling away. I didn’t realize we were the ones pushing.”

George shifted slightly between them, groggy, blinking slowly. Max instinctively leaned closer, brushing George’s hair back from his forehead again—gentler now, slower, almost reverent.

“Hey,” Max whispered. “You’re safe. We’ve got you, sweetheart.”

George blinked once, lips parting. “Didn’t want to be a problem,” he mumbled.

Lando bit back a sob.

“You’re not. You never were,” he whispered fiercely. “We’re the ones who fucked up. Not you.”

Max dropped his forehead against George’s shoulder for a second, fingers curling in the blanket. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve listened.”

He looked up, eyes locking with Lando’s. “We need to do better.”

“We will.” Lando nodded, finally feeling clarity settle in like a brick in his chest. “He comes first now. No more imbalance. No more assuming. We fix this. Together.”

Together.

Max nodded.

He reached over to take Lando’s hand too, completing the circle around George’s slumped form. The three of them, wrapped in soft fabric and tension and love and pain—holding onto the hope that maybe this wasn’t the end.

That maybe they still had time to make it right.

That maybe George would let them try.

 

---

 

George blinked slowly, eyes heavy, lashes damp with sleep and something more. The room was dark, save for the soft golden hue of a bedside lamp. The air was quiet, the kind of silence that clung heavy to his skin. Like guilt. Like grief.

His body felt sore. Not in the usual way after a race or a scene, but emotionally. Like something had cracked open inside him and now all that was left was the echo.

He stirred, a soft shift under the blanket, and immediately felt a presence.

Two, actually.

Max was on the left, sitting so still he might’ve been carved from marble, eyes bloodshot, one knee bouncing with nervous energy. Lando sat on the right, legs pulled under him, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, watching George like he might vanish again if they looked away.

For a long moment, none of them said anything.

Then George shifted again, slower this time. Testing. Waiting.

“You’re awake,” Lando whispered, voice raw. Not relieved. Not eager. Careful.

Max’s hand moved toward George instinctively, like he wanted to touch—then stopped halfway, hovering near George’s shoulder.

George stared at the space between them. At the distance. He didn't know where to begin.

But then Max did.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him.

George blinked, eyes darting up to meet his.

“I should never have yelled at you,” Max continued, the words tumbling out now, messy and fast and honest. “I was scared and I was angry and I took it out on you and that’s not—it’s not okay. I know that. I know I hurt you.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking on the next words. “And the worst part is I didn’t even see how far you were falling. I thought… I thought you were pulling away from us. I didn’t realize we were the ones pushing you out.”

George said nothing.

Lando shifted in closer, pressing his forehead against George’s arm.

“I yelled too,” he whispered. “I should’ve known. I should’ve felt something was wrong. You’ve always looked after us so well and we just… we just let you go quiet and didn’t ask why.”

He looked up, eyes glossy. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t enough. I was just trying to hold on to everything and I lost you in the middle of it.”

George closed his eyes.

“I felt like a guest in my own relationship,” he said finally, voice hoarse, like something was splintering inside him all over again. “I felt like I didn’t matter anymore.”

“No,” Max breathed, sounding broken. “No, baby, you do. You do matter. You’re everything. We were stupid. We were selfish. And we’re not going to ask you to forget any of that. But please—please don’t think it’s because we stopped loving you.”

“We love you,” Lando whispered, taking George’s hand, pressing it to his chest like a prayer. “God, we love you so much it hurts. We’ve just been idiots.”

Max finally reached out fully, brushing George’s hair back with careful fingers.

“We’ll do better. I swear to you,” he said. “We’ll listen more. We’ll see you. We’ll never let you feel like that again. Just—please give us another chance.”

George stared at both of them—one who had screamed at him, and one who didn’t stop it. Both of them had hurt him, yes.

But both of them were here now. Kneeling. Shaking. Scared.

And begging.

“I don’t know if I can just go back to how it was,” he admitted softly, honestly.

“You don’t have to,” Lando said quickly. “We’ll go forward. However you need. However long it takes. We’ll wait.”

Max nodded, eyes shining with desperation and sincerity. “We’ll earn it. Every day.”

There was silence again.

Then George finally reached out—slow, cautious—and curled his fingers around both of theirs.

“I’ll try,” he whispered. “But if you make me feel like that again…”

“You can leave,” Max said without hesitation. “You can scream. Hit me. Anything. Just… please don’t go without knowing how sorry we are.”

“I don’t want to leave,” George admitted, his voice trembling. “I just want to belong. Again.”

“You do,” Lando whispered. “You always have.”

They all leaned in at once—slow and unsure—and this time, the kiss they shared wasn’t heated or possessive or passionate.

It was soft. Fragile. Like a promise they were all still learning how to keep.

But it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 2: Fluff

Summary:

For Standingfish:-
Request: I wanna see Lando and Max pampering George, like tooth rotting fluff pampering, coz George deserves it

The first thing George felt was warmth.

Not the stiff, distant warmth of a forgotten blanket or the lonely kind from curling into himself—real warmth. Body heat. Breath against his neck. Fingers curled at his waist. A thigh hooked loosely around his legs.

Arms.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, still hazy with sleep, and took in the soft early light filtering in through the curtains. The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty for once.

His head was resting on Max’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat thrumming softly beneath his ear. Max’s hand was tucked under George’s shirt, warm against the bare skin of his back, not wandering or greedy—just there. Steady. Anchoring.

Lando was curled in behind him, his nose pressed into George’s shoulder blade, one hand sprawled across George’s middle like he was trying to hold him in place even in sleep. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, every exhale a gentle puff against George’s skin.

George didn’t move for a while. He just lay there, eyes open now, letting himself feel it.

This. This was what he’d been aching for.

It had been weeks since he’d woken up like this. Since they’d all slept like this. The middle of the bed had felt colder and colder each night, like the distance had become something physical. And now—now he was wrapped in it again. In them.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes before he could stop them.

He didn’t make a sound. Didn’t want to break the moment.

He just let himself cry, quietly, slowly—because it felt good. Not like grief. Like release.

He didn’t know when Max woke up, but the moment he did, George felt his arm tighten gently around him, fingers brushing up and down his spine.

“Hey,” Max murmured, voice still raspy from sleep. “You okay?”

George nodded, not trusting his voice yet.

But Max felt the dampness on his chest and sat up a little, peering down with wide, sleepy concern. “Are you crying?”

George sniffed, then let out a small, helpless laugh. “A little.”

Lando stirred behind him at the sound, immediately curling tighter. “Wha’s wrong?” he mumbled sleepily, rubbing at his eyes.

“Nothing,” George said, voice soft. “It’s just… the first morning in a while where I don’t feel like I’m on the outside.”

Lando blinked, instantly more awake. He leaned over George’s back to look at him properly, brows drawn with quiet concern.

“You’re not on the outside,” Lando whispered, eyes filled with something so raw it made George’s chest ache. “Not anymore. We’re right here.”

Max leaned in, pressing a kiss to George’s temple, slow and lingering.

“We never should’ve let you feel like you had to sleep alone in the first place,” he said, guilt heavy even in his tenderness. “We’ll fix it. All of it. Starting with this.”

George smiled, a little wobbly but real.

“I don’t need you to fix everything,” he said. “I just need you to see me.”

Max cupped his cheek. “We see you now.”

“And we’re not looking away again,” Lando added, voice fierce behind the sleepy rasp.

George nodded, finally letting himself relax fully into their embrace, body melting between them. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was just existing in the space between them—he was part of it again.

And maybe, just maybe, they were going to be okay.

 

---

 

The kitchen smelled like coffee and honey toast when George padded in, sleeves too long and hair still messy from sleep. One of Lando’s sweatshirts hung off his shoulders, warm and soft, clearly borrowed in a rush without thinking.

Max was standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with a concentration that made George smile a little. Lando was sitting at the counter, legs swinging beneath the stool, hair damp from the shower and a sleepy grin on his face as he scrolled idly through something on his phone.

When they both looked up and saw George, everything stopped for a moment.

Lando was the first to move.

He hopped off the stool and crossed the space between them without hesitation, arms sliding around George’s waist as he pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Hey, baby,” he whispered, soft and affectionate, not performative or apologetic—just there.

Max turned the heat down and came over too, placing a hand on George’s lower back, the other cupping the back of his neck as he leaned in to rest their foreheads together.

“Good morning,” Max murmured.

George let out a quiet breath. “It is.”

Lando grinned at that, relief blooming in his expression. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He didn’t have to say how nice it was not to be forgotten. Not to come into the kitchen and find breakfast already half-eaten. Not to feel like a second thought.

Max went back to the stove while Lando fixed his mug, stirring in just the right amount of sugar without even asking—he remembered. George leaned against the counter, watching them, something warm curling in his chest.

“Hungry?” Max asked, sliding a pancake onto a plate and topping it with a bit of butter.

George nodded. “Starving.”

Lando pulled out a stool and tugged George gently down beside him. The way their knees brushed and stayed touching made George’s breath catch for a second. Max joined them a moment later, setting down two more plates, then slipping onto the other side so George was tucked between them again.

The silence wasn’t heavy now. It was comfortable.

“I was thinking,” Lando said between bites, “we should do movie night tonight. One of yours. No vetoes.”

George gave a small laugh. “Even if it’s something depressing and British?”

“Especially then,” Max said without hesitation, sliding him the syrup.

George smiled. It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t radiant.

But it was real.

Max reached under the table and laced their fingers together. “We know we’ve got a long way to go,” he said gently. “But we’re gonna show up. Every day. For you.”

“And we’re not letting ourselves get distracted again,” Lando added, more serious now. “We’re listening this time.”

George nodded, eyes dropping to his plate.

And maybe, for now, this was enough.

The pancakes were warm. The kitchen was sunlit. He wasn’t alone at the counter anymore.

They were here.

They were trying.

And George was beginning to believe them.

 

---

 

It happened after dinner.

They didn’t plan it. Not really. But something in the air shifted — that quiet post-meal lull where none of them moved from the table, plates still pushed aside, drinks half-finished, George’s fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass.

The air felt still. But not tense.

Just… ready.

Max was the first to speak.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, resting his elbows on the table. “We should talk about… how we move forward. For real this time. Not just promises. Rules. Agreements. So we don’t end up…” He paused. “Like before.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Yeah. We need to do this right.”

George looked between them. Their expressions weren’t defensive, or careful — just open. Willing. And that, more than anything, made him feel safe enough to say what needed to be said.

He took a slow breath. “Okay. But if we’re doing this, I want honesty. Not just with each other. With ourselves. No dodging. No smoothing over just to keep the peace.”

Lando reached for his hand across the table. “Agreed.”

Max nodded. “Completely.”

George swallowed and started. “I need to be seen,” he said, voice calm but firm. “That’s the biggest thing. For weeks, I felt invisible. Like I was this… fixture in the house. You two would laugh and whisper and cuddle up and I’d just be there on the edge. Watching.”

Lando looked stricken, eyes shining. “George—”

“I’m not saying that to guilt you,” George said gently, squeezing his hand. “I’m saying it because I need you to understand what that did to me. I felt like I didn’t exist unless I asked for it. Like I wasn’t enough on my own. Like… I had to beg to be noticed.”

Max’s jaw tightened, but not with anger. Just guilt.

“I remember the movie night,” George went on, voice quieter now. “I picked something I thought you’d both like. I was excited. And Max, you didn’t even look at me. You curled into Lando the whole night, kissed him, laughed with him. I could’ve walked out and I don’t think either of you would’ve noticed.”

Max let out a breath like it hurt. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

George nodded slowly. “I know. That’s part of the problem.”

There was a beat of silence, then Max straightened a little.

“Okay. Then here’s what I propose,” he said. “New rule: none of us are ‘extra.’ Not ever. If one of us is feeling disconnected, we say it. Immediately. And we stop what we’re doing and listen. No defensiveness. No ‘you’re being dramatic.’ Just listen.”

George’s throat tightened, but he nodded.

“And I want balance,” he said. “Physical affection, attention, everything. I’m not saying we need to keep score, but if one of you is all over the other and I haven’t been kissed all day, I should be able to say so without feeling needy or like I’m interrupting something sacred.”

“You can,” Lando said fiercely, leaning forward. “God, you have to. I never want you to feel like you’re fighting for scraps of love.”

George gave him a small smile. “Then help me not feel that way.”

Lando nodded immediately.

“I have something too,” Lando said. “We check in after every scene. All three of us. Especially if it’s just two of us playing. I didn’t realize you were falling apart, George. That you were in subspace for hours and no one even saw it— that haunts me.”

George looked down. “I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re never a burden,” Max said quickly. “If anything, we were the burden. Letting you carry so much pain and still expecting you to smile through it.”

George exhaled shakily.

“What about jealousy?” he asked. “Because I know that’s part of this. Max, you said… you felt left out too, in a different way.”

Max’s face darkened for a second — not with anger, but shame.

“I did,” he admitted. “Watching you with Lando—sometimes I felt like you two understood each other better. Like I was just there for the scenes. I resented that, even though I never said it.”

Lando looked stunned. “Max…”

George, however, wasn’t surprised.

“We should have space to talk about that too,” he said. “Jealousy. Insecurity. Without anyone getting defensive. We’re three people. This is complicated. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Maybe we have a check-in day every week. Sit down, talk about what felt good, what didn’t. So nothing builds up.”

“I’d like that,” Max said. “It gives us structure. And it’s intentional.”

George sat back, overwhelmed for a moment by how different this felt from just a few days ago. Then he whispered:

“One more thing.”

They both looked at him.

“If I ever get lost like that again… please see me. Don’t wait for me to collapse. Don’t assume I’ll come back on my own. I need to know someone is looking.”

Max reached across the table, hands shaking slightly, and took both of theirs.

“I’ll never look away again,” he said, voice thick. “That’s a promise.”

Lando squeezed George’s hand, eyes soft. “You don’t need to disappear for us to come find you. We’ll stay with you this time.”

George nodded, breath catching in his throat.

It wasn’t perfect yet.

But it was real.

And that was where healing began.

 

---

 

The flat was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the fireplace and a lamp in the corner. The television was on low, some old comedy show playing reruns with a laugh track they barely heard. George was curled between them on the couch, blanketed and bundled, every part of him touched — an arm around his waist, fingers combing through his hair, toes tangled with theirs under the throw.

He felt like silk being carefully unspooled. Loosening thread by thread from the tension he’d been twisted into for weeks.

Lando had insisted on brushing his hair out after the shower — insisted — kneeling behind him on the couch while George sat cross-legged in Max’s lap. The brush was one of those soft boar-bristle ones George had rolled his eyes at when Lando bought it months ago. Now he understood.

Every stroke through his still-damp hair was slow, patient, and reverent. Lando didn’t speak, didn’t rush. He was humming something — some stupid pop song that had no right sounding that tender — and George had gone pliant by the fourth pass.

“Feels good?” Lando asked softly near his ear.

George made a little hum, nuzzling against Max’s collarbone without answering with words. He didn’t need to. Max was already stroking his side in slow, grounding motions, his thumb tucked beneath the hem of George’s hoodie — one of Max’s old ones, thick and oversized.

“Good,” Lando murmured, clearly pleased with himself. “You deserve to feel spoiled.”

Max’s voice rumbled against George’s ear. “Every damn day.”

George flushed, but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. He was melting into it — into them — like something finally softening after too long spent frozen.

They hadn’t let him lift a finger all day. Max made breakfast. Lando did dishes. They refused to let George get up for anything other than a shower and a change of clothes, and even then, Max had stood in the doorway with folded arms and a towel ready like some kind of musclebound valet.

Now, hours later, they hadn’t stopped touching him. Not once. They didn’t crowd him — just maintained a constant, gentle presence. A hand on his thigh. Fingers brushing his cheek. A kiss to his shoulder.

“I think we’ve properly turned him to pudding,” Lando whispered at one point, voice amused and fond as he leaned forward to kiss the top of George’s head. “Look at him.”

George would’ve teased back, but he couldn’t quite make his mouth work. His limbs were too heavy, his head too fuzzy, and his heart—

His heart didn’t ache anymore.

Instead, it just fluttered.

They moved eventually. The show ended. Lando shifted behind him and curled up on the cushions beside them, yawning as he tucked himself into George’s side. He kissed his neck before settling, one leg thrown over both theirs, face pressed against George’s shoulder.

“G’night,” Lando mumbled, already slipping away.

George was left nestled against Max’s chest, Lando half-draped over him, the weight familiar and comforting. His breathing slowed. The edges of his thoughts went blurry. His limbs didn’t want to move anymore, and his skin—

His skin buzzed. Not from adrenaline. From peace.

Max noticed first.

“You’re slipping,” he whispered, stroking George’s thigh, voice low and calm and warm. “You with me, love?”

George made a soft, breathy sound — barely a nod, eyes heavy-lidded.

Then, with hands too slow and small and needy to be anything but his, George reached up, fingers curling in midair, open and reaching toward Max’s chest.

Max caught them immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Max murmured, brushing a kiss against George’s knuckles. “There you are.”

George blinked up at him slowly, eyes unfocused and full of quiet trust, his voice barely a whisper. “Needed you.”

“I’m right here,” Max promised, adjusting slightly to pull George more firmly into his lap. “Not going anywhere, darling. Not tonight. Not ever again.”

George sighed — not in pain, not in tension, just that soft exhale of letting go. He pressed his face into Max’s chest, nuzzling until Max tucked him in completely.

Max kept stroking his back, slow and steady.

“Good boy,” he whispered near George’s temple. “So good for us. So loved.”

George didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He just breathed. Safe, for the first time in a long time.

And Max held him there, careful and quiet, while Lando’s arm tightened instinctively around them in sleep.

The silence wrapped around them like a second blanket.

Lando’s soft breathing was the only sound at first, curled loosely along George’s side. His arm draped over George’s hip had gone slack with sleep, but it stayed there, a warm and grounding reminder that he was still close, still loving, even in dreams.

But George’s focus was narrow. It had tunneled down to one point — Max.

Max, who hadn’t stopped touching him. Max, whose hand was still wrapped tightly around his, fingers intertwined. Max, whose thumb rubbed slow, steady circles into the soft skin of his wrist.

“You’re still dropping,” Max whispered, his voice low and even, like waves in the dark. “Stay with me, George. Don’t float too far.”

George made a small noise — something between a hum and a whimper — and leaned into him blindly, pressing his face into Max’s chest like he wanted to crawl inside his ribcage.

“I’ve got you,” Max murmured, one hand coming up to card through George’s hair again. “You’re safe. You’re mine.”

George shivered.

Not from fear.

From how good it felt to belong.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really — his words had melted into molasses somewhere between the movie and the fireplace and Lando’s fingers brushing his curls. But he didn’t need to speak. Max knew him too well.

“Color?” Max asked gently.

George’s mouth worked slowly, forming the sound like it was made of cotton. “G-green.”

Max smiled, soft and satisfied. “Good boy.”

George whimpered again, this time higher — almost a needy little sound, like a string pulled too tight in his chest. He curled his fingers again, making soft grabby motions toward Max’s shirt, his hoodie, anything he could hold.

“You need more?” Max asked.

George nodded against him.

“Words, darling.”

George’s voice was barely a breath. “Yes, please.”

Max guided them gently, maneuvering until George was fully in his lap, legs straddling him on the couch with Lando curled like a comma beside them. George was flushed, eyes heavy, and still floating — but his body responded to Max’s hands instinctively, moving where he was placed, pliant and good.

Max cupped George’s jaw in both hands and tilted his head up just slightly.

“You’re doing so well,” Max whispered, kissing his forehead. “Such a good boy for us. I’m so proud of you.”

George’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath hitching.

“And I’m here now. You have me,” Max said, brushing his thumbs across George’s cheeks. “Not half of me. Not when it’s easy. All of me. You don’t ever have to ask for my attention again — you already have it.”

George whimpered and leaned forward, mouth brushing against Max’s throat — a kiss, a seeking, maybe even a question.

Max rewarded him with more — his hands smoothing down George’s back, slow and sure, holding him so completely, so securely.

“You’re not less,” Max said, and this time his voice had weight, the kind that made George’s chest ache. “Not compared to him. Not compared to me. You’re ours. But you’re mine, George. My boy. My soulmate. The first and only one written into my skin.”

George’s breath hitched — not with sadness. With something brighter, something that made his eyes sting.

“You’re my anchor,” Max said softly. “So let go. I’ll hold you.”

George melted — there wasn’t any other word for it. His whole body sagged into Max’s, arms slipping limply around his shoulders, a soft, keening sound escaping from his throat as if all the tension in his spine had finally unraveled.

Max kissed his temple, over and over.

“I’ve got you. That’s it. Good. You’re doing so good, Georgie. Let yourself fall. I’ll catch you.”

And George did.

Completely.

Without fear.

Without hesitation.

Because Max wasn’t just holding him now — he was keeping him.

And George, floating in soft cotton stillness, finally felt what he hadn’t in weeks:

Safe.

Wanted.

Home.

 

---

 

The paddock lunchtime sun was bright and warm, air humming with energy but filtered by the canopy above. Max and Lando were half‑leaning on the pit wall, snacking on a bowl of fruit—sliced melon, strawberries, blueberries. Lando tossed a strawberry up coolly and Max caught it in his mouth with a smirk. Then Max lobbed a grape back at Lando, who ducked and spun, counter‑throw, both laughing like schoolboys.

“Think fast,” Max teased, grin wide.

“Oh, you wanna play that way?” Lando called back, lobbing a piece of melon. The melon flew perfectly and Lando ducked under Max’s next shot.

They were fully at ease—light‑hearted, joking as they always were when things were calm.

Then George entered from behind them, walking beside Oscar Piastri—Oscar’s energy calm, conversational, leaning in. George looked earnest, mid‑sentence. Oscar patted his shoulder now and then, nodding fondly in that effortless way he had when he was listening.

Max and Lando glanced over in sync and froze. Two pairs of eyes zoomed in.

They hadn’t expected George to be deep in conversation with Oscar. Oscar was animated, laughing at something George had said. He nodded, that sweet earnest smile on his face. George looked relaxed and energized by the talk—bright. It was... warm on the skin.

Lando’s chest tightened, even mid‑joke. Max’s jaw clenched, teeth invisible behind lips. Each saw what they felt was a gentle closeness: Oscar resting a hand on George’s waist, leaning in slightly; George gesturing, turning toward Oscar’s laughter.

“That’s enough,” Max muttered quietly.

Lando said nothing; his eyes darkened.

Just at that moment, Isack Hadjar drove past on a scooter—metallic purr, turning sharply around a corner. George hadn’t seen it fast enough. In one reflexive move, Oscar reached out, grabbed George’s waist, pressing him against his chest gently but firmly, so George stumbled forward—caught easily before the scooter tipped them over.

It was an instinctual rescue, but to Max it felt like a claim: Oscar shielding George. Lando’s cheeks heated, eyes tight. George looked startled, safe, half‑smiling at Oscar’s immediate concern.

The scooter zoomed by, leaving behind drifting dust. Oscar stepped back, offering George a hand, still smiling.

The air crackled—tension ever‑ready to snap.

Max crossed the short distance in two strides, clearing his throat loudly as he took George’s wrist from Oscar’s hand. The grab‑handed heat simmered in his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing, Piastri?” Max’s voice was quiet but loaded. “Watch yourself around him.”

Oscar looked startled, eyebrows going up. “Sorry, I thought he was about to step — ”

Max cut him off coldly. “I see. Be careful.”

Lando moved too, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder, not softening but warning. “Max, relax.”

Max didn’t drop Oscar’s wrist‑touch. He turned to George. “Are you okay?”

George nodded, stepping to sit on the couch beside Oscar.

“George—” Lando began, tone light but clipped.

George hesitated—confusion passing over his face.

Max seized his arm and yanked him down onto his lap, as if claiming piece of real estate. George ended up lying sideways across both Max and Lando, body splayed and soft. Lando leaned over him automatically, protective; Max held him firmly, possessive.

George glanced first at Max’s wrist around his arm, then up at Lando’s face above his head, then at Oscar standing still nearby. His eyes flitted with apology and surprise.

Max inhaled sharply. “Stay,” he said, voice gentle but firm. Then louder: “We’re feeling a little territorial.”

Lando squeezed George’s waist. “Right.”

Oscar raised his hands defensively, keeping a polite distance. “Fair enough.”

George reached to Max softly. “Max? Lando? I’m okay,” he whispered. “He was just helping me avoid a scooter.”

Max relaxed his grip slightly, closing arms around George tighter instead.

Lando soothed across George’s hips. “We know.”

Max shot Oscar a last look—uncertain tolerance.

“Don’t do that again,” Max muttered. “Not without asking.”

Oscar nodded quickly. “Understood.”

George, nestled between them now, eyes drifting shut in relief and awkwardness, leaned into the wide, warm wall of both his doms.

Max kissed the side of his temple. “Mine.”

Lando curled a finger in his hair. “Mine too.”

George exhaled deeply, murmuring against them, “Both yours.”

The jealous fire cooled into something soft and satisfying: reassurance that he belonged firmly at the center of both of them.

Max exhaled, accepting release from the jealousy tension. Lando exhaled too, settling into protective calm.

Oscar stayed a moment longer, watching them reconfigure. He gave George a small, respectful nod—neither bitter nor hurt, but aware.

George, safe, lay nestled. Max tightened his hold. Lando dropped a kiss to George’s shoulder.

The paddock noise resumed around them—people moving, pit radio buzzes—but in their little triangle on the couch, everything else dimmed into background.

 

---

 

George’s feet felt like lead as he finally stepped through the door of their shared flat. The afternoon had stretched on endlessly, the Mercedes strategy debrief dragging him into mental corners he didn’t want to visit. Toto had held him longer than planned, telling him in that calm, clipped tone that George needed to work harder — to be sharper, faster, better. The words echoed in his head, heavy and relentless, a dull ache beneath his ribs.

He ran a tired hand through his hair, shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. He just wanted to see someone—anyone—who reminded him he wasn’t alone in this.

The soft hum of their flat greeted him, muffled but familiar.

He stepped inside quietly, not wanting to disturb them if they were resting. But as he rounded the corner to their bedroom, the warm glow from the bedside lamp spilled out, and there they were.

Lando and Max, tangled together under the duvet, bodies entwined and perfectly still. Lando’s dark curls spilled over Max’s chest, and Max’s arm was draped protectively over him, fingers tracing small, lazy circles along Lando’s ribs.

George’s lips pressed into a soft sigh. For a moment, the cold, sharp edge of the day softened, and the sight was balm for his weary soul.

He set his bag down silently and peeled off his jacket, then his shoes, moving with the care of someone trying not to break a fragile bubble of peace.

He started to strip out of his day clothes, heading to the bathroom to change. The quiet was a little too quiet though, and as he reached for his shirt, a sudden warmth curled around his waist.

“George,” Lando murmured, voice thick with sleep but full of something soft and grounding. He tugged gently, pulling George back toward the bed.

George blinked, startled but not resisting. Lando’s hand was warm and sure, fingers weaving into the small of his back as he pulled him closer.

Before he could say anything, Max’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked once, then twice, and smiled when he recognized George’s face.

“Hey, you,” Max said quietly, voice husky from sleep but full of something fierce and tender all at once. “You’re home.”

George’s exhaustion bubbled out in a breathless smile, and without thinking, he let himself be guided onto the bed, falling between the two of them like a forgotten puzzle piece finally sliding into place.

Lando immediately curled around his side, face nuzzling into George’s neck. His fingers played in the curls at the nape of George’s throat, soft and soothing.

Max leaned in from the other side, hands tracing lazy, loving patterns across George’s ribs, fingers gentle but sure — grounding.

“Bad day?” Max asked softly, lips brushing against George’s temple.

“Long meeting,” George whispered, voice thick with tiredness and frustration. “Toto wanted me to push harder.”

Max’s hands tightened just a little, possessive and reassuring. “You push hard enough for all of us, love.”

Lando hummed agreement, lips pressing soft kisses down George’s neck, fingers splaying gently on his chest.

George shivered — a tired, pleasant kind of shiver — letting himself sink into the warmth and care.

Then, suddenly, Max’s lips were on his — firm, demanding, like he was trying to swallow George whole. The kiss was a firestorm, fierce and urgent, full of all the words Max couldn’t say aloud.

George gasped into the kiss, body arching instinctively toward the heat and need. Max’s hands slid down to his soulmate's hips, pulling him closer, crushing him to the mattress.

For a moment, the tired ache in George’s chest turned into something sharp and delicious.

But then—

A soft smack from the side.

Lando’s hand landed lightly on Max’s shoulder, breaking the kiss with gentle insistence.

“Max, hey,” Lando murmured, eyes half‑closed but serious. “Not yet.”

Max blinked, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed.

George blinked too, caught somewhere between stunned and amused.

Lando reached for the pajamas George had dropped on the floor earlier, picking them up and slipping them gently over George’s shoulders, buttoning the shirt with careful, tender fingers.

“There,” Lando said softly. “Comfort first. Then we can be naughty.”

Max’s eyes flicked between George and Lando, dark with need and frustration but also something warm — deep care.

George curled into Lando’s side, breathing slow and steady now.

Max brushed a lingering kiss along George’s jaw. “You’re mine,” he whispered.

Lando kissed George’s forehead. “Both of ours.”

George closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally melting away into the safest place he’d found all day — wrapped between the two people who loved him fiercely and completely.

Chapter 3: Safeword

Summary:

For 3363Fan-:
Request: When Max asked for George’s colour it made me curious if George has ever safeworded since the three of them got together. I would love to read Max and Lando’s reaction to thinking they might’ve hurt George. ❤️ Or maybe make him bleed?

The morning sun painted everything in soft amber. It slid over the hardwood floor in warm patches, filtered through gauzy curtains, caught in the wisps of steam curling up from the mugs on the kitchen island. It was too early for such brightness, but the flat was already full of life.

George stood at the stove, stirring the scrambled eggs slowly, still groggy, his curls messy and his oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. It was Lando’s — it always was — and it smelled like both him and Max by now. That familiar, grounding scent of warmth, expensive cologne, and the slightest trace of leather from Max’s car seats.

