“What,” George asked, deadpan, pulling off his headphones and pausing the video of a Silverstone pole lap on his laptop. Max’s pole lap, from last year, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Doesn’t the river Tyne look a bit like Silverstone?” 

Max stated again, drawing out an invisible line with his finger in the air, eyes to the ceiling.

“Mate, I’ve never been to the river Tyne.”

“Neither have I.”

George sighed, but he would indulge Max just this once.

“Where is the river Tyne?”

Max flipped around so that he was resting on his elbows, laying on his stomach, looking up at George with a sparkle in his eye.

“Northumberland,” Max replied, “I’ve been thinking about it, the right turn at Haltwhistle looks a lot like Copse, doesn’t it?”

George laughed, he couldn’t help himself.

“Mate, I literally cannot visualise the river right now, I’ve never seen it.”

Max rolled his eyes, but he continued, as if George hadn’t spoken.

“Warden then to Wylam is a bit like Maggots and Becketts, I think, though then Chapel and the Hangar Straight just leads straight into the sea.”

Max pursed his lips, thinking.

“Maybe there aren’t that many similarities,” He said with finality, as if this was a perfectly rational conversation to have. Just as rational as Max Verstappen in his bed, George supposed.

He ignored Max, restarting the onboard, though he left his headphones off, listening mutely to the sound of Max’s soft breathing, his mouth moving as he chewed his lip, deep in thought. It was a sight indeed, and George couldn’t help but smile. Max raised his gaze from where he had been mindlessly staring at the bedsheets to lock eyes with George.

“A riverbed’s called a "bed" because it physically contains the flowing water of a river, much like a mattress supports a sleeping person,” Max said, as if that meant anything at all.

“And…?” George prompted, and Max shrugged, as well as he could laying in the position he was.

“I’ve just been thinking, circuits are a bit like rivers, no? The cars are like running water, always going in one direction.”

“Wouldn’t the cars be the boats? Surely we have more agency than that.”

“Maybe,” Max was silent for a few seconds, “But sometimes in the car you feel like you’re just following the current, no? A bit like… that bible story with the two animals, just going along into the boat where the car takes you.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it? It feels like it sometimes.”

George didn’t really have any response to that. Max changed positions again, crawling deeper into the mattress and turning to lay on his side, his head resting on his forearm.

Max asked airily, “Can I sleep here tonight? I can’t go back before they clean out… everything.”

George couldn’t say he was exactly surprised by the request. 

“Sure, why not.”

Max huffed out a laugh, soft and fond. 

“You’re watching the pole laps, aren’t you?” He teased, and George scrunched his nose, defensive.

“I don’t know why you aren’t, if you even want to take pole tomorrow.”

Max made a strangled noise, before he sighed, “Of course I want to, but it’s like… currents in a river, cars on a circuit. You can’t go faster than what the wind blows the sails to go.”

“Not if you bring paddles to row.”

“Are we the boat, though? I feel like I’m bobbing along the water.”

George didn’t respond, lost for words in Max’s convoluted metaphor, if it was a metaphor at all and not a thinly veiled thirst to be an England-based geographer. By the time George had finished watching the pole laps, Max was silent, his eyes shut and his breath fluttering out softly. He looked ordinary, almost, in George’s bed and George’s clothes and a car that didn’t answer him, one that tipped over and poured him out into the river, riding the waves of a fizzy drink engine.

The world obviously didn’t know, but it was an open secret in the paddock, and if you knew how to look, (and believe Max he knew), you could see it in how behind the grey his eyes were rimmed slightly red, an illusion of a perpetual hungover. His grin was wolfish — though that was how Jenson smiled anyways, even before 2009 — and his tongue just a little longer, poking into his cheek when he was bored during press conferences. Oh, and his nails didn’t grow. Max remembered looking at them during a press conference in 2015, staring at Jenson’s fingers, thin, lithe, his nails perfectly manicured, his palms soft, uncalloused, like the hands of a paper pusher, not a driver. Jenson had caught him looking, had laughed when seventeen-year-old Max had flushed at being found out, when he had tried to nudge Carlos under the table to grab his attention and ended up kicking the leg of Jenson’s stool instead.

Jenson had shown Max his hands then, under the table as someone —- Britney, probably — droned on about the championship or whatnot. His hands were soft, incredibly soft, and Max knew that his face was completely red when he played with Jenson’s fingers then, marveled at the prominent bone and the give of flesh, almost if Max squeezed a little harder he could’ve pierced through the soft tendons and saw the skeleton underneath. And the nails, of course, like a French manicure, feminine, beautiful as Max turned Jenson’s hand over between his own calloused fingers. Jenson was precisely double his age then, but it almost looked like Max was the older one, his hand rough and scraped from years of karting and driving. 

“You have really nice hands,” Max whispered, dropping Jenson’s hand and letting him re-cross his arms. Carlos looked over, intrigued. Jenson laughed.

“It’s only because I’m skinny.”

“Yes,” Max protested, insisting, “And the—” He waved his hand at Jenson, brushing against the concept which was not to be talked about.

