Chapter Text
Max remembers how he couldn't even try to stop looking a few times. His eyes would turn to him like it was pure instinct. Lewis was the sun and he was a pretty stupid sunflower, begging for a bit of the attention he could never have. Lewis himself had been lost in his own world, with much more important things to deal with than the new kid on the block. That was before, of course, right in the beginning when he was just a pup, scent still far too strong on his skin, shimmering loud and abrasive letting everyone know he had the impulsiveness of a child and the rage of a teenager.
Lewis called him a kid, which kicked his ego down far worse than when Lewis didn't call him at all, like he couldn't remember his name. Max was more willing to be ignored than to be told Lewis was somehow unreachable.
Because he wasn't. Max could reach him if he wanted, his fingers trembling slightly with pure intent. On the podium, with his hand resting on the small of Lewis's back, Max would find himself pressing the spot a few times, feeling the movement beneath his fingers thinking to himself—would it be so bad? If he let the hand fall a little bit? Would Lewis feel scandalized? Would Lewis turn angry, to finally look at him? Max even tilted his head slightly closer at times, trying to smell Lewis scent, always covered but still the whispers of it kept lingering somehow, sweeter than he could ever have assumed.
Max never did, of course, because despite being so similar to other alphas in many ways, often choosing to terrorize those around him with a kind of freedom only others like him would have, he liked to believe he didn't need to cross that line. His father hinted more than once that perhaps someone should do just that, put Lewis in his place. Jos would say it to Max during their fights for the title. And then would go say it to the journalists too, sprinkling in a bit more of meanness that made everyone angry. And then Max had to go out and say "well, I don't necessarily agree with my father. He's old!", which did not seem the right thing to say because Lewis had stopped him in his tracks after that, a mixture of feelings adorning his features.
"Tell your father to leave me alone, man,” he said, or rather, commanded, in that way of someone who thinks he's superior.
"Well, mate, I can't really order him around, can I?” Max laughed derisively. “He's a grown man.”
"And so are you, even if you don't act like one,” Lewis rolled his eyes. Beautiful eyes that held loud disgust, which he made sure to delicately keep away from his voice. “Besides, he's an asshole and you know it."
"Not too much, Hamilton, he's still my dad-"
"Great. Then tell him to leave me alone,” Lewis cut him off, putting his hands inside the large coat he was wearing and turning away without a care.
Which, rude. Hamilton wasn't the kind of omega his dad would preach about. He didn't let people in, and when he did, it was in a calculated way, always keeping others at arm's length, ready to kick anyone who dared to push their luck.
Maybe he wasn't that angry. Max knew what anger felt like, after all, it was one of the characteristics that defined him to much of the public. Irresponsible, immature, ruthless; they weren't so kind to him, and Max, for all his dedication and heavy-handed upbringing, repaid their lack of kindness with direct, unvarnished words. He wasn't cut out for this media world, always felt more comfortable with his helmet on, just himself, the steering wheel, and the distant voice of his engineer.
At that moment, however, he couldn't exactly categorize that feeling as anger. Disappointment, per se. He can't stop staring; it's a problem sometimes, people always tell him his facial expression isn't the most welcome one in the world. Max has tried to fix that in many situations in his life, having to remind himself to smile, to show he's present in the conversation. It's irritating trying to fit into what others expect—it's even more irritating to see Lewis Hamilton from a distance, doing something as stupid as laughing at his new teammate, wearing the red outfit that shouldn't have suited him at all, because Hamilton belonged to Mercedes, where Max met him, admired him, and, better yet, beat him.
Max isn't angry. There are no more ways for him to say that to himself. And he believes it too.
But he really hates it. Not Hamilton, specifically. But change. Max handles change well. Usually. It's just… There's something stuck in his throat when Lewis laughs, again, his eyes almost disappearing while Charles is practically puffing his chest out with pride, like a… Fucking chicken. He spoke to Charles a million times before and can tell anyone that he's not that funny, so Lewis is probably trying to suck up to his new teammate, and that itself is a surprise.
Lewis Hamilton shouldn't have to go out of his way to suck up to anyone. He's practically a god among drivers and anyone would throw themselves at his feet to be accepted and, in the same breath, try to beat him at every turn. Max understands the feeling; he's spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, imagining the moment he'd stand on the podium above him, Lewis staring at him with wide, brown eyes, finally seeing him, finally fearing him, finally—
Lewis laughs. Again. Max frowns. Lando is probably still talking about golf and Max admits he stopped paying attention before even Lewis and Charles came into view, walking side by side, full of conversations he'd never know because he was too far away. Look, he likes Lando, most of the time, when they're not competing, which does make Lando somehow believe he's better than Max. It's just a typical alpha relationship, one trying to be better than the other.
