Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

— Plato, The Symposium

"Your results were emailed to you, George.” 

If he wasn’t aware of it before, George feels his entire day turn to ruin at eight o’clock in the morning by one measly sentence. 

Azerbaijan was three days ago, now pulled back to Monaco by commitments and inter-house filming. To top it all, George is still recovering from a very bad case of whatever chest infection he had managed to inherit from whoever it was (thanks, he guesses), so the obvious stated by his manager is sorely unappreciated at the moment. 

In front of him, his mouse blinks, hovering over the Gmail tab shortcut on his laptop. He was already on the damn thing, stocking up on travel essentials and flu medication before Singapore preparation begins soon. Harry had come over to his apartment this morning to run a few things by him, and George is meeting Aleix this afternoon to make a few adjustments to his diet and work-out routine. 

So, in essence, George was planning on having a relatively average day. Heck, he even contemplated heading to the store later to stock up on some groceries for the week if time permitted since he had some down time before the shoots tomorrow. 

All these hypothesized plans and details are thrown out the window when Harry announces, with unsaturated glee, if he may add, that the FIA had already infested his inbox before getting his first cup of coffee in. Fuck, they were so useless when it came to the important things, really. 

“Wow, jeez. Thanks, Harry. Don’t believe I’ve ever looked forward to something like that since forever,” He replies, sarcastic. Clicks the new email in bold and waits for the attachment to load. “Whatever am I going to do when it gives me the same result for the seventh year in a row?” 

George has come to expect the answer these days. 

One name, the same name that has scalded him for the last six years, along with the unfortunate impossibility of it all. 

Alexander Philippe Albon Ansusinha, 29, Alpha. 

What will be new about this? Only the change in the age. 

The same name has been inboxed to him since starting on the grid in 2019. The reaction has significantly changed since then, wisdom and experience key role players in his growth and development. 

Alternatively, George liked to think of it as seven long years of sitting with the knowledge of his best friend also being his soulmate, also known as the person he happens to be the most compatible with on Earth. The ying to his yang. An irreversible part of his life. His best and worst conclusion in life. 

See, the problem with Alex being George’s soulmate was this: George is not, and has never been, Alex’s soulmate. 

It’s fine. George is used to it. An immovable part of his life and truth for the last couple of years that Alex had no intention of ever looking at George in a non-platonic light, and he had come to terms with this very quickly, as well as keeping the truth away from his best friend. 

See, the problem is that Alex believes in soulmates, too. In fact, he has a perfectly matched and requited soulmate in the form of Lando Norris. Which, honestly. Don’t get George started on that combination. Not that it was odd, considering they were all friends from karting days, but for them to fall into each other like fate while George was sidelined felt. Well. Unfair. But, far be it from him to judge a happy couple in any way, shape or form when he was unattached and mate-less. 

All of it came down to the source of the problem. 

Every year, the FIA engaged in mandatory soulmate testing for every driver on the grid. 

For all intents and purposes, George tried his utmost best to abolish the practice when he became the Director of the GDPA back in 2021. It was his first mission that carried well into his transition from Williams to Mercedes, followed with petitions and driver statements, medical records showing unimportance and several studies indicating there was no correlation between a mated individual and their performance on the track. 

(He had found six studies. Only two had been in his favor. The other four served the opposite purpose, which did not help his case in the slightest. How pointless and absurd.) 

However, regardless of his position, the FIA backed up their side of it with rather substantial evidence, hence the continuation of annual driver testing. 

In theory, it sounded somewhat reasonable. A swab to cheek and a blood sample. Several laboratory break-downs to form an outcome based on their second designations done before the final race of the first half of the season. Come Zandvoort, the results were usually out. This year, however, it was quite late. 

The process was peak privacy. In the decades testing had been done, there were no leaks, no blimps. No one knew the truth of your links unless you were able to show or tell them. For obvious reasons, only Harry and Aleix had known the truth about Alex’s name in bold print on the emails received every single year without fail. George was not keen to divulge, and for good reason. 

Alex and Lando were in a very public relationship. Practically mated. Everyone knew their fairytale story. Tabloids had made a killing of it back when they got wind of it, especially during the 2024 Season of Lando Norris vs Max Verstappen.

So, George lived with it. Told the same story every single year. His soulmate isn’t on the grid, he searched them up and they lived a very different life, so he had no intention of disrupting them. 

Whatever he said, it had worked. People stopped bothering him about it for roughly two years now. Poetic justice. 

“Don’t you reckon it’s a bit overdone?” George allowed the clicker to hover before he took the bait and clicked on the result. “Once, at the beginning, as a sort of initiation? Understandable. For record-keeping, at least. But, Harry, don’t you think it’s stupid? Every single year? Soulmates don’t change, do they? It doesn’t make sense to me.” 

“They say it’s to regulate and prevent saturation, whatever that is meant to mean,” Harry stokes the fire of George’s disdain even further by being reasonable. “Please remember you have to carry your suppressants since the likelihood of your heat hitting during or after Singapore is at ninety-nine percent.”

“I’ve packed them, will start taking them two days prior. Very acutely aware of this dance. Now, place your bets. Will it be Alex’s full name this year, or the whitewashed version?”

“Fifty quid on the full name, they love their pretensive inclusivity,” Harry adds to the pot, leaving George impressed. 

“Quite true,” George hums. “That’s chump change, I’ve got that laying around the place. I will take those odds and double it on it being only two words that make up the name.”

And, George supposes, that after years of having the same reality, one grows immunity to the weight and implications of it all. Sometimes, you become comfortable enough to jest over your misfortune. It’s just that he’s at the point of his life where he doesn’t want things to be difficult. He isn’t as young and spritely as he was before, when his heart functioned optimally enough to feel pangs of despair whenever Alex and Lando were in his vicinity. 

Perhaps he’s fatigued from the strangulating thought of Alex somehow seeing him and balancing the idea of George being something other than a best friend to him. Something outside the box of normalcy. He feels ashamed to admit it, but there is no one he admits it to but himself. He didn’t think he’s wrong for harboring the fantasy once upon a time, when he had no idea how serious Lando and Alex were.

Now, though? He knows. So, George doesn’t bank on it. He is beyond homewrecker mentality. Multiple modern omega movements have piqued his interest, so he’s come to terms with the idea of spending the rest of his time as a bachelor, an occasional heat partner or two to do his bidding from time to time. 

“Okay, opening it now.”

It’s not a show. Harry is aware George is voicing out the process as a silent plea for moral support to get through another dumb year of being told that he isn’t meant to be for the person meant for him. And, quite frankly, this year has been good for him as a driver on the grid thus far, so he does not desire dampening his spirits either way. 

The page loads. He waits for it.

“What the fuck?”

Except.

Except.

It is not Alex’s name he sees.

Six years of seeing the same name, same designation.

Harry begins to lean in, trying to bring the screen into his line of vision. “Was it the white-washed version after all? You called it chump change, so why the—oh, blimey. What the fuck?” 

In place of Alex’s name, a literal tradition accompanied by a second of heartache and immediate  indifference, is someone brand new. Quite possibly straight out of George’s nightmares, if he’s being completely honest.

Max Emilian Verstappen, 27, Alpha. 

“There’s got to be a mistake,” is George’s immediate reaction, sending the clicker to the reload option. His Macbook takes a millisecond to blank out and load again, only to color his screen with the same five words there when he opens the thing.

