Chapter Text
Mercedes’ factory and racing facilities are just as grand as Red Bull’s. On Max’s first day at the headquarters in Brackley in January, he’s given a tour of the campus by some VP of something. He walks behind the man for twenty minutes before, as kindly as he can bear, telling him that he doesn’t care about Mercedes’ buildings. The other alpha bristles, but leads Max back to Toto to talk about the car.
After that, the team seems to finally understand that Max is only there for one reason: winning. He likes his teammate, an Italian rookie and baby alpha named Kimi, well enough, and he and Toto have developed a pleasant working relationship over the past few months, but Max doesn’t want to spend his off-season pretending to care about Mercedes corporate culture.
But, yeah, things are going fine at his new team. He’s even brought GP over with him from Red Bull.
Except, Max’s new PR officer is a real piece of work — he’s seemingly the only person not to get the memo. Every morning, Max wakes up to a text from him — George Russell — on his phone summarizing the asinine things journalists have been writing and saying about him over the past twenty-four hours.
Back at Red Bull, Max would have had him reassigned or let go within a week. His Red Bull press officers knew not to bother him about the media beyond what was required by the FIA. At Mercedes, Max doesn’t have that kind of pull yet.
Instead, every morning, Max ignores Russell’s text.
Max doesn’t meet the guy in person until an administrative meeting with a whole suite of high-up Mercedes directors and employees at Brackley a few weeks later. Max uses the time to confirm that, yes, GP is still going to be his race engineer, and, no, he will not stop endurance racing during his off weekends. He concedes that he’ll race while wearing the Mercedes logo, though.
Max doesn’t even realize that the young male omega who has been sitting near the end of the conference room table and furiously typing throughout the meeting is Russell until the agenda progresses to the PR section. He hadn’t even known the man was an omega. Or so young. It’s a bit of a shock, even to Max, who couldn’t care less about second genders most of the time, that Mercedes has a male omega on their staff, as rare as they are.
As silence settles over the table, Russell raises his head and smiles at the room. “Good morning,” he starts. He is, of course, British. “I’ve begun developing an entirely new branding strategy for Max that will be ready by pre-season testing.” As he speaks, his gaze switches between Max and Toto. He never stops typing for too long. “Despite some of the negative fallout following the team switch, I believe we’re in a good place as the season approaches. Your endurance racing has provided a step in the correct direction, and the loss last season presents a perfect reason to brand this year as a new direction and approach to winning.”
Then, Russell projects a PowerPoint on one of the walls of the conference room, and Max zones out until the meeting is dismissed. He stands to leave, but Toto puts a hand on his arm before he can take two steps from the table. Max bristles under the other alpha’s touch, even with scent patches on.
“George, wait a minute,” Toto says to the omega across the table, who, upon standing, is quite tall for an omega, even a male one. Max hasn’t met many, but he’s seen more than most. They do tend to show up more often in the spaces he frequents — private lounges, exclusive beach clubs, and guest-list only parties. And, there’s Charles, of course. Still, Russell’s the tallest one he’s ever seen.
“Max, this is George Russell, your press officer and our head of public relations. I thought it would be good for you to meet him officially. He’s a bit of a prodigy here at Mercedes. A bit like you,” Toto says. Max holds out his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Good holiday?” Max has never been accused of being mean to the staff under him, only a bit short. Russell will learn that Max wants to be left alone — pleasantries cost him nothing in the meantime.
Russell shakes his hand, quick and his palm cold, and smiles widely. “Likewise. And, it was good. I hope yours went well?”
Max shrugs. He spent the first two weeks of the winter break mostly in his apartment.
“I’m excited to work with you this year. I think there’s a lot of good we can do together,” Russell adds.
“I’m not. Excited, that is,” Max says. “But, it is what it is.” Toto laughs a little in a Class Max way, but Russell pulls back. Max can’t smell him, either, but he doesn’t have to. The offense is clear on his face.
If he expected Max to be excited about press and PR, then he doesn’t know Max at all.