So, he likes Lando, and Max usually engages in conversations, it's just he hadn't expected that kind of familiarity between the two, although, okay, Lewis and Charles were friendly with each other before, but it wasn't the same as being teammates.
George appears from somewhere, feeling perfectly entitled to interrupt his former teammate's conversation, and Lewis doesn't seem annoyed, although he probably should be. Only because George is. Well, he's George and he's annoying, and yet Lewis is still smiling. The two greet each other, and George touches Lewis like the strange little guy he is, squeezing his shoulder.
Everyone seems to act that way around Lewis, eager to get closer, chatting without looking away, as if he were some kind of being who could disappear at any moment. It's easy to greet him, and they have a certain eagerness to become someone Lewis would remember. Max is used to the way everyone treats Lewis, even though he was the one who took the wins from him the last four years and would probably do it again if Ferrari luck stayed the same.
He even gained himself a number of rookie drivers who adored him too, following him around like he was their pack alpha. Max Verstappen was already an inspiration to others, but still. Still. Everything was different with Lewis fucking Hamilton.
“Alright. What the hell is going on?”
Lando had stopped talking, this time choosing only to stare at him. Max looked away from Lewis, crossing his arms, feeling like a little kid caught doing something wrong.
“What?”
“You're ignoring the shit out of me, mate,” Lando stated, sounding more amused than anything.
“Well, it's not my fault you're just saying the same thing over and over again,” Max raised his eyebrow. “At some point it does get boring to hear about your shitty adventures in golf.”
“Shithead,” Lando hissed, slapping Max's shoulder. “Don’t change the subject, bro, I can't believe Hamilton doesn't feel the daggers you're sending his way, you're not being subtle."
“I'm not… What?” Max sputtered, looking around for a second before quickly trying to save face. “I'm not sending daggers his way, shut up.”
“Yes, you are. And honestly, that should probably count as harassment, it was getting weird there,” Lando pretended to shudder, making a face. “Thank God you're wearing scent blockers, mate, I'm not curious if we would smell anger or lust coming from you.”
Max shook his head, outraged by the insinuation. Hamilton was far from an ugly man, but he had Kelly, and even with his poor relationship history, he felt like things with her would finally last. Besides, Max had no interest in male omegas. The supposed attraction half the paddock seemed to feel for Lewis was simply because no one knew how to act normally around an omega. Max knew how, he didn't care about these things, there was no hidden agenda even if everyone kept saying that he put more pressure on Lewis compared to the others.
“Just. Look at that,” he moved his chin towards the two. “Poor Charles, having to team with Hamilton.”
“Poor Charles?” Lando repeated, also staring. The scene in the distance wasn't helping Max's argument, because Charles looked... Well. “I have no idea how to tell you that, but Charles seems to be having quite a great time showing off to Lewis.”
Yes, Charles's eyes were practically glowing, especially when Lewis laughed, touching his arm for a very long second. Was it flirting? Was Hamilton actually flirting with Charles? God, he hopes not.
“I don't think so,” Max struggled to continue his argument. It was impossible for anyone to think the same thing as him, maybe except Alonso. “It must be boring as fuck to police yourself about what you're going to say just because he's around.”
“And? It's a normal thing to do around omegas, Max, we keep the jokes between the right groups so we aren't called a bunch of incels,” Lando said, as if everyone didn't already think he was an incel, even without repeating half of the things the two talked about off camera. “Anyways, I would like to be teammates with Hamilton. Probably better than Oscar.”
Lando continued, sounding somewhat displeased, as if his teammate, another omega, had committed some crime besides being good at his job.
“Fernando once told me that he can put on a good fight, but in the end…”
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and it took Max only a second to understand.
“You are trying to tell me that Fernando and Hamilton fucked?” he hadn't planned on sounding so shocked, so he tried to compose himself, shaking his head. “Look, it sounds exactly like something Alonso would lie about. If you were talking about Britney, then, yeah, I would believe you. Not Alonso. They hated each other.”
“C'mon, when has hate ever stop two people from fucking?” Lando chuckled. “I mean, besides you and Lewis, of course.”
“We don't hate each other.”
“Keep telling yourself that, mate, let's not mention the fact Lewis only talks to you when you talk to him,” Max didn't flinch. He would deny this if anyone asked. “Anyways, I do believe Alonso. I feel like Hamilton would put up a fight before making you knot him.”