Jenson barked out a laugh, then winked as Nico turned around, annoyed at the disturbance.

“Well yes,” He conceded, “That too. But it mainly just makes you skinny.” Jenson shrugged, “Not like you are, teenaged and lanky and everything, like, proper skinny.”

Max raised an eyebrow and raked his eyes over Jenson’s body, as much as he could, covered by the white McLaren team kit. Jenson’s eyes twinkled. He looked alright. On the slimmer side of a driver, maybe, but most drivers were skinny, and Jenson had a healthy pat of muscle on his bones.

“I don’t see it.” Max said, stupidly.

“No, I guess you don’t.” Jenson laughed, and then the matter was over. 

+=+

Max was fascinated by it. Carlos was mainly fascinated by how to beat Max. Well, Max was fascinated by that, too, but he was also fascinated by vampires. Drivers weren't banned from driving for being a vampire, not in the same way heart issues or diabetes prevented you at the highest level, seeing as it barely gave any competitive advantage or disadvantage. They bled the same, hurt the same, died the same. Still, it was fascinating. His father didn’t know much about it, too busy trying to cling onto a rapidly drying F1 career, then too busy trying to build the champion he could never be. But Michael knew. 

Of course he did, uncle Michael, the God of the paddock, he knew everything about it. Slow summer holidays where the parents disappeared to cook, and drink, and complain about the children, Max would try to drag uncle Michael to a corner of the house and corner him with questions. It was a lot more successful when Mick helped him. David Coulthard was a vampire, though you’d’ve never guessed. So was Mika Hakkinen, actually. Rumour in the paddock was that Mika turned David, during their McLaren days. Some people said they got turned together during a night out, others said after Melbourne, that Melbourne race. Uncle Michael dismissed all that with a laugh, Mick perched on his knee and Max pretending to fix a car. David turned Mika, absolutely no question, he said, though uncle Michael didn’t elaborate more.

Sometimes Max would wonder when he saw them in the paddock, holding microphones, standing close as David whispered something in Mika’s ear, probably about how much better their cars were in the good old days. Max would watch how Mika’s eyes would glint with red before he’d let out a laugh, shaking his head as David smiled, grinned, amused. 

Who else? Uncle Michael would tap his chin, purposefully drawing the story out as Mick would pout and Max would rub his kart with increased intensity until it shone. Senna wasn’t, to Mick’s dismay. It wasn’t really a question if Max rationalised it properly. Senna was fast, stupidly fast, godly, alluring. Human in ego and shine, human in his radiance, how he enraptured desires and hearts and ambition. Vampires were not alluring, they faded into the shadows, captured by the dark only until they smiled, they laughed, they wanted you to see.

Senna wasn’t, but from that generation Jean Alesi was, and so was Niki Lauda. Further back, uncle Michael wasn’t sure. 

At that point, someone would call them inside to eat, and uncle Michael would slap his thighs, laugh, and stand up, ruffling the hairs on Mick’s head and patting Max’s shoulder, saying, get into F1 first before you think about it!

Niki liked Max. Thought he was a hot headed idiot all throughout 2016 to 2018, but he liked Max. Resented Helmut to his deathbed for a litany of reasons, one of which Max himself, but Niki liked Max. He was rough with his words, and scalded Max to the media. The next Maldonado, but his hand was soft when he clapped Max’s shoulders, and his grin was sincere when Max sighed heavily after the race was over and went up to Niki to chat, pushed away his aggravation and asked for a story from a time gone by, when racers braked much more aggressively than Max did but no stewards were there to stop them. Max hung around Mercedes for a few years like that, ignoring Lewis’ side eye, and when Niki was gone, he waited until Toto wanted to talk to him after the aggression of 2021 had cooled, just for a taste, and hung around Mercedes again.

It was very obvious who wasn't a vampire and who was during silly season. There were vampires amongst the reports, of course, and Max would see in some a glint in their eyes, red, tongue darting out to lick their lips, hungry, as they prowled around the paddock, looking for blood.

Max didn’t like journalists, swarming like flies, sticking their noses in places where they didn't belong. Though it was fun for him to people watch. Well, vampire watch.

+=+

Vampires weren’t superhuman, but they were… something, certainly. Max had one of his misconceptions about vampires corrected in Malaysia, 2016. He tripped out of a hotel elevator, drunk, giggly, riding the high of the 1-2 and Daniel’s unabashed attention in the evening and wandered around the gardens of the hotel, sipping occasionally from his water bottle and daydreaming of nothing when he stumbled onto them.

Them, as in Jenson and Fernando, pushed up against the wall of the hotel building. They were in the shadows, standing on the rear end of the building leading to the gardens. Fernando’s back was against the wall, the white of his t-shirt catching the fluorescent streetlight, and his eyes were droopy, dazed, as he stared unseeingly into the general area which Max had wandered into. Jenson was standing in front of him, right opposite Fernando. He was pressed up right against Fernando, his legs bracketing Fernando’s, a hand in Fernando’s hair pushing his neck gently to the right, the other with his fingers intertwined in Fernando’s hand, and his mouth—

Jenson’s lips were on Fernando’s neck, the pale column catching the light of the streetlamp to their right, Jenson’s mouth slightly open as he sucked, he bit, he drank around the two small punctures he had made in the soft flesh connecting Fernando’s neck to his collarbone. A thin strand of blood slipped out from Jenson’s mouth and trickled down his jawbone, tracing a line down his throat before disappearing into the collar of his McLaren shirt. Max felt his mouth run dry. 