“I think you’ll like George, Max,” Toto says with an under-the-breath laugh, clapping him on the back. He’s a bit like Christian in that way, a little too physically friendly than what Max would prefer in a boss. “He’s innovative. A good thinker.”
“You’ll be dealing mostly with Nico and my other PR people at Verstappen.com, actually,” Max says to Toto and George. “I do the social and press conferences that are required, but I don’t need to hear about the rest.”
Russell quirks his head to the left, far enough that the right side of his throat is exposed above the high collar of his button-up shirt. Max’s eyes snap to the bare skin for a split second, but Toto doesn’t visibly react, so it must be typical of Russell to use his gender in that way.
“I think you’ll have to hear from me,” Russell replies. “Even just a bit. I’ll be in touch,” he adds, then walks out of the room.
“A bit of a firecracker, yeah?” Toto asks when Max scowls. “He’s an excellent employee, though.”
Max doesn’t respond. Russell will learn soon enough that his goals and Max’s have very little in common. That, as perfectly nice as Max can be, he has no desire to construct an acted version of himself for the media or public, or to give the slightest indication that he’s interested in being something more for the public than a racer and winner.
Through the use of an elaborate sim schedule, off-site meetings with Toto, and a few strategic trips back to Monaco, Max avoids seeing Russell in person for the remainder of the winter break. It’s not like Max enjoys spending any more time in the gray mass that is Brackley than necessary, either. That’s another thing that’s not at all different between Red Bulls and Mercedes. Milton Keynes sucked, and so does Brackley.
Max takes his jet to pre-season testing in Bahrain, but a car and driver aren't the only things waiting for him at the airport. Toto and Kimi are standing with Russell and Kimi’s PR officer, some male beta, in the hangar. Russell, back straight as he stands, holds two phones and a folder, flipping between papers. He doesn’t once look up at Max as he approaches, busy — or at least appearing busy — reading something. Unlike Kimi, who’s eyeing up Max’s jet, George seems unfazed by the luxury around him.
Max doesn’t travel with his manager like Lewis or Oscar frequently do, but he wishes, for once, that he’d brought Raymond with him to tell the omega to fuck off, even though his mom would be appalled to learn he’d had an omega treated that way.
“Max, how was the flight?” Toto asks once Max is within hearing range.
“All good. Didn’t know an entourage was waiting at the airport,” Max says. He laughs a little and says hello to Kimi, who looks as plainly confused as Max feels.
“Well, there are a few discussions that need to be held that, apparently, we didn’t have enough time to discuss in Brackley. We can speak in the car on the way to the hotel,” Russell says. He’s wearing loose slacks and a tucked-in white shirt, somehow without logos. Max grunts and follows the group to a large SUV with four seats facing each other in the back. Kimi and the other man, Bradley, take the seats behind Toto and the driver, and Max is forced to sit next to Russell.
“Max, we need to discuss how you’re to handle questions about the team transition and working with a new teammate. Firstly, as expected, Red Bull’s response to your departure has been cold but not outright hostile. We believe it’s best if you respond with a little bit more warmth. Try to speak about your past teammates or your victories rather than responding to the team’s or Horner’s comments, whatever they may be in the future,” Russell says.
“Alright,” Max says. He glances at his watch. The Ritz-Carlton in Bahrain is about 20 minutes from the airport. Max has 17 more to get through.
“And, about Kimi–,” Russell starts.
“I’m not going to say anything that isn’t true, though,” Max interrupts. “I’m not going to lie.”
The car is quiet for a second. Russell looks out the window at the passing water and sand, then at Max. “I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe I’ve asked you to,” he says.
Max glares. “Alright, sure. I won’t say I was perfectly happy with Red Bull, though. I won’t recite Mercedes’ corporate goals, either.” At that, Toto turns around in the front seat, casting a look at Russell.
“That’s all fine and well. Message received,” Russell responds. “Let’s try not to threaten any reporters, either,” he adds. Max grits his teeth, thankful he’d put on a scent patch before leaving the jet. Across from him, Kimi’s eyes are wide. Max rolls his eyes at his teammate, but it doesn’t make Kimi’s face look any lighter.