“No, this isn’t—this cannot be right.” 

His included finger keeps moving on its own accord. Backing out of the page. Exiting the tab. Reloading the Gmail space. In and out of the email. Allowing the results to load again. All for the entire process to be fruitless when the name blinks at him yet again. 

Max Emilian Verstappen, 27, Alpha. 

“They do not change,” George feebly attempts to reason out. “They are not meant to change. I… This isn’t right. Who can I call?”

“And what will you say?” Harry gives him a wry smile, one that has too much meaning attached to it. “Hi, I’m calling to ask if there was an error in my testing. The person I usually get isn’t there, there is someone new. Oh, you need my authorization to access these files and see if they have been tampered with? Does that mean you’ll see the results? Very well then, thank you for your assistance, goodbye. That is how that conversation is very likely to go.” 

An ashen hue overtakes his entire face previously plumped with color. Suddenly, his bones feel heavier, head light. The idea of someone knowing Alex to be his soulmate, the Alex who is more than unattainable, and to combat it with him being replaced with Max, someone George doesn’t concern himself too much with anymore (while he does consider him the bane of his entire existence on occasional days), spelt catastrophe. 

“I’m going to pretend this never happened. I’m going to ignore it. As far as we are concerned, this,” He points to the screen, lips thinned and firm, “does not exist. It did not happen. We continue the story as it was…” His tongue tastes like metal, an alien taste swallows back out of sheer guilt and compromise.

Most of him wishes it was Alex’s name there again. The idea of having him in some way, knowing that despite it all, his best friend was still good for him. 

Except.

Except.

Nothing. 

George slams the Macbook shut. 

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” He says, robotic. His limbs are lead and move by mechanical force, like hinges and pulleys are keyed into action in order for him to breathe or speak. 

He is going to ignore it. George is going to ignore this unwanted restructure with every fiber in his being come hell or high water. He will go about his day, do a grocery run, work out in his building’s gym and pop across to Toto and Susie’s place for dinner, as he always does. He will ignore Toto’s questions about the results for today and they will laugh about new media speculation about his contract while George still tries his luck with the actual F1 car being added as an incentive between the paragraphs. Then, he will get wine drunk and forget this ever happened in the first place.

This is easy.

George can do this.

George can absolutely do this.

🏁

Turns out, this might be a smidgeon harder than initially anticipated. 

Touchdown in Singapore is all types of overwhelming. 

His scent gland throbs from the influx of heat from the general weather, all while battling the internal twist and turns of his intestines knotting in displeasure as a side effect of his suppressants. It should wear off come Friday, but today is Wednesday, which means George has to sit through Wednesday and Thursday like this, which is not particularly ideal. 

He has typical pre-heat symptoms, too. Each time Andrea shifts close to him, there is an uncomfortable prickle under his skin. Each time Toto speaks, he leans away, out of direct contact zones. Standing too close to alphas during this time is repulsive in every sense of the word, and the most hilarious part about it all is that none of them have any idea of what they are capable of since George does his utmost best to conceal his heats around the team.

What’s worse about it this time is that they’ve decided to stick him into one of the press conferences where they’re more than likely to ask another question about his contract, which is. He’s so fucking tired of it, and Max kissing Toto’s ass in Sardinia over the summer break was not in his favor, either.

Thinking about all of this agitates him even further. 

“Are you okay?” asks Andrea after collecting their room keys. “You are really… flushed?” He points to George’s jaw, trailing down with a finger to the columns of skin lining his neck, eyes widening a touch when he sees the bumpy surface over where scent glands are anatomically placed. “George, please tell me you’re—”

“Kimi, don’t,” George warns, gritting it out.

“But, you look ill—”

“Knock it off, pup,” George kisses, swatting Andrea’s hand away.

“Am not a pup,” Andrea rolls his eyes, stifling a low burning growl. “And I’m mature enough to say when I’m going into a rut, unlike some people.” 

“You also happen to have a mate who will gladly assist you through said rut, so, Kimi, I’d politely advise you to zip it when you speak about such topics whereby you have no idea what the intricacies entail.”

At that, he watches Andrea deflate like a popped balloon, his own fault in George’s vitriol blaring like a red alarm. Awareness flashes in a split-second, expression crestfallen when the reality of George’s words settle like a heavy, weighted blanket. 

“Oh, I’m… I didn’t think, I am so sorry, George.” He tries to step forward, but thinks twice, falling back into place while the entire world swirls and continues around them.

He breathes. Inhales once, exhales twice as long. Swallows the lump in his throat chiseled in with the part of his neck being constricted with the growing scent gland. “No, it’s—that was uncalled for on my side, Kimi. I. Yes, erm. Unreasonable. Please forgive me.” 

“I’d offer to scent you, as an apology, but… I am learning that it doesn’t work on anyone else like it does with Ollie. To be honest, I haven’t even tried it with Ollie yet, either, so this is very… hypothetical?” Kimi bites down on his tongue, looking slightly sheepish at the disclosure. 

“Learn that the hard way, did you?” George can’t help but chuckle at the admission. Just like that, the tension between them snaps into nothing but a passing fizzle, George’s hand sticking out to ruffle the baby alpha’s hair. “Scenting doesn’t work on anyone besides your mate. Not even family, you should know this, Kimi. The only person who even knows your scent would be—”

“Ollie, I know, I know,” Andrea nods, cheeks pinking at the topic. “I don’t even know betas could have scents, but! I was pleasantly surprised and happy to be wrong.” 

“For your sake, I am very glad you were wrong, too,” George indulges him. It’s easy to not be upset with Andrea. His puppy-like mannerisms make it difficult to hold a grudge. “But, uh. Y’know, soulmates can be platonic, too. It’s not a strictly romantic thing. It depends on the beholder, I guess.” 

“You haven’t told yours, right? I remember reading about it in the media a couple years ago,” Andrea points out, tired enough to lean his head on George’s shoulder. That’s how George knows their little spat has completely been forgotten. “This is very, how do I say it? New to me. Like a week’s old. I was very stupid when I told him, too. Like, hey! This is my first time getting this test done, because, y’know, only possible after you’re eighteen. And I tell him, very idiotically, that his name was there on my result sheet. And he laughed, because apparently he knew from the year before? Not my finest moment, I swear.” 

“I’m sure he was very happy to have it reciprocated,” George smiles, small, staring into the distance. A frame positioned on the lobby wall right above the elevator. How long would it take for them to give the okay before letting them head up? “That’s always a blessing. A privilege, even.” 

“Would you ever tell them? Your soulmate? If you get the chance?” 

“I don’t know, maybe,” George replies, unsure. “I’d like to not disrupt their life by all means necessary. That’s why platonic culture also very prevalent in society.” 

“I didn’t know, that it could be platonic, too. Max is very adamant on the romantic side of it,” Andrea grins, lifting his head off George’s shoulder.

Right as he does it, only does George realize how his skin feels like it has been caught ablaze, and not in the soothing type of way. The burning, scalding part, like fire licking into the curve of it. Still, he doesn’t pull his arm away. That would be rude. Instead, he moves in small inches. Slowly, surely 

“Is he, now?” George drones, resisting the urge to roll his eyes so hard into the back of his head they might accidentally fall out of the sockets from the sheer force of it. “Doesn’t strike me as such.”