Max scratched the back of his head.
“Why are we even talking about knotting Hamilton?”
“Because research, Max, research. Think about it,” Lando leaned in, as if about to tell a secret, his tone comically serious. He squeezed Max's shoulder. “How long till he tries to fight on track with Charles just to make the poor guy fuck him? I bet he's, like, greedy too.”
“You're definitely thinking too much about this.”
Lando sighed.
“And you're not thinking enough, bro.”
Why would he spend his time thinking about Lewis Hamilton having sex? Max often prides himself on saying he's not a porn-addicted sicko like Lando, who seemed dedicated to be looking at Lewis with the vision of a teenager who spent too much time jerking off to the photos of the driver. He never... Okay, he thought about jerking off to Lewis a few times when he was younger, breathing and living his dreams of becoming an F1 driver, while his pheromones made him seem like a crazy guy, far too horny.
But Lewis had always been the type of any young alpha or beta obsessed with Formula 1, more because he was a very pretty omega who had beaten several favorite drivers at the time and was very very cool.
And nowadays, yes, he has reached MILF status. It's just that Max wasn't a teenager anymore to be thinking about such things.
He doesn't ask, "do you think he let George fuck him?" mostly because he doesn't believe Lewis has such low standards and also he's not interested in talking about Lewis sex life. It's weird. Anyway, Max doesn't keep the conversation up after that, just says “you're fucking stupid, mate, Hamilton would never let you knot him” right before some of the rookies come over to chat with them. The two engage as if they were the world's best hosts, laughing and joking around before the drivers’ parade begins and each enters their own world. Another part of that reality he hasn't yet learned to appreciate, waving here and there, trying to avoid interviews, pretending to not be bored out of his mind because, really, anything not involving racing does make him a bit bored.
The race leaves him with a somewhat bad taste in his mouth. Lando finishes in P1, and he's not happy with second place; he even considers starting a fight, perhaps to go and ruin everyone's day or something. But he's far too tired for this kind of stunt and at least George finished third, which makes him feel a little less bad about hanging out with Daniel later on at the celebration party. The club had been Daniel's choice; most of the McLaren and Red Bull teams had gathered to drink as much as possible before heading back to the hotel.
Max settled in next to Lando and Daniel at one of the tables in the VIP area. The music was loud, and the space wasn't all that stifling, despite everything—the lights, too many people, dancing close together or speaking really loudly, pheromones filling the air all at once. He never felt annoyed in moments like these. Max liked to party, and he liked to drink too, so it was a win-win situation. And even though Kelly's last messages had gone unanswered, he didn't spare much thoughts about them, too occupied in listening to the convo Lando and Daniel were having, both a little bit tipsy already.
“This is my year, mate, my championship, I can fucking feel it in my bones!” Lando was practically screaming, his movements erratic as he drank some more of the tequila.
“Yeah I bet it is. There's nothing like having too many expectations after the…” Daniel pretended to think, counting on his fingers. “First race.”
“Oi, be quiet, alright, you could at least pretend you're not rooting for Red Bull. You ran for McLaren too, remember?”
“And I sure had the best time ever there,” Daniel smiled. “Listen, I'm just saying, Lando, you know how Max here does things.”
“I'm beating his ass with no worries, bro, we have the car, the driver and the odds, so.”
“Ok, it's nice that you have such big dreams.”
“Fuck off,” he flipped the bird right before something caught his attention. “Hey, it's that George?”
Max turned in the direction Lando was looking, feeling a strong urge to run. Of course Russell would show up to ruin a pleasant evening. The Brit was climbing the stairs to the VIP area, glancing back as he straightened the jacket of his suit. Which he'd been wearing to a club. What a fucking idiot. Lando waved as George turned forward, easily spotting them, and flashed a smile before approaching.
“Jesus. Here he comes,” Max mumbled. “Did you really have to call him?”
“He's my buddy, Max, don't get your panties in a twist.”
He clicked his tongue before downing another drink.
“Just saying, we could've had a good night.”
It wasn't enough to convince Lando to flee before George arrived, so Max relaxed back against the couch, giving him the most irritating smile he could muster. If he had to put up with Russell in his moment of rest, then he'd do it his way. After all, there was no one easier to irritate than him, and Max had a certain fondness for what many considered an ego clash, even if George pretended to be too much of a gentleman for that.
"Hello, everyone," George greeted them, too polite and with a big smile, as if pleased with third place on the podium. He turned to Daniel. "Daniel, it's good to see you, mate."