Fernando didn’t seem to notice Max standing a few metres away from them on the path from the secluded area they were in, his gaze facing Max’s direction but unfocused. Blissful, almost, stuck in a comfortable area of drowsiness and pleasure, his eyes fluttered shut as Jenson mouthed at his neck, his left hand playing with Fernando’s fingers before gripping tight, squeezing his wrist once, and letting go. Max couldn’t look away. 

Jenson stepped back, finally, removing his mouth from Fernando’s neck with a wet erotic noise, and from the angle he was standing at, Max could catch a corner of his expression. His fangs. long and sharp, catching the light, glinting white and pale and smeared with blood before Jenson stuck out a long tongue and licked it off his teeth. Fernando blinked, almost as if coming back into consciousness, still leaning against the wall, his gaze at Jenson sharpening slowly.

“Bloody hell, that was—” Jenson breathed, “Sorry about that. Spot of bother, and all that crap.”

Fernando shook his head slightly, and when he spoke his Spanish accent was as prominent as when he won his first championship, “You needed it, I was around.”

Jenson sighed, wiping the palm of his hand against his mouth before running it through his hair, smearing blood over his dirty blond locks, streaks of red in his hair. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Fucking guy at the bar, smashing his bottle on the table, if you weren’t…” Jenson trailed off, and sighed again. 

Fernando’s senses seemed to return to him, and he gave Jenson a weak smirk.

“That is why you do not go to dangerous places on your own, my friend.”

Jenson opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Fernando’s gaze had shifted slightly to the right, over Jenson’s shoulder, and noticed Max, pink-faced and eavesdropping, standing on the path staring at them. Fernando tapped Jenson’s shoulder, cutting him off, and pointed at Max. 

“Oh. We have a visitor,” Jenson said airly, before grinning. 

Max stood stilled, like a deer in headlights, torn between awkwardness and burning interest. Fernando rolled his eyes at Jenson’s wolfish smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and walked away past Max back to the hotel entrance. Max could only flush and stare as Fernando walked, his eyes trapped on his retreating figure, the smell of iron heavy in the air. 

Jenson ruffled his own hair again, before walking up to Max and patting him on his shoulder, leaving a slight hint of blood on Max’s T-shirt. Concealed, mostly, by the navy blue, but the stench filled Max’s lungs. 

“You’ve got questions?”

Max chewed on his lip, a wide-eyed gaze at Jenson. He was drunk before, hazy and stumbling, and now, frighteningly sober. He nodded, but found no words from his throat. Jenson only laughed, and in the darkness of the night, the streetlamp behind him casting a warm backlight, illuminating the edges of his figure, Jenson looked… inhuman. Almost like if Max reached out he would disappear into flecks of gold. 

The allure of vampires in the dark, their stunning nature that only came out at night. 

Jenson seemed to notice Max’s transfixed stare, and laughed, walking along the path back towards the hotel out of the gardens and gesturing for Max to follow him.

“It has that effect, if we stand in the darkness too long,” Jenson explained.

Max unstuck his throat and croaked out, asking, “We?”

Jenson shrugged, “Vampires. We have that, ah, effect, on humans, if we’re stood in the night. Doesn’t matter, probably not what you were asking.”

Jenson led Max back towards the hotel’s lobby, and when they were within a closer distance Max felt himself feel a sudden chill, a sudden warmth, like his limbs were limbering back up after a stiff eight hour drive, like dunking his body into an ice-bath after a hot Singaporean race, burnt by the cold, shocked back to life. Jenson only laughed, pushing open the door to the lobby until they were back under the bright fluorescent lights. Jenson pressed the lift’s button with one pale, delicate finger.

“I got hurt in the bar,” Jenson began, and Max snapped up his gaze from where he was staring at his feet. 

“What?”

“Some guy was drunk, it’s not important, got a bit of glass smashed in my arm. And well—” Jenson stopped, as if contemplating his words, “Vampires don’t heal.”

Max furrowed his browns in confusion, and Jenson smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“It’s weird, I can heal, but like—. I’m dead, technically. Or, not dead, I don’t know, I’m not the expert on this.” Jenson shook his head, and ran his hands again through his hair. The dusty brown was tinted with red. “Not dead, I guess, cause I can still bleed, and I’ll die when I’m ninety, like, properly, but my blood can’t… Well, can’t clot.”

“Like… that Russian prince's blood disease?”

Jenson chuckled. 

“Probably. Probably not. Or like, say if I smashed my leg falling off my bike, the bone and muscle doesn’t regrow like you, they’d just stay broken. I’d just bleed out and die, even if I got a papercut.”

Max blinked.

“It’s not all bad,” Jenson continued, “I can heal freakishly quickly, just need to drink some human blood.”