Behind him, Max was already halfway through a very passionate explanation about tire degradation rates at high humidity. He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular — just thinking aloud, moving around the kitchen as he talked, grabbing orange juice, leaning over to press a kiss to the side of George’s head in the middle of a sentence.

George smiled, even if he didn’t quite follow.

Lando, meanwhile, was sitting cross-legged on the counter like a gremlin, spooning peanut butter straight from the jar and making occasional snarky comments about how Max should try leading fewer stints and more therapy sessions.

They were loud. The kitchen echoed with their voices, their laughter, the scrape of mugs against ceramic and the slap of bare feet on tile.

It was the kind of morning that should have felt safe. Homey. And in many ways, it did.

Max kept coming up behind George, brushing fingers over the dip of his waist, pressing warm, absentminded kisses to the top of his spine. Lando lobbed blueberries at him across the room and grinned when George caught them without blinking. Their affection was effortless — instinctual. He knew they loved him.

But even as George plated the eggs and slid them onto the table, a tightness had begun curling low in his stomach. That same, quiet feeling that had crept in over the past few weeks. Like he was here, fully surrounded by love, and somehow still… a little lost in it.

He sat beside Lando, opposite Max. His mug was already full — someone had poured it for him. Just the way he liked it. No one had asked, but they never needed to. They knew him. That was never the issue.

Max dug into the eggs and started talking again, this time about a possible sim strategy tweak.

“I’m just saying,” Max said, between bites, “if the rear’s slipping, we should commit to high downforce and deal with the drag penalty. It gives us more predictability at least.”

Lando nodded immediately. “Yeah. I like that. More stability means we can push later on.”

George opened his mouth. “But wouldn’t that hurt us on the straights—?”

“Nah, not if we time the DRS right,” Max said without even letting him finish. “We’ll have the delta.”

George shut his mouth. Not because Max was dismissive — he wasn’t. He was just certain. Always certain. And Lando followed Max’s lead with the ease of years of friendship and fast-paced thinking. George had his own thoughts. He just didn’t always know where to fit them in.

He took a sip of coffee and nodded like he agreed.

Lando leaned in then, impulsive, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re pretty when you think.”

George smiled, because he knew he was meant to. “You’re annoying when you’re awake.”

Max smirked and reached across the table to tug George’s hand into his lap. “Don’t let him distract you. I need you focused, George. You’re the clever one.”

His stomach fluttered. It always did, when Max looked at him like that. But lately, that flutter had started to feel like a warning instead of a thrill. He didn’t want to be clever right now. He just wanted a minute to breathe.

They finished breakfast slowly. Max stole half of George’s toast like he always did. Lando curled against his side under the table, his head on George’s shoulder, humming some tuneless melody as he scrolled through his phone. George stayed still, letting himself be leaned on, kissed, touched. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it. He did — usually.

Just not this morning.

He was tired. He didn’t want Max’s hand tracing the inside of his wrist right now. Didn’t want Lando playfully tugging at the waistband of his shorts under the table. But he didn’t say anything, because what would he even say? Stop loving me? Don’t touch me? It would feel like slamming the brakes on a song mid-chorus. Like turning down sunlight.

So instead, he laughed softly when Lando said something ridiculous. He squeezed Max’s hand when it tightened around his. He smiled. He kept smiling.

It was only when they all got up to start the day — Max brushing crumbs off George’s chest, Lando wrapping arms around his waist from behind — that George felt a sharp, sudden weight in his chest.

Because they were both talking. Fast. About schedules, about strategy, about where to grab coffee on the way to the paddock. Max was kissing the top of George’s head again. Lando was asking if he’d packed his Mercedes kit already.

And no one noticed when George didn’t answer.

He stood there, quiet and pliant between them. Letting their words wash over him. Letting their touches anchor him to something that felt more like obligation than safety, just for a moment.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t afraid.

He was just… tired of pretending he didn’t feel overwhelmed. Tired of not knowing how to say, please stop. Not today. Not like this.

 

---

 

The paddock buzzed with the usual undercurrent of controlled chaos — mechanics moving like clockwork, the clatter of trolleys, engines humming in the distance, and the occasional bark of a team radio. It was a hot day, the air thick with the scent of rubber and exhaust and a hint of sunscreen. People moved in clusters, some darting between garages, others standing in loose groups, laughing or scrolling through their phones.

George stepped out of the Mercedes motorhome with a quiet sigh, tugging at the collar of his polo. The meeting had run long again. Strategy talk, tire deg, last-minute simulation data. His head was spinning and his limbs felt heavy in that way only exhaustion and too much smiling could bring. What he really wanted — what he needed — was to just sit in silence for a minute. Not talk. Not explain. Not smile.

And as he scanned the paddock, his eyes caught on a familiar shape.

Lewis was sitting alone at a small table near the side of the Mercedes hospitality tent, sunglasses on, sipping from a green smoothie. He was scrolling through his iPad, posture relaxed, one leg draped over the other. Quiet. Grounded. Peaceful.

Exactly what George was craving.

He headed toward him instinctively, shoulders easing slightly with each step. The noise of the paddock began to fade at the edges of his hearing. Just a few minutes with someone who wouldn’t pull energy from him. Who didn’t need him to perform. Lewis always had that way about him — calm, steady, understanding.

George was almost at the table when—

“Georgie!”

Lando’s voice sliced through the air before he could reach the seat.

George froze — just for a moment — then turned, already schooling his expression into something warm, something soft.

Lando was perched on one of the couches outside the McLaren hospitality tent, legs folded underneath him like a cat. Max was beside him, arms spread along the backrest, sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. They both looked far too comfortable for how long the day had already been.

“Come here!” Lando waved him over, beaming. “We saved you a spot!”

George hesitated.

Just a second too long.

It wasn’t even defiance. Just a pause. A moment of decision.

He glanced back at Lewis, who hadn’t noticed yet — still scrolling, calm and unbothered, unaware of the tug-of-war about to unfold. George took a quiet breath.

“I was just going to say hi to Lew—”

“Come on,” Lando said, louder now, in that sunshine-laced whine he always used when he wanted something. “I haven’t seen you all morning. Don’t be mean.”

Max looked up from his phone, brow lifting. “What, you’d rather sit with Hamilton than your own boyfriends?”

The teasing tone didn’t land how it was meant to. Not to George, anyway.

He smiled tightly. “I just— He looked like he was alone.”

“You’re allowed to sit with us and then say hi to Lewis, you know,” Lando added, laughing as if George were being ridiculous.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t being ridiculous. He was tired. He didn’t want to talk, to sit in their sunshine and match their energy. He wanted to be quiet, still, with someone who wouldn’t demand the best version of him right now.

But Lando was already patting the empty seat next to him, eyes bright and expectant. Max shifted his legs out of the way, making room. Like it was settled.

George hesitated again.

Then — as always — he folded.

He gave a small nod, smiled politely at Lewis in the distance even though Lewis hadn’t seen him, and walked toward the couch.

Lando tugged him down immediately, wrapping arms around his waist and tucking into his side like it was second nature. Max’s knee bumped his, warm and steady.

George sank into the cushions, let himself be surrounded by them. Their love wasn’t something you could deny. It wrapped around him like gravity — constant, inescapable, often overwhelming.

“Better?” Lando murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

George nodded.

He didn’t say that he felt like he’d just said no to what he actually wanted.

Didn’t say that the seat beside Lewis still sat empty, untouched and perfectly still — the silence he’d wanted so badly now just out of reach.

He leaned into Lando’s touch, let Max stroke his thigh under the table, let their voices carry on above him — loud, warm, loving.

And still, somewhere inside, George folded just a little more.

 

---

 

The sun had dipped low over the circuit, casting everything in burnt orange and muted gold as the GPDA meeting wrapped up in one of the media rooms. Drivers trickled out in pairs or loose groups, lingering just outside — still in half-gear or unzipped race suits, the scent of sweat and tire rubber clinging to their skin.

George exited last, his Mercedes polo wrinkled and his hair a little mussed, but his smile was easy and unguarded in a way it hadn’t been all weekend.

Carlos was beside him, chuckling at something George had said, their heads close as they walked side by side toward the parking lot. There was something light in George’s step, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his guard noticeably down.

Carlos bumped his shoulder against George’s, teasing in that familiar, older-brother way he always had. “You really said that to Seb? I’m shocked you’re alive.”

George grinned. “I did. And I stand by it.”

“Brave man.”

They laughed again, comfortably in sync, and for a second, George forgot the tension that had clung to him all week. Forgot the overbearing affection that had started to feel more like pressure than care. Forgot the way his voice had been swallowed up between Max and Lando’s every time he’d tried to speak.

Carlos listened. He didn’t interrupt. He wasn’t demanding. It was… easy.

But the moment shattered when George felt a strong hand slide around his waist and pull.

He stumbled slightly, caught off-guard as he was yanked backward, Carlos’s laughter cutting off mid-breath.

Max stood there, one arm hooked tightly around George’s waist, sunglasses pushed high into his hair, jaw tense, expression unreadable except for the faint flare in his nostrils.

“Hey,” George said, blinking up at him. “I was just—”

“Done,” Max interrupted smoothly, voice clipped. “We’re leaving.”

His hand stayed firm, possessive against George’s side. The kind of grip that said, You’re mine. You don’t walk off smiling like that with someone else.

Carlos arched a brow, taking a step back with both hands raised — polite but amused. “Relax, Verstappen. He wasn’t running off to marry me.”

Max didn’t smile. “He’s not running anywhere.”

George glanced between them, skin prickling. He could feel the heat of Max’s glare boring into Carlos, the silent warning loud and clear.

Carlos shook his head and gave George a quick, understanding nod before walking off toward the Ferrari paddock. “See you around, amigo.”

Max didn’t respond.

The moment Carlos was out of earshot, Max leaned down and murmured low into George’s ear. “You were laughing. With him.”

George blinked. “I laugh with people.”

“Not like that,” Max muttered, and then tightened his grip for just a second before steering him toward the Red Bull parking lot. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Max, I—”

“You don’t need to explain.”

But the tone in his voice — clipped, restrained — said otherwise. George swallowed back whatever protest had started to rise and followed in silence, letting Max guide him with that firm hand against his spine. The walk to the car was short, but it felt longer than it should have.

When they reached Max’s Aston Martin, Lando was already in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when they approached, then blinked at the sharpness in Max’s body language and the quiet, folded look on George’s face.

“Everything okay?” Lando asked carefully.

Max said nothing, opening the back door and nudging George inside. George climbed in wordlessly, settling into the seat like he wasn’t entirely sure what just happened — like he was still trying to understand how something as simple as a laugh could spark that kind of reaction.

As Max slid into the driver’s seat and the doors shut with a soft thunk, the car was filled with silence.

But George felt it — the weight of Max’s jealousy, the pressure of being someone else's favorite thing.

Too loved, and not always heard.

 

---

The flat was quiet when they walked in — too quiet for how loud the drive had felt. The city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows blinked steadily, casting silver over the hardwood. Max dumped his keys in the bowl by the door without a word, his hand briefly brushing George’s waist as he passed. Not possessive anymore — just… there. A half-gesture, as if to remind him, I’m here. You’re mine.

George nodded once, automatically, and shrugged out of his jacket.

Lando padded barefoot into the kitchen, already grabbing three glasses from the shelf and calling over, “Wine?”

Max grunted. “Sure.”

George hesitated, then nodded too, voice quiet. “Yeah, okay.”

They settled on the couch like they always did, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass, the low click of wine against glass. Lando’s thigh pressed into George’s; Max stretched across the opposite end, his long legs tucked under him.

There was a moment of silence. Comforting, at first.

And then, like it always happened with them — like the three of them couldn’t sit still for too long — Lando broke it.

“So,” he said, swirling his wine and looking between the two of them. “I was thinking.”

“Oh no,” George murmured with a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Lando nudged him with his knee. “Don’t be rude. I was just… wondering if we wanted to try something. Different. In the bedroom.”

Max looked up, curious. “What kind of different?”

Lando glanced at George, then back at Max. “Something a bit more… intense?”

Max’s eyes darkened slightly, and a small grin pulled at his lips. “Like what? Give examples.”

“Nothing insane,” Lando rushed to clarify. “Just… maybe impact? Like a little spanking, some teasing, maybe something rougher. We’ve been so soft lately.” He looked at George again, hopeful. “I thought you might like it.”

George blinked.

He felt it immediately — the way the air shifted, the expectation behind their gazes. Max leaned forward slightly, looking at him in that way he did when he wanted something but wasn’t going to say it outright. Lando looked at him like he was already excited for him.

And George loved them. He loved them so much it hurt sometimes.

He didn’t want to say no. He didn’t want to be the reason their dynamic didn’t evolve. He didn’t want to be the one who ruined the moment.

So he smiled — that soft, careful smile he always used when he needed to hide how unsure he felt.

“Sure,” he said lightly, taking a sip of wine to cover the tightness in his chest. “That could be fun.”

Max’s grin widened. “Yeah?”

George nodded. “Yeah. I mean, if it’s all of us together.”

Lando beamed. “Exactly. Just a bit more edge. Nothing scary.”

George chuckled quietly, lowering his gaze to the rim of his glass. “I’m not scared.”

And that was the truth — he wasn’t scared of them.

But he was scared of not matching what they wanted. Of not being enough. Of the moment when they’d touch him harder, demand more, and he wouldn’t be able to give it — and then what?

Max shifted closer, brushing a kiss to George’s cheek. “You’re perfect. We’ll go slow.”

Lando followed, curling into his side, whispering, “You’ll tell us if you don’t like it, right?”

George nodded, heart beating a little too fast. “Of course.”

They looked so happy, so excited.

And George let himself believe — just for the night — that maybe he could live up to that.

Even if a quiet part of him already knew: he wasn’t saying yes because he wanted to.

He was saying yes because he couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them.

 

---

 

It started like any other night — slow touches, quiet kisses, the soft rustle of sheets beneath them. George was between them again, warm from the wine and the low music playing in the background. Max’s fingers were trailing lazy lines down his stomach, and Lando was murmuring something into his neck that made him laugh, though he didn’t quite catch what it was.

They were beautiful like this, both of them. Easy and sure. Dominant in very different ways — Max with intensity, Lando with playfulness — but together, they carved out a world that George wanted so badly to belong to. To stay inside of.

That’s why he said yes. Even if his heart hadn’t quite caught up with the decision.

“Tonight,” Max said, voice low, “we go just a little deeper.”

George gave a small nod, eyes flicking between them.

Lando leaned over him, eyes bright. “Same safe word, yeah?”

“Yeah,” George said, throat dry. “Red to stop. Yellow to slow down.”

“And green?” Max prompted.

“Means everything’s good.”

“Good,” Max said, smiling against his skin.

It started softly, with lips and hands, whispers of praise and teasing. George let himself drift, clinging to their affection like a lifeline. But then it shifted. Gradually.

Max’s teeth grazed his collarbone — not hard, not at first. But when George didn’t flinch, Max went in again, firmer this time. George made a small sound, but didn’t speak. It wasn’t that bad. Just a little sore.

Then Lando leaned over, tugging his lip between his teeth and biting down, playful — but then it stung. George tasted a hint of copper. His lip was split, just a little. His breath hitched, but Lando was already kissing him again, saying, “God, you’re so responsive tonight.”

He smiled, because he thought he was supposed to.

Then came Max’s hand — open, firm — across his thigh. Not a soft tap. A spank. He wasn’t braced for it.

George’s muscles jumped. His breath caught.

“Color?” Max asked, serious.

George swallowed. “Green.”

Lando’s nails dragged down his side, not quite careful, and George arched away instinctively. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” Lando said, like it was a compliment.

George nodded. Smiled again. “Yeah.”

Another slap. This time a bit too high. Then a scrape of Max’s teeth along his jaw, catching skin already raw from stubble and kisses.

“Color?” again.

George hesitated — but said, “Green.”

He didn’t want to ruin the mood. Didn’t want them to worry. They looked so happy. So into it. He thought if he just waited it out, his head would settle.

But his chest was getting tight. Each movement felt more like something to endure than enjoy. His limbs had started to tremble a little, but he didn’t think they noticed — they were so wrapped in each other’s rhythm, so sure of the trust between them.

And he did trust them.

He just didn’t trust himself to say no.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Lando’s lips were back on his, the split on his lip stinging again, and Max’s palm dragged firmly down his stomach, too heavy now, too much.

He felt the panic begin to bloom — slow and steady, like a crack spreading across a mirror.

 

George is trying to keep up, not wanting to ruin the mood.

He bleeds — maybe from a scratch on his back or inner thigh, or from biting too hard.

The pain isn’t sexy anymore; it snaps him out of subspace.

 

And when Max’s hand lifted again, preparing for one more strike—

George flinched fully this time. “Red,” he said, breathless.

Everything stopped.

 

---

 

Max’s hand froze midair. Lando’s breath hitched audibly beside him. The heat in the room, the rush of want and momentum—they vanished in an instant, leaving only cold silence and the sound of George’s ragged breathing.

“I’m done,” George whispered again, eyes screwed shut. “I need—just… stop.”

Max moved first. He drew back like he’d been electrocuted, suddenly too aware of every place his body touched George’s. “Okay. Okay, it’s okay,” he said, but the words felt like paper in his mouth. Dry. Insufficient.

Lando was already on his feet, stumbling toward the bathroom. “I’ll—I’ll get towels,” he said, voice too high, almost cracking. “And the kit. The—he’s got a scratch, I think—shit, fuck—”

George didn’t move.

He curled into himself, quiet, trembling, the slow shake of his shoulders the only thing anchoring him to the moment. His hands were limp on the sheets. His face pressed against the pillow.

Max stayed kneeling beside the bed, hands hovering midair. He didn’t dare touch. His stomach churned as he looked at George — so quiet, so far away — and the nausea crept in. Cold and absolute.

“I’m so sorry,” Max whispered. “I didn’t see it. I thought—god, I thought we were okay.”

George didn’t answer.

Lando came back, breathless, with towels and antiseptic and one of George’s soft shirts crumpled in his arms. His hands shook as he placed everything on the edge of the bed, eyes flicking over George’s back, the fading red marks, the faint line of blood where Max’s teeth had caught too roughly on skin.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Lando whispered, kneeling, barely audible. “I thought it was okay. You said green. You kept saying green.”

“I shouldn’t have,” George finally said, voice small. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Max’s chest caved in.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, throat tight. “You couldn’t ruin it. We should’ve seen it. We should’ve known.”

George turned his face slightly toward Max, and something in his eyes made Max stop breathing for a moment — not fear. Just... overwhelm. The kind that sits behind the eyes and blurs everything.

When Max reached for him, slowly, George flinched — a little — then blinked rapidly and shook his head.

“I’m okay,” George said too quickly. “Just—don’t touch me yet. I just need a minute.”

Max’s hand dropped. “Of course. Anything. I’ll stay right here.”

Lando crouched near the foot of the bed, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I’ll make tea. Something warm. And clothes. I’ll find your softest stuff, I promise.”

George didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no. That was something.

The bathroom light cast a soft orange hue across the room. Max remained kneeling beside the bed, motionless now, his own body buzzing with guilt and adrenaline. He’d never heard George safeword before. Not once. Not even close. And to be the reason for it—

He dug his nails into his palms, grounding himself in the sting. He didn’t deserve to feel better yet.

He watched George’s back rise and fall. Not even sobbing — just breathing, deep and uneven.

Max’s voice came out hoarse. “You’re everything to us. That was never supposed to happen.”

George was silent again, but his fingers shifted slightly, twitching toward the edge of the mattress — not reaching for Max, not quite. Just open.

It was enough.

Max didn’t touch. But he settled in, sitting on the floor with his hands in his lap, close enough for George to feel him there.

When Lando returned, he was quieter. Softer. He draped George’s favorite hoodie beside the pillow and didn’t speak when George glanced at him. Just gave him a look full of apology, of aching affection.

“Tea’s steeping,” he said after a pause. “Chamomile. Extra honey. I’ll bring it in a minute.”

George nodded faintly.

Lando crouched down again beside Max, back against the nightstand, brushing his knuckles against Max’s sleeve. Max leaned into it.

And together, they sat in silence, waiting—not pushing, not rushing—just there, as the weight of it all began to settle around them.

No more red.

Just quiet.

And time.

 

---

 

The room was thick with silence after George said red.

Max’s jaw tightened. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, as if trying to squeeze the guilt out of his skin. Lando sat beside him, eyes glassy, hands trembling as he unfolded a soft towel and approached George slowly.

George lay curled on his side, fragile as glass. His voice was quiet but steady when he finally spoke.

“You weren’t listening,” George said, voice raw, “I thought I could take it… because I thought you wanted me to.”

Max’s breath caught — like the air had been knocked out of him. He’d always taken pride in knowing George’s limits, in reading him like an open book. To hear this… it cracked something open deep inside him. His eyes flickered away, but the sharp edge of his hurt was clear.

“I… I never wanted you to hurt,” Max whispered, voice breaking. “I thought I knew you. I thought I was protecting you.”

Lando crouched beside George, gentle hands moving with care to clean the faint red marks along his ribs and jaw. His voice was a shaky loop, soft and desperate.

“I’m so sorry, George. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

George didn’t respond but didn’t pull away either. Lando’s fingers brushed his skin like a silent apology, washing away the sting with warm water and a soft cloth.

Once George was clean, Lando pulled the hoodie over his head—soft, worn, George’s favorite—and helped him change into pajamas that felt like a hug.

Max stayed close, eyes fixed on George but unable to find the words to close the distance.

“Can I…” Max’s voice faltered. “Can I touch you? Just… gently?”

George nodded faintly.

Max’s fingers trembled as he tucked stray strands of hair behind George’s ear, his touch feather-light, careful not to press too hard.

Lando settled down on the other side of George, wrapping an arm around his waist. He was quiet, but a few tears slipped down his cheeks, silently mourning the moment they’d failed George.

Max swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can… Dom right now. I’m sorry.”

Lando’s lips pressed into a thin line. Later, in the privacy of the other room, he sank to the floor, silent sobs shaking his frame as guilt gnawed at him.

But here, now, all three of them existed in a fragile bubble of care.

George slowly melted between them, fingers curling into Max’s shirt as one of them—Max, probably—started stroking his hair, slow and steady.

Every touch was tentative, full of permission and love.

And though the night was heavy with regret, it was also full of something new:

The beginning of healing.

 

---

 

Days had passed since that night.

The air in their shared space felt lighter now, though still tender. Max and Lando had become almost reverent in how they moved around George, as if he were made of glass. Every touch was slow, deliberate, and preceded by soft questions.

“Can I hold your hand?” Lando would ask, voice gentle as a whisper.

George, nestled between them on the couch, would give a small nod or a shake of his head, reclaiming control one choice at a time.

Max, sitting close, never assumed. “Is it okay if I brush your hair?”

When George’s fingers twitched toward his sleeve, Max reached out carefully, letting George guide the contact. No rushing. No pressure.

Each “yes” was a small victory. Each “no” met with patience, no pushback, just understanding.

They had made a pact without words: respect first, always.

Slowly, George’s body began to relax in their presence. The tight knots in his chest loosened. The tremors softened.

One afternoon, as rain traced lazy patterns on the window, George let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Lando smiled softly, tracing lazy circles on George’s back. “You okay?”

George glanced up, his usual guarded expression softened. “I think I’m getting there.”

Max grinned, relief flooding his features. “That’s all we want.”

George’s hand reached out, hesitating a moment before settling in Max’s. The touch was familiar but new—safe.

When Max looked down at him, eyes filled with gentle warmth, George finally let himself believe they’d find their way back—together.

Healing didn’t come all at once, but here, with careful love and constant respect, it felt possible.

And that was enough.

Chapter 4: Coffee Shop Au

Summary:

For ChickenTikkaMasala-:
Request: norrusstappen soulmates in a non-racing au? Like coffee shop au or something.

Notes:

Non-racing AU, with CEO! Max, DJ! Lando and Model! George

It should never have mattered.

Not to him.

He was Max Verstappen — CEO of Verstappen Enterprises, a name that commanded respect in every boardroom from Monaco to Manhattan. At twenty-six, he was one of the youngest and richest CEOs in the world, the heir to an empire built on steel, oil, and sharp ambition. He had been raised for this. Molded. Hardened. He didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t have time for fantasy.

And yet, for as long as he could remember, Max had carried two soulmarks on his skin.

The first lay just beneath his left collarbone: a thin, delicate band of gold that glowed faintly under light, as if drawn from sunlight itself. The second wound down his right forearm like a streak of dark blue lightning, jagged and deep, as though it had been carved into him by a storm.

Most people had one.

Max had two.

From the moment of his birth, doctors whispered in disbelief while his father stood silent, unreadable. Jos Verstappen hadn’t looked at the marks with wonder or pride. Only calculation.

Max had learned early that his soulmarks were not a blessing. They were an inconvenience. A vulnerability. Something to be hidden, managed, locked away like emotion.

His father didn’t believe in soulmates.

He believed in power.

So Max had been taught the same. While other children asked who their soulmates might be, Max had been taught to ask what they could offer — and more importantly, what they could take.

The years passed in boardrooms and private tutors, under strict schedules and colder discipline. By fifteen, he was shadowing department heads. By eighteen, he was signing contracts in ink and blood. By twenty-one, the company was his in everything but name.

He didn’t wonder.

He didn’t need to wonder.

At least, that was what he told himself.

But sometimes, alone in his penthouse with the city glowing far below, Max would catch sight of the gold thread at his collarbone in the mirror, or feel the pulse of the blue streak beneath his sleeve — and wonder.

Who were they?

Were they together already? Did they know he existed? Did they feel the same silent ache he tried so hard to ignore?

It was weakness to ask those questions. Weakness to hope.

But even now — even after all the years of training, of detachment, of ruthless ambition — something in him still yearned. For warmth. For touch. For the moment the marks would burn, as every story promised, the instant skin met skin and fate was sealed.

Two marks.

Two soulmates.

He didn’t know their names. Didn’t know their faces.

But one day — maybe too soon, maybe far too late — he would touch them.

And the fire would come.

 

---

 

Max hated clubs.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many people pretending to be something they weren’t.

But tonight, Verstappen Enterprises had a sponsorship meeting with a tech startup whose CEO insisted on “keeping things casual,” and that apparently meant overpriced cocktails and deafening bass.

Max tolerated it. For now.

He sat in a private booth high above the main floor, separated by a pane of tinted glass. His whiskey sat untouched. His jaw tightened every time someone laughed too loudly near him.

“We're lucky to have this spot,” one of his colleagues, Thomas, shouted over the music. “The owner said it’s always packed. Probably helps that the DJ’s cute.”

Max didn’t respond. He rarely did when people expected him to participate in small talk.

But his eyes drifted downward, through the glass.

The DJ booth wasn’t front and center like most places. It was tucked into a corner of the floor, surrounded by moving lights and digital panels. And standing there — headphones resting around his neck, curls half-lit by neon — was someone Max hadn’t noticed until now.

Young. Energetic. Sharp jawline, even from this distance. His shirt was sleeveless, tattoos peeking out just below the hem. His smile was careless, confident — like he was the only one in the room who didn’t have to try.

Cute.

Max’s gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. There was something about the way the boy moved, completely at ease, fingers flying over the controls like the music lived under his skin. Like he belonged to it.

It wasn’t recognition. Not exactly.

The gold and blue marks on Max’s body remained still, quiet beneath his clothes. No burning. No pulse. Just silence.

Still, he kept watching.

Only for a moment.

Then he turned back toward the negotiations, adjusting the cuff of his suit. The numbers mattered more than whoever was spinning tracks downstairs.

But for the first time that evening, his drink didn’t taste so bitter.

The meeting was dragging.

Another round of drinks. Another pitch masked as banter. The throb behind Max’s eyes had turned into a steady, pulsing headache, and even the tinted glass around the private booth couldn't dim the chaotic flicker of the club’s lights.

He didn’t excuse himself. He never did. He simply stood, straightened the sharp lapels of his black suit jacket, and walked out.

The hallway toward the restroom was quieter, washed in low red lights and lined with soundproofed walls. Max welcomed the relative silence, the way the noise of the club receded behind the heavy door. He stepped into the restroom and ran cold water over his hands, leaning forward on the sink, head bowed.

He didn’t look at his reflection.

He rarely did.

The collar of his dress shirt was open, just slightly — enough for a faint shimmer of gold to catch the light. He adjusted it quickly, hiding the mark again.

It wasn’t supposed to matter tonight.

And yet… his skin felt warmer than usual.

He dried his hands and exhaled. Just a headache. Just stress. Just business. He could handle it. He always did.

When he stepped back into the hallway, the door shut behind him with a soft thud, and the world tilted.

Someone collided with him — not harshly, but directly. A shoulder bumped his chest, a hand caught the edge of his sleeve. The air shifted. Warm. Sharp.

The contact lasted less than a second.

But the pain bloomed instantly.

A flash of heat shot through his body like a struck match, centered beneath his collarbone and searing down his forearm. Max staggered, breath catching in his throat. His hand flew to the spot just beneath his shirt.

His soulmarks were burning.

Not tingling. Not warm. Burning.

He inhaled sharply, looking up — and then he saw him.

The boy from the DJ booth.

Closer now, just a few feet away.

Big eyes. Freckles. Slightly flushed cheeks. Curls falling messily over his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin from the heat of the floor. He had bumped into Max and was now frozen, eyes wide. His hand was still half-raised like he’d reached to steady him — or had been about to.

Neither of them spoke.

Lando blinked once, then again, gaze falling somewhere just above Max’s chest — where the gold mark hid under fabric — and then to his own arm.

He was breathing hard. “Oh my god.”

Max didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His throat was dry, his mind trying to make sense of the pain curling hot beneath his skin, the impossible certainty settling in his chest. He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways. In dreams. In quiet hours alone. In guilty, buried hope.

It was not supposed to happen in a nightclub hallway, after a business meeting, with a stranger who made music like he breathed it.

But it was real.

“Did—?” Lando’s voice was quiet, still breathless. “Did it… burn?”

Max nodded slowly. The gold thread beneath his collarbone felt like molten wire, the blue on his forearm crackling faintly, as if alive.

Lando swallowed hard and stepped closer. He looked stunned — but not scared. His eyes searched Max’s face, uncertain but open. “I thought... I thought maybe it would never happen. I mean, two soulmates, right?” He laughed, nervous and fast. “People talk about it like a myth.”