"You too, George," Daniel shook George's hand. "Great fight you had back there."
Max smiled.
"Such a pity it wasn't good enough to win, huh?"
George let out a loud sigh, pushing his shoulders back slightly before putting his hands in the pockets of his tailored pants.
"Right. Hello to you too, Max."
"Didn't know you'd really come," Lando commented, ready to prevent a possible argument that would ruin his night of fun.
"Yeah, well, I was looking for a place to celebrate and…" George gave a small, almost proud smile, looking back again. "Lewis wanted to go out with me, for old times sake."
"Lewis?" Lando frowned. "Like, Lewis Hamilton?"
Max snorted.
"Not like we know a lot of other Lewises around us."
"Sweet," Daniel exhaled with a dreamy smile on his lips. "Oh, man, I have to say, the only thing I really miss about being a Formula 1 driver is seeing that man's pretty face."
George cringed a bit.
“Let's not say these types of things around him, alright? As one of the GPDA directors-”
“Why not?” Daniel raised his eyebrow. "People like him know they are pretty. Just like I know I'm hot as fuck.”
“You were hot before the beard, now you just look jobless,” Lando said.
“Not jobless. I'm in vacation mode.”
“Long-term vacation, you mean.”
“Ok, mate, I'm resting-”
“Hey, guys.”
Max sat straight. He smelled him right before he saw him. It was an interesting blend of roses, tobacco, and vanilla; Lewis Hamilton could be picked out in the crowd without much effort. He remembers the first time he felt Lewis’ scent, that one single moment he encountered him without his blockers after one of the races. Max must have looked silly after simply smiling at Lewis without saying a word. Lewis's scent had been a bit sourer back then, the result of another collision between him and Nico, but now the vanilla scent was stronger—sweeter.
He swallowed hard against the exaggerated amount of saliva that had formed in his mouth. The group's attention was easily diverted when they noticed Lewis, dressed in his usual extravagant clothes, his braids loose—unlike his usual paddock appearance—and he wore the closed mouth smile of someone who knew he was clearly the center of attention. This always annoyed Max; how full of yourself did you have to be to reach that level of attitude?
Lewis was always late too, though Kelly often called it "being fashionably late," a concept Max never quite grasped.
"Lewis!" Daniel exclaimed, standing up quickly, opening his arms to embrace Lewis.
Max was sometimes surprised by how small Lewis was compared to the others, especially when he acted so tall.
"Good to see you, man," Lewis hugged him back. The contact didn't last long, though Daniel continued to hold him by the shoulders, looking him up and down.
"I can definitely say the same, mate, you look nice."
Daniel wiggled his eyebrows like a psycho, and Lewis laughed.
" 'Ello, Lewis," Lando stood up, almost falling over, and was drunk enough to do the ridiculous act of kissing the soles of Lewis’ fingers, his lips landed more on all the set of rings he was using than on his fingers.
He pulled away immediately, his cheeks flushed.
"Sorry. Uh. We didn't expect you here."
It was so ridiculous that Lewis only narrowed his eyes a little and ignored it, smiling politely.
"It's fine, it was a last-minute call. George said you guys would be here and, well…" he shrugs, unwilling to explain why he's there, although George was happy with the mention. "That car of yours is looking good, hm?"
The subject veers into territory that puts Lando back on his mood from before, he straightens his posture.
"Oh, yeah, crazy, right? The team really went there this year!"
Max tries not to think about their conversation earlier. He hoped Lando wouldn't try to sleep with Lewis. Damn it. He would probably never speak with them again. Or maybe he would, considering all the false politeness of Lewis. After all, he still talks with Max every time he approaches him, even if he just keeps quiet while Max tries not to do the act of word vomiting. His father hated when he did that, and used to tell Max that he wouldn't be attractive to any omega if he kept talking too much about racing.
He liked Kelly mostly because she was in that world too and didn't mind whenever he had these moments.
"Having hopes over the title?" Lewis asks, and Max is certain there's some kind of humor hidden in his words.
He probably didn't think Lando would be able to do it. Max struggles not to crack a smile. Does he think Max will get a title again? Now that would be funny.
"Of course he is," Daniel laughs. "McLaren built a rocketship for their golden boy, how could he not?"
Lewis is definitely amused by this, tilting his head slightly to the side, with a smile that made Lando's cheeks flush again.
"Good luck then, Lando."