“No, I’m being serious. Before the testing, he and I were talking. His soulmate doesn’t know him either, but he said it’s been the same person for years.” George tries not to show how terribly his eye twitches at the notion. “He quoted Plato. Humans being created and split apart by the Gods. Them having to search for your other half for the rest of your life. It’s intense, but he said he believes it.” 

“Well,” George purses his lips, unsure of how to react. That was surely something. “That’s nice for him, then. Romantic. We all need something to believe in after all. Just remember, create your own experiences with your own path, Kimi. Especially with your… soulmate. It’s never as clear cut as they portray it in the media, puppy.” 

“George, stop with the calling me puppy!” Andrea whines, shaking his shoulders in discontent. 

So young, so easily riled up. George should stop, so he does, waiting for their personnel to join them. “Alright, alright. It’s just that your hair is all poofy and curly and I will stop there, I’m sorry. Ugh, I’m on duty tomorrow.”

“I can go in for you,” Andrea offers, nonsense thought. “You’re not well. You should rest until it kicks in properly and—”

“Georgie, you’ve not been answering any of my texts and—hey, Kimi—and you didn’t tell me you were here, even!” Alex comes into focus, clustering into George’s limited space on the other side, Andrea observing the way the muscles and veins in George’s neck begin to strain. 

As if one alpha hadn’t been bad enough. Now there’s two. 

“Don’t you have like, home race commitments? Like, a fan-meet, and so forth?” He struggles to choke out the words. 

Where the hell is the rest of the team? Why isn’t George in his room trying to make a pathetic excuse of a nest to soothe his pre-heat symptoms? One should not be taking this long to check-in, Jesus Christ. 

“I did, and I’m done, it’s almost afternoon now. Let’s go out for dinner tonight? I was thinking you, me and Lando? We haven’t managed that in a minute. You can come too, if you’d like, Kimi.” The invitation is extended as a fleeting courtesy, which George knows Andrea understands well. 

“No, that’s okay. I have to go to Ollie’s hotel in a bit, so I won’t be around for the night.”

“Staying over already?” George quirks an eyebrow, smile dabbling on his lips. “Determined to turn those hypotheticals into reality, aren’t you, Kimi?” 

“Whatever,” Andrea shakes his head. “George has media day tomorrow, Alex. I think Lando, too, so maybe he’ll rain check.”

Both Alex and George turn their head to Andrea, who silently grumbles while his phone beams to life with the unlock button. Advocating for his teammate against his best friend. Now, that wasn’t something either of them saw every day. Quite frankly, if he wasn’t so overwhelmed, George would be endeared by Andrea’s little show of posturing. Alex used to do the same thing back then; George simply never mentioned or highlighted it because he enjoyed the action and the attention. Being doted on felt nice. 

It’s annoying, keyed into every omega’s little running circuit. George hates it. He doesn’t and should not need attention to feel happy. He’s absolutely capable of making himself happy and taking care of himself, thank you very much. After all, George has been taking care of himself all these years. A stupid alpha, soulmate or not, was not about to change that. 

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you? Since when are you so protective of George?” Alex giggles, attempting to diffuse the thick of the heat blaring down their necks. 

For all intents and purposes, George genuinely desires nothing more than a bed right now. 

And, as if his day could not get any worse. 

“Did not realize we were sharing a hotel with Mercedes,” Max enters the conversation, uninvited, and makes George want to combust on the spot. “Don’t you lot do the other hotel because of the sponsorship thing?”

There was just no way this was happening to him.

Not one or two, but three alphas in his vicinity. Who exactly had he royally pissed off to end up in such an unwarranted situation like this? 

And to make matters worse, Max locks in on him, slanting his neck out of curiosity. “You do not look better compared to Baku.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” George waves it off. “Some residual illness. That’s my cue to leave. Kimi’s right, rain check that dinner for me, mate. Bit under the weather. Alright then, I’m heading up. Do not look for me, thanks.”

For every part of his body that sizzles and scorches like each step is directly taken like George is trudging into a hellscape, the moment his arm brushes over Max’s on his way out of this triggering scenario douses his entire being with a cool stream of water straight down his back, so much so that the aching gland under the angle of his jaw even simmers down from its horrendous boil. 

Then, it hits him. A curious blend of bergamot and jasmine. Strong hints like the thin wooden sticks of a diffuser have spilled across his palms, lacing him with the scent itself. 

“Oh, that’s,” George coughs through the comment, attempting to not inhale too deeply, avoiding eye contact with Max in the interim. “That’s a. Um. That’s… That’s a nice fragrance you’ve got on. Really… deep? Yes, erm. That’s nice. Anyway.” 

Max Emilian Verstappen, 27, Alpha. 

Fucking hell.

Well, George thinks this is the most opportune moment to curl into a ball and simply die. That should do it, honestly. 

He does the rookie thing of turning around to bid the others goodbye, only to be faced with an utterly mortified Alex and a gobsmacked Andrea, completed with saucer-wide eyes and slackened jaws. George shrugs, playing it off as nonchalant, heading off in the direction of the elevator. 

The last thing he hears when the doors come to a close is Max’s awfully cautious voice saying, “I think he’s mistaken, I don’t have a new cologne.”

🏁

To his complete and utter surprise, people aren’t talking about his dismissal of the contract talks. In fact, all the rage online happens to be about him jokingly backing Max instead of Lando in the championship fight. 

Which. Well. You see.

George actually doesn’t care about it. 

He’s far too occupied with his own personal dealings to bother about the fact that his omega took it upon himself to verbalize something positive about Max, as benign and unnecessary as it may have been. Quite frankly, the dealings of the championship do not concern him this year. Next year, when he’s in his comfy seat showing every single second designation on this grid how it’s done, he will gladly partake in appropriate conversations.

Until then? George is happy to drive and finish the rest of his season. He wants to make sure he finishes all his races, at least. 

Winding up in front of the elevator, yet again, George has lost the mini-entourage to the dinner menu paraded in the lobby. It’s perfectly fine, though. He’s a big boy who is finally feeling the effects of his suppressants kick in, so there’s no need for a personal escort all the way to his door, of course. 

But, the universe doesn’t always bend to George’s personal whims; a hard pill learnt to swallow each and every single day. 

“Nice comments at the presser this afternoon. Interesting,” Max pops up from nowhere, chest facing the elevator door. 

Isolated, the two of them stand away from the bustling browsed lobby, some of them fans vying for an opportunity to spot their favorite drivers. Yesterday, Max had been right. Mercedes do not usually put them up in this hotel, but at a time like this, when he is the middle of actively preventing himself from falling into heat in the middle of a race weekend, George is not too enthusiastic about the logistics of things. 

“Figured,” George nods, nostrils filling with the same rush of bergamot and jasmine, the same combination from yesterday that sent a cool chill down his spine, enough to sate the flaming burns licking at his skin. “Figured you’d find some amusement in it.” 

“I mean, he is your friend,” Max reasons.

“Yes, he is, and you’re my…” George trails off, biting down on his tongue before his omegean heart betrays him twice in one day.

The last word falls away. Soulmate. 

“Mhm.” Max doesn’t probe further, thankfully. “I am your…” He stops there, ominous. 

Silence chokes around George’s neck like a thin vine winding down a three-storey balcony. The length and strength of it combined make breathing a challenge. Combined with the chaffing of his team shirt over the hills of his clavicles that radiate upwards towards his scent gland makes for a very unhappy and uneasy George. 

And, as if the universe had one more thing it had in its pocket conspiring against George all this time, Max leans to his right, cheek almost matching the height of his shoulder, and whispers: “Your new fragrance is nice, too, by the way.” 