“Do you not—usually?”

“What, no!” Jenson exclaimed, laughed, “You can’t just get human blood, especially not for three meals a day. Animal blood, obviously. Hospitals aren’t going to run themselves dry giving you bloodbags until it’s a medical emergency. I just couldn’t be arsed this time, and Fernando was by.”

“Oh,” Max said, stupidly. 

The lift arrived with a cheerful chime, and Jenson cocked his head in its direction.

“I’m not staying in this hotel,” Jenson said, shoving his hands in his pockets. There was a bit of blood in the corner of his lip that had crusted into a dark brown. Fernando’s blood. “Good job on the one-two. Next time be the one standing on top, eh?”

“Yeah. Yeah—thanks, thanks Jenson.” Max said haltingly, before stepping into the lift, giving Jenson a slight wave farewell as the doors slowly closed. Jenson’s eyes seemed to spark red before the doors slammed shut and Max found himself staring at the cold steel. 

+=+

So that was one misconception Max had about vampires he resolved a year-and-a-bit into being an F1 driver. 

The obsession faded as time went on, as most things did. Max went from fighting for podiums to fighting for wins to fighting for championships to standing at the top of the entire circus with his teeth bared, the conqueror. 

But then it was 2023. 2023, and Max was winning it all. Winning everything, virtually, because the Ferraris had fallen back behind and Mercedes had no idea how to work the ground effect cars and McLaren was still shaking off the rust of its mid-field reign. Winning it all, because Daniel was in his garage, Red Bull shirt hanging off his frame, a smile on his face as he leaned on the counter in Max’s garage before FP1 in Silverstone. 

It was a good season. His best season, probably. And he had Daniel by his side. 

Daniel, who grew thinner and quieter and more haggard in the McLaren papaya whom Christian managed to snag back to Red Bull as a reserve, brought back the fragile pieces of the teammate Max used to drool over, used to follow like a lost puppy with it’s new favourite human, and deposited him at Max’s door all for himself. And it was fun. Media challenges were always better with Daniel, it was lighter, easier, happier, a diatribe and a laugh and they were back seven, six, five years ago, no titles or time apart between him, just a lewd joke Daniel would whisper in Max’s ear before quali, or a grin as he flopped on the sofa in Max’s driver’s room, or the fond smile he’d offer him from the other side of the garage. 

Max enjoyed being the subject of Daniel’s affection again, the source of his laughter. Of course, it would grow awkward at times, Daniel as reserve, Max as reigning champion, but they laughed it off. Brushed it under the carpet of things they did not talk about.

The thing about brushing things under a carpet was that when you walked, you tripped on the lumps of objects underneath the fabric. Max didn’t care about the gaps in their resume, the gaps in their tenure as teammates, didn’t care about that, as long as he had Daniel back, smiling and radiant. But, well. There was another thing Max had shoved under the carpet.

Max was very nearly convinced that his ex-teammate was a vampire. Max hadn’t expected Daniel to look like that—although Sebastian had warned him, said Daniel was too similar to Jenson, and he knew Daniel too anyway.

“You okay, Max?” 

Yeah, no, Max was okay, Max was most definitely okay. He nodded faintly at Daniel, who grinned, then wandered away, his eyes glinting, glinting red, like rubies in sunlight, like rosso corsa, like the shade of the bull, red, on their suits, stark, like blood, like—.

Okay. 

GP slanted Max a glance as Max stared at Daniel on the other side of the garage, his own data forgotten before he shook his head, gave GP an apologetic smile, and looked back down at the telemetry he was supposed to be examining. Daniel was leaning against the wall on the other side of the garage, giving Max a blinding grin and a happy shuffle to make Max laugh before he poked around, looking at everything with unusual interest, chatting with a few of Max’s engineers. Max was sitting on the black plastic chairs for the mechanics, tablet on his lap, getting distracted by his ex-teammate. Silverstone qualifying was in an hour, he hadn’t the time for his thoughts to wander. He hauled himself up from the chair and placed the tablet on a table to focus properly whilst standing, but that was a bit of a moot action. His thoughts wandered anyway. 

Vampires weren’t common, and Max knew better than to speculate on someone’s…affliction, if they were one and chose to hide it, but from the moment Daniel gave him a sheepish grin on the other side of Christian’s office for the first time in half a decade, and Max gave him a long-awaited hug, his teenage self’s interest was piqued, in more ways than one.

For one thing, Daniel was thinner. Not thinner in the way some people wasted away when they were in a stressful and unsupportive work environment (cough, McLaren), but thinner in the way he seemed almost lithe, birdlike. End of twenty-two, there were hollows in Daniel’s cheeks, eaten by his crushed spirit. Beginning of twenty-three, Daniel was thinner, but his cheeks were solid, and there was a hint of muscle underneath his shirt. Thinner, not in weight, but… less corporeal, if that meant anything at all. Max couldn’t help but stare at Daniel, his hands moving delightedly as he explained something to Max, tracking the lines of his muscle, Max’s throat going dry, his mind going mad.