He turns to Max, and Max relaxes against the couch again, legs spread wide in a perfect portrait of an alpha who couldn't care less, and just waves in his direction. Yeah, that'll show he's not that important, Max thinks, proudly. And just as expected, Lewis doesn't even linger his eyes on him; he probably considers Max a nobody, just another being who exists to orbit around him. That annoys the shit out of him, of course, Max grits his teeth and orders another round on his tab, flaunting his card in a dumb way and then drinks the rest of his beer (it had gotten warm during the shots and all their talks, so he avoided making a face after drinking it, trying to keep himself in a character he didn't even know why he was playing).
“It's cool that you decided we are worth your time,” Max says anyway, loud enough to make the rest of the group stare at him.
George looks livid. Lewis hums, looking at him with an indescribable expression. Max feels a small urge to get inside Lewis's head, just to know exactly what he was thinking. And then, he would win the prize for being the first person in the world to finally understand Lewis Hamilton's pretty brain.
"I think you're confused, Max. I do like spending time with everyone else in the paddock," except you, is what's implied.
Daniel lets out a low whistle, placing his hand on Lewis's back. "We should probably stop here. Sit down, mate, let's catch up on some things."
It's obvious in the way Daniel guides Lewis to sit very close to Max, who refuses to close his legs, that he's trying to start something messy. Lando shakes his head before pulling George to the bar, who goes against his will. He must be imagining that he left the innocent prey with the evil predators, but Lewis maintains an enviable posture, turning his back to Max, just so he doesn't have the chance to talk to him. Daniel is a traitor, he concludes, watching his supposed friend chat animatedly with Hamilton. Yet Max gives a polite smile to the waitress who leaves the shot glasses on their table and doesn't take long to down the first one.
"Hey," Max almost shouts. He's practically glued to Lewis and only needs to lean in slightly to reach his ear, lowering his voice a bit further. "Do you drink?"
He's almost certain he sees Lewis shiver and freeze in place, but he moves his arm, discreetly pushing him away from him before sitting normally, removing the invisible wall he'd created between them. Max tries not to think about how dizzy his scent is making him. He could understand why he almost never goes around without blockers; it would distract anyone like that.
Max points to the small glasses, which he planned to wait for Lando to return to drink with him, and Lewis sighs.
"No, but I do drink mocktails."
It's a response mixed with a command, Max is smart enough to know that. Kelly tends to do the same trick: give the information and let the others do the rest—a test. He doesn't know why Lewis is trying to test him, and he would be irritated if he hadn't immediately raised his hand to ask the waitress for their best vegan mocktail.
When he looks back at Lewis, he's already staring at him, a smile beginning to play at the corner of his mouth, a twinkle in his eyes. Of course, Max just did exactly what he wanted, so the smug expression had a reason, and yet Max can't help but feel satisfied knowing Lewis isn't avoiding him now.
"So, what were we talking about again?" Max asks, throwing Daniel a dirty look for betraying him.
Lewis chuckles, finally relaxing back against the couch. Anyone watching from the outside would think it was just a beta and an alpha hitting on an omega; the thought amuses him. And it leaves him with a strange feeling, too, glancing at Daniel discreetly to see if he was planning to make any flirtatious moves. Max wonders if Lewis has been in a situation like this before; not that it would be surprising if he had.
“Nothing much, mate,” Daniel winks. “I was just wondering if Lewis knew some good vacation spots to go to.”
“Just wondering?” Max repeats, shaking his head. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
Daniel tries for the most innocent expression possible. “What?”
“He’s right, Danny,” Lewis rolls his eyes without any seriousness. “I don’t fall for those kinds of things, and you know it.”
“Alright, well,” Daniel clicks his tongue. “A handsome man like me could only dream of going out with a beautiful man like you.”
“Oh, shut it,” Lewis giggled, like, fucking giggled, pushing Daniel a bit. “Maybe try again next time, man.”
“Next time?” Daniel puts his hand to his chest dramatically. “Don’t give me hope like that.”
Max presses his lips together. Lewis wasn’t sleeping with anyone on the grid, not then and not now. He had high standards, Max could tell, and he preferred to bait others, not letting anyone catch on.
"Right, he might start believing in them," Max blurted.
The waitress approached with the mocktail, which Lewis took and flashed his most charming smile, relaxing again. And then took a sip, narrowing his eyes slightly at Max, studying him.
"Come on, Max, if you keep talking to your friend like this, I might believe you're jealous," Lewis said, licking the drops that remained on his plump lips, making them even wetter.