The linings of his palm begin to sweat at a rapid pace. Blotchy, spotted. The proximity of Max’s face, particularly his teeth, sends warning signs blaring in George’s brain. Distance equals safety. This, on the other hand, is dangerous. Without meaning to, his vision trails sidewards, observing how Max keeps his eyes pinned to George’s person, unbothered by the implications of it. 

“Since we’ve mutually agreed to call them fragrances, George,” Max hums, sarcastic, finally taking a step back, the intensity easing up from the tight coil George had felt rope around the circumference of his neck almost fourfold. “I mean, we are calling them fragrances. Right?”

“I’m genuinely not in the mood for your games. Knock it off, Verstappen.” George presses the elevator button twice. The already bright orange blinks back at them in sync with the depressions. “I do not wish to discuss this. Neither is it appropriate timewise nor location.”

“Fine,” Max snaps, clearly agitated by George’s approach to their situation. It doesn’t take much to put him on edge these days given the current state of the championship table and Max’s approaching chances at having a shot at joining the title fight fromm where he stands. His eyes are hardened at the corners, harsh, unforgiving. Through the hostile vision, George can pick up the hurt Max unintentionally wears on his sleeve — an absolute contrast to everything George has shaped himself into becoming. “It’s just funny to me that you’re only choosing to acknowledge this now, after all this time. Maybe there is motive with distraction from everything I have going on.”

Now? 

What the ever loving fuck is that meant to mean?

“What are you getting at?” George’s face skews in confusion, nose scrunching in tandem with flushed cheeks. “Your name was there for the first time in my entire life, when else would I have had the opportunity to acknowledge it? Are you brain dead, by any chance? I don’t fucking care about your shot at the championship, mate. That’s your own thing.” 

At the admission, George notices how Max freezes on the spot, minimally craning his head towards the taller man at an excruciating pace. With his voice dropped what George believes to be an entire octave, Max goes, tone riddled with disbelief: “The first time?” 

“Erm, yes,” George debates on how worth it is revealing his pathetic soulmate (or lack thereof) story to the person this stupid round of testing has seemingly matched him to. He feels the need to re-iterate, so he does. “This was the first time.”

It could be a fluke, of course, but rarely did the International Soulmate Bureau make such errors knowing the fragility of their work and what was at stake with any missteps. There must be a reason Alex was no longer on George’s radar for compatibility, but for everything good and sane and pure wandering this vast fucking earth, he cannot, for the life of him, understand why this man’s name was scripted on his results email. 

George and Max are literally the same poles on a magnet, made to oppose each other until the end of time, or at least, as far as the magnetic field will hold. If Max is fire, George prides himself on being water. If Max were in the sky, George will firmly stick to the ground and respect gravity for all she is and does. Sure, this year has brought a respectful plateau of neutrality to whatever they had morphed into after the end of last year, but George doesn’t believe it was significant at any point to warrant it altering his secondary biology. 

“It’s not like I’ve asked for it,” George rolls his eyes, hands kept firmly at his side instead of reaching to the flaring up scent gland in proximity of what his mind now screams mate, mate, mate. 

How disgusting. 

He hopes Max hears the underlying meaning in his statement. 

It’s not like George asked for Max. 

With Alex, the instinct had always been tucked away, swallowed and contained because he was the epitome of untouchable. So, George figured out how to manage himself. He didn’t need an alpha or a beta or even another omega as a mate. Twenty-eight years he has done it himself, so there was no point in looking when he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Sure, when it was entirety too difficult, he would request a once-off heat partner that Mercedes would vet out for him, but that is as far as George was willing to go. 

He did not foresee Max.

Max and everything he stood for. 

An alpha, foolhardy, typically a knot-head. Insistent and bothering with instinct and the urge to protect. George doesn’t need any goddamn protecting — he is perfectly capable of doing it by himself. He’s been alone all this time — the last thing he will ever do is raise any expectations and have the fall through.

Been there, done that. 

Neither does he recommend it, nor will he allow himself to relive it. 

“It changed for you?” Again, Max questions, baffled. 

“Yes,” George doesn’t waste time answering. What is taking this elevator so long? Either way, this conversation was going to happen eventually. Why not now? Get it over and done with, water under the bridge so he never has to discuss this with Max ever again. “I had the same person for six years. Then, suddenly, this year, it changed.” 

“Six whole years?” Max tries not to let his voice raise. A change from how he had been interrogating George. “And then the switch flipped?”

If he wants to describe it like that, like this is a product of George’s sudden, undiagnosed manic episodes (which he does not have, mind you), then far be it from George to rain on his parade. 

“If you wish to describe it as such, by all means, have at it. I’m too exhausted to entertain this anymore and—”

“Georgie, you’re still around! How are you feeling?” 

Ah. Alex. 

George had completely forgotten how Andrea had aided him in the art of avoidance yesterday. Except, there is no baby alpha in his vicinity today to make his skin itch unpleasantly due to proximity. There’s his actual alpha, which. It’s a bridge George is not willing to cross under any circumstances. 

Again, there must be something that slightly gives away his demeanor. Perhaps his posture or breathing pattern, or the way his eyes dim a touch at Alex slotting into the conversation when George is personally attempting to maintain disdain from anything that could induce a particularly painful heat. 

However, it slips his mind that the easiest giveaway now that this channel has opened, is the shift in his scent. 

“Still not the best,” George supplies, gaze wandering to the digital numbers. It was still so high. 

“Mate, you do look a bit flushed. Are you sure you’re good to race this weekend? Will everything be fine?”

“Mhm,” George replies, swallowing the prickle on his skin. Subconsciously, he steps into Max’s space, still focusing on whatever Alex looks positively giddy to disclose. “Out with it, you’re practically jumping out of your pants to spill something.” 

“Well,” Alex is about to continue, but is suddenly reminded of Max’s presence not completely shadowed by George. “If you’re already here, too. I’m on the fence with how close you are to Lando with keeping this a secret.”

If George were not already ill, this is the moment where the nausea would have crept in with an invisible punch and knocked all the air fresh from his lungs, practically bowling him over from the weight of him impending reveal which George has a faint idea what Alex is so ecstatic about. 

“It depends on the day,” Max shrugs. “If you’re proposing, I won’t tell, though. I’m not that stupid. It’s also just, not my place, mate. I’ve got enough to deal with on my own.” 

Turns out Max had already been thinking along the same lines as George had been. 

Huh. 

“Oh,” Alex’s face drops. “How did you—did you guess?” Mild terror fills his eyes, probably at the notion of Lando finding out. “Have I done or said something to make it obvious?” 

Before George has a second to process it fully, Max begins to choke on literally thin air, holding a palm to the wall to stabilize himself, other hand pounding into his chest. Alex and George turn to him, suspicious, but, because George is kind enough, the action is mimicked over Max’s back, who hisses at the hammer-like movement. 

“What is wrong with you?” George asks, irritated. “I’m not getting you water, so if you feel it apt to die in the lobby of a five star hotel, be my guest.”

“George,” Alex gawks, trying not to be too taken aback by George’s nonchalance. “Shit, Max, you’re turning purple. Let me get you water, mate.”

Alex is only gone for a couple of seconds when Max grits out, “Your fragrance is burnt. Control it, unless you desire a homicide charge. Fuck, he was the name, wasn’t he? Six years.” 