And his hands! Yes, that was another thing. Daniel’s hands were never so soft, never that comforting on Max’s shoulder, Max’s arm, Max’s cheek. When Max pointed it out, Daniel only laughed, said awkwardly it was because he wasn’t driving anymore, and the conversation moved to something else over the carpet, but Max wondered. The smooth shape of Daniel’s fingers as he held the cards for a silly video, for a media challenge, the way the pads of his thumb pressed gently on the paper, the way his hands opened wide as he illustrated a particularly cheerful point, the comforting weight of his fingers on Max’s wrist as he caught his attention. 

And, well, Daniel was alluring. He was alluring before, but that seemed to be dialed up to the extreme. Maybe it was the time apart, but Max couldn’t help but stare, but venture into the sim room at Milton Keynes excessively to chat with Daniel, to fervently argue his case when Christian was considering a seat swap. A seat swap, that Daniel had just gotten, and would be driving for the next grand prix, just after Silverstone.

“...on the sim it steps out turn eight, what do you think, Max?”

Max blinked, and looked up from where he had been staring at the telemetry on the tablet, unseeing, and found Daniel standing next to GP at the table, a fond smile as he watched Max, GP looking on with interest, headphones around his neck.

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Daniel laughed at Max’s blunt admission, lifting a hand to pat softly at Max’s shoulder, before he explained his concern again. Max clenched his fingers into a fist to prevent himself from touching the skin where Daniel’s hand had left him, merely smiled as he listened to Daniel’s voice, letting his Australian accent wash over him.

Max was overthinking this, he told himself, as he lowered himself into the car before Q1. He had always had a thing about Daniel, probably the only thing besides his preoccupation with vampires. It was just the presence of Daniel that reverted him to his past self, full of nosy interest. His current self had a pole to snatch.

+=+

Before the season started, Sebastian had called Max. Congratulated him on the championship, wished him well, and told Max to keep an eye on Daniel. Keep an eye on him, because Daniel was being a reserve driver and it was a tough blow, and Sebastian wanted to make sure Max would be nice about it. Max nearly threw this phone across the room in frustration. Obviously, he ranted into the phone, obviously. 

If Sebastian was offended, he didn’t say it, only finished the call on a cheerful note towards the next season, one that he wouldn’t be sharing with Max, and before he hung up, said something vague about Jenson and Daniel and a mess of things Max couldn’t catch, but before he could ask about it, Sebastian had hung up, and Max was too embarrassed to ask Sebastian to repeat himself, and promptly shoved the conversation under the carpet he was increasingly trying to not trip over, forced himself to forget and focus on winning, focus on smiling at Daniel until his eyes creased with delight, focused on wrangling Daniel back into F1.

Well, until Zandvoort.

+=+

Zandvoort was Zandvoort. Lord, it was ferocious, beautiful, tantalising, exciting, orange. So orange, it called his name with a fiery passion and Max could only smile back, grin, teeth bared. He got his first ever grand slam here, on the circuit they brought back, basically, just for him. A win here was like winning in Monaco, hallowed, heavenly, and so fucking satisfying. 

Daniel was also back in the car. A not-so-good Hungary that Max ended up winning because, well, it was 2023, and Max was going to relish in that fact, and they poured into Zandvoort with Max ready to equal Sebastian’s win streak. Christian was ecstatic, Checo only gave him a wan smile. The rest of the ride rolled their eyes and faked a grin. No one likes a winner. That’s fine. Max was just very happy to be there. 

The day started easily. Making stroopwafels with Checo in the Red Bull hospitality for a video. “Making” was an exaggeration, spreading caramel on some waffles as the professional chef cooked and they joked and answered. Checo said the national flower of the Netherlands was weed, and Max laughed harder than he probably should’ve, loose, and happy, and delighted. 

He did manage to make a stroopwafel by himself, smushed some waffles and caramel together haphazardly to his best effort when Daniel walked in. Daniel gave the room a glint of a grin and Max a smaller, fonder one, the first body Max noticed within the sea of staff going here and there and the litany of cameras in front of them. 

Daniel, who wore the silly orange cape back in 2021 when Max was a sweaty ball of unconstrained anxiety at the thought of Lewis chasing him, or, worse, having to chase Lewis. Daniel, his figure growing weary with the unruly Mclaren in the wrong shade of orange, and then he was in Zanvoort wearing Max’s orange. Max’s colour hanging off his back, with a full-teethed smile and Max’s name printed on the fabric on his neck, and Max had to try very hard to keep a neutral, normal smile in front of everyone, to bite down strongly on his lip as Daniel paraded around like he was his. And now this year, Daniel, finally back in a seat, his grin refreshed and his tongue darting out to lick at his teeth from the other side of the room where he was chatting with someone, Max stuck behind the cameras, wearing white and black that didn’t suit him, not like navy blue suited him, not like the deep dark royal colours made Daniel pop and gleam. Well, not like he wasn't radiant now. 

“Daniel!” Max called out, and ignored Choco’s curious slanted gaze, “Daniel!”

Daniel couldn’t hear him above the din

“Daniel! I’ve made a stroopwafel for you.”