Max isn't angry. It's something stranger and more fucked up than that. It's Lewis Hamilton's existence, which makes him look like a psychopathic lunatic.
"And why would I be jealous?"
Lewis shrugs.
"You tell me, man."
Daniel is watching them as if it were a very interesting tennis match, silently assessing, and Max ignores him, laughing sarcastically.
"Do you crave my attention that badly?" he asks, even though he wants to tell Lewis to fuck off.
"No, I actually like it when you try to pretend I don't exist. It's kinda funny, man, really," Lewis takes a sip, looking at him from under his lashes. All beautiful and mean like he always is. If you tell anyone who hasn't tasted Lewis competitiveness, seeing how sweet and kind he can be, they wouldn't believe it. "You fail every time."
"It's no one's fault that you walk around thinking you own the world," Max throws his arm on the back of the sofa, getting even closer to Lewis. He tries to make a point by tugging at the collar of his sheer shirt, exposing more of his skin. "So, yeah, I do stare at you. Now what? Are you going to act like it's not what you want? For me to stare?"
"Getting cocky, are we?" Lewis pushes his hand away and turns his whole upper body to face Daniel, almost pressing his back against Max's chest. "How do you even handle someone like him, Danny?"
If he was surprised by Lewis's attention returning to him, Daniel didn't show it, chuckling before leaning in close to say conspiratorially. "Just kick him in the balls, Lewis, it does wonders."
Max choked on air.
"What—"
"Well," Lewis only moved his head, still glued to Max, so close that Max's nose almost touched his cheek. And all Max could do was smell smell smell– feeling dizzy and insane and with such an desperate need to punch Lando in the face, because that was honestly his fault. Lewis looked at Max's groin and made a pitiful expression. "So much ego... Not a lot down there to back it up.”
“Yeah,” Daniel laughed. “Like that Beyoncé song, but different.”
Lando and George decide it's a great time to show up, chatting amongst themselves about meeting up during the week, so the response dies in Max tongue. He wouldn't say anything delicate, that's for sure, but he never really minded conversations about dick size and could never have his ego be bruised by a Daniel joke. They'd taken enough cold showers together for Daniel to know it wasn't true. And Lewis, well, Lewis was just trying to annoy him, obviously. If he had the chance to see, it would be clear that Max’ dick was big, that all his sexual partners left more than satisfied, and that Max knew how to give someone a great time—
Not that it mattered that Lewis knew that. Yeah. Whatever.
He tries not to show his bad mood, remaining in the same position behind Lewis, despite the looks Lando and George shot their way. He believed Lewis was challenging him; a "whoever moves first loses" kind of thing, and Max was already irritated enough to accept Lewis winning again. The conversation among the group gets lively in a second, Max's mood finally returning to normal, while Lewis sticks to laughter and smiles and a few comments here and there, as if he likes them, but not enough to engage freely.
It's unimaginable why he's still there, that he's chosen to attend an event he never normally shows up to, clearly preferring to keep his distance from everyone. It makes it even clear that there are few people on the grid that Lewis seems to like, and one of them has already retired.
Max orders new mocktails when Lewis finishes his, even though Lewis doesn't ask or even thank him directly, probably thinking Max was doing nothing more than his duty by serving him, and shamelessly glances over Lewis's shoulder every time he picks up his phone, managing to text five different people at the same time. Lewis doesn't seem to be able to disconnect easily, but what really piques Max's curiosity are the messages arriving from the number saved as CL, which he can only imagine it's Charles asking if everything was okay and if George would take him back.
Hamilton looks up, staring at George laughing on the other side, already drunk enough for anyone to know he wouldn't be able to take Lewis back to the hotel, and doesn't send a reply, turning his phone off.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he announces, uninterested in waiting for the others' answers, and finally moves from the position he and Max have held for long minutes.
Max almost misses the warmth, but just watches as Lewis walks away, dodging dancing bodies, some noticing him even with the lights going on and off, summoning the courage to stop him for a chat. Lewis smiles politely and ends the exchange as quickly as possible, and something inside him seems to be urging him to do something useful. It's not that important whether Lewis was going to the bathroom or not; perhaps it would just be funny to see George's despair when he realized Lewis had left by himself, but there's something bordering on instinct within him, begging for attention.
Logically, Max knows Lewis could protect himself better than anyone, he has never proven otherwise; he's one of the most independent omegas Max has ever met, besides his mother and sister, something that seems to make half the world mad. People don't accept facts like that easily. Max, on the other hand, had seen Lewis as his competition for so long that he sometimes forgot his status. And Lewis didn't even bring it up most of the time, as if it were mere a detail of his existence, something the others just had to accept or swallow.