“Figure that out so quickly, Sherlock?” George snarls, sarcastic. “Look, I don’t know how to control it. I’ve never had this sort of problem before. Either die or come up with a solution. I genuinely don’t care. As you’ve so astutely put it, I’ve got my own problems, mate.” 

In the middle of hacking out a lung, Max poses the stupidest question George might have ever heard in his entire life. “Why do you want me dead so much?”

“For fun,” George deadpans. 

Has he forgotten how he basically wished the same fate on George at the end of last year? Was Max that fickle-minded or did he allow his mistakes to slip through the cracks in order to lessen the burden of guilt on his shoulders? George doesn’t care, though. To each their own. 

However, when he sees Alex make a beeline towards them with a bottle of water, he eases up on the force used on Max’s back, allowing the touch to slip away. 

Defeated, George mumbles out, “Look, can you forget I exist? I’ll find a scent blocker soon, just bare with it until the end of this weekend, alright? Then, we go back to how it was before the results came out.” 

“What in the world are you talking about?” Max demands, dreadfully mind-addled by George’s suggestion. “Why are you putting words in my mouth? It hardly seems fair—”

“Here you are,” Alex arrives with a bottle of water, handing it to Max, who nods in appreciation, gulping the whole thing down in a split of four. It’s unusual to see him without that ridiculous can of Red Bull. 

Not that he had ever thought of it, but George is surprised that his scent isn’t something more chemical-based considering how majority of his liquid intake happens to be that goddamn energy drink with processed sugar. Instead, it was natural, earthy. The types of scents George tended to enjoy drowning in whenever he needed to calm down. 

What were the odds, really? 

“Thanks, man.” Max raises the empty bottle in a show of gratitude. Right then, the elevator dings, doors sliding open. “Uh, I need to speak to George. If you’re coming up, can you take the next one? Great, thank you!” 

The murderous glare George he manages to master in Max’s direction seems to have zero effect on the intended party, because Max grabs the circle of bones on his wrist, leading George into the elevator without another sound from anyone else.

Alex falls into the background when the doors close again, open falling open in a bid to say something, but unable to formulate anything of substance before it closes completely, leaving George and Max trapped together in a metal box moving up as the moments ticked by. 

Sighing, Max swipes his card over the needed zone. “What floor?” 

“108,” George, still miffed, responds. “You didn’t even let me tell Alex I was happy for him and Lando.”

“Obviously, because that would be an outright lie, no?” counters Max. 

“They are my friends!”

At this, Max lets out a quiet guffaw. “Yet you looked like you were about to keel over at the remark of them getting engaged. Of the idea of Alex proposing to his mate of almost four years, George. Forgive me if I wanted to get you out of that situation.”

“I never asked you to help me,” George scoffs. “Stupid alphas and the tendency you idiots have to overstep. No one asked you to make any decisions on my behalf. No one told you to pull me along with you.”

“No one told you accept what I was doing and follow through with me, yet here we are,” Max defends, bringing George to a full stop. 

Because, well. George could have shrugged him off and voluntarily stayed with Alex, heard more of his plans, or even wavered the rain check to have dinner with his friends. Instead, he allowed Max to tug him into the elevator like a piece of silk on the verge of fraying, and stood against the metal bar for support when the temporary contact diminished. 

“Warm honey and vanilla milk. That’s—yes. Milk and honey.”

Time has always ignored George. When he asked for it to go faster, there was the dullest drag experienced. When asked to slow down so he could enjoy the moment, it was gone in the blink of an eye. George and time do not see eye to eye. They are parallel lines that run together, not destined to intersect at any interchange. He doesn’t think she will ever accommodate him. After all, George is a revolving circle of monotony when it comes down to how he sees life, where he puts himself, and the little he is allowed to have. 

The bank balance doesn’t exactly matter. All the zeroes and cars in the world do not come close to the void dug up after years and years of seeing Lando and Alex and everything he will never have. 

She must take pity on him, though, in the way she slows as he tilts his head towards Max to make sense of what has been divulged to him. 

“Is that…”

Milk and honey. Vanilla milk. Warm honey. 

“It’s you,” Max nods. “I’ve wondered about it for a very long time, but this is you.” 

George has a scent.

George has someone who can tell him what his scent is. 

George has a soulmate.

It just so happens that the soulmate in question, is Max Verstappen.  

When the elevator doors open, George runs on autopilot, stepping out on a whim. Expecting a problem with the sway in his step, Max follows close behind. Two steps only. Not enough to crowd, but present enough to step in should anything untoward occur. 

Warm honey, vanilla milk. 

That… That sounds nice. 

He’s always wondered, is all. 

Thought he would never know in this lifetime, at least. 

By the time they get to his hotel room, Max settles for leaning against the wall while George fiddles, taking his time to get the keycard out of his wallet. When he does swipe for clearance, the lock sinks, handle following suit, but George hovers for a second too long instead of heading inside without looking back. 

“So, like, when it affected you earlier,” George cannot stop himself from asking out of pathetic curiosity. “What did it become?”

“The milk smelt curdled,” Max doesn’t mind explaining, which. George hates this, how he clings onto every single word. He hates being turned into whatever this is. “And the honey, when it’s burnt, it sort of caramelizes, no? You were just, uh. Like it got stuck at the bottom of a pot and hardened. Bitter, in a way.” 

“It was bad enough that you couldn’t even breathe,” George begrudgingly points out. 

“It was,” Max agrees. “But, I wasn’t used to it. I’m still processing that I can even catch this in the first place. I don’t think—I mean, I hoped, but hoping and reality can be very different.” 

“Don’t be pathetic, it’s just a stupid scent,” George rolls his eyes. “Ugh, come inside. We need to talk about this. Boundaries and what not.” 

As if he could not possibly agitate George anymore, Max echoes, “And whatnot.” 

Quite literally risking George slamming the door in his face before allowing him to enter the room. 

“Are you mocking me?”

“Me?” Max feigns shock, stepping inside before George preemptively kicks him out with no solution to their current dilemma. “Why would I ever mock you, George?”

“You’re not being funny, is what I’m basically trying to convey.” Stuck, he looks around. The room is relatively neat, nothing out of place. From the ajar door, his make-shift nest is still intact, too. “Erm, just. Try not to… I don’t know. Not that you care, but I’m fading out of pre-heat symptoms, so. Don’t go towards the bedroom. Sit on the chairs out here if you must.”

George doesn’t know why he didn’t mention it earlier if Max’s reaction is anything to go by. 

A complete stop mid-movement, jaw dropping in surprise, eyelids blinking at the speed of light as if they had anything to do with processing the audio waves emitted. It’s not like he’s going to hide it on purpose to someone who already knows what his scent is. Facing this head on is the only way George can come out of it unscatched. And, despite what everyone does think, Max isn’t stupid enough to do anything that the FIA would consider unsatisfactory on a racing weekend. The little credit George will give him holds true, but only at certain times. 

His life was perfectly normal before the name changed. God, why did the name have to change? Why in the world did it have to be a mutual change, too? 

“I’ve taken suppressants, stop acting like Kimi,” George shakes his head. 

“What do you mean acting like Kimi?” Max fires back. 

“Worried,” explains George. “He worries. A lot. He’s also really young, doesn’t have much experience around omegas and whatever happens during a heat. Most people take the horror stories at face-value, no amount of reassurance helps. Fortunately, I’ve been managing myself just fine for the last eight years. The pup is only concerned, and—why in the world am I explaining this to you? Really? Kimi worries. That is all.”