“Hey, Kimi, don’t worry. Just say you don’t speak English if they ask you something you don’t like. Might work for a while,” Max jokes.
Kimi laughs once. “I am worried I do not. For real.”
“You’ll be fine,” Max says. He taps Kimi’s foot with his own. “Keep the cursing to Italian. I had to put myself on a budget last year.” Kimi and Toto laugh, and Toto returns to facing the front of the car. Russell doesn’t laugh.
“Yes. Let’s not repeat that. Max, do you have any other questions?” The man asks. He’s typing on one of his phones — which, Max thinks he might actually have three — as he speaks.
“No. If the car is good, I’ll talk about that. If it’s not good, I’ll talk about that.” Max shrugs. He knows the song and dance of the press; it’s his twelfth year in F1. These days, it’s social media that takes more of his energy, even if he doesn’t mind some of the games and questions they ask. He likes the trivia, and he likes Kimi.
“Fantastic. Please let me know if anything changes. We’ll talk more about any specific issues as they arise,” the omega says. He smiles at Max like he’s actually happy, straight teeth and all. Someone like him probably has veneers.
When the car stops at the Ritz-Carlton, George stands and holds the door open. Max exits through the other door instead.
“Max, the Red Bull was the noticeably faster car out there today. How will you and Mercedes catch up before the season begins in Melbourne?” The reporter — a man Max doesn’t recognize but could have been hanging around the fringes last season — thrusts a microphone in his face. Max rolls the question in his mouth, feels it behind his teeth.
“They weren’t that much faster, but I still have to learn the car a bit. It’s been a long time since I was in a different car,” Max says. As he finishes, Russell slides up to his left, a phone in hand.
“Do you think that Red Bull has assembled a faster car under the new regulations, though?”
Max crosses his arms. “I don’t know anything about these cars yet. There could be a new problem with all of them, like the porpoising in 2022. The Red Bull could explode tomorrow. I don’t know.” Max waves his arm through the air. Russell huffs and puts his hands on his hips.
“Yes, well. Alright,” the reporter stumbles. Max heads to the exit of the press area, only stopping to sling an arm around Lando’s shoulder for a quick side hug as he wraps up his own press duties. The alpha’s been quieter ever since Oscar won the WDC the season before, nearly as much of a hermit as Max over the winter break. Charles seems to think he’s broken up with his girlfriend, too.
“Good to see you,” Max says.
“Yeah, good to see you too,” Lando responds, giving one pat to Max’s shoulder. Max starts to ask about the break, but Oscar enters the press area at the same time, and Lando turns away, prompting another reporter to ask him a question.
Outside, Russell is waiting to walk Max back to the Mercedes hospitality for their post-race debrief. He hands Max his phone and water as they start.
“You did not have to say that the Red Bull car could blow up,” he says.
“It could happen.” Max sips his water. He doesn’t like the Mercedes’ bottles — they make everything taste like plastic. “I don’t like these bottles. I’ll need different ones.”
“Alright.” Russell sighs. “It was unnecessary, though, to say that,” he adds.
“The questions are unnecessary,” Max rebuts.
It’s quiet as they pass the McLaren garage.“I’m aware that you feel that way,” Russell says. Max speeds up, walking faster than the omega is ready for and beating him back to the motorhome. “Just keep in mind what I said,” he adds just before Max can slip upstairs and out of his fucking sight.
Needed the fucking last word.
Toto calls Max during breakfast the day before he’s set to leave for Australia.
“Who is that?” Lando asks as the phone rings. They’re eating together at a small cafe near Max’s place after a game of padel with Carlos and Alex earlier that morning. Max swallows a bite of scrambled eggs.
“Toto,” Max says. He picks up. “Hello?”
“Max, how are you?” Toto asks.
“Good.”
“Look, I have a little question for you. Can Kimi fly down with you to Australia? I know Lando and some of your family are flying with you, but I think it would be a good time for the two of you to talk a bit more before his first race. There’s a lot he can learn from you,” Toto says.