Max’s heart thudded once, hard.

He stared. “You have two marks.”

Lando nodded, lifting his arm.

Max saw it — one mark, shaped like a jagged flash of blue. Identical to his own.

And the second…

He didn’t see it yet. Didn’t need to. His chest was already on fire.

“It’s you,” Lando said quietly. “You’re one of them.”

Max felt like the floor had shifted.

All his life, he had been told this didn’t matter. That soulmates were distractions, weaknesses, threats to the empire he was born to rule. He had trained himself not to hope — and yet now, here was this boy, looking at him like he was something more than a name, more than a company, more than the cold legacy of Jos Verstappen.

“I don’t understand,” Max said, his voice quieter than usual. Not cold, but lost. “You’re just a DJ.”

Lando grinned — small, crooked, real. “And you’re just the most terrifying CEO in Europe. Guess the universe doesn’t care about titles, huh?”

Max didn’t laugh, but something eased in his chest. A fracture, forming for the first time in stone.

The heat still burned under his skin. Not painful anymore — but alive.

He looked at Lando, truly looked. “What’s your name?”

“Lando.” He extended a hand, then paused. “I mean, I guess we already shook hands, technically. But—still.”

Max reached out slowly. This time, their touch was deliberate.

The soulmark pulsed again.

Stronger. Steady.

Fate, it seemed, had finally stopped waiting.

 

---

 

They found an empty lounge room just off the hallway, dimly lit and meant for VIP guests, but unoccupied. The music still thudded faintly through the walls, but it was quiet enough to speak. Max sat stiffly at the edge of a leather sofa, still in his tailored black suit, while Lando paced in front of him, running his hands through his curls.

“This is crazy,” Lando said, laughing nervously. “I mean—you’re Max Verstappen. I’ve seen you on magazines. Business stuff. Suits and airports. You’re like... intimidating as hell.”

Max tilted his head. “And you’re the DJ who just set my chest on fire. I think that evens things out.”

Lando stopped pacing. His face went bright red. “Right. That. I—” He looked down at his arm again, like he still didn’t fully believe the soulmark had reacted. “I’ve had this damn mark since I was born, and I never thought…”

“You have two,” Max said again, quieter this time.

Lando nodded, hesitating for a moment before sitting beside him, close enough their shoulders nearly touched. “Yeah. The other one is still… quiet.” He paused, then looked at Max curiously. “You too, right?”

Max didn’t respond immediately. He looked straight ahead, jaw clenched like he was still processing everything. “Yes.”

“So…” Lando shifted, nervous again. “Do you think—like—is it someone we both know? The third one?”

Max finally turned to look at him. “Possibly. Or not yet.”

A moment passed in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Then Lando cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “I should probably get back. To the booth. It’s still my set.” He gave an awkward shrug. “Y’know, the whole job thing. People get weird if the music cuts out mid-song.”

Max leaned back slightly, eyes following him with mild amusement. “You don’t have to work anymore.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“You’re bonded to me now.” Max’s tone was flat, but a glint of something sharper — playful, maybe — danced in his eyes. “I have a private plane. Several. A penthouse. A yacht, though I don’t like it. You’re free to retire.”

Lando stared at him. “Are you… are you flirting with me?”

Max didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened. “I’m trying.”

Lando laughed — a short, surprised sound — and covered his mouth with one hand, clearly trying to hide how pink his cheeks had turned. “Well. Points for effort.”

“I’m not very good at this,” Max admitted.

“No kidding,” Lando muttered, still grinning. Then he pulled out his phone and held it out. “Here. Before I forget. If we’re going to keep doing this whole soulmate thing…”

Max took the phone and entered his number, handing it back with deliberate calm. “I don’t usually give this out.”

Lando tapped his screen, saving the contact. “You don’t usually go out to nightclubs either, huh?”

Max’s brow lifted faintly. “No.”

“And yet here we are.” Lando stepped backward toward the door, like the distance would help him breathe. “How about coffee? Tomorrow? Something… quieter.”

Max considered it for only a moment. “Eleven a.m. There’s a place on Rue Marcel. I’ll text you.”

Lando nodded quickly, then added, “I mean, unless your people need to clear it first or something.”

Max rose from his seat. He was still watching Lando like he was trying to figure him out — as if nothing in his life had ever truly surprised him until now. “My people can wait.”

Lando opened the door, turning just before slipping out. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, soulmate.”

The door shut behind him, and Max stood alone in the quiet room, the heat of his soulmark still lingering under his skin.

For the first time in years, he was looking forward to the morning.

 

---

 

The coffee shop on Rue Marcel was quiet — one of those tucked-away places with matte black walls, warm wood tones, and a single barista who actually smiled when you walked in. It smelled like cinnamon, espresso, and something faintly floral.

Max had arrived early. Of course he had. He didn’t do late. He didn’t do unprepared.

He had chosen a table in the far corner, back against the wall, eyes on the door. His usual coffee sat in front of him, untouched. Strong. No sugar. No nonsense.

He checked his phone once. Then again.

Lando was five minutes late.

Exactly when Max was about to pull out his phone a third time, the bell above the door jingled — and there he was.

No lights. No music. No crowd.

Just a boy with curls tucked under a hoodie, jeans that hung slightly loose, and sleep still in his eyes.

Max watched as Lando scanned the room, spotted him, and gave a small, crooked smile. It was different from the grin he wore behind the DJ booth. Softer. A little nervous. Real.

“Hey,” Lando said, sliding into the chair opposite Max. “Sorry I’m late. I, uh… overslept.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

Lando snorted. “You try spinning remixes for three hours after finding your soulmate in a club hallway. Kind of messes with your focus.”

Max’s mouth twitched, almost — almost — into a smile. “Fair.”

Lando glanced down at Max’s untouched coffee. “Have you been sitting here long?”

“Not really.” A pause. “Ten minutes.”

Lando blinked. “You think ten minutes isn’t long?”

Max shrugged. “I’m used to waiting.”

That quieted Lando for a beat. Then he looked up. “What did you do? After I left last night.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup down. “Went back to the meeting. Signed the deal. Left early.”

“Just like that?”

“I had more important things on my mind.”

Lando flushed, dropping his gaze to the table. “Right.”

Max tilted his head. “Are you always like this?”

Lando looked up. “Like what?”

“Nervous.”

Lando huffed. “Only when I’m sitting across from a billionaire CEO who happens to be one of my literal soulmates. So, yeah. Kind of.”

Max considered him. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re like…” Lando gestured vaguely. “Cool. Collected. Probably knows five languages and can kill a man with a look.”

“I only know three,” Max said evenly. “And I’ve never killed anyone.”

Lando stared. “You’re kidding.”

Max didn’t blink. “Am I?”

There was a beat — and then Lando laughed, loud and bright. Heads turned. Max didn’t mind.

“Okay,” Lando said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re funny. Unexpected.”

Max folded his hands on the table. “You’re different from what I imagined.”

Lando tilted his head. “What did you imagine?”

“I didn’t,” Max said simply. “I wasn’t supposed to. My father didn’t believe in this kind of thing. I was raised to ignore it.”

Lando’s smile dimmed a little. “That sounds… lonely.”

Max looked away for a moment. “It was.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds — not heavy, just thoughtful. Then Lando shifted, resting his chin on his hand.

“So what now?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah. We’re bonded. Mark-burned. Officially fate-approved or whatever. Do we… go on dates? Do we skip to the whole soul-merge thing? Is there a guidebook for this?”

Max exhaled slowly. “No guidebook.”

“Figures.”

Max studied him. “But we could start with more coffee.”

Lando grinned. “That’s a date then?”

Max paused. “If you want it to be.”

“I do,” Lando said, eyes bright. “I definitely do.”

The second round of coffee arrived somewhere between Max asking about Lando’s first gig and Lando teasing him for not knowing what a MIDI controller was. The morning had taken on a rare softness — conversation flowing easier now, Lando more animated, Max more open.

“I’m just saying,” Lando said, halfway through a laugh, “you can fly a private jet, but you don’t know how to use Spotify properly. That’s criminal.”

“I don’t use streaming apps,” Max replied, tone even. “I have people who make playlists.”

Lando blinked. “That’s… wildly pretentious.”

“I know,” Max said, and for the first time, he smirked. Just slightly. But it was real.

Lando was about to make another joke — something about teaching him how to shuffle songs like a normal person — when it happened.

A flash. Then another. Then five more in rapid succession.

Outside the café windows, a cluster of cameras had appeared. Photographers. A small crowd forming just behind them, phones raised, voices rising in excitement.

Lando straightened. “Uh… what’s happening?”

Max glanced toward the window, face unreadable, calm in the way only someone used to attention could be. “Just some media.”

“Media?” Lando’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

Before Max could answer, the café’s atmosphere shifted — a collective intake of breath, like the whole room had suddenly gone still. Even the barista paused mid-froth.

The door opened, and he walked in.

Tall. Graceful. Golden hair that caught the morning sun, swept back in a way that looked both effortless and expensive. He wore soft beige tones, a cream cashmere coat draped over his shoulders, eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed sunglasses.

He smiled.

And the entire room practically sighed.

Cameras flashed from the doorway, catching him in profile as he stopped to sign an autograph, murmur something charming to a fan, and wave casually at the barista who had already started making his drink without a word.

Lando blinked. “Oh my god.”

Max didn’t react.

Lando leaned across the table, whispering, “That’s George Russell. Like—the George Russell. He’s on ads everywhere. He models for Armani and Calvin Klein and is the ambassador of Ralph Lauren and—what the hell is he doing here?”

Max took a sip of his coffee. “He likes this place.”

Lando stared at him. “You know him?”

Max hummed, quiet and ambiguous. “Not personally. But I’ve… seen him around.”

Lando’s eyes didn’t leave George as he crossed the room, moving with the kind of poise that made people instinctively move out of the way. “He’s… he’s so—”

“Beautiful,” Max said.

The word slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

But he wasn’t wrong.

George was beautiful. Angelic, almost. The kind of beauty that didn't need cameras to be noticed — they just followed him because they had no choice. Max had known people like that. Rare. Effortless. Designed by fate to draw attention.

Lando blinked, then turned slowly back toward Max, a curious look in his eyes. “You think so too, huh?”

Max didn’t answer. He was watching George. Not in awe, but with a quiet recognition — as if something at the edge of his thoughts had shifted.

As if the gold and blue under his skin was preparing to burn again.

 

---

 

The crowd didn’t linger long.

They never did, not with George Russell. He had perfected the art of graceful detachment — a warm smile here, a polite “of course” there, autograph after autograph signed with elegant loops, flash after flash absorbed without flinching.

In fifteen minutes, he had given them everything they wanted.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

The photographers filtered out first, chasing the next headline. Then the starstruck teens peeled off, phones buzzing with their fresh selfies. The café eased back into itself — quieter, more normal, though a little dazed.

George was left standing by the counter, his caramel latte already waiting for him. He thanked the barista — by name, no less — then turned toward the back of the room.

He slid into a seat across from a friend Max vaguely recognized — some designer or agent, maybe both — and folded his coat over the back of the chair. His sunglasses came off and were placed gently beside his cup.

Max’s eyes hadn’t left him.

He hadn’t said anything in a few minutes.

Lando, to his credit, had stopped staring, but he was glancing between Max and George now, chewing the corner of his thumb. “You’re still watching him.”

Max didn’t deny it.

“Do you know him from business or something?”

“No,” Max said.

Lando tilted his head. “Then what is it?”

Max didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t know — but because he was starting to suspect.

The gold and blue under his skin hadn’t burned, not yet. But it buzzed. Like something inside him had started leaning toward George, even if it hadn’t fully caught flame.

He watched as George sipped his drink, listening politely to his friend. His eyes swept the room once, slowly, lazily — and then they landed on Max.

And stayed.

Just for a moment.

Max didn’t look away.

Neither did George.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no music. No gasp. No burn. But it felt heavy, like a thread being tugged across a crowded room.

George tilted his head slightly. A question in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Not of Max’s face — everyone knew who Max Verstappen was — but something else. Something older. Deeper.

Max’s pulse ticked up.

Lando glanced between them again. “Okay, what is happening right now?”

But Max didn’t answer.

Because George Russell — beautiful, angelic, untouchable George — was still holding his gaze like the world had gone very, very quiet.

Max moved without thinking.

One second he was sitting across from Lando, coffee cooling between them, the noise of the café humming around him like distant static — and the next, he was standing.

Lando blinked up at him. “Uh… Max?”

But Max wasn’t listening.

Something deep beneath his skin was tingling — not burning, not yet, but aware. The same way his marks had hummed faintly before they ignited last night. A current. A gravity.

George was still watching him.

His friend had gone back to talking, unaware. But George’s attention hadn’t shifted. He hadn’t looked away. If anything, he seemed… expectant.

Max’s steps were measured. Not fast, not slow. There was a certainty in them — the kind that only came when something inevitable was unfolding.

He stopped at the edge of George’s table.

“Max Verstappen,” George said, voice soft but firm. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His tone was polite. Distant. Public-facing. But his eyes…

They flicked down, almost involuntarily, like they felt something. Like they knew.

Max extended a hand. No introduction. No explanation. Just instinct.

And something in George changed.

His smile faltered — not in a negative way, but like it had been replaced by something more real. His fingers hovered for only a moment before reaching out and wrapping around Max’s hand.

And then—

Burn.

Not like fire. Not like pain.

It was heat. Blooming. Rolling through Max’s chest and down his spine like sunlight breaking through a storm.

The mark on his forearm flared under his skin, and he felt it — that second soulmark, the deep midnight blue, pulsing for the first time since he was born.

George’s eyes widened — just slightly — and his breath caught.

He had felt it too.

A current passed between them, silent and blinding.

Max didn’t let go. Neither did George.

For a long moment, they just stood there, hands locked, both searching the other’s face for understanding, recognition, anything that could ground them.

George was the first to speak, voice low now. More careful. “You felt that.”

Max nodded once. “I’ve only felt it once before.”

George looked past him — toward the corner, where Lando was half-standing now, eyes wide, lips parted in silent shock.

George exhaled, almost a laugh. “You have two.”

“So do you,” Max replied.

Another long pause. Another glance between them.

Then George’s lips curled — not in a public smile, not in a performance, but something private. Almost stunned. “Well,” he said. “That explains… a lot.”

Max didn’t let go. Not yet. Not when his skin still buzzed with connection. Not when fate had finally — finally — revealed the second piece of his soul.

Behind him, Lando whispered, “Holy shit.”

And in that tiny, quiet coffee shop, surrounded by half-empty cups and fading whispers of paparazzi, Max Verstappen met his second soulmate.

Max hadn’t let go of George’s hand yet. Not fully.

He loosened his grip, enough to let it be casual, enough to give George the choice — but his fingers still hovered near, a quiet offering. An invitation.

Max turned slightly, gesturing toward the corner table where Lando was now watching them with wide, eager eyes and an untouched coffee in hand.

“He’s waiting,” Max said softly. “You should come meet him.”

George blinked, breath still uneven. The pulse of the bond had just begun to fade from his skin, but it lingered, like static in the air between them. He looked toward Lando, then back to Max.

And then—he hesitated.

Just a small shift. Barely perceptible. His hand twitched. His eyes flicked to the side.

And his friend — Alex, Max now realized — noticed immediately.

Alex sat up straighter in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Back off.”

Max turned to face him fully. Calm. Measured. His brow lifted, unimpressed. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

Alex stood. Slowly. Not threatening, but deliberate. “He doesn’t owe you anything just because your marks reacted. You don’t get to demand his time.”

George opened his mouth. “Alex, it’s fine—”

But Alex cut him off with a hand, never taking his eyes off Max. “Give him some space.”

Max’s jaw ticked slightly. His voice remained cool. “And who exactly are you to give me orders?”

“The person who gives a damn about what he wants,” Alex replied. “Unlike you.”

Lando had half-risen from his seat across the room, watching the exchange unfold like it might erupt.

But Max didn’t respond right away. Something in his expression shifted — not outwardly, not noticeably, but inside, like a quiet gear turning. He looked back at George.

And that was when he saw it.

The faintest dip of George’s shoulders. The way he stood with his weight unevenly distributed, like he was trying to make himself smaller. His lips parted, but no sound came. His fingers — one of them — trembled just slightly at his side. His eyes kept darting, not in fear, but uncertainty. As if the world had gotten too loud, too fast.

Max recognized it instantly.

Submissive.

Not in the cheap, performative sense some people liked to throw around in boardrooms or bedrooms — but in the real, deep-set kind. The kind that wasn’t about roleplay or posture, but wiring. The way George’s instincts pushed him to pause, to yield, to evaluate his surroundings before offering trust. The kind of vulnerability that couldn’t be faked.

Max’s stance softened. Just a little.

He stepped back. Half a pace. Just enough for George to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you,” Max said, quieter now. “You’re not obligated. To anything. Not yet.”

George blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. So was Alex.

“I just thought,” Max continued, looking George directly in the eyes, “you might want to meet the other person who matches your marks.”

George was silent for a moment. Then he nodded — hesitant, but real. “I do.”

Alex still looked wary. Protective. His arm remained slightly in front of George’s, like a shield.

“I’m fine, Alex,” George said again. This time firmer, with more air in his lungs. He touched his friend’s arm — a silent request. “Really.”

Alex looked between the two of them, then sighed. He stepped aside, but not without a final glare toward Max. “He’s still mine to protect. Remember that.”

Max didn’t respond with words. Just a slight incline of his head — not submission, but acknowledgment. A rare gesture, and deliberate.

George moved beside him. Their arms didn’t touch. But Max could feel the tension between them shift — still fragile, still new — but leaning toward something open.

Together, they walked back to the table. Toward Lando.

And toward the beginning of something that none of them truly understood yet.

But all of them felt.

 

---

 

They sat in a loose triangle around the small café table.

Max, quiet and composed as ever, occupied the same seat as before, his coffee now cold but untouched. Lando had shifted closer to the center, his elbows on the table, eyes darting between the two of them. George sat with his hands clasped in his lap, posture impeccable, but his shoulders still slightly tense — not with fear, but with caution.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Outside, life continued — cars passing, pedestrians strolling, the city humming around them like it had no idea three soulmates were awkwardly trying to make sense of the universe inside a coffee shop.

“So…” Lando finally broke the silence. “That was, uh. Something.”

George smiled faintly. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I saw you on a billboard last week,” Lando added. “You were selling cologne. Looked like an angel descending from heaven.”

George blinked. “Oh. That one.”

Lando nodded. “Didn't expect my second soulmate to smell like... bergamot and expensive guilt.”

George laughed, a soft sound that eased something in the air.

Then Lando leaned in just a bit too casually and said, “So, uh… is it true you’re a sub?”

The table went still.

Max turned his head sharply. “Lando—”

“What?” Lando looked confused. “I mean, isn’t it better if we’re just honest about it? We’re bonded. We’re gonna have to talk about this eventually.”

“You can’t just ask someone that,” Max said, voice even but firm.

But George, to their mutual surprise, lifted a hand and gave a small shake of his head. “It’s fine. Really.”

Both of them looked at him.

George met Lando’s eyes, calm now, like the answer wasn’t new to him — like it was something he’d already lived with, already made peace with. “Yes. I’m a sub. I’ve always known.”

Lando’s eyes went wide for a second, and then he nodded. “Okay. Cool. I mean, no judgment. It kind of makes sense.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Makes sense?”

“Well, look at him,” Lando said, gesturing. “He’s beautiful. Elegant. He even drinks tea instead of coffee. He has ‘quiet control issues’ written all over him. I figured.”

George blinked. “...I feel like I should be insulted, but somehow I’m not.”

Max sighed. “We’re not doing labels five minutes into this.”

Lando grinned. “Fine. We’ll do them in ten.”

The tension broke — not completely, but enough that the silence didn’t feel so tight anymore. They all took a breath at once, as if the room had finally made space for them to settle.

George looked between them, slower this time. “So… what does this mean? For us?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He turned his cup slowly in his hands. His voice, when it came, was quieter than expected. “It means we’re bonded. That something beyond logic wants us in each other’s lives. That part is already decided.”

“But the rest?” George asked.

“That’s up to us,” Max said. He looked up. “We don’t have to rush. We just have to… try.”

George nodded slowly. “Trying sounds reasonable.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “Okay. We try. Soulmate triad. Sounds like a weird indie band, but I’m in.”

George chuckled. “You’re going to be the chaotic one, aren’t you?”

“You just figured that out?” Max asked dryly.

Lando grinned at both of them. “What can I say? I bring balance.”

And for the first time, all three of them smiled at the same time.

It was awkward. And uncertain. And new. But it was also real.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 5: Possessive Boyfriends

Summary:

For Jewuururu22 and LoveLifeLaugh97-:
Request: max and lando being jealous of alex when they're the one who allowed George to have fun with his own best friend/someone on the grid flirting with obvlious george while norstappen losing their minds and being possessive

The early Monaco sun was pouring through the sheer bedroom curtains, throwing soft gold across the tangled duvet and bare shoulders of two sleeping men.

Max stirred first.

His brow furrowed instinctively as he reached out with one arm, feeling for warm skin, soft curls—George. But his hand met only empty sheets, already cool.

He blinked once. Then sat up, fully awake now, heart thudding with something irrational and rising.

“Lando.”

“Mmh?” Lando mumbled into the pillow, hair a mess, voice thick with sleep.

“He’s not here.”

That did it. Lando pushed himself up, curls flattened on one side, blinking against the light. “What do you mean—?”

“He’s not here.” Max’s tone sharpened, the edge of control already fraying. “He’s not in bed.”

Lando reached across the sheets. Cool. Undisturbed.

Max was already climbing out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweats in silent urgency. “He wouldn’t just leave without saying anything.”

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Lando offered, though doubt was already creeping in.

Max stalked to the en suite. Empty.

Their eyes met across the room, tension suddenly thick. And for a moment, neither said anything.

Then they both moved.

Lando called for him softly down the hallway—“George?”—and Max was scanning the living room, heart pounding with a quiet panic he wouldn’t admit out loud. Their apartment felt too empty. Too wrong.

Until—

“Is that… pancakes?” Lando said suddenly, sniffing the air. “Wait—syrup?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. Then, in unison, they turned toward the kitchen.

There he was.

George stood at the stove, shirtless except for Max’s hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, one foot tapping lightly as he flipped pancakes with practiced ease. The smell of butter and maple filled the space, and soft music played from the speaker by the counter.

He looked up as they appeared in the doorway—both wild-eyed and half-dressed like they were preparing for battle.

“Oh,” George blinked. “You’re up.”

Max didn’t speak. Just stared.

“We—” Lando started, then looked to Max, whose jaw was already tightening. “Okay, no, don’t scold him yet—”

“You left,” Max said, sharp. “You left without waking us up, and we—"

George held up the spatula like a peace offering. “I just wanted to make breakfast. You two were completely out.”

“You always wake us up,” Max snapped, stepping into the kitchen. “Even just to say you’re going. What if something—”

Lando quickly stepped between them and dipped a finger into the bowl of pancake batter, sticking it into his mouth. “Mmm. Is that vanilla? Angel, that’s so good.”

George blinked at him, distracted, smiling. “Yeah. And a bit of cinnamon.”

“Genius,” Lando said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “See? This is why we keep you.”

George laughed softly, relaxing. “I figured you’d appreciate the effort.”

Max was still scowling as he grabbed a stack of plates from the cabinet. “I would’ve appreciated cuddles more.”

George turned to him with soft eyes. “You’ll get them after breakfast, I promise.”

Max muttered something in Dutch under his breath as he set the table with more force than necessary.

Lando, now behind George, slipped his arms around his waist and nuzzled into the back of his neck. “He was panicking,” he whispered. “You should’ve seen his face. Like the world had ended because you weren’t between us.”

George leaned into him. “You two are ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Max called over his shoulder.

George grinned.

“I do,” he admitted. “Now sit down before I burn the second batch.”

Lando gave him one more squeeze, then went to help Max with the silverware.

Max didn’t look up but said, quietly, “Next time, just wake us up, schat.”

“I will,” George promised, flipping a pancake.

Lando leaned across the table and stole a strawberry from the plate. “Also, next time, wake me first. I don’t bite.”

George gave him a look. “You absolutely bite.”

“Only when asked nicely.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched at the corners. He handed George a plate when he finally brought the stack over.

The three of them sat together at the sunlit table, pancakes steaming, tension softened into something warm again. George’s leg brushed Max’s under the table, and Lando’s foot tapped against his ankle.

The morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of their Monaco flat, turning gold where it landed — on the wood of the kitchen table, the curve of Lando’s grin, the mess of George’s carefully arranged breakfast plates, and Max’s sleep-rumpled hair.

Lando was already halfway through his second helping of scrambled eggs, practically humming as he chewed. “George, these are insane. Like, actually the best eggs I’ve ever had. Did you put cheese in these? What is this, crack?”

George laughed, pink dusting his cheeks. “It’s literally cheddar and a bit of chive. And butter, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lando echoed through a mouthful of toast. “Gordon Ramsay could never.”

Max was curled up at the end of the table, hoodie swallowing his frame, half-lidded eyes glaring down at his plate like it had personally offended him. He poked at a strip of bacon, then turned to George with an expression that was both pitiful and dramatic.

“You were supposed to still be in bed,” Max said, voice hoarse and low with sleep. “We were literally cuddling, and then I blinked and you were gone.”

George raised a brow but kept his tone light. “Someone’s got to feed you. Otherwise, Lando will eat straight from the fridge and pretend crackers are a meal again.”

“I like crackers,” Lando mumbled, then added quickly, “But not as much as this. Seriously, Georgie, marry me.”

Max’s fork hit his plate with a dull clink. “He’s already mine, technically.”

George tilted his head, smile sharp. “And yours technically doesn’t stop me from cooking for our boyfriend.”

Max huffed, dragging a piece of toast toward his mouth with all the enthusiasm of a cat forced into water. “Pet,” he muttered at George, barely audible. “Traitor pet.”

Lando, practically glowing from carbs and affection, wiped his fingers on a napkin and leaned across the table, ruffling Max’s curls. “C’mon, grumpy, eat. You’ll feel better.”

“I’d feel better if my soulmate wasn’t abandoning me for eggs,” Max sulked, but he still leaned into Lando’s hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “And if you weren’t chewing like a cow.”

Lando rolled his eyes but didn’t stop grinning. “I’m appreciating the art, Verstappen.”

George slid into the seat next to Max, still warm from the stove. Without thinking, he reached over and cupped the back of Max’s neck, thumb stroking slow and firm. Max’s shoulders relaxed instantly, breath hitching softly.

“You’re needy in the mornings,” George murmured.

“You like me needy,” Max replied, eyes still closed.

“I like you fed,” George countered, nudging Max’s plate closer. “Eat.”

Max groaned but obeyed, taking a bite. “Still think you should’ve let me wake up with you in bed. You smell good in the mornings.”

Lando made a fake gagging noise. “Save it for when I’m not trying to eat ten eggs in peace.”

Max opened one eye. “Eat twelve and I’ll carry you back to bed.”

Lando, never one to back down from a challenge — especially when it was flirtatiously disguised as a threat — took another forkful without hesitation.

George just shook his head, caught somewhere between exasperation and affection. He looked at both of them — Max finally eating, Lando licking salt from his fingers — and allowed himself a small, private smile. There was chaos, of course. Max and George still clashed like oil and water when left unsupervised too long. But Lando had a way of bridging them, grounding them both with laughter and hunger and warmth. He had filled something they hadn’t known was hollow. Not a replacement for anything lost — but something new, and just as real.

“Okay,” George said eventually, breaking the moment. “Whoever finishes last does the washing up.”

Max immediately dropped his fork.

Lando glared. “You manipulative bastard.”

“I cooked,” George replied innocently.

Max leaned over, brushing a kiss against George’s cheek before whispering, “Clever baby.”

Lando groaned. “If I have to watch you two call each other that one more time, I’m throwing the pan out the window.”

Max only smiled, syrup-slow and smug.

 

---

 

 

George was grinning at his phone, the screen lighting up his face with a soft glow as he tapped out a reply. Whatever was on it had him biting back laughter, cheeks flushed from holding it in.

“Baby,” Lando called from where he was sprawled on the couch, head tilted back dramatically over the armrest. “Hellooo. I’m right here being adorable and underappreciated.”

George didn’t look up, thumbs still flying. “Mmhmm.”

Lando groaned like he was dying. “Oh my god, George, come on. Baby. Baby. I’m not above throwing a cushion at you. I’m not.”

Across the room, Max was elbow-deep in soapsuds at the sink, methodically rinsing the last of the breakfast plates. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder.

“Schat, just give him what he wants. He’ll keep bothering you until we both suffer.”

“Hey!” Lando sat up indignantly, kicking at the back of the couch. “That’s so rude. I am a gift to this household.”

George snorted but finally looked up from his phone, eyes twinkling. “Alex sent me a meme of you in that hideous hoodie from Canada.”

Lando gasped. “The yellow one?! That hoodie is a statement, you traitor!”

Max turned off the tap and dried his hands, padding over with a damp towel still slung over his shoulder. Without warning, he grabbed George by the hips and pulled him down into his lap, the chair creaking slightly beneath the sudden weight.

George yelped, then laughed, twisting just enough to glare at Max. “I was comfortable!”

Max only grinned, nuzzling his nose into George’s neck. “You’re warm. And gone this morning. You owe us.”

“Yeah,” Lando chimed in, hopping over the back of the couch to join them. “We were tragically deprived of morning cuddles. I was emotionally compromised.”

George wriggled, trying and failing to get free. “You two are ridiculous. Let me up.”

“Nope,” Max said simply, arms tight around George’s waist. “You’re ours.”

George leaned back just enough to kiss Max’s jaw, then glanced at Lando, who was now dramatically draping himself over both of them. “Alright, alright. But I was gonna ask…”

Max narrowed his eyes immediately. “That tone always means trouble.”

George smiled sweetly. “Can I spend the day with Alex?”

Lando perked up. “Oh, that’s nice! Tell him I say hi.”

Max was significantly less enthusiastic. “Now? After we’ve reclaimed you?”

George turned in Max’s lap, wrapping his arms loosely around his neck. “We’ve been glued together for days. I promise I’ll come home early. And I’ll make dinner.”