That was a bit of a lie. It wasn’t for Daniel, it was made just to be made, like most things were done just to be done, how they raced just to race, smiled just to smile, but now that Daniel was here, in this dimly lit room full of cameras and staff and the only light a small lamp illuminating the stove behind Max, the stroopwafel was a thousand percent made for Daniel and Daniel only. 

“Daniel!” Max tried again, and this time Daniel did turn around, his eyes bright, delighted, and began making his way towards Max, coming up to a stop in front of him, eyes expectant and a little mischievous. Max was still holding out the stroopwafel, now cooled. 

Max repeated again, slightly dumbly, “I made it especially for you.”

Y’know, Max envisioned a lot of things. Worst case, Daniel could be a little like Max, unfortunately needing to stick to his diet and refuse. Pity, but Dnaiel would probably make it up by cracking a joke or knocking his shoulder against Max’s, so that would be alright. Or maybe, Daniel would take the stroopwafel out of Max’s hands, lift it to his lips, the food Max made, Max touched, and take a bite, then smile at Max, caramel staining his teeth, and a grin Max would file away for, uh, later purposes. 

What he didn’t expect was for Daniel to bend out and eat it straight from his hand. Automatically, Max tilted the stroopwafel so Daniel could bite down better, and pretended his pulse wasn’t pounding in his fingers.

Max and Daniel were not strangers to food sharing. They’ve shared more in 2017: beds, driver’s rooms, pieces of track, dignity. Max had fed Daniel before, in 2017 when he was tired and refusing to get up from the sofa and for a joke Max decided to bring over the plate of strawberries someone had brought into factory and fed one to Daniel when he was lying down as a joke, one that backfired horribly as Daniel wrapped his lips around the plush red fruit and smiled at Max as if he had hung the sun. Daniel had also fed him before, bites of a sandwich he had steered off after a particularly bad race and Max was moping in his motorhome, refusing to come out for dinner or anything else, and Daniel had barged in and ripped off pieces of his own sandwich to feed to a petulant Max who gradually stopped frowning. 

All that was besides the point, because this time Daniel was bending down, his mouth just millimetres away from Max’s fingers, the same latitude line where Max’s crotch would be, and Daniel was biting down on a piece of stroopwafel that Max had made himself, smiling as he did so.

Max let go of the stroopwafel for a second as Daniel bit down, before he gripped it again, holding the thin dessert between his fingers. As Daniel pulled back a thin strand of caramel stretching from the waffle in his hand and Daniel’s teeth, he looked up and smiled at Max.

Oh.

Daniel was grinning, a small canine (fang, Max mentally corrected, fang) poking out from his upper lip where the caramel strand was connected, and from underneath his lashes where his eyes were bright with delight and creased into a smile, there was a slight red rim. A blink and you’d miss it tint of red, but obvious enough to Max — to Max, who had spent the better part of his childhood watching Lewis' racing lines and Alonso’s overtakes and staring into old pictures of Niki Lauda that they had in the house and brushing his thumbs over the slight red glint in his eye, captured, even, in those old fuzzy photographs. Max, who spent his early days in F1 chasing after Daniel on track when he could, and in the paddock, when he couldn’t, the same way his gaze drifted to Jenson and David, when they were commentating, and his ears were open and nosy if someone even mentioned the word vampire. 

He kept his face impassive — his heart beating loudly — and probably too impassive, the stern glare that people mistook concentration for anger. Daniel didn’t, though, straightening up and smiling at Max as he chewed the stroopwafel, his teeth moving behind his cheeks. Now that Max had noticed the red glint, it was obvious. Not the kind of redness you’d get when you were sleep-deprived, when you stayed up too late on the sim, but an alluring red, one that rimmed Daniel’s pupil and reflected off his iris and seemed to call out to Max from between the beautiful brown, like caramel, if it was flecked with something better than gold. Jenson’s eyes were never like this. They were red, but red in a stark, almost obvious way, the rim of blood around his grey sharp gaze that made him seem hungry, mischievous. Daniel’s was deeper, a darker red that stained not only the edge of his eyeball but seemed to reflect, turning the hazel into woodbark, red, like splatters of blood on a mahogany table, or droplets squeezed out of a steak.. 

Checo didn’t seem to notice, but Checo wasn’t the one besotted with Daniel and vampires. 

“That’s good, I like it,” Daniel commented, reaching up a hand to brush at his chin, removing whatever crumbs there might be, the move instinctual. He grinned at Max, and oh, was this room always this dark? Or was it just Daniel? The backlight lit up Daniel's face as if it was glowing, so maybe it was just Daniel.

“Don’t give up the day job!” He quipped, and Max managed a small smile, his heart thrumming, his fingers fidgeting. He dropped the stroopwafel on the table and turned back to Daniel, his voice raw.

“I’m glad you like it.” 

Too sincere a statement, Verstappen, but Daniel laughed all the same, smiled at Max so endearingly before he moved behind Max to poke and prod at the cookery, his right hand glancing along Max’s side, the orange apron, as he passed.