“Doesn’t he have a soulmate?” Max screws his face up, completely tossing out the awareness of how much he actually cares for Andrea in the wake of his alignment to George. 

“He does. What’s your gripe with it?”

“Shouldn’t he worry about his soulmate?” Max continues. 

“He does,” George shrugs. “And he worries about his teammate. He’s a decent lad, Max. One of your little ducklings. Stop acting like he’s offended you greatly when we both know it isn’t possible in any scape of existence. Don’t you give him advice?” 

“I try, but most of it has been theoretical, or based on…” Hope. George is realizing that Max has been holding out hope for a lengthy period. 

Briefly, his mind does a loop to recall what Andrea had spoken about yesterday. 

Romantic. Plato. Soulmates.

But, the crux remains, none of what Max has been saying is evidence-based. More so theory built on a foundation of what-ifs and pre-conceived notions floating in the air.

George wonders how many times Max’s soulmate must have changed in the last ten years for him to maintain the belief right up until George’s name popped up, daring to shatter everything he had ever thought to be true. 

“Whatever,” George stills, realizing how parched he is, how this entire interaction has drained him from his core. He goes to reach for a bottle, only to have it placed in his hand from a twitching Max, chewing the inside of his cheek in contemplation. 

A wave of nausea hits him at the idea of Max protecting and providing for him, only serving to make his inner omega gleam at the thought of being cared for by his mate, an aspect of himself neglected for as long as the idea of his mate has existed. 

“Thank you?” His voice quivers, breaking the seal. Lifts it to his mouth, turns it up, and knocks it back, completely unaware of how Max watches the trail of his Adam’s apple curve from the flow of his swallow. He brushes his mouth with the back of his hand, noticing how Max ducks his gaze at last. 

Weird. 

“Anyway, Kimi’s just figuring out his life. Very rarely do people find their soulmates this quickly. It took Charles, what? Two years? Three years? To figure out who Oscar was.”

“But, Oscar knew,” Max defends the younger alpha. “He knew, and he waited.”

“Until he was sure Charles would never forget who he was until he found out,” George laughs. He would never forget how torn Charles had been back in 2022, fighting Max for a title versus trying to come to terms with the fact that his alpha was four years younger and the newly crowned F2 champion waiting for a seat in the big leagues. 

Both Max and Oscar had almost sent Charles into a straight jacket that year, for very different reasons. 

“He was patient,” Max continued the defense. “Maybe he had faith it would work out.” 

“You’re so—Max,” George feels a reluctant laugh sitting at the base of his throat. “You’re genuinely so optimistic about this. Do you believe in soulmates that much? That the tests make sense and genuinely point you in the direction of the person you’re meant to bite and be tethered to for the rest of your life?”

It doesn’t make sense to George. Someone like Max would ideally be opposed to it based on his upbringing and the environment. In what world would it cultivate the general idea of belief in him? 

“My parents were not soulmates,” says Max, like he had already been wired into George’s thinking process. “So, it’s. I just. They tried to defy it, y’know. Break the stigma that only soulmates would end up happy and together. But, everyone knows how that turned out.”

Everyone knows. God, did everyone know. 

Then, it clicks. Max no longer has difficulty breathing around him, and George doesn’t feel this heart in this mouth anymore.

Breaking the deafening silence garnished with only the quieted sounds of their breaths and the sloshing of the remaining water in the 500ml. Warm honey and vanilla milk. Who would have thought? George is still reeling over the idea of being known. 

“Are you okay?” Max probes gently, raising an eyebrow in question. Ultimately, he takes the invitation, dropping onto the single-seater in the living room of his suite. “If it really was Alex, then… I’m sorry, George. It’s probably a lot to take in. I mean, they’re your closest friends on the grid, too.”

“Judging from the way my scent changed, according to you, you already have the answer to this question. Homicide, you said.” 

Exhaling, George leans back, shoulders drooping. There has been tension knotted into the bind of them, deep in his sinews. Sharing space with Max had not been on the cards, and yet. Now, they had to figure out appropriate boundaries. George doesn’t even know where to start.

“So, how do we continue to pretend this hasn’t happened?” George poses the question, ignoring the way the wave of nausea crashes into him again, his omega banging against his ribs in clear protest. “Should be simple, no? Surely the last thing you want is to be associated with me.” 

“Do you enjoy it? Putting words in people’s mouths?” Max scowls, unimpressed. 

Quite frankly, George feels his focus slip. Simply having Max in this proximity, the intensity of his scent inhaled from how deeply it shrouds the room like a thick, woolen blanket, and being this close to an alpha that has been government approved as biologically compatible with him is enough to throw him off balance. 

“Favorite pastime, yes.”

“Find a new one.”

“No, I’m rather fond of this one.”

Both of them look up, breaking out into ghosts of a smile. 

“You don’t want this,” Max summarizes George’s behavior from discovery until present. “May I ask why? Is it because it’s me? If Alex didn’t have Lando—”

“That isn’t a fair comparison,” George intercepts, plugging the thought before it drags out any further. “Do not go there, Max. And, it’s not about you, it’s just. Goodness, I’ve gotten used to it, is all.”

“Entertain the idea, though.” 

“I can’t, really, because I haven’t thought of Alex like that in a long time. I’m a reasonable person, gave up on the idea as soon as I knew it wouldn’t be able to work. Lando and Alex are perfectly happy, so what’s the point in fruitless fantasies where I’m made to roleplay a homewrecker. Useless, really. It isn’t because it’s you. It could be anyone and I could care less.”

“What if it were Kimi?” Max challenges him. 

“Are you looking for ways to irritate yourself?” George glares at him. “Making up hypothetical scenarios in your head to find reasons to be upset? Couldn’t pick anyone else besides Kimi, too. That’s a child, Max.” 

The edges of his scent gland begin to flare up, burning. He imagines how red the inflammation must make it appear. Sighing, he sits up, intent on fetching ice from the mini-fridge, but Max is already ten steps ahead of him, on his feet before George utters a single word. 

“Can you—fuck,” George launches to his feet, following Max’s trail. “I can do these things myself. What’s your point here? I don’t care if you can do things for me, I don’t want you to, Max. Could you not treat me as an invalid? Don’t you dare reduce me to some useless omega who can’t lift a spoon.” 

“Do you enjoy living with a stick up your ass or is it a special trick?” Max grabs a couple of ice cubes and shoves them into a complimentary hand cloth. He holds it out, waiting for George to take it. “Here, since people aren’t allowed to help you. No, I take that back. Since I’m the one not allowed to help you. But, this isn’t going to work, and you know this.” 

Admitting Max is correct would mean nothing, but George holds the faintest grudge against him. Probing him wrong would be an excellent boost for his ego, but the thing is, Max is glaringly right. Ice will not sate the charged gland, irritated by proximity of a living, breathing scent meant to mingle with something new. 

Something that supposedly belongs to him now. 

And, George knows Max is doing it in a bid to provoke him, but the provocation melts like butter. Not for the first time, his omega wins, adjusting his neck to the side, exposing the reddened expanse of raised skin below the junction of his neck. 

“It’s not like I have any other viable options, Max.” 

He closes his eyes in relief as Max understands the intention, pressing the covered ice onto his skin. To do this, Max gets close, their feet creating a pattern. One between the other, naturally slotting together. For a couple of well-meant moments, it soothes the area, as initially hoped for. However, hell freezes over and divides his entire core when Max’s fingertip accidentally grazes over the gland. 