Max grumbled something in Dutch under his breath, but his fingers were already tracing lazy circles along George’s hip. He looked up at him, hesitant. “You’re sure you won’t stay out too late?”

“I swear,” George said, smiling down at him.

Lando leaned in, brushing his lips against George’s temple. “You better bring dessert.”

George laughed. “Are you guys bribing me to come back faster?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

 

---

 

 

The sun hung low over the Monaco paddock, casting long shadows across the garages and the line of team motorhomes. Free Practice was in full swing, the thrum of engines pulsing through the air like a second heartbeat.

George barely managed to flash his pass at security before he spotted him.

“Alex!”

He was gone in a blink — bounding across the paddock, his crisp white Williams shirt catching the light as he rushed toward his best friend. Alex turned just in time to catch George in his arms, spinning him once in a quick, effortless twirl that earned a surprised laugh.

“You’re such a menace,” Alex said, beaming.

“You love it,” George shot back, eyes sparkling.

They stood close, grinning and chattering away, their gestures animated, easy. It was the kind of familiarity only a lifetime of friendship could carve out — filled with inside jokes and the kind of affection that didn’t need second-guessing.

A few steps behind, Max and Lando had barely cleared the entryway before the scene unfolded in front of them.

Max’s jaw tightened just slightly, arms folding across his chest. “He didn’t even say hi.”

Lando exhaled, tilting his head to the side. “He did promise he’d see Alex, remember?”

“I remember,” Max said, voice clipped. “Still.”

Lando gave him a sidelong glance, reading him with the ease of someone who’d studied every flicker of his moods. “You want to go over there?”

Max shook his head. “No. Let him have it.”

Lando watched George for a moment longer — the way he leaned in to whisper something that made Alex burst out laughing — then nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Alright. Daniel's probably in the Red Bull garage. C’mon, before you start growling at strangers.”

Max let out a slow breath and followed. “I don’t growl.”

“You absolutely do,” Lando grinned, bumping his shoulder against Max’s. “Like a wet cat.”

They left George and Alex behind, laughter still trailing in the air, and made their way toward the Red Bull motorhome.

As they walked, Lando reached out and briefly caught Max’s wrist.

“He does love us, y’know.”

Max didn’t look at him, but his steps slowed. “Yeah.”

“He’ll come find us when he’s done being an overexcited labrador.”

Max gave the faintest hint of a smile, eyes still flicking once more over his shoulder.

“I know.”

 

---

 

 

 

The driver’s room was a mix of too much noise and not enough space — half-zipped suits, damp curls clinging to foreheads, and every surface cluttered with water bottles, protein bars, and team-branded towels. Someone had kicked their race boots off in the corner; a fan buzzed weakly from the far wall, doing absolutely nothing.

Max sat on the low bench near the back, still catching his breath from the adrenaline of the session. He was damp with sweat, curls stuck to his temples, chest rising and falling steadily beneath his race suit. One knee bounced, restless. Beside him, Lando leaned back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes bright from the afterglow of the track.

“I’m still not over it,” Carlos said from across the room, gesturing animatedly. “Oscar left you, what, half a meter? And you dove like it was Monaco qualifying.”

Daniel laughed, half-choking on his water. “It was so close I swear his rear wing twitched. I thought your front left was gone.”

Max raised an eyebrow, the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Wasn’t.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Carlos muttered, but he was grinning. “Completely unhinged. I respect it.”

“I respect the car control,” Lando added, looking over his shoulder at Max. “But also I wanted to punch you. Just a little.”

Max rolled his eyes. “It worked.”

“Barely.”

“Calculated,” Max said with a shrug, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

The door creaked open before anyone could respond, and Max felt the shift immediately — something in the air tugging tight across his shoulders.

George walked in, still pink with heat from the session, curls slightly damp, team polo slung loosely over his suit. The room seemed to tilt for just a moment as Alex followed close behind, all lazy ease and that sharp-edged grin of his.

They moved together instinctively — like two dancers sliding into a practiced rhythm. Without even thinking about it, George dropped down onto the couch, and Alex joined him so closely their thighs touched, hips aligned as if they were stitched together. It wasn’t dramatic or overt — it was natural.

Too natural.

Alex’s hand settled casually around George’s waist, thumb brushing over the band of his suit. He leaned in and whispered something low against George’s ear.

George laughed — not politely, but genuinely — head tilting toward Alex, lips parted, eyes warm.

Max felt it like a jab under the ribs.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared, jaw tightening, fingers going still around the bottle of water in his hands. A beat passed. Then another.

Lando leaned forward slightly, gaze flicking to George and Alex, then to Max. He tilted his head, reading him like an open book. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Max said, voice low.

Lando didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. “You want to go over there?”

Max shook his head once. “No.”

The room was still buzzing around them — Daniel telling a story about Yuki getting locked in a hospitality room, Carlos chiming in with something about someone’s missing helmet — but it all faded into a dull blur behind the sound of George’s laugh.

He looked happy. Relaxed in a way Max only ever saw at home, sprawled on the couch or buried between them in bed, all loose limbs and sleepy smiles.

But now that smile was for Alex.

Max’s grip on the bottle tightened again. “He didn’t even look at us.”

“He was focused,” Lando said gently. “You know how they are. Like twin puppies.”

Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile.

And then, as if fate wanted to twist the knife, Alex’s hand drifted lower, fingers brushing George’s thigh as he said something else — something clearly flirty from the little tilt of his head and the sparkle in his eye. George rolled his eyes fondly, but his grin stayed in place, warm and stupidly pretty.

Lando shifted slightly beside Max. “Okay. That was a little much.”

Max didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on George — their George — curled up like he belonged in someone else’s space. Someone else's attention.

“Do you think he knows?” Max asked quietly.

“Knows what?”

“How close he is to breaking me in half.”

Lando reached up and squeezed his wrist. “Yeah. That’s why he’s smiling like that. He’s doing it on purpose.”

Max exhaled, frustrated. “He’s going to drive me insane.”

“You’ll live.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the room move around them, eyes flicking every so often to the corner where George and Alex talked in close murmurs, heads tipped together.

And still — George was smiling.

Soft and free and safe.

And that was the worst part: Max couldn’t even be mad. Not properly. Because George deserved that happiness. Deserved the feeling of being grounded in something easy. Deserved that kind of affection — even if it came from someone outside their tangled, volatile trio.

So Max said nothing.

And Lando — possessive, petty, and desperately in love — said nothing, either.

Because they trusted him.

Because they knew — no matter where George wandered, or who made him laugh, or who got to press into his side for the moment — that at the end of the day, George always came home to them.

 

---

 

 

The press conference ended with the usual shuffle of chairs and microphones, the sharp scent of sweat and overused cologne clinging to the air. Cameras clicked as the drivers filtered out, a blur of PR smiles and half-zipped suits.

George stood near the edge of the FIA backdrop, answering one last question from a junior reporter when Lando appeared behind him like a blur — all energy and intent, curls damp from the heat, still glowing from the session.

“There you are,” Lando said brightly, slinging an arm around George’s shoulder. “C’mon. Max is by the car. We’re kidnapping you.”

George turned with a smile — warm, boyish, affectionate — but didn’t move.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Lando’s cheek. Then turned and gave the same to Max, who had just caught up, watching them both with guarded expectation.

“You two,” George said sweetly, “did agree I could spend the day with Alex.”

Lando blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“And,” George continued smoothly, “since I’ve been allowed, I will also be having dinner with him.”

Max’s brow twitched. “You make it sound like we gave you a hall pass.”

“You kinda did,” George said, teasing but deliberate. “And I intend to use it.”

Right on cue, Alex strolled up behind him, sunglasses perched on his head and that familiar smug tilt in his walk. His Williams polo clung just a bit tighter today, and whether it was intentional or not, George definitely noticed — because his eyes flicked down for half a second and lingered.

“You ready, Georgie?” Alex asked, gaze flicking briefly over Max and Lando without even trying to hide the smirk.

George beamed. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Alex reached out and brushed his knuckles down George’s spine — slow, casual, possessive. “You’re going to make me look so good walking into that restaurant with you.”

George laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

They were already turning to leave when Max said, carefully, tightly, “Are you coming home after?”

George looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Maybe. Depends on dessert.”

Lando choked. “Oh, my god, George.”

Alex raised his eyebrows innocently. “I know a great place with chocolate lava cake.”

Max didn’t flinch, but something cold settled behind his eyes. His voice was low when he said, “He doesn’t even like lava cake.”

George shrugged. “Maybe I’m trying new things.”

Lando stood frozen beside Max, torn between laughing and growling, as George and Alex walked off toward the motorhome row. Their shoulders brushed as they disappeared around the corner, George’s head tipped toward Alex’s, still smiling.

Max let out a breath through his nose, slow and sharp.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” Lando said quietly.

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Max replied.

They stood there in silence, both slightly wrecked and pretending otherwise.

After a beat, Lando muttered, “I hope that restaurant burns down.”

Max’s mouth twitched. “That’s the spirit.”

 

---

 

 

The Monaco penthouse was too quiet.

It always felt larger when George wasn’t in it — like the walls had pulled back and taken their warmth with them. The late evening sun spilled orange-gold light across the marble floors, washing over the expensive silence in long, soft shadows.

Max stood by the glass doors leading to the balcony, arms crossed, jaw sharp, eyes fixed on the sea. He wasn’t really seeing it.

Behind him, Lando sat on the couch with one knee tucked under himself, flipping aimlessly through the same three channels on mute. The remote clicked again.

Then again.

Max didn’t look away. “If you click that one more time—”

Lando threw the remote onto the couch and flopped backward. “This sucks.”

Max exhaled slowly through his nose. “We let him go.”

“I know,” Lando muttered. “I still want to put a GPS tracker in his shoe.”

Max’s lips twitched. “We agreed not to chip our boyfriend.”

“He’s our sub,” Lando said, suddenly serious.

Max turned then, eyes sharp. “I know.”

“No, like—” Lando sat up straighter. “He chose us. He let us have that. We take care of him. We own that part of him. And now he’s out there giggling at Alex like it’s nothing.”

“He likes making us jealous,” Max said, a little too quickly. His voice was quiet, but beneath it lay heat. “He smiles when we get possessive.”

“Because he knows he’s ours.”

Max’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He moved toward the couch, dropping down beside Lando with a heavy sigh. “Sometimes I forget how much he controls the room. The way he lets people touch him. He lets us see it.”

Lando leaned back against him, shoulder to shoulder. “He plays with fire because he knows we’ll put it out.”

Max gave a short, bitter laugh. “Or burn the house down.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky shift from orange to deep violet, the room darkening around them.

“I hate that he makes me feel like this,” Max murmured finally.

Lando didn’t hesitate. “I don’t.”

Max looked at him.

Lando shrugged. “I love that he can wreck us like this. And then come home, crawl into bed between us, and look at us like we hung the stars.”

Max leaned his head back, eyes closing for a moment. “He better come home.”

“He will,” Lando said, quieter now. “He’s ours. He might play, flirt, wind us up—but at the end of the day? He belongs to us.”

Max’s voice dropped. “Ours to hold. Ours to ruin.”

“Ours to worship.”

They sat in the dim glow of Monaco twilight, two doms stewing in love that tasted dangerously close to obsession — waiting, breathing, burning quietly for the moment the door clicked and George walked back in, soft and smug and theirs.

 

---

 

 

The low hum of Alex’s car rolled to a gentle stop outside the Monaco penthouse, the street lamps casting long golden pools of light across the pavement. George was still giggling when he unbuckled his seatbelt, head tipped back against the leather seat, cheeks flushed from wine and whatever nonsense Alex had been saying during dessert.

Alex, ever the charmer, stepped out first and walked around to open George’s door for him. He offered a hand with a ridiculous little bow that made George snort.

“You’re so dramatic,” George teased, taking his hand anyway.

“And yet you adore it.”

Alex raised George’s hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his knuckles — lingering just a second too long. His voice dipped low. “You know, if I wasn’t such a gentleman, I'd say you were making it very hard for me to behave tonight.”

George's laugh bubbled out of him, airy and sweet. “You’re always like this.”

“You bring it out of me.”

Before George could reply, the penthouse door opened.

And suddenly, every flutter in his chest quieted, flattened into something deeper.

Max was standing in the doorway — barefoot, in a black tee and sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. Behind him, Lando hovered like a storm, curled against the doorframe, chewing his thumbnail and watching with laser focus.

George blinked, caught mid-breath.

Then he moved — a blur of limbs and momentum.

“Max!” he breathed, and before Alex could react, George was launching himself up the steps, straight into Max’s arms like he’d been starved for days.

Max caught him easily, staggering back a step with the force of it, and then George was kissing him — full-body, mouth-on-mouth, hands in his hair, thighs wrapping around his waist like instinct. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t polite. It was claiming.

Max groaned into it, hands locking tight under George’s thighs, kissing him back like it had been weeks — like he hadn’t felt whole since George walked out that door. His teeth grazed George’s bottom lip as he pulled back just slightly.

“You’re late,” Max murmured, voice wrecked.

“Traffic,” George whispered against his mouth, then pressed in again.

Lando was there the moment Max lowered George to the floor — not waiting, not hesitating.

He yanked George toward him by the wrist and devoured him.

Where Max had been slow and aching, Lando was messy, hungry, all tongue and heat and hands in his curls. George gasped into his mouth, head spinning.

“You little shit,” Lando whispered between kisses. “You let him kiss your hand?”

George laughed, breathless. “Jealous?”

“So fucking jealous I could throw him off the balcony.”

Max was behind them now, arms sliding around George from behind, lips grazing his neck. “You like winding us up,” he muttered. “You love making us wait.”

George melted between them, spine curving instinctively against Max’s chest, letting Lando kiss the laughter right off his mouth again.

“I missed you both,” George murmured.

Lando grinned against his jaw. “You’d better have.”

Behind them, forgotten on the street, Alex stood with his hands in his pockets — watching the penthouse door slowly swing shut, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew the difference between play and home.

And George Russell, no matter how he flirted or danced or laughed, had just shown everyone exactly where he belonged.

 

---

 

 

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing the three of them in with the weight of everything unsaid — the teasing, the hand-kiss, the absence.

George didn’t get far.

Max’s hand curled around the back of his neck, warm and firm, guiding him with a purpose that sent a shiver straight down George’s spine. Lando was already ahead, walking backwards toward the bedroom, his smirk dark, eyes sharp.

“You’ve been smug all day,” Lando said, voice low. “Flashing that pretty smile like you weren’t ours.”

“I am yours,” George replied, breath catching.

“Not tonight, you weren’t,” Max murmured behind him.

And then Max grabbed him.

One fluid motion — hands on George’s hips, lifting him with practiced ease, tossing him onto the mattress like he weighed nothing. George landed with a bounce and a laugh, his curls messy, chest rising and falling too quickly already.

“Max—” he started.

“You wanted our attention,” Max said, stepping closer, “and now you have it.”

Lando was peeling his shirt off as he joined them, crawling onto the bed beside George, palms sliding over his chest, possessive and slow.

George let out a breathless sound as Max leaned over him, pressing a hard kiss to his jaw, then his throat.

“We’re going to remind you,” Lando said, mouth grazing George’s ear, “exactly who you belong to.”

George arched into them instinctively.

Max’s hands moved to the hem of George’s shirt. “Off.”

George obeyed.

The shirt hit the floor.

And the rest — the sighs, the quiet promises, the teeth grazing skin, the tangled hands and mouths — all unfolded beneath the dim light of their bedroom, where everything was stripped back to nothing but need and memory and the kind of love that claimed.

They didn’t need to say it again.

He was theirs.

Always had been.

 

 

---

 

The bedroom was thick with warmth and breath, the air humid with sweat and the fading echo of what they’d done.

Sheets tangled. Skin flushed. Hearts still pounding out their own rhythms.

Max moved first — always did, once the high ebbed and the room slipped into something quiet and raw. He rose from the bed with slow, deliberate steps, moving through the dark without needing to see. The bathroom light flipped on, casting soft gold into the doorway as he grabbed a warm, damp towel.

Lando lay sprawled on his back, limbs lax, chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. A satisfied smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. George, beside him, had curled in on himself — eyes fluttering half-closed, lips parted, arms tucked close to his chest like he’d already drifted somewhere softer.

Subspace.

Max knew the signs. The way George’s pupils were blown wide but unfocused, the way his muscles had let go all at once, the way his mouth moved around whispers too faint to catch.

He returned first to George, kneeling by the bed. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, running the warm cloth gently over his thighs, his chest, the sweat-slick curve of his stomach. “You're okay. Just relax for me.”

George blinked slowly, dazed, and gave the tiniest nod. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t know how. His whole body trembled with the aftershocks of surrender.

“You did so well, angel,” Max said softly, brushing George’s hair off his forehead with the back of his knuckles. “Our perfect boy.”

George let out a little whimper in response — not pain, not discomfort, just need. He leaned toward the touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Max leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his temple. “We’ve got you, baby. Let us take care of you now.”

Then he moved to Lando, who was watching with heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy sort of pride written across his face. Max cleaned him up just as gently, pressing a kiss to his knee as he did.

Lando reached for him — cocky even now — and Max indulged him, leaning down to kiss him deep, slow, all heat and breath and affection. Lando hummed into it, fingers curling behind Max’s neck.

But the second Max started to deepen it, there was a soft, broken noise from behind him.

“Mmnh.”

Max pulled back instantly.

George was curled on his side, making quiet, desperate grabby hands toward them — eyes wide and glassy, lips trembling around another soft whine. He looked utterly wrecked, and heartbreakingly beautiful like that.

“Hey,” Max said gently, crawling across the mattress to him. “What is it, darling?”

George reached for him again, finally managing to catch his wrist and tug weakly.

“Missed you,” George whispered. “Wanted… kiss too…”

“Oh, love,” Lando said, voice low and aching. “Come here.”

Max wrapped an arm around George’s waist and pulled him into his lap like he weighed nothing. George melted instantly into the warmth, clutching weakly at Max’s tee with trembling fingers.

Max kissed his hair, his cheek, then finally his lips — soft, tender, reverent.

“There you are,” Max murmured. “Got you, baby. Didn’t forget you.”

“Never forget you,” Lando added, leaning in to press a kiss to George’s shoulder. “You’re ours, yeah? Our sweet boy.”

George nodded, still dazed, head tipping onto Max’s chest.

“You want water, angel?” Max asked, already reaching for the bottle.

George just clung tighter.

“No?” Max smiled. “Just want cuddles, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Then cuddles you’ll have,” Max promised.

Lando settled in on George’s other side, arm slinging over both of them. “You’re such a brat all day and now look at you,” he teased softly. “All soft and wrecked.”

George made a sound of protest, but it ended in a yawn.

Max pressed a kiss to his forehead again. “Sleep, baby. We’ve got you.”

And just like that, George sighed and let go — sinking fully into their arms, where everything was warm and safe and still.

Chapter 6: Jealousy

Summary:

For Terez:-
Request: would love to see George jealous / possessive over Max and Lando. It's always them being possessive over George but I know Georgie has a possessive streak somewhere as well

The hospitality suite was unusually quiet, muffled by the hum of distant machinery and murmuring conversations outside. Max lounged in the corner of the long gray couch, legs stretched, one ankle crossed over the other. His phone was tilted toward Lando beside him, who leaned in with a half-smile, brows furrowed in amusement.

"Look," Max said, nudging him with his elbow, “This guy thinks he can drive a go-kart with a blindfold.”

Lando snorted. “Bet he ends up in the gravel. Like someone I know.”

Max side-eyed him. “You mean George?” he deadpanned.

A muffled whine came from the other end of the couch.

“No bullying,” George murmured, voice sleep-rough and quiet against Lando’s chest. He was curled on his lap like it was built for him—head nestled under Lando’s chin, arms lazily looped around his waist. Lando had one hand resting on George’s thigh, thumb stroking slow circles. The other was free to tap Max’s phone whenever he wanted to scroll.

“I’m not bullying, I’m stating facts,” Max replied, eyes still on the screen. “If I was bullying, George would be crying.”

George gave a soft scoff, a smile tugging at his lips. “I only cry when you’re being nice to me. It’s more alarming.”

“See? He likes it,” Max said smugly.

“You two are hopeless,” Lando sighed, shaking his head but not pulling away. He kissed the top of George’s hair without thinking. It smelled like the shampoo from the team hotel. Familiar. Comforting. Everything he shouldn’t have had, but did now.

George hummed contentedly. His eyes were closed, not quite asleep, but on the edge. It had been a long morning—media, debriefs, and the hot press of summer against the paddock asphalt. Here, under the gentle air conditioning and Max’s dry humor, Lando’s warmth, it felt like a hidden world. A breath between races.

“You tired?” Lando asked softly.

“Mmhmm.”

“He fell asleep during the tire briefing,” Max said, amused.

“I didn’t,” George mumbled. “I just…rested my eyes. For twenty minutes.”

“You drooled on your notes.”

Lando chuckled, tightening his arms around George slightly. “You work too hard,” he whispered into his hair. “You both do.”

“You keep us sane,” Max said, finally putting his phone down and settling deeper into the couch. He didn’t say it often—didn’t have to. But it was true. Before Lando, things were loud, sharp-edged. Too many arguments, too many silences afterward. George’s idealism clashing with Max’s blunt force, and no soft middle ground.

Now, George fit into Lando like a puzzle piece, and Max found himself relaxing in the rhythm. They didn’t pretend to be perfect—but there was peace now. Real peace.

George murmured something sleepy and affectionate, muffled entirely by Lando’s shirt.

“What was that?” Max leaned forward, smirking.

George turned just enough to pout. “Said I love you, Verstappen. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I’ll take a recording next time,” Max said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “So you can hear how embarrassing you sound.”

George blushed but didn’t move. Lando laughed softly, looking at both of them like he couldn’t quite believe they were real.

“You two are the worst,” he said.

“But you love us,” Max grinned.

“Yeah,” Lando admitted, smiling. “I really do.”

Outside, the paddock buzzed with noise and people, but here, on this worn leather couch, time didn’t matter. They had this moment, tangled limbs, warmth, and all.

The quiet didn’t last.

Max’s phone buzzed with a message, followed a few seconds later by a voice from down the hall.

“Maxy!” Daniel’s unmistakable lilt floated through the open door. “You got a second?”

Max groaned softly but stood. “Always wants something,” he muttered, stretching before pocketing his phone. He glanced down at the two still curled on the couch.

Lando looked up. “You going?”

“Yeah, probably something stupid. He said it’s quick.”

George stirred at Max’s movement, his arms tightening around Lando like a reflex. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a minute,” Max said easily, brushing his knuckles along George’s jaw as he leaned down. “I’ll be back, sweetheart.”

George blinked slowly, brows already drawing together. “No—stay here.”

Max huffed a quiet laugh. “Baby, I have to go. It’s Daniel. I promise I won’t be long.”

George sat up, still half in Lando’s lap, eyes locked on Max with a quiet desperation. “You just sat down. Why can’t someone else—”

“George,” Max warned gently, tone still soft but edged with frustration. “It’s just five minutes. I’ll be back before you notice.”

“I will notice,” George snapped, voice higher now, his arms untangling from Lando to grip the edge of the couch instead. “Can’t you just tell him no? For once?”

Max’s jaw flexed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You said you’d stay—”

“I said I’d be back,” Max interrupted, sharper now. “God, George, you act like I’m disappearing forever.”

George shrank back a little, but didn’t stop. “You always leave when it matters.”

That landed wrong—too deep, too far back. Max’s eyes darkened.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, standing straighter now. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not doing this right now.”

George flinched, the sting immediate, visible. Lando sat up behind him, hands on George’s waist, grounding.

“Max—” Lando started, but Max was already halfway to the door, muttering something in Dutch under his breath.

The door shut a little too hard behind him.

Silence fell, cold and awkward.

George’s lips were parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. His eyes shimmered, breath shaky.

“Hey,” Lando said, soft, pulling George gently back into his arms. “Come here, honey. It’s okay.”

George went easily, burying his face in Lando’s chest again. “He hates when I’m like this.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lando whispered, rocking them slightly. “He gets overwhelmed. You know that.”

“I didn’t mean to push.”

“I know you didn’t.” Lando kissed the top of his head. “He loves you, George. You know that too.”

George didn’t answer. Just breathed, unevenly, arms tightening around Lando like a lifeline.

“You’re allowed to need him,” Lando murmured, “and he’s allowed to mess up. Doesn’t mean he won’t come back.”

The seconds ticked by. Somewhere in the background, a door opened and voices called to each other, but in the hush of that little room, Lando just held George like he always did — steady, patient, warm.

And waited.

Because Max always came back.

 

---

 

The storm had passed, but the clouds hadn’t cleared.

George had calmed in Lando’s arms, his breathing steady again, the edges of that panic softened by slow words and the solid beat of another heart. But the air still held the weight of what had just happened. Of Max’s words. Of George’s need.

And now… of something else.

Lando’s phone buzzed, and after a few murmured words, he kissed George’s forehead gently. “I need to talk to Oscar real quick. Won’t be long, alright?”

George nodded, but something in his chest twisted as he watched Lando walk away. Not because he was leaving—Lando always came back—but because of who he was walking toward.

Oscar.

The two of them stood just outside the suite window now, smiling lightly, hands tucked into their race suits, the low tones of casual conversation exchanged between them. Lando leaned in a little when he talked, and Oscar tilted his head like he still knew the rhythm of Lando’s voice before he even spoke it.

George looked away.

It wasn’t rational, and he knew it. Lando had chosen them. Max and George, not Oscar. That crush was in the past, a blink in time before the three of them had settled into something real. Something solid.

But watching them now, George couldn’t stop that slow, crawling ache from blooming in his chest. Ugly. Stupid. He’d always hated jealousy—it made him feel out of control, too aware of how fragile everything could be. He forced a deep breath through his nose, swallowing hard.

No.

He wouldn’t spiral. Not today.

There was a soft laugh nearby, and George turned to find Lewis sitting just a few feet away, relaxed in a folding chair, nursing a bottle of water.

George hesitated—just for a second—then crossed the room and dropped down beside him, quieter than usual. He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned over until his head was resting gently on Lewis’s shoulder.

Lewis didn’t flinch or question. He just smiled, warm and easy.

“Hey, hun,” he said, voice low and kind. “You alright?”

George nodded against his arm. “Just needed a second.”

Lewis reached up, fingers brushing through George’s hair in that soothing, older-brother kind of way. No questions, no judgment. Just care.

“He snapped at you, didn’t he?” Lewis asked, already knowing the answer.

George’s silence was enough.

“He’ll come back around,” Lewis continued. “Max’s temper burns fast, but it doesn’t burn long. And he does love you. Even when he forgets how to show it.”

George let out a breath. “I hate how sensitive I get sometimes.”

“No, you don’t,” Lewis said with a quiet laugh. “You hate how vulnerable it makes you feel. Big difference.”

George tilted his head up slightly, meeting his eyes. “You always do that. Say exactly what I don’t want to hear but kind of need to.”

“Occupational hazard,” Lewis winked. “Fifteen years in this paddock, you either learn to read people or you lose them.”

They sat like that for a while—quiet, steady—George feeling the worst of the jealousy melt under Lewis’s calm.

He glanced back toward the window. Lando was still talking to Oscar, but now with a hand tucked in his pocket, shoulders loose. Friendly. Innocent.

And George reminded himself, again, that Lando always came back.

Just like Max would.

Just like they all did.

 

---

 

The paddock was quieting now.

Trucks rumbled in the distance, equipment being packed away, the orange-pink hue of evening spilling over the gravel paths. Most of the media had gone, and the chaos of the day was giving way to a soft, tired sort of hush. George walked slowly, next to Alex, their conversation light and familiar.

Alex had offered to walk with him, sensing something a little off even without asking. George had smiled and accepted.

“Didn’t see Max again after the debrief,” Alex said as they approached the parking area. “You two alright?”

George offered a tight smile. “We’re fine.”

Alex didn’t push. He just gave George a quick shoulder bump. “They’ll probably be waiting already.”

George hoped so. He needed them — needed normal, needed the quiet of their apartment and Lando’s stupid fuzzy socks and Max scrolling through ridiculous memes while pretending he wasn’t smiling. He needed to feel like he belonged with them again.

They reached the small courtyard where they always met — the unofficial meeting spot tucked behind the team motorhomes, near the back gate. George glanced around.

Empty.

No Max. No Lando.

His stomach dipped.

Alex paused too. “Want me to wait with you?”

George shook his head quickly. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for walking.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” George smiled again, softer this time. “Go home. I’ll be alright.”

Alex gave him a last look, then nodded and headed off.

George stayed.

He leaned against the metal railing, scrolling absently through his phone, checking the time once. Then twice. Five minutes. Then ten. He told himself they were just running late. Max probably got stopped by Christian, and Lando was likely caught in McLaren hospitality—

Then he heard it.

A laugh. Familiar. Light and airy, like summer wind.

Lando.

George turned slowly.

Across the courtyard, just out of sight, around the corner where the loading trucks were lined up, he spotted them.

Lando.

Max.

And Charles.

The three of them stood together in a triangle — Lando in the middle, Max on his right, Charles to his left. They were all in casual clothes now, race suits stripped off, fresh-faced and glowing in that post-race way only drivers could pull off. Lando was laughing, tossing his head back slightly. Max was smirking, clearly amused. And Charles—

Charles was watching Lando like he was the sun.

George stood frozen. Every muscle in his body locked up.

He wasn’t angry. Not yet. But something cold and bitter slipped down his spine, pooling in his chest like ice water. It wasn’t about Charles — not really. It wasn’t even about Lando’s laugh or Max’s easy posture. It was the fact that they looked… light. Effortless.

Happy.

And George wasn’t there.

He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing, forcing the burning emotion down into something manageable. He straightened his shoulders and started walking toward them.

The laughter faded as he approached.

“Hey!” Lando smiled as he saw him, cheerful and sweet, like nothing was wrong.

George didn’t smile back. “Are you two ready to go?” His voice was clipped. Cold. He didn’t look at Charles.

Max blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah. Just saying hi to Charles.”

“Hmm,” George said. It wasn’t a real answer. It was closer to a warning.