So Daniel was a—

+=+

Zandvoort was wet. Gloriously so, because Max loved the wet. Changing conditions, differing tyres, and the feeling of suddenly finding grip on the outside line, like uncovering gold from a mine. But wet races came with risks. Risks like your teammate pitting early on inters and lapping seven seconds faster. Risks like if your name was Charles and your pit crew forgot tyres existed. Risks like driving over an especially damp stretch of tarmac and aquaplaning off the road. Risks like hearing GP on the radio say Daniel's in the wall and have nothing to to be able to do about it.

Risks like driving a biblically wet race, the stands all filled with blue instead of orange as everyone had their raincoats on. Risks like hearing your ex-teammate’s in the wall and after a panicked review of one’s own internal database have one’s thoughts stray to a hot Malaysian night and Jenson brushing blood off his cheek, it lingering on his fingers, the stains that found its way onto Max’s shirt, which he stared at for an hour before he dunked it cold water and watch it swirl down the drain.

“Is Daniel alright?” Max asked on the radio, voice urgent, tight, worried.

There was a hospital, but it wasn’t close, not nearby, and there was the medical centre in the paddock, but did it have bloodbags? Probably not, Max thought panickedly, and the hospital was at least half an hour, maybe more, away. And no one knew Daniel was a vampire, because if anyone knew, it would be Max, or Christian, who would’ve probably told Max anyway. It wasn’t even an open secret like Jenson was, just a hunch that Max — and probably Sebastian, he corrected, had — but a hunch that Max was goddamned sure of being true.

“Is Daniel hurt?” Max asked again, his voice growing panicked, the strangling worry wrapping around his throat 

Was Daniel hurt, even if it was just a slight cut of his gloves, even if it was just the press of his seatbelts into his chest? Daniel went straight on into a wall, right? Did he break any bones? Did he sprain his wrists? Did he let go of his wheel? He was behind Piastri, Max recalled seeing on the timing tower, did he swerve? What was Daniel’s condition?

“Stay calm, Max,” GP said, a little uselessly, “He’s just out of the car, and I think—”

What did GP fucking think? Did GP know that Daniel was a vampire, did GP know that Daniel needed blood, now. Would the team have the awareness to go to the hospital immediately? Fuck, why didn’t Max ask Jenson all those years ago what he usually did in case of crashes, why didn’t he ask Jenson how log it took before— 

“Red flag, Max, red flag.” 

His heart skipped a beat, terrified.

“Zhou’s in the wall, but he’s okay, he’s okay. Just bring the car back.”

Thank god for GP. Max focused on the sound of his voice, pushing the car back to the pits with his feet to the floor, probably faster than necessary, and pulled up to a stop at the end of the pit straight.

“Can we get out of the car? Will it be a long one?” Max asked, already ready to undo his belts.

“Not sure Max, not sure.” GP said, his voice steady, and Max could hear the sounds of GP turning to Christian to ask. If he wasn’t wearing his HANS device, Max could probably swerve his head completely and see GP asking Christian on the pit wall. He resisted the urge to jam his thumb onto the radio button and demand an answer.

“You can get out of the car Max, it might be a while.”

“Okay,” Max was already undoing the buckles before he stopped, and pressed the radio button again, “Where’s Daniel?"

If GP was intrigued by Max's line of questioning, he didn’t show it.

"Daniel's out of the car, he’s in the AlphaTauri garage.” 

Oh. Good. 

Getting out of the car was routine, quick, easy. Walking out of the car and into the alphatauri garage was not routine, and warranted many odd looks. Look all they wanted, he thought, pulling off his helmet, he needed, needed, to find Daniel.

He had been in the AlphaTauri garage, practically stayed there during the entirety of Daniel’s first day back, and he brushed past a mechanic with practiced ease as he stepped into the corridor obscured by a wall, the section where cameras weren’t allowed to film, and knocked on the door of Daniel's driver room.

The sounds of shuffled feet told him that Daniel was behind it, and the ashen pale face when Daniel opened the door told Max everything he needed to know.

“Max–? What, why are you here?” Daniel said, surprised. His hands were held aloft gingerly, and by the way they looked Max knew they were sprained at the very least, most likely broken.

He stepped into the room, pulling Daniel in and pushing him to sit down on the couch, placing his helmet on the ground and gave Daniel a worried once-over.

“Why aren’t you at the medical centre, what the fuck, Daniel?”

“Well, if I was at the medical centre you wouldn’t’ve found me,” Daniel let out breathlessly, a facsimile of a laugh on his expression, “And—”

So Daniel was avoiding the medical centre then. Whatever, Max didn't have time to dwell on it. Daniel’s eyes were violently red now, almost like they were bleeding, taking over the brown. The room was not even dim, the hard white light hitting their features, and Max didn't need a second invitation.

“Drink,” he said, no, demanded, tilting his head to the side, and exposing the flesh of his neck to Daniel, kneeling in front of him where he was seated on the sofa, Daniel’s knee brushing against Max’s racesuit.

“What? Max–” Daniel said, voice wavering, feigning innocence.

“Look, you’re a vampire, I know, and I don’t know if you know this, but if you don’t drink blood now, you could be seriously fucked, extremely soon, and that’s before I hit you to death for not telling anyone.”