Static lights like a wick, the type oiled over to catch aflame with a single strike. His body erupts in a train of goosebumps, littering over all four limbs. A gasp bursts through his lips, electricity zapping over his flesh. George’s eyes trail over the arch of Max’s eyebrow, catching the flicker of his eyes to lips. 

What has George gotten himself into? 

There is no sane answer to his own question. 

“Is it too cold?” murmurs Max, releasing the pressure, purposeful in holding the stare, imitating the way George ceases to breathe. 

“Uh.” Stuck, the corners of his teeth ache like a teething toddler, radiating into his gums. Phantom biting, textbook symptoms of meeting your soulmate. Proximity was proving to be the cause of this, all these unnecessary things manifesting into reality when George wants nothing more than to ignore anything to do with this. He’s turned into a monosyllabic speaker. “Slightly.”

“You’ve taken your suppressants, right?” Max clarifies. 

“Obviously,” Georg bites, aggravated by the idea of Max implying he is careless. “You’d expect me to not do that on a grid with staff packed with alphas, betas and omegas, regardless of mating status?”

“Now who’s making up the scenarios in their head?” Max deepens the ice, eliciting a weakened hiss from George. “What were you thinking about? When it comes to your boundaries?” 

Oh. Right. Was that not the entire point of Max being here, in his hotel room? 

“Everything that was a boundary before should still stand,” George tries not to shudder when a droplet of water escapes the cloth, gliding over his skin. His weight hits the wall in nearly full force when he spots Max catches it with his thumb, swiping over the nearest curse of his gland, and brings it straight to his mouth. 

Doesn’t water dry? Why in the world would Max do that? 

“Such as?” Max probes, the intonation so low George almost has trouble making out the words. 

“Minimum mentions, avoiding each other unless it means a podium or pre-race obligations. Such as placements at the anthem being the main one, or if there are press-cons, or fan stages. Things that we are likely to be civil to each other for. Normal things.”

“And?” Max digs further.

What else is there to elaborate on? Does that not cover standard grounds? 

“No contact out of race weekends,” He adds, feeble in deliverance. Max smirks over it. “What? Is that meant to be hilarious?” 

“No, I just think playing with ice on you is redundant.” Purposefully, Max makes the tongue-in-cheek comment, placing the bundle onto the countertop at last. 

George’s skin has worsened, scorched from the burn of aggravation. Slighted, he pierces Max with daggers, clenching his jaw over the phrasing. “Must you be so crude?” He deadpans, unamused. 

“I’m just saying. There’s only one way to solve this, if you’d let me.” 

“I’m not dying,” George bites out. “There’s no need for it.”

“No, but you are overwhelmed. A race weekend, you’re still recovering from your virus, alphas are probably getting under your skin, your best friends are getting engaged soon, you have a new soulmate and your world has basically been uprooted by the fact that not only is this one new, but it is very much reciprocal.” 

Point atop point atop point atop point atop point atop point. 

Why must Max make a world of sense? 

“And, to make matters worse, pre-heat.” 

“You should leave,” George grits out, still jelly-kneed. Max’s scent floods into his nostrils in a rush, triggered by something. “Boundaries have been established. The purpose of your visit is fulfilled. We have practice tomorrow. You should go back now, Max.” 

This time, Max laughs. A real, booming thing that crinkles at his eyes, ricochetting off each wall, spreading and seeping into George without permission.

“I don’t want to go back. You’ve been going on and on about what you want. Why is there no sense of mutuality?”

George is confused. Scent-addled, but mostly befuddled.

Why wouldn’t Max want the grounds he has laid? Doesn’t it suit them perfectly? After all, Max probably had his name swapped in as a last minute thing, too. 

However, Andrea comes back into memory, the lost blurb that had fallen into the cracks while he was extremely disconcerted yesterday evening.

His soulmate doesn’t know him either, but he said it’s been the same person for years.

But, this was prior to testing, right? Surely they were changed. Max couldn’t have been waiting for him for years? 

“You…” George blinks, astonished. The strain in his cheeks dissipate, replaced with a stone sinking into his heart. Only to be confirmed by the way Max’s expression falls when he realizes George has put two and two together at last. “No, no. You… How long?”

George had been waiting on Alex for six years, a purposeless plight, and Max had been waiting on George for God knows how much longer if this were true. Max with his romantic notions clinging to the idea of eventual fruition, even if it meant waiting on George for however long it was meant for him to wait, because Max believes in soulmates.

Because Max has always believed the name on his results sheet was destined to find their way to him eventually. He held blind faith out of hope, out of spite. Perhaps resentment, too, when he saw what was capable of happening to people who attempted to defy the odds. Maybe Max sought comfort in the known. 

Somehow, George might have unknowingly been the only permanent factor he knew how to base his fate upon.

Bergamot and jasmine permeate every single air pocket in the room. Come to think of it, George thinks he might like it. It isn’t as intensely overburdensome as one would think it to be.

“George,” Max sighs. 

“No, how long?” He insists.

“George—”

“Tell me.”

“A while—”

“A number.”

“Why does it interest you—”

“Why shouldn’t it interest me?”

“Well, you’ve been against it since—” 

“Could you just tell me?!”

“Ten years, George!” Max yells, hand raking through his hair at the admission. Trembling fingers, charged with the fear of rejection after internally placing so much importance on this moment for his entire life. “Eleven years since I’ve been in Formula 1, and ten since they began to send me results from the soulmate testing.”

Ten years. Max has known for ten years.

It was never against the rules to say anything, but fuck. Why had he never hinted at it? The easiest way to know if you were soulmates with someone was to catch their scent. If Max had never been able to trace anything back to George, had he lived like George had all these years, except… 

Did Max wait for him?

“Ten years, one name,” Max gulps. “Only ever one name. Yours.” 

George William Russell, 28, Omega.

But, once upon a time, it was 27, 26, 25… All the way down to 18. 

Ten whole years of George’s name appearing, and not once had he ever felt entitled to make a move. In fact, he had persisted in the idea of being fair, becoming one of George’s least liked drivers on the grid a minimum of three times.

“I should kill you.” George pushes his shoulder first, and Max allows it, going with the flow of the shove. “Truly, I should kill you, you stupid alpha! Useless ego, you blithering fool.”

“For not disclosing it?” Max grins, earning another push — this time, on the other shoulder. “And make you miserable for not being able to feel anything for me when you were clearly struggling with the exact same situation for a similar duration? How cruel do you think I am?”

“I’d say pretty darn cruel when you want to be, so I do not understand the courtesy extending to allowing me this knowledge now and—”

“Would you have ever told Alex?” Max shuts him up faster than anyone has been able to make George fall silent in this entire life. “Because, you understand the implications of that, right? Sure, Alex has a soulmate, George, and for the longest time, I assumed you did, too. That’s what you had everyone believe. So, would you have told Alex? Would you have risked ruining him? C’mon, George. You’ve been in my shoes. The answer is no. A straight, easy no. Because, Alex doesn’t deserve to be plagued by something he cannot change. And, to me, it was the same for you.”

He isn’t used to Max making this much sense in a short period. 

Although, each bullet-point highlighted chisels deeper into knocking George back to their very tangible reality instead of the strokes of canvas sharpened in his mind. He has been in Max’s shoes. Up until two weeks ago, those were the only kind George had known how to wear. 