Lando gave him a strange look, that slight, confused tilt of his head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” George replied flatly, eyes darting past Lando to Max, then back again, never once acknowledging the third person standing with them.

Charles, to his credit, seemed to catch on. His smile faltered a little, and he took a step back, glancing at Max. “I’ll see you both later,” he said, polite and smooth. “George.” A quick nod.

George didn’t return it.

The silence after Charles walked away was taut. Max rubbed the back of his neck. Lando shifted awkwardly.

“You wanna—” Max started, gesturing toward the car.

“Let’s go,” George said shortly, already walking ahead.

Neither Max nor Lando spoke for a long moment, exchanging a glance behind his back. Something was clearly wrong — George’s walk was too stiff, too quick, and the air around him buzzed with restrained emotion.

They followed without protest.

The walk to the car was quiet, gravel crunching under their shoes, engines in the distance. George didn’t reach for their hands. Didn’t wait for them to catch up.

Lando frowned. “Seriously—what happened?”

George opened the passenger door without answering. “Nothing.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “George—”

“I said nothing,” George repeated, voice like frost.

They didn’t push it.

Not yet.

But in the quiet hum of the car as they drove away from the paddock — three souls packed close in a space suddenly feeling much too wide — the silence was no longer peaceful.

It was heavy.

And none of them quite knew what to say.

Not yet.

The apartment was dim and quiet when they got home, the sun long gone now, replaced by the distant hum of city life outside the windows. Max tossed his keys onto the tray by the door. Lando kicked off his shoes and glanced over his shoulder toward George, who stood still in the entryway like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

He hadn't said a word since the drive.

Max noticed, too. He exchanged a look with Lando, then walked over, slow and deliberate, stopping just in front of George.

“Hey,” Max said, voice low. “Can we talk for a sec?”

George’s jaw was tight. But he nodded.

Max hesitated a moment, then reached out to tuck a loose curl behind George’s ear. “I’m sorry for earlier,” he said simply. “For snapping at you.”

George blinked, not expecting the apology so quickly. His lips parted but no words came.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Max continued. “You just needed something from me, and I didn’t give it. I was tired. That’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.”

George’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking between Max’s. “You didn’t come back.”

Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his temple. “But I came home.”

George closed his eyes, leaning into it.

Lando stepped closer. “Movie night?” he offered, a smile in his voice. “Blankets. Popcorn. Max letting me choose something stupid and dramatic with sword fights.”

George gave the smallest nod.

“Yeah?” Max coaxed. “That sound okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” George whispered. “Can I… can I sit between you?”

Lando grinned. “Of course you can.”

They made the space warm and soft — oversized blankets from the linen closet, pillows from every room piled on the floor, the lights dimmed low. Max took over the snacks. Lando searched for something mindless but pretty, something with sweeping landscapes and just enough plot to keep it moving. George watched them quietly from the couch, something fragile in his expression.

When everything was ready, they settled in — George pressed tightly between them, legs tangled with Lando’s, his back against Max’s chest. But it wasn’t just cuddling. It was clingy — arms wrapped tightly around Lando’s waist, fingers fisted in his hoodie. His other hand gripped Max’s sleeve like if he let go, they’d vanish.

Max kissed the top of George’s head and slid a hand around his stomach.

Lando looked down and brushed his thumb under George’s eye, where the faintest trace of red lingered from earlier. “You’re allowed to want us close, you know,” he said softly.

“I just… I don’t want you to be mad again,” George said, voice so quiet it nearly got lost under the soundtrack.

Max kissed his shoulder. “Not mad. Not now. Just sorry.”

George nodded, but he didn’t let go.

And they didn’t make him.

“You’re being very clingy tonight,” Lando teased gently.

George tensed.

But then Max chuckled behind him, warm and soft. “You can be as clingy as you want, sweetheart. You’re our little shadow.”

“Our emotional octopus,” Lando added, nuzzling into George’s hair.

George groaned. “That’s the worst nickname you’ve ever given me.”

Lando smirked. “You love it.”

Max kissed his cheek again. “You need attention tonight? You get it. All of it. You don’t even have to ask.”

George relaxed again, breath shuddering out.

“I love you both so much it’s stupid,” he whispered.

Lando pulled the blanket higher around them. “Good. Because we’re stupid in love with you too.”

The movie played on. George stayed nestled right where he was, tucked between the two people who knew how to hold him when he didn’t have the words. No questions. No pressure.

Just presence.

Just love.

 

---

 

The apartment had settled into its usual evening calm. The soft hum of the sim rig had finally gone quiet, and the golden light from the hallway spilled into the living room where George was curled up, two water bottles sweating slightly on the counter beside him. He was waiting—he didn’t know for what, exactly. Just... them.

He expected Lando to appear soon, probably flopping on the couch next to him, tugging a blanket over both of them. Maybe Max would follow, freshly showered from sim practice, quietly scrolling through his phone and tossing his feet onto Lando’s lap. The routine was comforting. Familiar.

But the night took a turn.

“Hey, babe?” Lando’s voice rang from down the hall.

George sat up straighter. “Yeah?”

Lando stepped into view, tugging on a zip-up jacket, his curls slightly tousled, that casual kind of energy that meant he wasn’t settling in for the night.

“I’m heading out for a bit. Grabbing drinks with Charles. Shouldn’t be too late.”

George blinked. “You’re going out?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah, he texted me earlier. Just catching up.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Lando said, already pulling on his sneakers. “You’ve got Max here. I figured we’d do something together when I’m back.”

George frowned. “You’ve never gone out with Charles before.”

Lando paused, brows furrowing. “So?”

“You used to like him,” George said, arms crossing defensively.

“What?” Lando blinked. “George, I’ve never liked Charles like that.”

“You—” George faltered. “You used to flirt with him.”

“No, I joked with him. It’s Charles. He flirts with everyone.” Lando gave a short laugh, more confused than amused. “This is kind of out of nowhere.”

Before George could respond, Max stepped out of the sim room, toweling off the back of his neck. His shirt clung lightly to his skin, and he looked half-sweaty, half-glowing.

“Charles wiped the floor with me,” he muttered. “Little shit sandbagged half the lap, then overtook me clean. I swear he gets better every week.”

George’s frown deepened. “You were just with him?”

“Yeah,” Max replied, glancing between them. “He called me into a sim session earlier. Why?”

“Are you going out too?” George asked, voice a touch sharper.

Max hesitated. “Actually… yeah. He invited me too.”

George straightened up. “So you’re both going?”

Lando was already watching George warily now. “Max said he was coming like five minutes ago.”

George’s throat tightened. “You didn’t tell me.”

“George,” Max said, stepping forward slowly, “we didn’t know we had to report this kind of thing.”

“You didn’t,” George snapped, more hurt than angry now. “I just—thought I’d have tonight with you.”

Max exhaled slowly. “We’ve been here all day. What is this really about?”

George bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t say it. I’m scared you’ll have more fun with him. I’m scared you’ll laugh with him like you used to laugh with each other. I’m scared you’ll forget that I’m the one you love.

Instead, he stiffened. “It doesn’t matter.”

Lando gave Max a look — low concern threading through his gaze. Max stepped forward first, wrapping his arms around George and tugging him close.

“You’re being possessive,” Max said, not unkindly.

George tensed.

“I don’t like it when you leave,” he said, muffled against Max’s chest.

“I know, sweetheart.” Max kissed the top of his head. “But we’re allowed to go out sometimes. You do trust us, right?”

George didn’t answer, just pressed closer, clinging to Max like the contact might anchor him.

Lando came over too, wrapping around George from the side, their warmth encasing him, but it didn’t stop the anxious buzz beneath his skin.

“You know I’ve never liked Charles like that,” Lando said again, softer this time, brushing his thumb over George’s cheek. “Never. I flirt with everyone—but you? You’re the only one I come home to.”

George still didn’t speak.

Max kissed him again. “Baby… we love you. You don’t have to be scared of someone like Charles.”

“I’m not scared,” George lied.

Max chuckled softly. “You’re jealous.”

George glared, and Max smiled down at him like he was something fragile and precious, not petty or irrational.

“You’re cute when you’re possessive,” he murmured. “But we can’t stay just to soothe your pride.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Lando promised, kissing the corner of George’s mouth. “And then you can cling to us all night.”

George sniffed, heart pounding in a way he couldn’t control. “Promise?”

“Promise, angel,” Max said. “You’ll be asleep before we’re even done with our second round.”

“You’ll text me?”

“Every hour,” Max said.

“Every half hour,” Lando added, teasing gently.

George tried to scowl but couldn’t hold it.

Lando leaned in again, brushing another kiss against his lips. “We love you. Whatever this is — it’s not worth spiraling over. Okay?”

George nodded slowly, reluctantly letting go of Max’s shirt.

Max cupped his jaw, kissed him once more. “Be good, baby.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Lando and Max finally pulled away, slipping on jackets, grabbing their keys. They left with the usual chaos — Max forgetting his wallet, Lando tripping over his untied laces — but George barely noticed.

He stood in the hallway, arms wrapped tight around his middle, watching the door close behind them.

And even though they’d kissed him and called him love, sweetheart, darling, even though they promised to come back—

—it didn’t stop the ache from blooming again in his chest the moment he was alone.

 

---

 

It started as something they brushed off.

The first few times, it was easy enough to chalk up to a bad day. A clingier moment. A little flare of possessiveness that felt more endearing than anything else. George had always worn his heart in sharp, high-contrast colors — he loved hard, felt everything all at once, and both Max and Lando had signed up for that willingly.

But now… it was every day.

Every time either of them reached for their phones. Every mention of a teammate, a sim session, a team dinner, even a trip to the gym. George had turned into a storm with no warning system — tantrums brewing under the surface, possessiveness tightening its grip like a vice.

And the more it happened, the harder it got to pretend it didn’t wear them down.

---

Monday

“I have a Red Bull meeting after lunch,” Max said, casually tossing his hoodie over the back of a chair. “Should be back around five.”

George looked up from the couch, jaw tightening. “Why can’t it be a Zoom meeting?”

Max blinked. “Because it’s a sponsor thing. In-person.”

George didn’t respond at first, just turned his face away and tugged the blanket tighter around himself.

Max sighed, walking over to kiss the top of his head. “Sweetheart—”

“You’re always going somewhere,” George said flatly.

Max’s jaw twitched. “I’ve been home every single night.”

“Physically, maybe.”

It hit harder than George probably meant it to. Max didn’t answer. Just walked out without saying anything else.

Wednesday

“Just going to the café down the street,” Lando said, slipping his sunglasses on.

George stood in the doorway. “Without telling me first?”

Lando’s brows rose. “George, I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same. You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come.”

“I didn’t know I needed permission to grab a coffee.”

“You don’t,” George said quickly, too quickly. “I just thought we were doing something.”

“You never said that.”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

Lando paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “You’re being unfair.”

George’s eyes flashed, but before he could answer, Lando leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“I’ll bring you something back, darling,” he said softly. “And then you can yell at me with caffeine in your system.”

He left, and George sulked for an hour straight until Max sat beside him and dropped a cookie into his lap.

Thursday

“Both of you?” George’s voice echoed down the hallway.

Lando and Max turned in unison, halfway into jackets, keys in hand. They’d been invited by Carlos to a last-minute dinner — nothing serious, just a few of the grid guys at some quiet place outside the city.

George stood with crossed arms, a familiar storm cloud forming behind his eyes. “I see how it is. Off to go have fun without me. Again.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lando gave George a cautious look. “You said you had work to finish. We didn’t think you’d even want to come.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Max turned slowly. “We’ve stopped asking because we know the answer.”

George stepped back like he’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

Max exhaled sharply, pulling it back, softening. “Baby. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

Lando stepped in before it escalated. “Angel, come here.” He took George’s hand, kissed his knuckles. “We’ll be back in two hours. Three, tops. Okay?”

“I don’t want you to go.”

Lando exchanged a look with Max — that same silent one they’d been sharing more and more lately. It said, This again.

George saw it.

Felt it.

And it hurt more than he could say.

Still, they kissed him, pet names spilling like sugar—love, darling, baby, sweetheart. And they went. Again.

They came home to George curled on the couch, blanket around his shoulders, eyes red and glassy. The TV was playing something muted in the background. He didn’t say anything when they entered. Just looked away.

Lando sighed as he dropped his keys. “You didn’t text.”

“I figured you wouldn’t check your phone.”

Max knelt beside the couch. “George…”

“I’m just tired,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Saturday

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” Max said quietly, out on the balcony with Lando the next morning. The city stretched out below them, but all either of them could focus on was the weight pressing down on the apartment behind them.

Lando rubbed his face with both hands. “He’s scared.”

“I know. But I’m starting to feel like I can’t breathe.”

Lando didn’t argue.

Neither of them said it out loud — not yet — but it hung between them like smoke:

Even love has limits. Even patience runs out.

And inside, George stirred on the couch, already wondering if they were about to leave again.

 

---

 

The sun was beginning to dip behind the team buildings, casting long golden shadows over the paddock. A rare moment of downtime between sessions had gathered a few of them in a quiet corner near the Ferrari motorhome. Carlos was in the middle of a ridiculous story, gesturing with exaggerated flair, and Max and Lando were laughing — really laughing, the kind of effortless, full-bellied amusement that made people stop and glance.

Charles stood nearby, grinning, sipping from a bottle of water, leaning just a little too close to Lando for George’s liking. His hand brushed Lando’s arm once. Then again.

George saw red.

He’d been watching from across the walkway, arms crossed tight, that familiar knot twisting in his stomach like barbed wire. It had been days of this — of laughing without him, of whispered conversations and private glances. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to have them. Hold them. Why did it feel like he was always being left behind?

Without thinking, he stormed over.

“Wow,” George said loudly, interrupting Carlos mid-sentence. “Must be nice, huh Charles? Sliding into someone else’s relationship and pretending it’s a game.”

The laughter died instantly. Silence fell.

Charles blinked. “Pardon?”

Max’s brow furrowed. “George—”

“Don’t,” George snapped, still glaring at Charles. “I’ve seen the way you hover. All smiles and innocent touches. You trying to replace me? Bit desperate, isn’t it?”

Charles looked stunned. “I think you’re misunderstanding—”

“Am I?” George took a step closer. “You think just because you’re charming and speak in French and get invited out to drinks, you’re entitled to what I have?”

Lando’s fists clenched at his sides.

Max said nothing yet — but the warning in his eyes was unmistakable.

“George,” Lando said, voice taut, controlled, “stop.”

George ignored him, his voice rising with every word. “I’m serious. You need to back off, Charles. Whatever game you're playing? It’s not going to work. They’re mine.”

Max’s lips parted like he was about to speak, but he didn’t have the chance.

Lando moved first.

The shift was immediate — a step forward, fast, sharp, shoulders tense, hands shaking now not with fear but fury. He shoved George lightly, but the contact was still hard enough to jolt him backward a step.

“You don’t get to talk to people like that,” Lando snapped. Loud. Sharp. “You don’t get to humiliate us like this in public because you’re spiraling!”

George froze, wide-eyed.

“Lando—” Charles started, shocked.

“No, let him,” Max muttered quietly beside him. His tone wasn’t angry. It was flat. Cold. Like ice cracking under pressure.

Lando stepped forward again, and George stepped back instinctively — until his spine hit the wall behind him.

“You think you’re the only one with feelings?” Lando growled. “You think we don’t notice every time we laugh without you, you act like we’re cheating? That we can’t breathe without having to reassure you ten fucking times?”

His hand slammed against the wall beside George’s head. Not hitting George — but close enough that George flinched violently.

Lando went silent.

The regret came instantly. It flashed through his face like lightning — the panic in his eyes, the slight stagger backward, the awareness of what he’d just done.

George was trembling.

And then—

“Enough!” came Lewis’s voice, sharp and commanding.

He was suddenly there, storming between them, grabbing Lando by the front of his jacket and shoving him back hard.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lewis shouted, his calm veneer completely gone. “You don’t corner someone like that. You don’t yell in their face and slam your hand next to their head!”

Lando stumbled back, shocked, his face pale.

Alex was there too, moving to George’s side, gently wrapping a hand around his arm. “Come on, mate,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

George didn’t speak — couldn’t. His hands were shaking, eyes wide, lips parted like he was trying to breathe through something invisible and unbearable.

As Alex guided him away, George glanced back once.

Max was still standing there.

Still cold.

Still quiet.

He didn’t move to follow.

Didn’t call out.

Didn’t even blink.

Just watched him go.

Lewis turned to Max and Lando, still burning with fury. “You’re lucky I got there when I did,” he hissed. “Because if you care about him at all, you’ve got a hell of a lot of fixing to do. And if you don’t…”

He let the words hang.

Then he walked away.

Leaving Max and Lando standing in the silence they’d created.

One by anger.

The other by apathy.

And the worst part?

Neither one knew how to take it back.

 

---

 

He hadn’t said a word the whole ride back.

Alex’s hand stayed steady on his shoulder the entire time, but George barely felt it — his skin was buzzing too loud, nerves frayed and raw like they'd been run over again and again. The world moved around him in a distant, muffled haze, like he was watching everything from underwater.

He didn’t even realize they’d arrived at the hotel until Alex gently pulled him out of the car.

“C’mon, mate,” he said softly. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Lewis met them in the hallway, jaw tight but gaze warm, calm. He didn’t say I told you so, didn’t even ask if George was okay. Just took his other arm and helped him into the room they’d booked together for the weekend.

It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind them that George finally collapsed into the nearest armchair, shaking.

“I fucked everything up,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Alex crouched in front of him, eyes sharp with worry. “No—”

“Yes,” George snapped, then immediately deflated, curling forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I did. And you both saw it. Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

And then Lewis came to sit on the armrest beside him, laying a firm, steady hand on his back.

“You hurt them,” Lewis said plainly. Not cruelly. Just honest. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love. It means something’s hurting you, and you need to stop bleeding on everyone else.”

George’s breath caught. A small, broken sound slipped out of him before he could stop it.

“I—” He swallowed, eyes wet. “I’ve been horrible. Clingy and jealous and just… wrong. I kept pushing and pushing, and they were trying, and I—”

His chest spasmed with a sob. “I saw them laughing, and I just… I wanted that again. I wanted to be in it. Not just beside it. I wanted to feel like they chose me, not like I was just… the obligation in the middle of their real fun.”

Alex’s voice was soft. “You’re not an obligation, George.”

“You say that,” George snapped, tears slipping down his cheeks now, “but I saw Max’s eyes today. He looked through me. He didn’t care. And Lando… he shoved me. He yelled. He’s never yelled at me like that before. I flinched and he looked so scared and I—”

His hand curled into a fist against his chest.

And then it hit.

A sudden, violent burn beneath his skin — just to the left of his sternum, where the soulmark tethered him to Max. It flared like it had caught fire, searing heat lancing through his body, and George cried out, gripping at his shirt.

Alex jumped up. “What—?!”

“Fuck—fuck—” George gasped, doubling over. “It’s the bond. Max—he’s—he’s pulling away. I feel it.”

Lewis was on the floor with him in an instant, cradling George’s shoulders as he shook. “Breathe. Deep breaths. Look at me. Focus.”

But it was too much. The pain. The grief. The echo of Max’s disconnection, the crackle of that ancient, invisible thread that had tied them together since birth, fraying.

“I deserve this,” George gasped, fingers digging into the carpet. “I pushed them away. I twisted everything good and made it about me. I made Max snap. I made Lando scared of me. I made Charles feel unsafe. I made you—” he looked at Lewis with shattered eyes “—have to protect me like a child.”

“George—”

“I should never have been born with Max’s mark,” he whispered, voice hollow. “The universe made a mistake.”

“No,” Lewis said fiercely, pulling him into a rough hug. “No, don’t say that. That mark doesn’t define your worth. You are not broken. You are hurting, but you are not beyond repair.”

Alex knelt behind them, gently wrapping his arms around both of them. “They love you, George. They do. But love doesn’t mean they don’t hurt too. You’ve all been bleeding in different ways, and you’ve been too close to see it.”

George sobbed into Lewis’s shoulder, clutching at his hoodie like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted. “I don’t know if they’ll even want me after this.”

“You don’t have to fix it all at once,” Lewis said gently. “But you do need to start by seeing what’s in front of you. The damage, the fear, the reasons. And then you ask if they’ll meet you halfway.”

The soulmark burned again — not sharp this time, but dull, a throb like bruising.

Max hadn’t severed it.

Not yet.

And George clung to that.

To that tiny, fragile thread of hope.

 

---

 

They didn’t speak the entire drive over.

Max was driving — jaw tight, one hand gripping the wheel like he was willing the world to slow down. Lando sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, foot tapping anxiously. The silence between them wasn’t angry. It was heavy. Weighted with confusion, guilt, and that low, gnawing ache of something having gone terribly wrong.

“We should’ve seen it,” Lando said quietly, breaking the silence at last.

Max didn’t look at him. “We did. We just didn’t listen.”

They pulled up to the hotel. Alex had texted them a room number — said George was still shaken but calm. That Lewis was with him. That if they still wanted to talk, they should come now.

So they did.

Max knocked softly.

The door opened, and Lewis was the one to answer. His expression was unreadable.

“He’s been crying for hours,” he said simply. “You don’t need to lecture him. He’s already done more damage to himself than either of you ever could.”

Max nodded once. “We’re not here to yell.”

“Good,” Lewis said, stepping aside.

George was curled on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the carpet. He didn’t look up until Max softly said his name.

And when he did —

His face crumbled instantly.

“I’m sorry,” George choked, standing up too fast, stumbling a little as he moved toward them. “I’m—please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it—”

Lando stepped forward just as George collapsed to his knees.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” he kept repeating, voice breaking more with each word, eyes full of raw, pleading pain. “I wasn’t thinking, I was jealous and scared and—I thought you were slipping away from me—”

“George—” Lando breathed, horrified.

“—and I kept trying to hold on but it just made everything worse and I knew I was being awful but I couldn’t stop and I wanted to be enough for you both, I wanted to be better, I wanted—”

His voice cracked.

“I wanted to be worth the mark.”

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

Lando dropped to his knees in front of George, grabbing his face with both hands. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I mean it,” George sobbed. “I thought you were going to leave. I thought I deserved it.”

“George,” Max said, kneeling beside them now. His voice was low. Quiet. Pained. “Why were you being so possessive? Why didn’t you just tell us?”

George wiped at his face, chest heaving. “Because it’s you two,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re best friends. You laugh without me. You click so easily, and Charles—he fits too. And I don’t. I always feel like I’m chasing you. Like I’m the complication. And I hate it. I hate that I hate it.”

Lando leaned forward, pressing his forehead to George’s. “You do fit. We’ve been a mess without you.”

“I saw you laughing,” George whispered. “And I wanted to be enough to make you laugh like that. But I’m always too much or not enough. Too jealous, too emotional, too loud. And I know I was horrible to Charles, and to you, and I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to him. I’ll do anything. Just—don’t hate me.”

Max finally moved then, shifting behind George and wrapping his arms tight around his waist, pulling him back against his chest.

“We don’t hate you,” he murmured. “We’ve never hated you.”

“We love you,” Lando said, curling into him from the front. “Even when it’s hard. Even when you’re scared. We love you.”

George let out a broken noise, pressing his face to Max’s shoulder, Lando’s hands cupping the sides of his face as he sobbed.

“I’ll fix it,” George whispered. “I’ll be better.”

“No,” Max said firmly, kissing the side of his head. “You don’t have to fix anything. You just have to talk to us. Let us in. You never have to fight for your place with us, George.”

“You’re ours,” Lando whispered. “We’ll remind you every day if we have to.”

They sat there on the floor for a long time — tangled together in a heap of limbs and tears and whispered apologies and softer promises.

And for the first time in days…

The bond stopped burning.

It didn’t quite glow yet — but it settled. Like a heartbeat syncing with another.

And George breathed.

Not easy. Not completely. But enough.

Notes:

Became a bit darker than I intended

Chapter 7: Forgotten Birthday

Summary:

For A__Za_z0_9 -:
Request: Max and Lando forget George’s birthday so George goes to stay with Alex and they hang out and celebrate his birthday and Alex won’t let Max and Lando near George.:

The first thing George registered when he opened his eyes was the silence.

That heavy, padded kind of quiet that only existed in early morning paddock motorhomes — the stillness before media chaos, before engine roars and camera flashes. He blinked a few times, the unfamiliar ceiling above reminding him he’d fallen asleep on the narrow leather sofa in the Mercedes lounge.

Right. He’d stayed late for a meeting, then never made it home. Had texted the group chat to let them know — ‘Late night mtg, too tired. Crashing here. Love you both xx’ — and passed out fully clothed with his laptop still open on his chest.

Now, sunlight filtered in through the blinds. George groaned softly and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Then he glanced at the date on his phone.

February 15.

His birthday.

Oh.

He wasn’t expecting balloons or fanfare — not from Mercedes, not this early. But he still smiled a little to himself as he got up, stretching stiffly. Shower first. Then home. Lando and Max would definitely have something waiting for him. He imagined the faint scent of baked chocolate, a movie night maybe, something chaotic and heartfelt. Lando’s handwriting on a card. Max pretending he didn’t care but baking a cake that leaned sideways. He chuckled softly at the thought as he stepped into the shower.

Twenty-seven.

When had that happened?

By the time he was dressed and presentable again — clean joggers, sweatshirt, hair towel-dried — he felt more like himself. He sank onto the little bench by the window, thumb unlocking his phone again.

23 Notifications.

His smile widened.

First was a message from his mum — a long, heartfelt paragraph with several emojis and a photo of his baby picture he hadn’t seen in years. Then one from his dad, short and sweet but warm. His older siblings had sent a meme and a joint selfie holding a sparkler cupcake. Cara had sent a voice note that made him tear up. Benjy's message came in with a picture of them together at Silverstone last year. Aleix had sent a stupid gif and a paragraph of Spanish half-translated by iMessage. His inbox had a few surprises too — Oscar, Lewis, even Kimi. Alex, of course, had sent a five-part meme chain that made George laugh out loud. There was even one from Toto: "Happy Birthday, George. Enjoy the day. Proud of the work you're doing."

Warmth bloomed in his chest.

Then, instinctively, he tapped into his favorite group chat: the one titled “Three Idiots in Love 💙🔥🧡” — Max, Lando, and him. A ridiculous name Lando had picked, something about initials and power and how they were unstoppable.

He grinned as the chat loaded, expecting something chaotic. Maybe even a fake fight between Max and Lando about who got to kiss him first today.

Nothing.

His smile faltered.

No new messages. The last was his own from last night.

George: Late night mtg, too tired. Crashing here. Love you both xx

He scrolled up just to check.

Still nothing.

No "happy birthday"s. No gifs. No "old man" jokes. Not even a heart emoji.

His chest gave a small, traitorous squeeze. He quickly locked his phone and tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

No. No, they were planning something. They had to be. It was probably just part of the surprise. Max was methodical like that — probably insisted they wait. And Lando would never forget. George knew that.

Still…

He exhaled slowly, staring out the window.

“Don't be dramatic,” he muttered to himself. “They're just waiting till you're home.”

It would be fine. It was fine.

He stood, shook out his shoulders, and grabbed his duffel.

Home. He was going home.

To them.

 

---

 

The door to their penthouse slid open with a soft hiss, and George barely had time to step inside before a blur of orange hoodie and messy curls launched itself at him.

“Geoooorge—!”

“Bloody hell, Lando—” George laughed, stumbling backward with Lando wrapped around him like a human-sized plush toy, arms and legs clinging to his torso with practiced ease. “You’re actually koala-ing me right now—”

“Missed you,” Lando mumbled, tucking his face into George’s neck. “Hated sleeping without you. Max stole the blanket. I froze to death.”

“I did not steal the blanket,” came Max’s voice from the kitchen. “You kicked me in the ribs. Twice.”

George looked over Lando’s shoulder and found Max stirring something in a saucepan. He was in one of George’s hoodies — the navy one that ran a bit long on him and always made George’s chest feel warm when he wore it. Max’s eyes flicked up and met George’s for a beat, softening.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” Max said with a crooked smile. “Your human furnace missed you.”

“He’s not just a furnace,” Lando muttered against George’s collar. “He’s my personal pillow. The one that doesn’t judge me for stealing all the sheets.”

“You also drooled on him last week.”

“You promised not to bring that up again!”

George couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. This was what he came home to. The chaos. The softness hidden under the sarcasm. The comfort of being known like this.

Lando finally peeled himself off of him and tugged George toward the couch like an overexcited puppy. “Sit with me. You can be the middle spoon again. I hated being the middle spoon last night. Max doesn’t even cuddle back.”

“I was trying not to die from your elbows.”

George sat, still grinning as Lando flopped half on top of him. His chest felt lighter than it had earlier in the motorhome, soothed by the familiarity of it all.

But even as Max brought over tea and curled up on George’s other side, pressing a soft kiss to his temple — something small tugged at the back of his mind.

There was still no mention of it.

No “Happy Birthday.”

No “Did you sleep well, birthday boy?” Not even a single candle or half-joke.

It was normal. Comforting. But almost too normal. And George found himself scanning the room without meaning to.

The kitchen counter was clean. No cake. No ribbons. No scattered gift bags.

The coffee table was cluttered with a remote, a few of Max’s racing notes, Lando’s half-folded hoodie — nothing new. No envelope with his name. No small stack of presents.

Maybe they’d hidden it? George glanced subtly toward the hallway.

Nothing out of place.

His phone buzzed with a text from Alex — another “happy birthday” message followed by a selfie of him in a ridiculous party hat. George smiled, then quickly locked the screen again before Max or Lando could see.

They were just waiting. That was all. Playing it cool.

Right?

“George,” Max said suddenly, brushing his thumb over George’s wrist. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” George blinked. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Lando murmured, snuggling in tighter. “Good thing you’re cute.”

George chuckled softly, heart twisting.

He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to be that guy. They were happy. They were themselves. The apartment smelled like Max’s cooking and Lando’s cologne, and George was in the middle of it — where he belonged.

Still… not one of them had said it.

Not even a whisper.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe the surprise was coming.

But as the evening rolled on and nothing changed — George’s smile stayed steady, but his stomach stayed hollow.

Just in case, he told himself. Just in case they were building up to something big.

Just in case this wasn’t what it looked like.