Even so, Max stands up before he can freeze in his seat just to regret it for the whole night. He ignores Daniel's questions, and the slight dizziness reminding him that he'd also had a bit too much to drink, and tries to stay focused to not lose sight of Lewis, who is nearly swallowed by the crowd of people, following a few steps behind calmly, feeling like a stalker or a predator or the strangest person in the world.
There's a certain relief when he realizes they're actually heading toward the restrooms. Lewis enters the omega's bathroom, and Max hesitates for a second so brief it shouldn't even be considered hesitation. When he opens the door, Lewis is in front of the mirror, leaning over the sink as he examines his own face, probably trying to look for non-existing imperfections. Max can see him better without being under the dim light of the club—the sheer green button-down shirt, the wide, low-slung white pants, the rings, and the pearl necklace that rarely leaves his neck.
Lewis does look good, unsurprisingly, and he slowly turns his face to the new addition in the room.
“You're being weird, man” Lewis informs with all the delicacy in the world, smiling. “Also, you shouldn't be here.”
Max doesn't think before answering. “I was just making sure you weren't leaving alone.”
He steps away from the sink and takes a breath, already tired.
“Worried about me leaving the ball after midnight?” Lewis pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, sending off a text that made Max wonder who it was for. “I came here to take a few pics. Couldn't get one before leaving, you know, George always wants to be on time.”
“And you like showing up late.”
“Eh. Not really, I just like getting ready properly.”
Silence settles between them, filling the room with unnecessary awkwardness. It wasn't a small bathroom, definitely worthy of a VIP area, but even so, Max was close to being suffocated by Lewis's scent. It seemed stronger than before, this time the scent of roses clouding his thoughts more than the alcohol, making him want to run far away and also to do something dumb. He could hear the music from outside, muffled through the thick walls. Max had to admit the songs were terrible and he'd only stayed there all night because of his friends; that must be why Lewis didn't get up to dance either.
Maybe he didn't dance in clubs, Max couldn't even imagine him doing that. Next time, it would be better not to let Daniel choose the club. Or it would be better for the club to never hire that DJ again.
Lewis stared at him, attentive, and Max should probably turn around so Lewis could take his pictures in peace. He would wait outside anyway, as unsuspiciously as possible, just to make sure Lewis came back.
“So,” Lewis spoke again. “You're going to take a selfie with me or…”
Or? Hell, he didn't even know that was an option.
“Right,” Max said, in a very smart way. “Because you really want me to ruin your perfect photo.”
“I don't, but you are being weird again, so you might as well come closer.”
He thinks of a response that doesn't sound stupid to his own ears and leaves this attempt empty-handed. The truth is, Max isn't connected to half of his brain cells at the moment, so he approaches Lewis like a puppy obeying commands and positions himself behind him. Lewis turns around, and the two face each other through the large mirror, strangely clean for a club bathroom. Max has never been good at taking pictures; his selfie attempts are pitiful, and Kelly is the one who positions him when they need to take pictures together. So he waits patiently until Lewis reaches back, grabbing his wrist to pull him close, so close that Max finds himself pressed against his back again, hoping Lewis won't feel his rapid heartbeat.
Lewis says nothing as he lets Max's hand rest on his waist, under his shirt. Max can only admire the way the shirt simultaneously exposes and conceals him; the strong lines of his tattoos showing, but Max is certain he can see his brown nipples still hidden.
"You can put the other one on," is the only thing he says to fill the silence, and Max doesn't wait for him to change his mind, placing his other hand on the other side of Lewis's slim waist.
Max squeezes instinctively, feeling the skin dip slightly under his touch, soft and easy to grip. Lewis sighs, and Max doesn't take his eyes off his face, observing every small change in his expression, a very important study that he might need to write down somewhere, because he could not rely solely on his brain for those life-changing details.
Lewis lifts his phone, the back camera already facing the mirror, and takes a few snaps, smiling, then hiding his face behind the phone. He doesn't quite know the feeling that's spreading inside him, the scene is so intimate that Max thinks about commenting on it, but he doesn't want to end up scaring Lewis by highlighting what was already obvious; this was as much about taking a photo as Max's anger was just about losing every time Lewis beat him.
Max moves forward, perhaps trying to merge with Lewis so they could become one person, and wraps his entire waist with his arms, bending down a little to bury his nose in Lewis's neck, where the scent is stronger, more delirious. Lewis freezes for a second, but continues taking photos until Max straightens, pressing his groin against Lewis's ass so hard that Lewis is nearly thrown forward, prevented from moving by Max's grip on his waist, keeping him in place.