And, the unfortunate takeaway is Max is still correct. George would never want Alex to find out and live out the rest of his life knowing George had an Alex-sized chamber in his heart until the end of time, knowing he would never be able to allow blood to pump into it the way the body was meant to work. If this was his train of thought, how could he expect Max to be any different, especially since he was right — George had lied about his soulmate for years to reduce the inquisitive nature of people surrounding the topic.

What a mess.

What a mess they’ve become.

“This doesn’t change anything,” George warns him. “Nothing about this changes us, Max. I still… I still… Even if you’re my…”

“I don’t expect it to. It’s a sudden thing, George.” Hands raise in defence. “You can take however much time you need, honestly. Whenever you want to talk, I’m here. And, then, we can adjust those boundaries. You run quite a strict ship around here.”

“How are you so okay with… ”

“I’ve waited ten years for you, George,” Max explains, succinct. No embellishments, no fanfare. “Where’s the harm in waiting a little more until you decide what works best for us?”

George wonders if pinching himself would do any good, but he gathers it might be counter-productive in this case. Max has, essentially, placed the fate of their future and the direction it takes without question, even though he would be on the short end of the stick if George keeps everything as is. 

It’s hard to believe. Truthfully, he cannot believe it. Moments ago, he and Max were actively arguing with each other. Now, they have seemed to reach an unusual plateau. Stagnant until either one makes a move to change the trajectory of their lives for good. 

“You know it’s going to bother you for the rest of the night. For the rest of the weekend, possibly, if it doesn’t get fixed.” Max motions to the angry scent gland sweltering on the side of George’s neck. “Keep an ice pack on it. Keep your neck covered, too. No one can catch the scent, but if you look close enough, it’s a dead giveaway. Otherwise, I’m going to win. You let it bother you and I make it a regrettable race for you two years in a row.”

If their places had been reversed, Max on the cusp of going into rut, he wonders if there would be residual effects from the suppressants on his end as the ones George is currently on the receiving end of.

“That’s a cheap trick,” George rolls his eyes. What more can he do under these circumstances? At least, nothing he thinks would work. His omega, on the other hand… “Would you be up for it? Just once, though.”

“Would I be up to help you?” Max, returning to his irksome ways, allows his lips to lift into a smirk. “I believe the words you’re not able to cough out is help, George. And I’m supposed to believe my tricks are cheap.”

“Okay, fine, get out!” George groans, closing his eyes, regretting his choice in making the worthless suggestion either way. He makes his way to stomp towards the door in a show of indignation. “Go to your fancy room and sleep on your soft thousand-count sheets and ignore the fact that your omega is out here suffering with an over-reactive scent gland due to how much the bergamot and jasmine radiating from you is affecting him. Begone, Verstappen. Do not return—”

George has never understood the concept of being touch-starved. He doesn’t appreciated warrant touch. He would much rather everyone keep to themselves unless truly necessary or unless a situation absolutely demanded it. Things like being comforted by Marcus or Toto after a poor race, or sharing congratulatory greetings with Andrea usually fell under those categories. He hugs his mum whenever they come to visit, and he shakes his papa’s hand on occasion. His nieces and nephews, when they were much younger and the full apple of George’s eyes, yes — he carried and played with them, but, ultimately, they were babies. 

So, realistically, George is clued on what it feels like. It’s just that he doesn’t like it. 

Before George has the opportunity to reach the door, he is backed into the side of the island counter in the middle of the kitchenette. Eyes blow out at the action, Max caging him between his arms, extremely unthreatening, but still menacing enough to catch every breath circulating in his lungs dead in their tracks. It’s a little funny, their height difference, but George can hardly formulate any sensible thoughts in this situation. All his omega allows him to understand is that their alpha stands in front of them.

Whatever happens from here is solely up to George.

“George, may I?”

“May you what?” George purses his lips, feeling the burn simmer in his chest. 

“May I help you? No cheap tricks. Just asking permission.”

One beat, then another. His heart pulses like a jackhammer. “Since when do you ask permission?” He asks, curious. 

“Since always, what’s wrong with you?” Max laughs. 

He wonders if he will add this to the list of regrets he has later. Or, will it trickle into memory when he sees Alex tomorrow and inevitably remember? How does one end something that has never truly started?

Maybe by attempting to actually start something else. 

“This means nothing,” George emphasizes bluntly.

Max only grins with a shrug.

What a fool, George lets this singular thought pass. You would let me crush your heart if I asked. Why are you me, Max?

For the first time in his entire life, there is a nose pressing into the crook of George’s neck, tentatively drawing lines upward, slow, steady, allowing him to familiarize himself with the feel, the motion, the pattern and recognition of it all. One hand finds the right side of his neck, four fingers splayed across the column of skin, thumb stroking over his jawline as it forms a cradle, caressing so gently George has tears forming in the corner of his eyes from the sheer relief the contact brings to his mind, body, and soul. 

The funny thing is that Max fits between George’s thighs, so he effortlessly slots himself there, parting his lips a touch only for completion, nosing, inhaling, pressing against him. If George were not sitting, if Max didn’t have the sense to keep him upright in some way, he is absolutely certain his would have buckled by now. The sensation runs bone-deep into his spine. Every inhale taken by Max triggers loops in George’s shallow gut, drowning him deep in the pit. 

All he can do is allow his hands to rest over Max’s neck, a few of his fingers slipping into the nape to keep grip. Eyes closed, jaw slackened, breathing heavily through his nose as Max’s scent becomes so intense and overpowering it almost feels like George will taste it for the rest of the weekend. The other hand settles over his knee, thumb massing at the lower ends of his thighs. George tries his best to remain silent, to keep his composure. 

But, it’s difficult when it feels like the sun has risen after years of night, and the wake of dawn does not settle onto him with a warm, yellowed glow. It hits directly, scalding. Sunburnt.

It all goes down the drain the moment Max mouths over his scent gland, back arching at the pure adrenaline rushing through his veins. His heart thuds — frantic, thunderous. So loud he worries Max might hear it without even trying. He worries his pulse might be palpable against his tongue. 

“Are you just quiet or holding out on me?” Max mumbles against his skin, the vibration thrilling straight into his uncontrollable organ thrashing around behind his ribs. 

What is Max doing to him?

If this is what scenting is, George completely understands why people get drunk off it. 

An arm belts around his waist to prevent him from moving further back. Balance, stability. After what feels like a full hour (the clock only shows ten minutes have actually passed), Max withdraws, tufts of hair unruly, eyes glossy and darkened. His lips are slicked with spit, and George’s neck feels cool, the rest of his body engulfed in a pit of fire. 

“This changes nothing,” George croaks out, dropping his hand from the nape of Max’s neck. 

“Whatever you say, schat.” Max takes his cue, understanding exactly what this is meant to mean. “Sleep well. Think of me, yeah? See you on the track tomorrow.”

Max stumbles backwards, drunk off George, who desperately hopes his smile isn’t caught.

When his hand navigates up to the tepid scent gland, he stills, the sound of the door clicking shut usurping all the warmth that had previously enshrouded the room.

How would this ever work between them?

George is terrified to find out.

Deep down, he knows there is no choice. 

His phone pings.

Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing #1)

Do not overthink.

Your scent will end up charred again.

A homicide charge would be horrible for your record, schat.

(read)

Looks like George is going to find out, one way or another.