 

---

 

The evening rolled on like most of their nights did — the soft lull of shared blankets and laughter, the flickering TV light casting long shadows across their legs. Lando was halfway through a retelling of some ridiculous karting memory, arms waving dramatically, perched half in George’s lap. Max occasionally added dry commentary from his side of the couch, sipping on hot tea like the world’s most unimpressed narrator.

And George?

George smiled. He laughed in the right places. Kissed Lando’s forehead. Let Max lace their fingers together. He didn’t say anything out loud — not really — but he tried.

He dropped crumbs.

At first, they were light, easy things.

“So weird how time flies in February, right?” he said, swirling his tea slowly. “Feels like we just started the month.”

Lando nodded absently. “Honestly, I can’t believe it’s the fifteenth already.”

George glanced over.

Nothing.

He tried again. “Yeah… big day, you know. For some people.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Valentine’s Day yesterday. Was that big enough?”

“Was it for you?” George asked lightly, tilting his head, voice careful.

Max smirked. “Please. I cooked for both of you. That’s basically a proposal.”

George gave a soft, empty laugh.

Lando leaned in with a grin. “You’re hard to impress, Georgie. Want us to wear tuxedos next year?”

George didn’t answer. Just smiled again.

Pet names came easy — darling, angel, babe. Soft touches, fingers running through his hair. Max pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Lando tucked his cold toes under George’s thigh and called him his “space heater again.”

They were themselves.

But… they weren’t thinking.

He tried one more time.

“Alex sent me a picture of that stupid hat from my twenty-fourth birthday,” George said. “You remember that one? Where I looked like a cake?”

Max huffed a laugh. “Oh yeah. You wore it for, like, an hour.”

Lando grinned. “You made him. You were so smug.”

“He still has the picture,” George said, voice quieter now. “Said it was from the best birthday.”

That was it. That was the moment.

But Lando just leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Cute. You get so soft about that stuff.”

And Max? He just pulled him in closer, murmured, “We like soft George. You’re adorable.”

George didn’t say anything after that.

He stopped trying.

Because it hit him, like a slow fog curling around his chest — not dramatic, not even sudden.

They didn’t remember.

Not Valentine’s Day hangover. Not a surprise plan. Not something waiting in the bedroom or a late-night cake reveal.

They had simply forgotten.

George stared at the screen, not really seeing whatever film was playing.

And suddenly, the apartment felt too warm. The blanket too heavy. Lando’s laugh too loud in his ear, Max’s arm too tight around his shoulders.

Because today wasn’t just any day.

It was his day.

And the people he loved most in the world… had missed it entirely.

 

---

 

The laughter around him blurred at the edges — muffled like it came from underwater. Lando giggled, curled in his usual chaotic sprawl across the couch, while Max chuckled softly beside him, sharp and amused, stirring the last of his tea with lazy grace.

George didn’t hear the words anymore.

He felt them, like static.

The warmth he’d carried all evening — the hope, the cautious belief that maybe, maybe they were building to something — slowly evaporated, until all that was left was the cold weight of knowing:

They’d forgotten.

His birthday.

Max and Lando — the people he’d given his whole heart to, who always knew when he needed space, who could tell his mood from a single look — had forgotten.

And somehow… they hadn’t noticed.

Not the hints. Not the way he kept glancing toward the kitchen. Not the absence of a celebration. Of acknowledgment. Of anything.

He felt something pull, tight and painful, right beneath his ribs. Like a slow crack in the foundation of his chest. A silent kind of hurt.

Not anger. Not yet.

Just… sadness.

His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He pulled it out without thinking, needing a distraction.

Alex 😎:
🎉 open the DOOR it’s time for your birthday GIFT 🧁
i swear on your tailored trousers it’s better than anything your boyfriends got u
come over come over come over 👀

George blinked at the screen. A weak laugh escaped him — not quite humor. Just disbelief.

Better than anything your boyfriends got you…

“George?” Max murmured beside him, noticing the shift in his posture.

George shook his head quickly, smiling faintly. “Just Alex.”

He stepped away from the couch, fingers trembling slightly as he opened the message thread to call him.

It rang once before Alex picked up, as chaotic as ever.

“Where are you, birthday boy? You better not be hiding. I’ve got the best cake. Like—top-tier. Michelin-star frosting levels. My gift’s gonna make Lando cry from shame. Tell him I said that.”

George swallowed.

“George?” Alex’s voice sharpened a little. “Why aren’t you talking? Did they give you a surprise lobotomy?”

George stared at the hallway, back to where Max and Lando were still bickering fondly on the couch.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “They didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, softly, like he was afraid of saying it too loud:
“They forgot.”

Alex went completely silent.

George rushed to cover the crack in his voice. “It’s not a big deal. I just thought maybe they were waiting or something, but… no. It’s nothing. They’re not—”

“Stay where you are.”

George blinked. “What?”

“I swear to God, if you move, I will scale that fancy penthouse balcony like a Victorian ghost and drag you out myself.”

“Alex, you don’t have to—”

“You’re my best friend. You think I’m gonna let you sit there while the men who claim to love you forget your birthday?” Alex’s voice rose with fire. “Absolutely not. Put on your boots, Georgie. We’re celebrating. And don’t you dare cry before I get there.”

George didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat was closing too fast.

“Text me your building number again. I’m coming to get you.”

“…okay,” George whispered, and it cracked.

He ended the call and stared down at his screen. The ache in his chest stayed, but something in him flickered — not relief, not quite — but comfort.

At least someone remembered.

Ten minutes later, Alex was banging on the door like a human earthquake.

“GEORGE RUSSELL, OPEN THIS DOOR BEFORE I KICK IT DOWN,” came the shout through the hallway.

George winced and hurried to the door before Max or Lando could intercept.

He cracked it open just enough and was immediately met with a blur of tall limbs, winter wind, and Alex Albon holding a cake box in one hand and a balloon that read “BIRTHDAY PRINCESS” in the other.

“You’re not allowed to look sad and hot at the same time,” Alex scolded, brushing past him into the penthouse. “Pick one. Actually no, pick none. Where are your shoes? We’re going.”

George blinked. “Wait—”

“No ‘wait’. We’re doing damage control. Emotional triage. And you, my gorgeous broken-spirited angel, are coming with me.”

George glanced nervously toward the living room. Max and Lando were still lounging on the couch, a half-argument over blanket territory in full swing, oblivious.

He turned back to Alex.

“Should I—say something?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Alex was already pulling him toward the door again. “They forgot, Georgie. Let them notice you’re gone.”

George hesitated in the hallway, fingers tugging on the cuff of his jumper. “I don’t want to make them feel bad…”

Alex gave him a sharp look. “You’re allowed to be upset. They forgot your birthday. You’ve spent all day with a fake smile on your face, just hoping they’d see you. That’s not love, Georgie. That’s survival.”

The words hit like a slap — not because they were cruel, but because they were true.

George swallowed.

Alex softened immediately, stepping forward and cupping his jaw gently. “You deserve better than being forgotten. Even if you still love them. Especially because you love them.”

George’s throat felt tight. “I really do love them.”

“I know,” Alex said, softer. “But tonight’s about you. And I swear on the gods of grid penalties, we’re going to celebrate like kings.”

Alex’s flat was already lit with golden fairy lights when they walked in, cake box on the counter, two mismatched party hats on the table.

“Did you… plan this?” George asked, voice hoarse.

“Course I did,” Alex said proudly, throwing his coat over a chair. “I mean, I thought I’d be joining your other boyfriends’ extravaganza, but someone had to carry the team.”

George laughed — really laughed — for the first time all day.

“Sit,” Alex ordered, “and prepare to receive the best birthday gift of your life.”

George sat.

Alex disappeared into the hallway and came back holding a giant, overly wrapped gift bag, which he dropped in George’s lap with dramatic flair.

Inside was…

A pair of cozy socks shaped like race cars.
A framed photo of them at Silverstone, both grinning with ice cream.
A small box with cufflinks shaped like steering wheels.
And a card — handmade, childlike and glittery, that read:
“TO THE FASTEST, FUNNIEST, MOST FORGETTABLE-TO-EVERYONE-EXCEPT-ME BIRTHDAY LEGEND”

George read the card. He read it twice. Then, finally, he let the tears fall.

Alex didn’t say anything. He just scooted closer, pulled George into a hug, and held him through the shaking breaths.

“You remembered,” George whispered.

“Of course I did,” Alex murmured into his hair. “Always.”

And for the first time that day — maybe even in weeks — George didn’t feel invisible.

He felt seen.

 

---

 

It was the flicker of silence that did it.

Lando was curled beside him on the couch, legs tangled in the blanket, still lazily laughing at something stupid they’d seen on the TV. Max had gone to grab drinks from the kitchen, called out to George without thinking—
“Want anything, love?”

No answer.

He walked back into the living room, two bottles of water in hand.

“Where’s George?” he asked, glancing around.

Lando blinked. “He was here, like… twenty minutes ago, right?” He sat up a little straighter, frowning. “Wait—was he?”

Max’s brow furrowed. “I thought he was going to the bathroom.”

Lando pushed the blanket off, getting to his feet. “George?” he called down the hall.

Silence.

Max checked their shared bedroom. Then the bathroom. Kitchen. Balcony.

Nothing.

His heart started pounding. Not fear, not yet — just… unease. He opened the group chat they had between the three of them — titled Three Idiots in Love (Lando named it, obviously) — and scrolled.

Last message from George was earlier this morning. A sticker of a yawning puppy. Before that, a thumbs up to Max’s comment about picking up dinner.

That was it.

“Max?” Lando’s voice came sharp from the hallway. “He’s not in the flat.”

Max stood frozen for a moment.

Then: “Call him.”

Lando already was, pacing, pressing the phone to his ear. “Come on, come on…”

No answer.

Max’s own phone buzzed in his hand.

1 new message – Three Idiots in Love

His thumb hovered. Lando rushed to check too.

And then, they both read it:

George:

It was my birthday today

The words sat like glass in Max’s stomach.

He read it again.

Lando inhaled sharply. “No. No, no, no—Max. Max—”

Max’s entire body went still. The air seemed to collapse in on itself.

“Fuck.” He whispered it, hoarse.

Lando looked stricken, a hand in his hair, eyes wide and full of panic. “We… we forgot.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t even think—” Max’s voice cracked into anger, but it wasn’t directed at Lando. It was at himself. “How did we forget his birthday?”

Lando’s phone slipped slightly in his hand. “He hinted. Oh my god, he hinted. All day.”

Max was already texting.

Max: 

Baby, where are you?
Please talk to us.

Lando:

Georgie, we’re so sorry. Please come home. We didn’t mean to—
Please tell us you’re okay.

Nothing.

Nothing for long enough that Max nearly threw his phone.

Lando collapsed onto the couch, his eyes wet, voice breaking. “He was so quiet all day. We just—I thought he was tired, or just being soft. I didn’t notice.”

Max clenched his jaw, turning in a slow circle, helplessness gnawing at every edge of his usually-calm exterior.

“I didn’t see it either,” he admitted, guilt coating his throat like tar. “He asked about old birthdays. Talked about February. Oscar even mentioned his birthday yesterday in the paddock. I—I didn’t fucking register it.”

They were both silent. Drowning in it.

Until Max’s phone buzzed again.

Alex:
he’s with me. don’t call again.
you don’t get to talk to him until he wants to.
and don’t even think about making this about you.
he deserved better.

Max stared at the screen.

Lando read over his shoulder. Then sat back, face in his hands.

And Max, for the first time in ages, felt something unfamiliar thrum in his chest:
Fear.

Because George — their George, the boy with the softest heart and the brightest laugh and the strongest loyalty — had looked them in the eye all day, dropped every hint, and waited.

Waited to be seen.

And they hadn’t.

 

---

 

Alex’s flat was warm — not just from the heating or the soft fairy lights, but in the way only Alex could make it feel. Like a safe house. Like a place that had always had room for George, even when no one else remembered to.

He was sat cross-legged on the couch, oversized party hat askew on his head, a plate of chocolate cake in one hand and a flute of expensive champagne in the other.

Alex plopped down beside him, bumping their shoulders. “Scale of 1 to total icon, how are you feeling?”

George hesitated. Then he gave a tiny smile. “Somewhere around… vaguely tragic ex-royal who moved into a French vineyard and breeds goats for inner peace.”

Alex blinked. “Wow. Specific. But sexy. I’ll allow it.”

George snorted.

They sat in silence for a moment. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that allowed breathing. Existing. Feeling.

Eventually, George placed the half-eaten cake on the table, curling deeper into the couch. “I know they didn’t mean to forget.”

Alex looked at him over the rim of his glass. “Did they apologise?”

George hesitated. “They texted. Called. I didn’t answer.”

Alex nodded, jaw tight. “Good.”

George’s voice cracked slightly. “It’s not like they don’t love me. I know they do. But today—” His throat closed up. “Today I felt invisible. Like I didn’t matter. Like if I disappeared, they’d just… keep laughing.”

Alex’s eyes softened. “Oh, Georgie.”

“I waited all day,” George whispered. “Like an idiot. I kept thinking, ‘they’re planning something. There’s no way they forgot.’ And then I came home, and they kissed me, and talked about blankets and jokes and I—” He swallowed. “I wanted to scream.”

Alex gently reached over and took George’s hand.

“I know you love them. I’m not telling you not to,” he said carefully. “But screw them, babe. They don’t deserve you. Not if they made you feel that small. Not if they let the day you were born pass like it was nothing.”

George looked down at their linked hands, voice soft. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”

“Of course it did,” Alex said, thumb brushing over George’s knuckles. “You give them everything. And all you wanted was for them to see you today.”

George nodded. His eyes were glassy, but not crying. Not anymore. Just tired.

“I didn’t need fireworks or surprises,” he murmured. “Just a ‘happy birthday’. Just… someone remembering that I exist.”

“Well,” Alex said brightly, standing up suddenly, “I remembered. And I have one more surprise.”

George blinked. “Alex—”

“Nope. No arguing. Get up.”

George groaned as he stood. “If it’s another glitter bomb—”

“It’s better,” Alex said, marching him to the window. “Look outside.”

George frowned, stepping closer to the glass—and then froze.

On the grass patch beneath the flat, lit up in fairy lights laid out across the lawn, were three glowing words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEORGIE

George turned, speechless.

Alex grinned. “Lewis helped. And Kimi stole those lights from AlphaTauri. It was a team effort.”

George laughed, too full of feeling to contain it. He didn’t stop laughing until he was crying again.

But this time, it was from being loved.

Not forgotten.

 

---

 

The knock on his door was sharp. Desperate.

Alex didn’t move right away. He knew who it was.

He was sitting on the arm of the couch, sipping tea while George lay curled up under a blanket, head on a pillow, a soft birthday crown askew on his head. The fairy lights from the window still glowed behind them, casting a warm sheen over the quiet, comforting chaos they’d made tonight.

Alex’s eyes flicked toward the door, expression hardening. He stood with a sigh.

Another knock. Then another.

“Alex!” Max’s voice. Frantic. “Please.”

He opened the door just enough to see the two of them standing there — Max with panic behind his eyes, Lando looking like he’d been crying.

“I need to see him,” Max said immediately.

Alex stepped into the doorway, blocking it with his whole body.

“You’re not coming in.”

Lando blinked. “Wait—what?”

Alex crossed his arms. “You heard me.”

“We just want to talk to him,” Max said, voice shaking. “To apologise.”

“Oh, now you want to talk to him?” Alex’s tone was sharp. He wasn’t raising his voice — he didn’t need to. He knew how to twist guilt into a blade. “After spending an entire day forgetting it was his birthday? After he came home, waited for hours, dropped hints, laughed with you, kissed you, and you still didn’t remember?”

“We know,” Lando said softly, tears brimming again. “We know, Alex. Please. Just let us say sorry.”

“No,” Alex said, firm. “He doesn’t owe you a chance to feel better about this. He owes himself space. And tonight, he’s getting that with people who did remember.”

Max looked like he was about to fall apart. “He left. Without saying anything. Just that text. I’ve been going insane.”

“Good,” Alex said coldly.

Lando stepped forward, lips trembling. “You don’t understand. He’s everything to us. We messed up, I know we did—please, just let us talk to him.”

“I do understand,” Alex said. “I understand that George has bent over backwards for both of you for years. That he’s been patient and kind and soft and good. And today, the bare minimum was remembering it was the day he was born, and you—both of you—forgot.”

Max’s hands clenched at his sides. “It wasn’t intentional—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Alex snapped, finally raising his voice. “It still hurt him. And you don’t get to fix it with flowers and pet names and some desperate apology at midnight.”

Lando visibly flinched.

“I know you love him,” Alex added, quieter now. “But if you really love him, you’ll walk away tonight. You’ll give him time. You’ll earn the right to see him again.”

Silence.

Max dropped his head. Lando’s tears were quiet, a sniffle escaping.

Alex’s voice softened — but only slightly. “He needs to know you love him without expecting him to forgive you just because you feel bad. Can you do that?”

Neither of them spoke.

So Alex closed the door gently.

And locked it.

Behind him, George hadn’t moved — but his eyes were open, watching quietly from the couch. His fingers twisted in the edge of the blanket.

Alex walked over, crouched beside the couch, and tucked a hand over George’s.

“They’re gone,” he said.

George swallowed hard, voice a whisper. “Did they look sad?”

Alex gave a small smile. “Devastated.”

George nodded once. Then looked away.

Alex smoothed his hair back. “You’re allowed to take your time.”

“I don’t want them to hurt,” George said quietly.

“You also don’t want to hurt,” Alex replied. “But you are.”

George didn’t reply.

So he just sat with him — in silence, in kindness, in the warm glow of remembered love.

 

---

 

The penthouse door was unlocked.

Alex didn’t come up with him — just squeezed George’s shoulder before letting him go.

George stepped inside, half-expecting the usual sound of a game on the TV, or Max yelling from the sim room, or Lando singing off-key in the shower.

Instead, the penthouse was still. Not silent — soft music was playing from the kitchen speakers. The scent of vanilla and strawberries lingered in the air.

And on the dining table, waiting beneath the glow of the overhead lights, was a birthday cake.

It was three tiers, a little uneven, clearly homemade — and covered in messy, bright icing. Sloppily written in blue gel frosting were the words:
Happy (Belated) Birthday, Georgie. We’re so sorry.

Beside it were presents. Dozens of them. Some wrapped beautifully, others clearly rushed, like they’d been bought in desperation — tissue paper poking out of bags, ribbons tied too tightly or not at all.

Lando was the first to appear.

He stood near the hallway, his curls a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. His eyes were red-rimmed, lower lip tucked between his teeth.

“Georgie,” he breathed.

Max came into view behind him. Still in joggers and a plain tee. His eyes — usually sharp, usually unreadable — were soft, cracked wide open with guilt.

George said nothing. Just stared at the cake.

“We forgot,” Max said, voice rough. “We forgot, and we’re the worst—”

“We don’t have an excuse,” Lando cut in, voice cracking. “We just… we messed up. So badly.”

George took a shaky breath. “I waited all day.”

“I know,” Max whispered.

“I thought maybe you were planning a surprise.”

“We should have been,” Lando said, stepping closer, “but we weren’t. We were just… stupid. And distracted. And we didn’t see you.”

George finally looked at them.

Really looked.

They looked wrecked. Not just guilty — but grieving. Like they’d been mourning him since the moment he walked out.

“I felt invisible,” George said, voice quiet. “Like… I didn’t matter.”

Lando whimpered. “You do. You matter more than anything.”

“I kept dropping hints,” George continued. “And you just… laughed. Kissed me. Called me pet names like nothing was wrong.”

Max moved to the table, picked up one of the gifts. A small box, wrapped in soft silver. He walked it over and placed it gently in George’s hands.

“We know this doesn’t fix it,” he said, “but we wanted you to know we remember now. We won’t forget again.”

George stared at the box. Then up at them. His eyes filled.

“I’m still hurt,” he said.

“You should be,” Lando replied immediately, stepping close. “You don’t have to forgive us. But we love you, Georgie. So much. And if there’s any part of you that still wants us… we’ll spend forever making this up to you.”

Max came to his other side, placing a hand gently on George’s back.

“We’re sorry, baby,” he murmured. “Happy birthday.”

George bit his lip. His hands trembled around the box.

And then, slowly, he leaned forward — into both of them.

He didn’t say anything. Just pressed his forehead to Max’s chest, felt Lando hug his waist tightly from the side.

And let himself cry.

Not from pain, this time.

But from being remembered.

 

---

 

The kiss came first.

It was hesitant. Gentle.

George tilted his face up to Max, then to Lando — their eyes wide, waiting for his choice, terrified they’d broken something beyond repair. But when George leaned in and pressed his lips to Lando’s first — slow, forgiving — the sound that left Lando was something like a sob. And when George turned next, tugging Max down by his shirt collar to kiss him too, Max just crumbled into it. No rush. No hunger. Just relief and reverence, and the lingering taste of icing and apology.

When they pulled apart, George was already being tugged toward the living room.

“We need to fix this properly,” Lando was saying, voice bright but still thick with emotion. “Presents. Cake. You, on the couch, wrapped in five blankets like a birthday burrito.”

“I thought it was a blanket burrito,” Max muttered.

“No, it’s birthday-specific now.”

George let himself be dragged.

He melted into the familiar mess of their shared life: Lando fussing with the music playlist, Max adjusting the lighting to something softer, gentler. The cake was carried over to the coffee table, the lights turned off briefly as two little candles were lit.

Only two.

“We didn’t know if you’d come home,” Lando admitted, handing George a lighter. “So we didn’t want to jinx it with thirty candles. But we can shove some more in if you want, I think I saw a bag of tea lights—”

George smiled, taking the lighter. “Two’s perfect.”

He didn’t make a wish.

Because he wasn’t sure he needed to.

They sang. Off-key. Loud. Lando intentionally went operatic at the end while Max tossed a cushion at him.

And then came the cake. Max cut it, mumbling something about the layers being “structurally questionable,” and handed George the biggest piece — corner slice, thick with frosting.

George sat nestled between them, the blanket Lando had promised draped over his lap. He took one bite, groaned, and looked at Max in faux-seriousness.

“Did you put love in this?”

Max arched a brow. “And vanilla extract.”

George snorted.

“Open your gifts,” Lando said next, bouncing slightly where he sat, barely containing his excitement.

There were… many.

Some were practical — a gorgeous new set of driving gloves, a personalized keychain, a minimalist black watch that George had mentioned liking months ago. Others were chaotic — a signed photo of Alex wearing a shirt that said George’s #1 (and Only) Birthday Wife, a framed photo of all three of them asleep in a tangle on the Monaco balcony, and a handmade IOU coupon book from Lando that included things like 1 free cuddle under any circumstances and 1 interruption of Max’s sim session for kisses.

George laughed, genuinely, chest light for the first time in days.

They fed him more cake.

Max, specifically, sat up straighter and insisted on “offering birthday service.” He speared a bite of the corner piece, loaded with frosting, and held it to George’s mouth with mock solemnity. George arched a brow, but obediently opened his mouth.

The frosting smeared the corner of his lips. Max leaned in immediately and licked it away.

George flushed. Lando rolled his eyes, grabbing a tissue and dabbing at George’s chin, muttering something about feral Dutch boyfriends.

They moved to the couch eventually, the gifts stacked neatly in a corner, the cake half-eaten, and the music playing something slow and jazzy in the background. Lando curled into George’s side, arms around his waist, head pressed to his shoulder like a human koala. Max was on George’s other side, his fingers brushing through George’s hair lazily.

The TV played a movie none of them were watching.

There were no apologies now — they had been said, heard, absorbed. What lingered instead was a quiet dedication, stitched between soft words and kisses to George’s temple.

“You can be mad at us longer,” Max whispered once, “if you need.”

“I’m not,” George said truthfully. “Not anymore.”

Lando sighed. “We’re going to remember next year. Like a week before. I’ll tattoo it on Max’s arm.”

“I’d prefer a calendar reminder,” Max said, eyes closed. “Less painful.”

“Painful is forgetting your boyfriend’s birthday and then being exiled by Alex Albon.”

George laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I missed you both.”

“We missed you,” Max murmured. “Even when you were here.”

Silence stretched again — not awkward, just warm.

Eventually, George’s head dipped onto Max’s lap. He turned on his side, curling instinctively, and Lando shifted too — lying on his stomach, cheek resting near George’s, their fingers linked loosely between them.

Max stayed upright, one hand stroking George’s hair gently, the other playing with Lando’s curls. Outside, the city shimmered with late-night lights, muted through the glass.

George’s breathing slowed.

Lando's hand twitched once in his sleep — instinctively clinging tighter.

Max glanced down at them.

His boys.

He’d messed up — they both had. But they were here now, healing, whole in the softest sense. There would be more birthdays, more cake, more quiet nights like this.

But this one?

This was the one they got back.

Chapter 8: Losing Weight

Summary:

For ChoppedSalad-:
Request: George losing weight/not eating properly because of the weight restrictions and his height? And perhaps Max and Lando not quite getting that first because they don't struggle with the issue as much as George

The hum of the gym was steady — the soft whir of a treadmill, the rhythmic clank of weights, the low bass from the speaker in the corner.

Max sat back on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, breathing even after another round of deadlifts. Sweat still clung to his temples, but his attention wasn’t on himself anymore.

Across the room, George was still at it. Long legs carrying him in perfect stride on the rowing machine, jaw set, gaze fixed forward like he was racing a ghost only he could see. No pause between sets. No water bottle in reach.

Max speared a forkful of salad from the plastic container beside him, chewing slowly, frown deepening.

“George,” he called over the music, “take a break.”

“I’m fine,” George replied, voice clipped but steady. The machine didn’t slow.

“Come on, drink something. We could share this.” Max lifted the container in offering. “It’s even got those weird seeds you like.”

George shook his head, the faintest smile flickering — there and gone. “Aleix said I should stick to the programme. No extras.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “Is this about the new weight rules?”

A shrug. “It’s just training.”

Not an answer. Definitely not the truth.

Max let it sit for a moment, then glanced at his phone as it buzzed on the bench. A message from Lando: Here. Waiting outside the factory.

He sighed. “I’ve got to pick Lando up from McLaren. You going to be here much longer?”

George nodded, eyes still fixed on the rowing machine display. “Couple more sets.”

Another sigh — heavier this time. Max stood, walked over, and rested a hand on George’s shoulder, firm enough to break his rhythm. George glanced up, startled.

“Don’t push yourself too hard, schat,” Max said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

George gave a faint, distracted smile, then went right back to pulling.

Max watched for a heartbeat longer before heading for the door, a gnawing unease in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.

 

---

 

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and roasted vegetables, warm against the damp chill of the evening. Lando set the last plate on the table, tugging his hoodie sleeves over his hands as he glanced toward the living room.

“George!” he called. “Dinner.”

From the couch, George shook his head. “I’m not— it’s race weekend. I’ll just—”

“Nope,” Lando interrupted before the excuse could land. “You’re still sitting with us. Even if you’re full. Team rule.”

George huffed, but before he could form an argument, Max was already there, looping an arm around his waist and steering him toward the table.

“Come on,” Max said, voice low but firm. In one easy movement, he sat down and pulled George into his lap, ignoring the younger man’s token resistance.

George exhaled a long sigh, the fight going out of him. He tucked his face into Max’s chest, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against his cheek.

Lando took his seat across from them, glancing between the two with a faint smile. “So, FIA’s really going for it this season. Tightest weight regs yet. Driver and car.”

Max shrugged, stabbing a fork into his pasta. “It’s annoying, but I’m fine. Just means less dessert.”

“Same here,” Lando said, lifting a forkful toward his mouth. “We’ve got smaller frames — easy enough to manage.”

George stayed quiet, pressed closer into Max like he was trying to disappear.

“They’re saying some of the taller guys might struggle, though,” Lando went on.

Max’s hand moved in slow, absent circles over George’s back, his other still holding his fork. “Yeah, but it’s just part of the job. Everyone will adjust.”

George didn’t move, didn’t speak. The low hum of their conversation went on above his head, the sound of cutlery against plates filling the pauses.

Neither of them noticed that George hadn’t lifted his head once.

 

---

 

The motorhome was buzzing, but George barely noticed. Friday free practice had been fine — not spectacular, not disastrous — and the usual chatter from engineers and PR staff blurred into white noise. He was scrolling through sector times on his tablet when Max dropped into the seat across from him, hair damp from a quick shower, still in team kit.

“You’re quiet,” Max said.

George glanced up. “Just looking over turn eight. Lost some time there.”

“Mm.” Max reached over, snagging one of the biscuits off the plate between them, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Want one?”

George shook his head, attention already flicking back to his tablet.

Max shrugged, biting into the biscuit. “Suit yourself.”

It was easier this way — easier to keep the focus on lap times, corner speeds, brake balance. Nobody asked questions if you looked busy.

By Saturday morning, the paddock was alive with that charged, pre-quali energy — the air cool but bright under a cloudless sky. George moved through the garage, helmet in hand, nodding to the mechanics, answering a few quick questions from his race engineer. He’d barely made it into the driver room when Lando ducked in, already grinning.

“Morning, Georgie.”

George gave him a sidelong look. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Got a decent FP3, didn’t I?” Lando dropped into the chair beside him, bouncing a leg. “Hey, they’ve got pastries in the hospitality tent. You should—”

“I’m good,” George cut in, checking his watch. “Going to go over some data with the guys.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Always working. Fine.”

As George left, he heard Max’s voice from the doorway, low and amused: “He’s just focused.”

Qualifying came and went in a blur of engine noise and adrenaline. Back in the garage, George pulled off his gloves, flexing stiff fingers. Max was leaning against the wall, talking to his engineer, but glanced over with that knowing little smile he always wore after a solid session.

“You looked good,” Max said as George walked past.

“Could’ve been better,” George replied. He was aware, in some detached way, that his race suit felt looser around the waist when he peeled it down, but he pushed the thought aside.

Later, in the motorhome lounge, Max lounged with a plate of fruit, offering him a slice of melon. “Here.”

George shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Max gave a faint shrug, popping the melon into his own mouth. “More for me.”

 

---

Race day was chaos as always — media, briefings, last-minute checks. George kept himself moving, head down, until the grid formed and the lights went out.