"Fuck," Max blurts out, closing his eyes. He knows his cock has begun to harden, obvious beneath his jeans, and the relief of being in contact with something makes his shoulders relax.
When he opens his eyes again, Lewis is staring at him through the mirror with parted lips, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breath. He grips the sink with his other hand, pushing back, grinding his ass against Max's cock with such dedication that Max ends up moaning loudly. Max can smell the slick coming from Lewis, so strong and delicious that he considers biting him, but Lewis would probably kill him if he tried doing anything funny like that.
"I'm not having sex with you in a club's bathroom, man," Lewis says, leaning away from the sink to remove Max's hand from his waist, just to end up guiding it inside his shirt.
He's not going to question him. Max watches the path being traced through the sheerness of that damn blouse, until Lewis rests his hand against his chest.
Lewis exhales. "Actually, I'm not having sex with you. At all."
"Okay," Max agrees, squeezing Lewis's nipple with icy fingers. He can see a shiver running through his body. "You smell so fucking good. Can I lick your hole?”
“Max,” Lewis breathes. He sounds so hot. “This is not happening.”
Max hums.
“I can smell your slick and I feel like it's getting wasted on your underwear, which is a shame.”
“Max,” he warns, grinding his ass even harder against Max's cock.
Speaking of mixed signals. Well. Max closes his eyes for a second, breathes in and out, thinking of terrible things like a naked Zak Brown or his father. Nothing about bending Lewis over that sink to fuck that little hole, the same one where Max could smell the exaggerated amount of slick oozing out of it, nothing about taking Lewis back to the hotel just to have him on his knees sucking him, as if fucking his mouth wasn't a normal person's dream. Right. Right!
He takes a slow step back, cock still hard, mind still confused. Lewis sighs softly when Max's hand moves away from his nipple, and Max doesn't pull away that much, leaving a tiny space between them, his hips thrusting into the wind on their own accord. He does feel like a man possessed, probably because of all that time away from Kelly, focused on the start of the season and training. Max never—not with male omegas and definitely never with Lewis Hamilton—and it was always in the back of his mind, all the effort he put into masturbating, pretending not to think about…
"Whatever just happened right now," Lewis is the first to speak, clearing his throat. He straightens his shirt and turns around, the air separating them not enough to melt away the heavy tension, but Lewis flashes the same smile he does for the cameras. "We can just forget about it, for our own good."
Max just takes a deep breath, choosing those few seconds to try to calm down and pray that his dick would leave him alone. Lewis turns his attention back to his phone, and Max remembers what they were doing before the situation escalated.
"Are you going to post the pictures?"
Lewis arches an eyebrow.
"Don't worry, mate, I'm too old to start drama like that," he replies, letting out a dry laugh. "And I wouldn't want your girlfriend and her dad to go all crazy on me."
It was the wrong question, of course, because now Max had remembered Kelly and how she definitely didn't like Hamilton. Lewis was acting like he'd been waiting for that question. Could that be considered cheating? They didn't actually do anything; there was no kissing or skin-to-skin contact like that. And touching a nipple should rarely be important. Besides, if it were brought up, Max could just explain it—he imagined her there, or something. He probably thought about her, couldn't remember what his thoughts were when he was grinding his dick against Lewis’ ass, but there was, like, a 50/50 chance it was Kelly in the back of his mind.
Even so. He just. Max should try to prove that this wasn't the case, make it clear that it wasn't as important as it seemed right now. A simple moment of weakness for both of them.
"You- You could, if you want to. If you like the pictures, I mean," Max says, shrugging away the worries. "Just cut my head out of them or something."
Lewis stares at him with narrowed eyes, assessing him for a moment, until he, probably, comes to the same conclusion as Max.
"Right," Lewis sighs, shaking his head with a distant look. "Anyways, I'm going back to the hotel, so you can tell the guys I said goodbye."
Max straightens his spine, becoming a little more taller, trying for confidence.
"Oh, I can take you there, I just have to get the keys from Daniel–"
"No need, my lift is here."
Lewis waved his phone at him. Had he ordered an Uber? Or maybe it was Charles coming to pick him up. None of this satisfied him at the moment, but Lewis was already walking away anyway, out of the bubble they'd had built around them, heading for the door.
He didn't stop, didn't look back, didn't say goodbye.
And Max was almost certain he'd dreamed the whole thing.