Max tips his head back and groans. His mom, his trainer, Lando, Lando’s new girlfriend (Charles was right about the breakup, but it hardly matters when Lando’s already found a new one), and Lando’s photographer are flying with him to Melbourne, but the jet fits twelve. There’s room, and Toto knows it. Max’s scent must go a little hot with frustration, though, because Lando wrinkles his nose and flings a blueberry at him from across the table.
“Yeah, sure,” Max agrees. “I’ll let him know.”
“Oh, there’s no need. I’ll take care of that,” Toto says before handing up, which only makes Max think that Kimi’s been told he’s flying down with Max the whole time.
“What’s up?” Lando asks.
“Kimi’s flying down with us to Australia,” Max answers.
Lando raises his eyebrows. “So? I thought you liked him?”
Max shrugs. “I do. Just thought I might get some sim racing done. Or enjoy the quiet while you make out with your girlfriend.” Lando flings another blueberry.
“I’m not that bad, mate,” the other alpha says.
“Oh, I’m not that bad,” Max says, making his voice go high in a mockery that sounds very little like the real Lando. “You have two hickies on your neck,” he argues. He has to leave shortly after that, because Lando started to get a little more defensive than Max thinks is strictly necessary for a little teasing.
As he drives home, he calls the hospitality company that prepares his jet and notifies them that he’ll have an additional guest for his flight the next day.
“Of course, Mr. Vestappen. We’ll have your jet ready for seven,” the woman on the phone says. “Anything else I can do for you today?” She asks.
She can’t make the Mercedes better or take interviews for him, so Max says ‘no’ and hangs up.
Kimi is waiting on the other side of Nice’s private airport security the next morning. He has a large metal suitcase and a backpack that makes him look even more like a schoolkid than he already does. A plastic shopping bag — the kind from a convenience store — dangles from one of his hands.
“Breakfast?” Max asks as he approaches, fixing the hat he’s wearing to lay properly over his hair after removing it for security. There’s one section of hair that’s bothering him by bunching up under the seam. Max is about ready to cut it all off.
“Ah, no, it’s for you,” Kimi says, holding out the bag. He won’t quite meet Max’s eyes, deferring to the alpha whose space he’s about to occupy for the next ten hours. It’s polite and expected, but Max appreciates it anyway. In a sport as alpha-rich as F1, team hierarchies are a constant struggle. Max was lucky for a long time with Daniel, but he hasn’t had a full-time beta teammate since him. Kimi, though, is making it easy by giving Max the high ground without a challenge, the kind of thing that is typically reserved for family and close friends.
Max reaches for the bag. For a moment, he worries that Kimi’s bought him coffee, but when he peers inside the plastic, he finds an assortment of energy drinks instead. “I thought, maybe, you haven’t found a replacement for Red Bull.”
Kimi’s right. Max hasn’t. It’s been a fucking bitch. Max tells the Italian as such and grabs the first can out of the bag, cracking it open. He sips. It’s good, but it’s no goddamn Red Bull.
“We can wait for Lando on the plane,” Max says, escorting Kimi out to the tarmac to board his jet. “Toto says you're worried about the race. What tyres are you thinking about using?”
Kimi turns a little pink, but his shoulders also relax the most they have since Max met the rookie. It’s a good start.
By the time Lando and his girlfriend turn up — ten minutes late and after Max’s mom and trainer and Lando’s own photographer — Max has the feeling Kimi is going to be alright when it comes down to it.
He wasn’t lying about wanting to sim race and enjoy some quiet on the flight, even though talking to Kimi is fine. The team switch has been a little…more difficult than Max was expecting.
It’s all been a little more difficult than he was expecting: switching back to using 33 as his number, selling and buying a different flat in the U.K., replacing half his closet with new Mercedes clothing that smells like dye, finding a new energy drink, the ceaseless yammering of the media. Toto’s management style. George Russell and his fucking early morning emails.
Max does like Kimi, and he wants the young alpha to have a better experience coming into Formula 1 than he did, but Max has always formulated his success by focusing on nothing but his racing. He’s finding that mindset is much more difficult for him to maintain at Mercedes.
It’s not optional, though. That’s how Max wins. That’s the only way he knows how to win.