It was a grind. Tyres didn’t behave the way they’d hoped, and by the time the chequered flag dropped, he felt wrung out. In parc fermé, he did the usual media rounds, then ducked into the driver room, helmet dangling from his fingers. He sank into a chair, elbows on his knees. The edges of his vision felt a little too soft.

“You alright?” Lando’s voice floated in from the doorway.

“Fine,” George said quickly. “Just need a minute.”

Lando gave a slow nod, stepping back to let him be.

The flight home that evening was quiet. Max was beside him, scrolling through something on his phone, occasionally muttering under his breath about tyre strategy. George leaned back, eyes closed, the faint ache in his limbs radiating outward. He kept his hands folded to keep from fidgeting.

When they landed, they went straight to Max’s place. Lando had cooked — something pasta-heavy, warm and fragrant. The three of them sat at the table, Max serving himself generously, Lando heaping food onto his own plate.

George twirled some pasta onto his fork, then set it down again.

“Not hungry?” Lando asked, brows lifting.

“I ate earlier,” George said, offering a faint smile.

Lando didn’t press. “Alright.” He went back to telling Max some story from the McLaren garage, his hands moving animatedly.

From his spot at the table, George nodded along when the conversation seemed to need it, but mostly he kept quiet, pushing pasta around his plate until Max, without thinking, reached over to rub a slow circle between his shoulder blades. The touch was grounding, but it also made him feel smaller somehow — like if he leaned into it too much, they’d notice everything he’d been holding back.

They didn’t.

 

---

 

The week between races was a blur of media duties and simulator work. George kept to his routine: gym early, then simulator, then more gym. Aleix had been pushing a slightly different training programme — more cardio, less heavy lifting — and George followed it to the letter.

One afternoon, in the middle of a treadmill run, Max appeared, tossing a towel at his head. “You’re going to wear yourself out before the next race,” he said with a half-smile.

George shook his head, slowing only slightly. “Just keeping sharp.”

Max smirked. “Disciplined. I like it.” He meant it as praise, but it landed differently in George’s chest — heavier somehow.

By the next race weekend, the signs were there if anyone had been looking closely. George moved through the paddock a little slower. The banter with mechanics was shorter, his temper a touch frayed in debriefs. After FP2, he stood in the garage, staring at the data screen, jaw tight.

“Everything okay?” Max asked, stepping up beside him.

“Yeah. Just… balance feels off,” George said. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t mention the fatigue that made each corner feel like dragging himself through water.

Saturday night, after a long day of qualifying and sponsor appearances, Lando suggested dessert at the apartment they were sharing that weekend.

“Got your favourite — that chocolate thing with the fancy salt,” Lando said, pulling it from the fridge with a flourish.

George smiled faintly. “I’m still full from earlier.”

“Oh,” Lando said, glancing at the sink where the only plates were the ones he and Max had used for lunch. “Right. Fair enough.”

He didn’t push.

Sunday’s race was brutal — hot track temps, heavy tyre degradation, endless radio calls about strategy. When it was finally over, George pulled into parc fermé, unbuckled, and climbed out, every muscle in his body screaming.

In the driver room, he sat heavily on the bench, helmet still in hand. The room swayed just slightly, the air thick and too warm. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it.

Max came in a few minutes later, towelling sweat from his hair. “Decent drive,” he said casually.

“Mm.” George nodded without opening his eyes.

“You good?”

“Fine,” George murmured. It was automatic now, the word falling into place before he could think about it.

That night, back at the hotel, they ordered room service. Max sprawled on the bed with a burger, Lando cross-legged beside him with fries. George sat at the small table, scrolling through data on his laptop.

“Not eating?” Lando asked.

“I had something earlier,” George said without looking up.

Neither of them pressed. Max took a sip of his drink, Lando popped another fry into his mouth, and the conversation drifted back to race strategy, to the latest paddock gossip, to who had been spotted at which hospitality tent.

George closed his laptop after a while, the edges of their voices blurring, and let himself lean back in the chair. His limbs felt heavy, his stomach hollow, but he didn’t say a word.

 

---

The days blurred again — travel, media, training. Max talked about how the tighter FIA weight regs this year were “just part of the job,” and Lando agreed. Smaller frames made it easy enough for them. George didn’t comment, just sat between them on the sofa, his head tipped back against the cushion, Max’s arm draped over his shoulders in that casual, thoughtless way.

They didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed half-lidded, or the way his breathing slowed in a way that wasn’t quite rest. They didn’t see the faint tremor in his hands when he reached for the water bottle on the coffee table.

And George — George didn’t tell them.

 

---

 

The race had been ugly from the start. Heat shimmered off the tarmac, tyres blistered before halfway, and every lap felt like pushing against the weight of the entire grid. By the time the chequered flag fell, George’s body was humming with exhaustion, every joint aching.

He pulled into parc fermé, the usual swirl of mechanics and cameras closing in. Helmet off, he walked toward the pen for interviews, the noise of the crowd a low roar in his ears. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else — slow, unsteady.

He caught sight of Max a few metres away, already deep in conversation with a Sky Sports reporter. Lando was somewhere to the right, talking animatedly to a cameraman.

George kept moving, head down. The ground tilted once. Then again.

He barely registered the moment his knees buckled — only the flash of bright sky, the hollow rush in his ears, and the dull sound of someone shouting his name.

“George!”

Lando’s voice cracked, sharp with panic. He was already on his knees beside him, fingers fumbling at the zip of George’s race suit.

“Hey! Hey, stay with me, come on—”

Across the paddock, Max’s head snapped up mid-sentence. He didn’t even excuse himself — just shoved the microphone away and broke into a run, his eyes locked on the small knot of people forming around George’s crumpled form.

By the time he reached them, Lando was pale and wide-eyed, shouting for a medic.

“Call an ambulance!” Lando’s voice carried over the noise of the crowd. “Now!”

Max dropped to the ground on the other side, hands hovering over George without knowing where to touch. “What happened?”

“He just— he was walking and—” Lando’s breath came fast.

Then a voice cut through, low but commanding.

“Move.”

Toto Wolff stepped into the circle, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, expression unreadable but all business. He crouched, assessing George in a glance, then looked up at the two of them.

“Step back,” Toto said firmly. “Now.”

“We’re not—” Max started, but Toto’s tone sharpened.

“I will take him to the Mercedes medical centre. You can’t come with us.”

Lando blinked. “Why not?”

“Because a Red Bull driver and a McLaren driver cannot be seen walking into the Mercedes motorhome carrying my driver.” Toto’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “The optics are bad enough as it is.”

Max clenched his jaw, but he didn’t argue further. He knew Toto was right — the paddock fed on whispers, and the sight of them together with George would explode into speculation within minutes.

Two medics arrived with a stretcher, and Toto stepped back just far enough for them to lift George onto it. George’s head lolled slightly to the side, eyes half-closed, skin pale beneath the flush of heat.

Max’s hands curled into fists. Lando just stood there, chest heaving.

Toto gave them both a final look. “Wait here. I’ll update you when I can.”

And then he was gone, striding alongside the medics as they carried George away toward the towering silver motorhome. The crowd closed in again, voices buzzing, cameras flashing, but Max and Lando didn’t move.

They stood side by side in the noise and heat, helpless, watching the only person who could quiet the space between them disappear into a place they couldn’t follow.

 

---

 

The crowd swallowed George whole. The last glimpse Max had of him was the edge of his race suit and the slow sway of the stretcher as it disappeared behind the Mercedes motorhome door. Then the noise of the paddock surged in again — camera shutters, radio chatter, the whir of mechanics pushing cars back into the garages.

Max stood in the middle of it all, frozen. Lando was a half-step to his right, both hands buried in his hair, eyes fixed on the now-closed door.

“Max,” Lando said quietly, like he’d only just realised he was there.

Max didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his breathing sharp in the thick, hot air.

“Should we—” Lando started, but stopped when Max finally moved. He turned on his heel and strode toward the Red Bull hospitality unit, the kind of stride that dared anyone to step in front of him. Lando had to jog to keep up.

Inside, the air-conditioning hit them like a wall. A couple of junior engineers looked up from their laptops, but the expression on Max’s face kept them silent.

He dropped into one of the corner tables, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Lando hovered for a moment, then sat across from him.

“He was fine,” Lando said after a long beat. “Or at least… I thought he was. This morning he was joking with the mechanics, and—”

“Joking doesn’t mean fine.” Max’s voice was flat.

Lando bit his lip. “I know. But… you didn’t see anything either.”

Max’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Don’t try to make this even.”

Lando flinched, then looked away. He could still see the moment in his head — George’s knees folding, the dull thud of his helmet hitting the ground, his face pale under the paddock sun. He’d been talking, laughing even, and then… nothing.

Max sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s been off for weeks.”

“You said yourself he was just being disciplined,” Lando pointed out before he could stop himself.

Max’s glare was immediate. “I didn’t think—” He stopped, the words catching. “I should have seen it.”

The silence stretched. Outside, through the glass, they could see the foot traffic of the paddock — PR people hustling drivers to interviews, team members wheeling equipment, camera crews jostling for a better shot. And looming above it all, the silver Mercedes motorhome, sealed off from them.

Every few minutes, Max’s gaze drifted back to it, like he could will the door to open.

Lando finally leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He didn’t even twitch when Toto told us to stay back. That’s… not normal for him. He would’ve fought that, if he could.”

Max’s fingers drummed once against the table. “That means it’s worse than I thought.”

Minutes crawled. An assistant brought water, which neither of them touched. Lando kept shifting in his seat, glancing at the paddock clock on the far wall. Max was still as stone, every muscle in his body coiled.

“You know they won’t keep us updated right away,” Lando said eventually. “We’re not… family. Not on paper.”

Max’s jaw ticked. “Paper doesn’t matter.”

“It does in this sport.”

That landed heavier than Lando expected. Max’s gaze slid away, back toward the motorhome. “He’s not supposed to be doing this alone.”

Lando almost said he’s not, but the words caught in his throat. Because for all the dinners they shared, for all the easy mornings and tangled evenings, George had been moving through something neither of them had bothered to name.

And now he was behind that door, with only medics and Toto.

The first half hour passed. Then another ten minutes. A media liaison poked their head in to remind Max he’d walked out mid-interview and to see if he was available to finish. The look he gave her sent her back out without another word.

At forty-five minutes, Max stood abruptly, restless energy breaking through. “I’m going to get him.”

“You can’t just—” Lando began.

Max’s eyes cut to him. “Watch me.”

But before he could take more than three steps toward the door, it opened — and Toto stepped inside.

He scanned the room until his gaze landed on them. “He’s stable,” he said without preamble.

The breath Lando hadn’t realised he was holding left him in a rush. Max didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“He’s in the medical bay,” Toto went on. “We’ve given him fluids. Blood sugar was low. He’s exhausted.”

Max’s voice was low but steady. “I want to see him.”

“You can’t. Not here,” Toto said. “The cameras are circling. If either of you walk into Mercedes right now, we’ll have a paddock scandal before nightfall.”

“Let them talk,” Max snapped.

Toto’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t about gossip. It’s about protecting him. You’ll see him after the debrief.”

“That’s hours from now,” Lando said, disbelief edging into his voice.

“I know.” Toto’s gaze softened by a fraction. “He’s sleeping now. He’ll be alright.”

Max’s hands curled into fists again, but he didn’t argue. Lando swallowed, trying to picture George asleep, not sprawled on the hot asphalt with his helmet askew.

Toto gave them both a pointed look. “When you do see him… don’t start a fight about whatever you think you know. Let him breathe first.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door swinging softly behind him.

The hours stretched like rubber bands, tight and thin. Max didn’t sit again — he paced the far side of the hospitality area, every so often glancing toward the Mercedes motorhome as if checking it was still there. Lando sat with his hands clasped, head down, trying to ignore the weight in his chest.

When the debriefs finally ended and the sun dipped lower over the paddock, Toto reappeared. “He’s awake. I’ll send him to you — not here. There’s a quiet exit near the paddock gates.”

Five minutes later, George emerged from between the silver panels, walking slowly, still pale, a hoodie thrown over his race kit. He spotted them instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like relief.

Max closed the distance in three strides, one hand cupping the back of George’s neck, the other steadying his arm.

“You scared the shit out of us,” he muttered.

George’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Lando stepped up, his voice lower than usual. “No, you’re not.”

George looked between them, but whatever reply he might have had died when Max pulled him in, holding him there in the cooling paddock air.

And for the first time all day, George didn’t try to pull away.

The room was quiet except for the soft beeping of a monitor and the low hum of the air conditioning. George sat propped up against a pillow, the colour slowly returning to his face, a thin IV line taped to the back of his hand. Max was in the chair to his left, one arm stretched across the bedrail, fingers loosely curled around George’s wrist. Lando was on the right, sitting forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze flicking between George’s face and the clear drip bag above him.

The door opened, and a woman in a pale blue polo stepped in — her badge reading Dr. Elaine Carter, Mercedes Medical. She scanned the three of them, clipboard in hand.

“I’m looking for George’s family,” she said, voice brisk but not unkind.

George didn’t even hesitate. “They’re right here.” He tilted his head toward Max and Lando, tone certain in a way that left no room for argument.

The doctor’s brow lifted slightly but she nodded. “Alright. Could I speak with them privately?”

George frowned, starting to push himself up, but Max laid a firm hand on his thigh. “We’ll be right outside,” he said quietly.

Lando gave George’s knee a quick squeeze before following Max into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the faint beeping.

Dr. Carter joined them a moment later, expression shifting from professional neutrality to something more serious.

“He’s dehydrated,” she began, “but that’s not the whole picture.” She glanced between them, gauging their focus. “George is also significantly underweight for his height and activity level — enough that it’s affecting his cardiovascular stability. That combination is extremely dangerous, especially in the heat and under high physical stress like a race.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “Dangerous how?”

“In the short term — fainting, which you’ve already seen. In the longer term, we’re talking muscle loss, impaired reaction time, higher risk of heat stroke, cardiac strain. If it continues, it could become life-threatening.”

Lando’s stomach dropped, his voice coming out quieter than intended. “How long…?”

“Hard to say,” the doctor replied. “But given the severity today, this isn’t something that developed overnight. I’d strongly recommend a proper nutritional intervention and rest. And I do mean rest — not training, not simulator work.”

Max stared past her for a long moment, the muscle in his cheek twitching, before looking back. “Can we see him now?”

“Yes,” Dr. Carter said, softening slightly. “Just — keep him calm. He doesn’t need an argument on top of everything else.”

Max didn’t answer, already turning back toward the door. Lando followed, but his mind was still on the words dangerously underweight.

Inside, George was watching them, trying for a smile that didn’t quite land. Max stopped beside the bed, his hand returning to George’s wrist — firmer this time.

And Lando could see it clearly now, under the hoodie and the IV line: the sharpness of his jaw, the way his collarbone stood out in a way it hadn’t months ago.

The pieces slotted together, and Lando didn’t know if he wanted to shake him or just pull him in and not let go.

---

 

The hotel room door shut behind them with a solid click. Max didn’t move away from it for a moment, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on George. Lando slipped past, tossing his keycard onto the desk, his movements deliberately casual — but his gaze was just as sharp.

George hovered near the bed, still in the loose hoodie from the medical centre, hood half-up like he was trying to disappear into it.

Max’s voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft in it. “Sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

George hesitated, but the look on Max’s face brooked no argument. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded between his knees.

Lando moved closer, crouching down so he was level with him. “You scared us today,” he said, his tone gentle but edged with something George hadn’t heard from him in weeks. “Scared the hell out of us, actually.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” George said quickly.

Max’s hand came down on his knee, firm. “No. You’re not.”

George glanced between them, his mouth tightening. “It’s just— part of the job. The weight rules—”

“Don’t,” Max cut in, low and sharp. “Don’t try to sell me the same line you’ve been feeding everyone else.”

Lando straightened, crossing his arms. “The doctor told us what’s going on. You’re dehydrated, dangerously underweight, and you’ve been pushing yourself past your limit for weeks.”

George flinched, but didn’t answer.

Max leaned forward, closing the distance until George had to look at him. “You don’t get to hide this from us. You don’t get to decide we’re better off not knowing.”

George’s voice was small. “I didn’t want to be a problem. Not with everything else going on. You both make weight easy, and—”

Lando’s sigh was sharp, but not unkind. “George. That’s exactly why we should’ve been paying attention. You can’t compare your body to ours. You’re taller, you need more fuel—”

“And you’re ours,” Max said, the words landing heavy between them. “Which means your limits are our responsibility too.”

George’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Max’s hand slid from his knee to the back of his neck, warm and steady, grounding him. “You disappoint me by hiding things. Not by struggling.”

Lando stepped in then, softer but insistent, placing himself just in George’s line of sight. “You’re allowed to need more than you think. And you’re allowed to let us carry some of it.”

George’s throat worked, but no words came.

Max squeezed the back of his neck once, not painfully, but enough to get his attention. “From now on, you eat. You hydrate. You train smart. And if I see you skipping so much as a protein bar on a race weekend, we’re having this conversation again — but louder.”

George let out a shaky breath and nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly under Max’s grip.

Lando perched on the bed beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly. “And I’m cooking. You don’t get a say.”

For the first time all day, George almost smiled. “Bossy.”

“Yeah,” Lando said with a grin. “And you’re going to thank me when you stop feeling like you’re made of paper.”

Max didn’t release the back of George’s neck until he was certain the younger man had heard every word. Then he tugged him forward, letting George fold into his chest like he had after that dinner days ago — only this time, Max wasn’t letting him hide.

Lando slid closer, his arm curling around them both, closing the circle.

“You’re stuck with us,” he said into the quiet. “No more ‘I’m fine.’”

George nodded against Max’s chest, and for the first time in weeks, he believed it.

Chapter 9: Overthinking

Summary:

For catmaugrim-:
Request: Max gets really overwhelmed or anxious about whether or not he is fucking up with George, and George and Lando are reassuring/comforting to him

The press room was bright, uncomfortably so, with the sort of artificial light that made everyone’s faces look pale and slightly too sharp on camera. Max sat in the middle of the table, hands folded loosely, the familiar Red Bull cap shadowing his eyes. George was two seats to his left, in the crisp white of Mercedes, posture perfect, but with that small slant of his shoulders that told Max he was trying to look relaxed.

The questions started innocuously — tyres, track conditions, strategy tweaks for the weekend. Then, as always, someone steered straight for the headline bait.

A reporter with a too-bright smile leaned into their mic. “George, Max — you’ve both been very vocal in the past about… your differences. After Qatar last year, there was that very public disagreement. Have you—” a pause for effect “—fixed everything?”

There was a ripple of soft laughter from the room, and Max could feel the way George’s knee shifted under the table.

George smiled, the sort that reached his eyes because he wanted it to. “Everything is fine,” he said, voice steady. “People argue. We argued. We also sorted it out a long time ago.”

The reporter’s gaze flicked to Max. “Most people find that Max is at fault in these things.”

It was a joke, a throwaway jab designed to get a laugh, but Max felt something tighten in his chest. He managed a smirk for the cameras, but the words stuck, sharp-edged.

George’s tone sharpened, just slightly. “That’s an assumption,” he said evenly. “It’s easy to point fingers from the outside, but you don’t see what happens between us. Max is… Max’s one of the most honest people I know. That’s worth more than always agreeing.”

Max turned his head just enough to catch George’s eye. For a moment, the soulmark on his wrist felt warm — not the burn of argument, but the quiet hum of connection.

The moderator moved them on quickly after that, but the line had already lodged itself somewhere behind Max’s ribs. Most people find that Max is at fault.

By the time they filed out of the conference room, George had his cap pulled low, his lips pushing into a pout. “They always have to bring that up, don’t they?”

Max let out a low hum, the sound halfway to agreement, halfway to distraction.

“It’s ancient history,” George went on, matching his stride to Max’s. “We’ve been fine for ages. They just want the drama.”

Max glanced at him. “You handled it.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” George said, and then, softer, “But thanks.” He stepped a little closer, shoulder brushing Max’s arm, and when Max didn’t pull away, George took it as invitation, hooking his fingers into the back of Max’s sleeve.

The hallway was crowded — media, PR handlers, engineers — but George stayed pressed in against him, leaning just enough to be an irritant to anyone trying to squeeze past.

Max could have told him to walk properly. Instead, he let the corner of his mouth turn up, indulging the clinginess. George only got like this when he felt cornered, and Max had learned not to swat away comfort disguised as teasing.

They were nearly at the end of the corridor when it happened. A voice, low but not low enough, drifting from a knot of people standing near a side door.

“George looks worn down — wonder if it’s Verstappen pushing him too hard again.”

The words weren’t even aimed at him. They weren’t meant to carry. But they did.

Max didn’t react outwardly — years of PR training and his own stubborn pride kept him moving, kept his expression even. George was still pouting beside him, tugging at his sleeve, muttering something about how the Mercedes comms team needed to be less boring in their prep notes.

But Max’s mind had already caught on the statement like a wheel snagging on kerb.

Worn down.

Pushing him too hard again.

Again.

In the car on the way back to the paddock, George sprawled in the seat beside him, legs stretched out, occasionally tapping his foot against Max’s. He was in full post-conference vent mode, complaining about one reporter’s phrasing, about another team’s smugness in the drivers’ parade. Max made all the right noises at the right times, even looked over once to throw him a faint smirk.

But in his head, it wasn’t George’s voice he was hearing. It was that other one, the throwaway comment.

He started replaying Qatar in his mind — the sharp words, the tension in their body language, the way George had looked at him after that first collision. Then other moments surfaced, smaller but no less sharp: post-race debriefs where George had sat too stiff, training sessions where he’d rubbed at his shoulder but said he was fine, brief silences after disagreements that Max had let stretch too long before breaking them.

Had he been too hard on him lately? Was George’s clinginess after the conference a way to make peace, or a quiet plea for reassurance he hadn’t realised he needed?

By the time they reached the paddock, Max’s thoughts were a loop he couldn’t step out of.

George, oblivious to the spiral, bounded out of the car and fell into step beside him again, still talking. Max kept pace, the corners of his mouth soft when George looked up at him, but his chest felt tight.

Because the thing was — he had pushed George before. Not always intentionally, but he knew his own drive could be relentless, that his standards could be unyielding. And while George could match him in stubbornness, could bite back with the best of them, he also… yielded. Sometimes too easily.

And what if George’s smiles now, his pouts and clinging, were just ways of smoothing over something Max hadn’t noticed he’d done wrong?

In the Red Bull motorhome, the noise of the paddock dulled behind closed doors. Max stood for a moment in the quiet, helmet still in his hand, trying to shake it off. George had gone ahead to meet his engineers, tossing a half-smile over his shoulder as he went.

He’s fine. That’s what George had said to the press. That’s what George always said.

But Max remembered the exact shape of the frown on George’s face when the reporter had implied he was always at fault. He remembered the quiet that had followed some of their harder days before Lando was in the picture. He remembered — unhelpfully — how it had felt in those days to realise George had pulled back from him, even just slightly.

The thought looped again and again through the rest of the afternoon. In briefings, he caught himself staring at the wall, hearing echoes instead of the actual conversation. In the gym, he went through the motions without the sharp focus that usually anchored him.

By the time evening came, Lando had joined them for dinner, leaning over the table to flick a pea at George for some crime Max hadn’t caught. They were bickering in that easy, affectionate way they had, and Max smiled when he was supposed to — but the coil in his chest didn’t unwind.

Because the truth was, the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t shake the fear that maybe that throwaway comment wasn’t wrong. Maybe he was wearing George down without even seeing it. And if that was true, what did it say about him — about them — that George hadn’t told him?

That night, he lay in bed with George pressed up against one side and Lando on the other, both of them half-asleep. He should have felt grounded, surrounded by the two people he trusted most. Instead, he stared into the dark, the weight of that voice — wonder if it’s Verstappen pushing him too hard again — still lodged in his head.

And he wondered, for the first time in a long time, if he really was as good for George as he wanted to be.

 

---

 

It started subtly.
At first, neither of them could pin it down — just a faint change in the rhythm of their days.

Max had always been steady, the gravitational pull in the middle of their strange little orbit. He was the one who took the lead in training sessions, who teased George out of his sulks, who met Lando’s sarcasm with an arched brow and a half-smile that usually got them moving again. He could be blunt, yes, but there was always an underlying certainty in the way he touched, spoke, directed.

Now, though… now, there were gaps.

On Thursday, in the gym, George was on the treadmill and Max was beside him, timing intervals. Normally Max would match pace or push him with a sharp, “Come on, one more minute.” But halfway through the second set, Max’s attention drifted. He was looking at George’s form, but not really — his gaze unfocused, his jaw tight.

“Max?” George prompted, breath coming in steady bursts.

Max blinked. “Yeah. Good. Keep going.” His voice was quieter than it should have been, not the steady push George was used to.

Later, when they moved to weights, Max reached out to correct George’s grip — then hesitated, his fingers hovering for a second before pulling back entirely.

George frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Max’s mouth pressed flat. “I just—don’t want to push you too far.”

The words landed oddly, too soft, as if they’d been sanded down before leaving his mouth.

George glanced across the room. Lando was stretching by the mirror, but he caught George’s eye in the reflection. They both knew it: this wasn’t Max’s usual grounded confidence. This was… caution. And caution was not Max.

 

---

Over the next two days, the pattern deepened.
Max still joined them for meals, but he picked at his plate more, like his mind was elsewhere. In the motorhome between briefings, he’d go quiet mid-conversation, eyes unfocused as if replaying something only he could see.

Lando noticed the way Max’s shoulders carried tension even when he was sitting still, like he was bracing for an impact that never came. He noticed the way Max lingered just out of arm’s reach sometimes — not far enough to be obvious, but enough that you’d have to lean in to close the space.

George noticed other things — the way Max avoided holding his gaze in debriefs, or the fact that he’d started apologising for small, inconsequential things. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump you. Sorry, I’ll move. Sorry, I didn’t hear you.

It was strange enough that George started testing it. Brushing past him deliberately, to see if Max would step into him like usual. He didn’t. He stepped back instead, offering a murmured sorry that made George’s stomach twist.

It came to a head at dinner.

The three of them were at home — or as close to home as they ever got during the season — gathered around the table. Lando was talking through some ridiculous story about a sim session, George was rolling his eyes but smiling, and Max was… quiet.

Not his usual, content kind of quiet. This was the kind where his fork stalled halfway to his mouth, where his gaze dropped to the table, where his shoulders were tight enough that Lando could see it even from across the table.

George reached over without thinking, fingers brushing Max’s knee under the table. Usually, Max would squeeze back or rest his hand over George’s in return. This time, he jerked back, muttering, “I don’t want to—” He cut himself off, but the words had already started.

George narrowed his eyes. “Don’t want to what?”

Max shook his head, a little too fast. “Push you too far.”

There was a beat of silence.

George looked at Lando. Lando looked back. The exchange was brief but loaded: You’re seeing this too, right?

Because whatever this was — this was not Max.

 

---

 

Movie night should have been easy.
It was the one thing they could count on during the chaos of the season — a soft landing in the middle of travel, training, and press conferences. A blanket on the couch, snacks within reach, lights dimmed.

But tonight, Max lingered in the background.

George and Lando were curled up together on the couch, half-wrapped in the big grey blanket they’d stolen from Max’s place in Monaco. Lando had his head tilted toward George, saying something that made George laugh — the kind of laugh that lit his whole face and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Max’s chest ached at the sound.
Normally, he would have been there with them, sliding onto the couch, dropping a teasing remark about Lando’s ridiculous sense of humour, pressing a kiss to George’s temple just to make him blush. He would have gathered them both in, claiming his spot as the grounding weight between them.

Now… he wasn’t sure.

The doubt had been gnawing at him for days. What if George didn’t want him there? What if his presence would feel like an intrusion instead of comfort? What if—what if he was already too much, always too much, and stepping in now would just confirm it?

He stood there too long, indecision coiling tight in his chest.

A sound broke through his thoughts — a soft, broken breath.
Max’s head snapped up.

George’s eyes were wide, his lips parted in a silent o. The expression was one Max knew intimately, one he’d seen in the quiet edges of their scenes together: George was deep in subspace.

His gaze found Max instantly.
Those long, elegant fingers lifted — reaching, grasping at the air in a small, desperate motion.

“Maxie…” The word was barely there, more exhaled than spoken.

Lando glanced at George and his whole expression softened into something tender. He reached for him immediately, cooing quietly, “C’mere, Georgie.” He guided George into his lap with easy familiarity, adjusting the blanket around him, rubbing his back.

Then Lando’s eyes flicked up, meeting Max’s. “Come on, hon. Join us.” His tone was light, inviting — like he didn’t even have to think about it, like it was obvious Max belonged here.

But Max stayed frozen.

George — his sub — was still reaching for him, even as Lando settled him in. His hands flexed weakly, searching the space Max should have already crossed. His lips trembled, eyes glassy and wet.

And Max… didn’t move.

His feet felt cemented to the floor, mind screaming at him to go, to take George’s hands, to anchor him the way only he could. But that other voice — the one that had been gnawing at him since the press conference — told him maybe George was better off without him smothering, controlling, pushing.

“Max,” Lando said again, more firmly this time. “Come over here.”

Max’s teeth ground together. His jaw ached with it.

He didn’t move.

George’s eyes shimmered, tears welling until they slipped free. His breath hitched, shoulders curling in. That small, wounded sound he made twisted something sharp in Max’s chest.

Lando reacted instantly, pulling George into his chest, tucking his face into his neck. “Hey, shh. It’s okay, love. Max is just busy,” he murmured, soothing, rocking them gently.

The words were for George, but they landed like a punch to Max’s ribs. Busy. That’s what it looked like — not hesitation, not fear, just indifference.

Max clenched his teeth harder, turned on his heel, and walked away before the tightness in his chest could crack him open in front of them.

He didn’t let himself look back, but the sound followed him anyway — George’s muffled sniffling, small and raw, filling the penthouse even after the door to the hallway shut behind him.

 

---

 

The penthouse was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet — the brittle kind, the kind that hummed against Max’s skin until it felt like static under his ribs.

He sat in his study, lights dim, staring at the same line of text on his laptop for the past half-hour without absorbing a word. The glow of the screen didn’t help the ache behind his eyes.

His wrist burned.

Not literally, but the sting of his soul mark had been pulsing in a dull, insistent throb for the last fifteen minutes. That was how it worked — a soulmate’s pain, emotional or physical, bled through in these strange, tangible ways. And right now, George was hurting.

Max knew it.
Max felt it.

And he ignored it.

Because if he let himself go there — if he walked out of this study and saw George’s face still blotchy from crying, still needing the comfort Max had refused earlier — he wasn’t sure he could survive the look in his eyes.

The door to the study swung open without a knock.

“Okay,” Lando said, stepping inside with that tight, clipped tone he used when he was trying not to shout. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Max didn’t look up. “I’m working.”

“No, you’re hiding,” Lando snapped. He came closer, planting himself just far enough away to block Max’s line of sight to the door. “George was reaching for you, mate. He—fuck—he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded and you walked away.”

Max’s jaw flexed. “He doesn’t always need to be coddled. He’s not five.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up, disbelief flashing in his face. “Really? That’s your excuse?”

Max didn’t mean it. God, of course he didn’t mean it. George was… everything. He was the partner fate had carved into Max’s skin before he’d ever seen his face. Even through their worst fights — the kind that tore at the edges of both of them — Max had never doubted that George was the most important thing in his life.

Maybe more than Lando.

The thought was ugly, and it hurt to think it, but it was true. George was the person destiny had chosen for him. Lando… Lando was the choice they’d made together. And Max loved them both fiercely.

But George’s place in his life — in his soul — was written in something deeper than choice.

Which only made it worse that Max couldn’t bring himself to cross the room earlier.

“You know what?” Lando’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and angry now. “I don’t believe you. That whole ‘he doesn’t need to be coddled’ crap? That’s not you. You coddle him without thinking. You’re good at it. So what the hell happened?”

Max’s eyes flicked up, meeting Lando’s for the first time since he’d walked in. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Lando threw his hands up, pacing a sharp line across the study. “You’ve been walking around like you’ve got a boulder on your chest for days. You’re quiet, you’re jumpy, and now you’re avoiding him. And you think I’m just gonna let you sit here and—”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it,” Max cut in, the words harder than he meant them to be.

Lando stopped pacing. His expression softened, frustration folding into something more raw. “Then… let me help. Let ushelp. That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? You’ve got two people who love you, and you’re acting like you’re completely alone in this.”

Max looked back down at his laptop, even though the words on the screen blurred. “It’s not something you can help with.”

“Bullshit.” Lando’s voice cracked with the force of it. “You’re scaring him, Max. Do you get that? George has been… off since Qatar, and now the one person who can usually pull him back is acting like he’s poison. And I don’t know why, because you won’t fucking tell me.”

The soul mark burned again, sharper this time. Max’s hand twitched, resisting the urge to rub at it.

He could tell Lando that he was overthinking. That one stupid comment at a press conference had dug in and festered until he wasn’t sure if every moment he spent with George was just another step toward hurting him.

But saying it out loud felt dangerous — because what if it was true? What if admitting it made it real?

Lando took a step closer, his voice lower now. “You’ve got to let us in. Please. Because whatever this is… it’s not just yours to carry. That’s not how this works. You don’t get to shut us out when you’re scared.”

Max’s throat felt tight. “I’m not scared.”

“Yeah,” Lando said quietly, “you are. You’re terrified. And you’re so busy trying to control it that you’re losing him in the process.”

The words landed like a weight in Max’s chest, heavy and suffocating. He clenched his jaw, kept his gaze fixed on the desk.

“Fine,” Lando said after a long silence, his tone bitter now. “Keep your secrets. But don’t expect me to stand here and watch you push him away.”

He left without slamming the door, but the soft click of it closing was somehow worse.

Max sat there, staring at nothing, the sting of his soul mark pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

George was hurting.
And Max… still wasn’t moving.

 

---

 

The door slammed harder than Max intended, the sound ricocheting through the penthouse. His jaw was already aching from clenching it all the way from the paddock.

Another wasted day. Another set of meetings where every word felt like throwing stones into a black hole. The car wasn’t where it needed to be, the upgrades had been delayed again, and his engineers had that tight, over-polite tone that meant they didn’t agree with him but weren’t willing to admit it.

He dropped his keys on the table with a clatter and yanked his jacket off.

Before he could even take a step toward the kitchen, George appeared from the hallway.

His hair was mussed like he’d been lying down, and his soul mark — the same one Max felt burning under his own sleeve — peeked out faintly against his collar. His expression was warm, relieved. He came straight to Max, looping his arms around his back in a hug without hesitation.

Max’s chest tightened, instinct screaming at him to hold George back. To breathe him in and let the tension bleed away.

Instead, he stepped back.

The move was small — a subtle shift, a hand against George’s shoulder to break the contact — but the hurt in George’s eyes was immediate.

“What’s wrong?” George asked, brows knitting.

“I’m just—” Max exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not now.”

George’s arms dropped to his sides. “Right. Not now.” His tone was clipped, but there was an undercurrent of something quieter, more wounded.

“I’m not in the mood,” Max muttered, moving toward the kitchen.

“That’s not the same thing as ‘not now,’ Max,” George shot back, following him. “Not now means later. This—” He gestured vaguely toward Max’s retreating back. “—this feels like you don’t even want me near you.”

Max stopped in the middle of the kitchen, his fingers curling into fists. “I said I’m not in the mood. Can you respect that?”

The air between them started to buzz, sharp and brittle.

George crossed his arms. “Funny how it’s always me being told to respect your moods. What about mine?”

Max’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t about you.”

George scoffed, taking a step forward. “Oh, it’s never about me, is it? Not until you’ve decided it’s time to talk. Until then, I’m supposed to just… sit there, keep quiet, and not notice when you’re shutting me out?”

Footsteps padded in from the living room.

“What’s going on?” Lando’s voice slid into the tension, light at first, but there was a careful note under it. He glanced between them, eyes flicking from George’s rigid shoulders to Max’s set jaw. “You two are—”

“We’re fine,” Max bit out.

“Doesn’t look fine,” Lando said, moving closer. “Looks like the kind of fine that ends in one of you sleeping in the guest room.”

George’s lips pressed into a tight line, but he didn’t disagree.

“I’m not doing this tonight,” Max muttered, turning away.

“You already are,” George snapped. His voice cracked — just enough for Max to feel the echo of it in his own chest, the bond between them tugging painfully. “You think I don’t feel it when you pull away? When you stop touching me like I’m…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Max’s temper flared, not at George, but at himself. At the gnawing pit in his stomach that had been festering since that damn press conference. “Maybe I’m pulling away because I am too much! Because I’m—”

“Max,” Lando warned, sensing where he was going.

“No, he clearly wants to know!” Max’s voice rose. “I’m controlling, alright? I’m bad for him. And if it weren’t for you—” he turned to Lando “—he’d have left me a long time ago.”

The words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion.

George blinked, his expression a mix of disbelief and hurt. “What?”

Max’s chest heaved. “You heard me.”

George stepped closer until he was in Max’s space, until Max had no choice but to meet his eyes. His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge of urgency in it. “You think I’m here because Lando’s some sort of buffer? That I’m tolerating you?”

“I—” Max started, but George didn’t let him finish.

“I choose you,” George said, each word deliberate, like he was hammering them into the air between them. “Every day. Even when we fight. Even when you’re a stubborn, moody arsehole who won’t talk to me. I still choose you.”

Max swallowed hard, but George didn’t move back.

Physical touch was George’s language — the way he grounded Max when the edges started to fray. He closed the gap, pressing their foreheads together, his hands finding Max’s hips like he was reeling him back in.

“You are not bad for me,” George said quietly. “You make me better. You make us better. Don’t twist that into something ugly just because some idiot at a press conference made a comment.”

Behind them, Lando leaned on the counter, his voice softer now. “He’s right, Max. We trust you. And if something was actually wrong — if you were pushing too hard — we’d tell you.”

Max’s breath caught, his grip on George’s waist tightening.

“You’ve got to stop acting like you’re one mistake away from losing us,” Lando continued. “We’re not glass. And you’re not… whatever nightmare version of yourself you’ve built in your head.”

George smiled faintly, still close enough that Max could feel the curve of it against his cheek. “You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to have bad days. You’re even allowed to piss me off. That’s part of being with someone — you’re not supposed to be perfect.”

Max let out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to George’s.

Lando, sensing the air starting to shift, grinned. “Besides, if being a little bossy was a dealbreaker, neither of us would still be here.”

That earned the smallest huff of laughter from Max, and the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction.

George pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Stop looking for reasons we shouldn’t work. Start remembering why we do.”

Max’s chest ached, but it wasn’t the suffocating kind anymore. It was the kind that came from holding something too precious too tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words quiet but genuine.

“Good,” Lando said lightly, pushing off the counter. “Now come on — dinner’s getting cold, and I’m not reheating it twice just because you two needed to have a dramatic heart-to-heart.”

George rolled his eyes, but his hand stayed on Max’s, fingers lacing. “We’re not done talking. But we’ll talk while we eat.”

For the first time in a week, Max didn’t feel the urge to pull away.

 

---

 

The sharp edges of earlier had dulled, but the apartment still carried the ghost of tension. Lando must have felt it too, because after dinner — eaten with George stubbornly seated right against Max’s side — he disappeared for a moment and came back with the car keys.

“Come on,” Lando said simply. “Out.”

Max frowned. “Out where?”

“You’ll see.”

The streets were quiet at this hour, lit by the orange glow of streetlamps. Lando drove without any hurry, the windows cracked enough to let in the cool night air. George sat in the back at first, then leaned forward so he could rest his chin on Max’s shoulder from behind.

They didn’t talk much — not about racing, not about press conferences, not about anything heavy. Lando hummed along to whatever low playlist he’d put on. George traced idle patterns along Max’s arm with his fingertips.

It was… easy. Easier than it had been in days.

By the time they returned to the penthouse, the heaviness in Max’s chest had shifted — not gone, but less jagged.

The three of them ended up on the sofa, no discussion about where anyone would sit. George slid in against Max’s right side, tucking himself under Max’s arm like he belonged there — because he did. Lando dropped onto the other side, his legs tangled over both of theirs, leaning in so Max was bracketed between them.

The weight of them — the solid, warm presence of them — was grounding.

For a long moment, Max just sat there, letting it sink in. Letting them sink in.

Eventually, he said quietly, “You know… part of being a dom, at least in my head, means I’m not supposed to show doubt. Not supposed to let you see me… scared.”

George tilted his head to look at him. “Why?”

Max shrugged slightly, eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the room. “Because if I do, it feels like I’m failing you. Like I’m not… strong enough.”

George’s hand found his, squeezing. “For me, trust isn’t about you being unshakable. It’s knowing you’ll tell us when you’re not okay. That you’ll let us see it so we can actually be there for you.”

Lando made a small sound of agreement, his forehead pressing briefly to Max’s temple. “Also,” he said with a grin Max could hear in his voice, “you’re terrible at hiding it anyway. Seriously. You go all quiet and broody and it’s basically a neon sign.”

That earned a short laugh from Max — not a forced one, but the real kind that loosened something in his chest.

The conversation drifted after that. Lando kept leaning in to steal the blanket George had claimed. George kept subtly adjusting so more of his weight rested against Max. It didn’t feel like they were holding him down — it felt like they were holding him together.

At some point, the quiet turned into the steady rhythm of their breathing. Max realized he’d gone from sitting stiffly between them to slumping, his head resting back, the knot in his shoulders finally easing.

There was a warmth in his wrist — not just the faint hum of the soul mark that had been there since the bond formed, but a deeper pulse. Steady. Present.

It had been weak for days, dulled by distance and self-imposed walls. Now, it thrummed, matched to the heartbeat under his own skin.

He glanced at George, who had his eyes half-closed but was watching him with that same quiet, unwavering look. Lando, sprawled on the other side, gave him a lazy smile that somehow still said we’ve got you.

“I love you,” George said softly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “More than anything.”

“Same here,” Lando added without missing a beat, his tone light but the words weighted with truth. “Both of us. More than anything.”

Max’s throat tightened, but not from fear this time. He didn’t trust his voice, so he just squeezed their hands — one in each of his — and let himself breathe.

By the time he drifted off, tangled up in both of them, his mark was still warm, and his breathing was deep and even in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

Chapter 10: Crash

Summary:

For C4RN4VAL-:
Request: russtappen crash during the race, and max absolutely losing it, and lando being the one to comfort george

The Mercedes garage was a storm of controlled chaos — engineers leaning over monitors, strategists murmuring to each other, the constant hum of data streams and the roar of engines on the live feed.

George’s telemetry flashed green on the central screen.

“He’s closing.” Marcus’s voice was low but urgent, eyes locked on the sector delta. “Gap to Oscar: 0.7 seconds. You’re in DRS range this lap.”

On the track, George’s silver W15 was glued to the back of Oscar Piastri’s McLaren, the papaya rear wing looming larger through the on-board camera. The high-pitched whine of the Mercedes’ hybrid unit was a predator’s hum.

“George, you are free to race.” Marcus’s voice crackled over the radio. “Oscar’s tyres are six laps older — take your chance clean.”

“Copy,” George replied, tone clipped, focused. His visor hid the tight set of his jaw, the way his pulse thundered in his ears.

Turn 1 came and went. Piastri defended hard into Turn 3, forcing George to the outside. But George held his nerve, brake bias nudged rearward, the car twitching under him. Through Turn 4’s exit, he got the better launch, DRS flap opening, and by the time they reached Turn 5 he was already alongside.

He made it stick.

From the garage, Marcus allowed himself the smallest nod. “Nice move, mate. Well done. Gap to Max ahead is 2.4 seconds. He’s on similar tyres. Let’s hunt him down.”

Two-point-four seconds.

George barely heard the applause from the engineers. The only thing he could focus on was the glint of the RB21 up ahead. Max. Leading the race. Always just out of reach.

This wasn’t just about points. Wasn’t about the championship table. He needed to beat him — for himself, for the narrative that painted him always second-best to Red Bull’s golden boy.

“You’re matching Max’s pace in Sector 1.” Marcus again, measured and calm. “Gap is now 1.9. Keep it tidy.”

George pushed harder. Over kerbs, brushing track limits. Every microsecond gained in braking zones felt like a stolen coin in a high-stakes game. The delta dipped again — 1.6, then 1.4.

Red Bull Garage – Live Feed

“Max, George is closing. Gap 1.4. Don’t take risks with the tyres.” GP’s voice was calm, though the tension was there under the surface.

“Copy. If he wants it, he’s gonna have to work for it,” Max replied, jaw tight, eyes narrowed behind his visor. His hands on the wheel were steady — the calm of a man used to defending a lead.

Lap 48.

George could smell it now. The slipstream. The faint drag reduction on the straights. Max’s car weaving just enough to cover lines, his brake lights flaring earlier than George expected.

They weren’t aggressive in intent — not like some of their old wheel-to-wheel duels — but the pace was ferocious.

Marcus came through again. “Gap 0.5. He’ll defend. Remember the exit onto the straight is your best chance.”

George saw it — a half-car length of space on the inside into Turn 10. He went for it, brake pedal stabbing late.

Max cut across, defensive but clean.

The gap closed too quickly.

George’s front wing clipped Max’s rear tyre.

The contact snapped both cars sideways.

The world spun in a violent ballet of carbon fibre and screeching metal.

George’s Mercedes speared toward the barrier, the nose punching through the TecPro with a sickening crunch. His head jerked forward, HANS device biting into his collarbones.

Max’s Red Bull rolled into the gravel, bouncing once before coming to rest in a spray of dust and pebbles.Max’s voice exploded through comms: “What the fuck?! What the actual FUCK was that?! Who— which fucking idiot just—”

GP’s reply was reluctant. “…George.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then Max’s voice dropped, venomous. “Are you kidding me?! My boyfriend just ruined my fucking race?!”

Max tore at his belts, shoving the steering wheel aside. He was out of the car before the marshals reached him, helmet still on, fury in every line of his body.

Across the gravel, George was limping out of the wreckage, one hand clutching his ribs. His helmet turned toward Max, visor hiding his expression.

“What the hell was that?!” Max’s shout cut through the chaos, his accent thicker with rage. He closed the distance in heavy strides, gesturing wildly. “You dive-bombed me for that?!”

George’s voice was muffled under the helmet. “I— it was— the gap was—”

Max shoved him. Not hard — nowhere near what he might have done to another driver in this moment — but enough to send the message.

“You don’t send it like that on me, George! You don’t.”

If it weren’t his soulmate standing there, shaking and limping, he might’ve thrown a punch.

Max’s hands clenched into fists. His whole body screamed for release, the old instinct to slam him back against the barrier and let the fury land where it wanted. If it had been anyone else, they’d already be on the ground.

But it wasn’t anyone else.

It was George. His soulmate.

The only thing holding him back from crossing that final line was the thin thread of that bond.

Marshals swarmed in, hands on both their arms. “Alright, calm down, gentlemen, calm down.”

Max yanked his arm free, chest heaving, eyes still locked on George like the race was still on.

George looked back once, visor reflecting the sunlight, and then turned away, following the medical marshal toward the car for checks.

Max stayed rooted in the gravel, helmet finally tilting up toward the sky, breath ragged in his ears.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, under the fury, there was the faintest sting in his wrist — his soul mark — and he hated that it meant George was hurting.

But right now, the anger burned brighter.

 

---

 

Max stalked through the paddock like a storm contained in human form. Red Bull PR tried to intercept him before the media pen — phones out, hands raised in a warning gesture.

“Max, you can’t—”

“Not now.” His voice was sharp enough to cut glass. He didn’t slow down. The media calls of ‘Max! Over here! What happened out there?’ bounced off his back.

He wasn’t interested in soundbites or damage control. The only thing in his head was the replay of George’s nose diving into his rear tyre, the violent spin, the fact it was him. His own soulmate.

Mercedes Medical Unit – 10 Minutes Later

George sat on the examination table, race suit unzipped to his waist, undershirt damp with sweat. His helmet sat abandoned on a chair in the corner. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and tyre rubber — a strange mix of hospital and racetrack.

The team doctor flipped through telemetry and crash data on a tablet. “Impact registered at fifty-five G. That’s… significant.”

George winced. He’d felt it — the way the barrier had stopped the car dead and let all that force pour into him.

“We’re keeping you here for observation. You’ve got a mild concussion — grade one. No loss of consciousness, but you’re going to feel off for a few days. Light sensitivity, headaches, that sort of thing. No strenuous activity.” The doctor’s tone left no room for negotiation.

George sighed, nodding. “Understood.” He was no stranger to injury briefings, but hearing concussion still made his stomach twist.

“Hydrate, rest, and for God’s sake, don’t get in a simulator for at least a week,” the doctor added, tapping the notes into George’s medical file.

When the door finally shut, George reached for his phone on the side table. The screen lit up with no new messages from Max.

Of course.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard, before finally typing:

I’m sorry. I went for a gap I thought was there. Misjudged the braking point. Didn’t mean to ruin your race.

His finger lingered over the send button for a beat longer than necessary. He could already imagine Max’s face, the unreadable quiet or the dangerous edge in his voice.

He hit send anyway.

The phone screen dimmed again, leaving him staring at his own faint reflection — visorless, hair damp, eyes still dazed from the crash.

He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly, the distant hum of the paddock muffled by the medical room’s thick door.

Somewhere out there, Max was either still furious… or already starting to overthink in that dangerous silence George had learned to dread.

 

---

 

Lando’s race had ended in the pits with a mechanical failure that made his blood boil. But as soon as he stepped out of the car and stripped off his gloves, his mind had been somewhere else entirely.

George.

By the time he made it across the paddock, McLaren PR calling after him in vain, the Mercedes motorhome was quiet — the kind of quiet that followed a bad afternoon.

Inside the medical unit, George sat on a bench along the wall, still in his race gear, fireproof undershirt clinging to him. His posture was all wrong for him — shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between them like the weight of the world was hanging off his fingertips.

He didn’t even notice Lando come in.

Without saying anything, Lando walked over and sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing. He didn’t look at George straight away. Didn’t ask the question that every journalist and fan was already screaming online.

Instead, he twisted the cap off a chilled bottle of water and pressed it into George’s hand.

“Breathe,” Lando said simply.

George blinked, slow, as if coming back from far away. His fingers curled around the bottle but didn’t lift it yet.

Lando leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, eyes fixed on the opposite side of the room. “You’re still here, so I’m guessing the doctors didn’t tell you you’re dying?”

George gave the smallest huff of air — not quite a laugh, but enough to prove he’d heard. “Grade one concussion. Told me to take it easy.” His voice was quiet, rough-edged.

“Then that’s what you’re going to do,” Lando replied, no room for argument.

George twisted the bottle cap idly in his hands, eyes dropping back to the floor. “Max must be furious.”

Lando didn’t sugarcoat it. “Yeah. He is.”

George swallowed, throat bobbing. “I texted him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing yet.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, just… steady. Lando didn’t push. He let it breathe, the faint hum of the paddock filtering in through the walls.

Finally, George took a sip of water. “I thought the gap was there, Lan. I really did.”

“I know.” Lando’s tone was certain — not dismissive, not pitying. “But right now, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. You need to not pass out on me.”

George closed his eyes, head tipping back against the wall. “I’m so tired.”

“I’ll sit here,” Lando said. “You can just… be.”

They stayed like that — shoulder to shoulder, the water bottle cool in George’s hands, the noise of the track reduced to a dull background hum.

And for the first time since the crash, George didn’t feel quite so much like he was falling apart alone.

The water bottle was halfway drained by the time George spoke again. His voice was low, each word shaped like it cost him something to push it out.

“I should’ve left him more space.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. George’s hands were turning the bottle over and over, like he could wring the crash out of his memory if he just kept moving.

A pause.

“I should’ve backed off sooner,” George said, softer. “Waited for another chance. I—” He broke off, his jaw clenching. “He’s going to hate me again.”

The word again hung there, unsteady.

Lando exhaled slowly, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. “George—”

“I ruined his race, Lan. We were one-two. He was leading. He had it in the bag.” George’s eyes were fixed somewhere on the floor, unblinking, as though he could still see the gap closing, the nose of his car coming up on the Red Bull’s gearbox. “And then I—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head, the heat in his voice replaced by something colder. “I’m such an idiot.”

“That’s not—”

“I am.” George’s laugh was brittle, like it hurt coming out. “We’ve worked so hard, you know? Him and me. And today… I made him look like a fool out there.”

“You didn’t—”

“He’s going to hate me,” George said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true.

Lando turned toward him fully, cutting him off with a quiet firmness that didn’t leave much room to keep spiraling. “George. Look at me.”

It took a few seconds, but George finally lifted his head.

“One race,” Lando said, keeping his tone steady, “doesn’t undo everything you two have built. Not in the car, and definitely not outside it.”

George’s brow furrowed, like he wanted to believe him but didn’t know how.

Lando went on. “Max is pissed right now, yeah. You’d be pissed if it was the other way around.”

George’s lips pressed together.

“But Max doesn’t hate you,” Lando said, leaning back just slightly. “You don’t go from loving someone that much to hating them because of one mistake.”

George looked away, his shoulders still tight. “You don’t know him when he’s angry.”

“I do,” Lando countered. “Better than most people.” His voice softened. “And I also know he’d have walked over here already if he really wanted to throw you away over this.”

That seemed to land. Not fully, but enough that George stopped twisting the bottle in his hands.

Lando pushed himself up from the bench without warning, disappearing toward the small catering table in the corner of the Mercedes motorhome. George frowned faintly, tracking him with tired eyes.

A moment later, Lando was back, holding out a small plate — half a sandwich, some fruit, and a couple of oat bars.

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, I know, you’re not hungry,” Lando said, cutting him off as he pushed the plate toward him. “Eat anyway.”

George gave him a faint, flat look.

“Head injuries need fuel,” Lando said simply. “So do guilt spirals.”

It wasn’t really an argument, but George still huffed a little under his breath. “You sound like my trainer.”

“Your trainer’s not here. I am. Eat.”

The protest was half-hearted at best. George took the plate, picking at the sandwich first. He ate in small, slow bites, like he was going through the motions more than anything, but he ate.

Lando didn’t press conversation. He just sat back, one foot tapping idly against the floor, eyes flicking between George and the muted TV mounted in the corner. The race replay was looping already — and every time their crash came up, Lando glanced away so George wouldn’t have to see him watching it.

When George finished most of the plate, Lando finally said, “Do you want me to go find Max? Bring him here so you two can talk?”

George shook his head almost immediately. “Not now. He needs time.”

“You sure?”

George’s eyes softened, in that way they only did when he was talking about Max. “Yeah. If I push him right now, it’ll just… make it worse.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Alright.”

So instead of chasing Max down, Lando stayed exactly where he was. When the Mercedes press officer came by to remind George about media duties, Lando stepped in without hesitation. “He’s not talking to anyone today. Not happening.”

The woman looked ready to argue until she caught sight of the bandage above George’s brow and the way he still leaned back against the wall like standing too quickly would be a bad idea. She backed off with a curt nod.

They waited until the paddock thinned, the sun dipping lower behind the grandstands. Only then did Lando nudge George’s arm lightly. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

George didn’t protest.

The walk to the hotel was quiet — deliberately so. Lando kept himself between George and the handful of fans still lingering by the fences, head down, sunglasses shielding them both from the curious glances. When a couple of photographers tried to close in, Lando’s glare and a muttered “not today” were enough to make them back off.

By the time they reached the hotel lobby, the tension in George’s shoulders had eased a fraction.

“See?” Lando said as they stepped into the lift. “No press, no fans, no drama. Just you and a very comfortable bed upstairs.”

George’s lips tugged upward at the corners — the ghost of a smile. “Thanks, Lan.”

Lando shrugged lightly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

And though George’s chest still felt heavy, and Max was still nowhere in sight, the quiet weight of Lando’s presence made the walk upstairs feel a little less like punishment and a little more like safety.

---

It was close to midnight when the hotel room door clicked open.

George had been lying there for hours, eyes fixed on the dim outline of the ceiling. Lando was draped half over him, dead asleep, the slow weight of his breathing a steady anchor.

But George wasn’t sleeping. Not with the crash still replaying in his mind every time he closed his eyes. Not with the unanswered text to Max sitting heavy in his phone.

The sound of the lock turning made him tense.

The door opened, the narrow spill of light from the hallway framing a familiar silhouette.

Max.

Even in the shadows, George could see the tight set of his jaw, the stiffness in the way he carried himself. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, his hair slightly disheveled — like he’d run a hand through it a thousand times since the race.

He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

For a moment, Max just stood there, looking at the bed. His gaze lingered on Lando curled up against George, then slid up to meet George’s eyes.

The simmering tension was still there — but it broke almost instantly when he saw that George was awake.

Something in Max’s face shifted. The hard edges softened. The fury that had been burning all day flickered, dimmed, and something far more vulnerable took its place.

Without a word, Max set his jacket down and crossed the room, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

George’s voice was quiet, almost hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

Max sighed, a long exhale that sounded like he’d been holding it in for hours. His hand came up, brushing George’s hair back gently, careful around the bandage at his temple. He studied it for a moment before his eyes scanned down George’s body, checking for anything the medics might have missed.

“You ok, love?” His voice was low, rough around the edges.

George swallowed, nodding faintly. “Yeah. Just… sore. Headache.”

Max leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple, his palm cradling the side of George’s face for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he shifted, sliding in beside him, careful not to jostle Lando too much. His arm came around George’s shoulders, guiding him in until George’s head found its place against Max’s chest.

George let out a quiet sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. He pressed his cheek against the steady rhythm of Max’s heartbeat, letting the sound ground him.

They stayed like that for a long moment — the tension in both of them bleeding out with each slow breath.

Then Max’s voice came, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry too.”

George’s brow furrowed slightly against his chest. “For what?”

“For… how I reacted. For yelling. For letting myself get that angry with you.” Max’s fingers curled lightly into George’s shirt, as if to make sure he didn’t pull away. “You scared me, Georgie. I saw the hit, saw your car go through the barrier — I thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here. You’re safe.”

George’s arms tightened around him in answer, and for the first time since the crash, his chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

George didn’t speak for a while. The quiet between them was almost heavy, but not uncomfortable — more like the weight of everything unspoken pressing down.

Finally, his voice broke through, small but raw.
“I thought you’d hate me again.”

Max stilled. His chest rose and fell beneath George’s cheek, but otherwise, he didn’t move. “Why would you think that?”

George gave a shaky little laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Because I ruined your race. I— I was stupid, I went for something I shouldn’t have. I cost you the win. And you were so angry… I thought…” His fingers curled into Max’s shirt, gripping tightly. “I thought maybe you’d decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Max shut his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak — too much heat still tangled with the ache in his chest.

“George.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re my soulmate. You could crash into me every race for the rest of the season and I’d still choose you.”

George huffed softly, like he wanted to believe it but didn’t know how.

Max tipped his chin down, pressing his forehead to George’s. His hand cupped the back of George’s neck, steady and warm.
“I was angry because I was scared. Because watching you go into that barrier felt like… like someone took the air out of my lungs. That’s it. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

George’s eyes fluttered shut. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally, but the guilt was still there in the way he clung to Max.

Max didn’t let him go.
“You think I’d throw away what we have over a race? No. Racing is racing. You—” his thumb brushed over George’s jaw, grounding him, “—you’re everything else.”

George exhaled, and this time it sounded a little more like relief. He tucked himself closer, letting Max’s warmth wrap around him.

From the other side, Lando stirred slightly in his sleep but didn’t wake. One of his arms shifted, draping lazily over both of them like an anchor.

For the first time all day, George felt something that resembled safe.

Max felt it too. The sting in his wrist — the soulmate mark that had been aching since the crash — finally dulled into a warm, steady thrum. He let his palm rest flat between George’s shoulder blades, holding him in place as if to say without words: you’re not going anywhere.

They stayed that way until George’s breathing evened out, his weight going slack against Max’s chest.

Max pressed another kiss to his temple, whispering into his hair, “Love you, Georgie. More than anything.”

And this time, George believed him.

Notes:

These are just some one-shots I will be randomly posting about Norrusstappen whenever I get motivated.
Feel free to leave any requests!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Norrusstappen Soulmate AU