Dnaiel’s eyes flicked with something for a second, bewilderment, annoyance, surprise, fear, before it landed on a strained amusement.

“How the fuck do you know that? No wait, you're Max Verstappen, of course—”

“Oh my god Daniel, just drink before you pass out.”

He had faded into an alarming shade of pale that didn't suit Daniel’s tanned features, and his expression was growing watery. Daniel’s gaze drifted from Max’s eyes which then slipped to the length of exposed skin. Max pulled down his racesuit to give Daniel better access, taking the Nomex to the side, and shuffled forward so that the front of his thighs hit the edge of the sofa, his body bracketed by Daniel’s legs.

Daniel hesitated, for a moment, before he leaned in. 

It was a weird, extremely weird, sensation. There was a slight bit of pain, prickly, like a slim needle piercing his skin but after that, it wasn’t anything Max had experienced before. He had given blood in the past, the sense of numbness as he felt the blood leak out of him and into the bag, but this was different. This time, Daniel was sucking, actively sucking along his skin to pull out the blood, a bruise probably forming on Max's neck. From the corner of his eyes he could see a slight strand of blood leak out of Daniel’s chin and disappear into the scruff of his own racesuit. He was making a mess of it, Daniel, mouthing at Maax’s neck desperately, hungrily. and his neck, the undershirt, and Daniel’s mouth were all becoming stained with blood. Max had to stifle a moan at the image.

And another thing was that while giving blood was sensationless, a little cold, maybe, this was different. It was almost, pleasurable, no, definitely, a slight soothing feeling that spread through Max's nerves that made him so pliant against Daniel, his body softening and his eyes fluttering shut, as if drifting into a light nap, whilst his expression faded into one of contentment. God, it felt good. Like a dose of morphine after a surgery, the drowsy beautiful feeling. Max couldn’t help but have his thoughts drift back to Malaysia, that night. He wondered if Fernando might’ve tugged at Jenson to stay, when he made to leave, if it felt like this. 

Some time passed, Max didn’t know what. NO one called for him, which was probably a sign that the reg flag wasn’t over yet, but after some unspecified time passed and Dnaiel pulled back with a wet noise, leaning back against the sofa. From between Max’s lashes – his eyes were heavily lidded, almost close to being asleep – he could already see Daniel look a lot better, colour tinting his cheeks. Max was fully kneeling on the ground now, sitting on his soft racing boots, and his cheek resting against Daniel’s knee. Daniel wriggled his fingers, bending them and his wrist, his eyes open in delight at the regained function. From Max’s hazy gaze, there was blood all over Daniel’s chin, a thin line tracing down his throat, deep red. Max’s blood. Max’s blood on Daniel's chin. 

That fact shouldn’t have made Max feel as satisfied as it did.

Dnaiel seemed to suddenly remember Max, blinking and looking down to where Max was resting against his leg, slowly waiting for his energy to return, for his limbs to feel less like lead. 

“Oh, shit, Jenson mentioned that.”

Daniel wiped his mouth quickly, blood staining his white racesuit, and lifted Max ungracefully by his armpits, and dropped him unceremoniously on the sofa, his eyes large, worried. Max’s mouth felt like it was filled with water, his tongue too large, making speaking a challenge.

“Are... ok?” Was all he could get out, though there was a vague tingling sensation in his feet, pins and needles.

Daniel’s eyebrows were creased with worry, though he did smile slightly, fondly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m—god, you’re going to scold me for being an idiot, right?”

Max nodded to the best of his ability, which was actually quite a lot, and Daniel smiled sheepishly at Max’s nod. 

“I know, I know, but it’s.. I got turned in Abu Dhabi. I don’t even remember by whom, or when it was, or what even happened. I had just signed the contact and I was leaving the hotel room, and the next thing I know I’m lying on the ground  staring at the sky in some damp alleyway and I was really fucking hungry.”

The world was back into focus for Max now, and he could slightly shift himself back into a properly seated position instead of a pile of limbs, and his eyes narrowed in anger. Who the fuck would do that to a random person, who the fuck would do that to Daniel, his Daniel. Daniel seemed to spot Max’s narrowed eyes and laughed, slightly, wearily.

“Yeah, no, I don't know. It’s a bit past now. I… honestly, thank fuck I was flying back with Jenson. It was the last day so I just, I don’t know, packed my stuff and got on the plane. Yes, yes, you can tell about it later, it was a tiring weekend, I was just glad to be over with. Anyways, Jenson took one look at me on the flight and immediately knew what was up.”

Max sat up properly. He was back to normal, or as much as normal as he could probably be. Tired, still, but less an all-consuming need to sleep, more of an, ah, post-orgasm bliss, a soft feeling that he tired and failed not to relish too much in.

“That was stupid,” He said, and Daniel let out a small chuckle at Max’s serious expression, “Why the fuck din’t you tell Christian?”

Dnaiel touched the back of his neck, awkwardly, staining the fabric.

“I don’t know, there was just...never a good time I guess. It wasn’t an FIA requirement, and I… Well, I don’t know, at the start of the year I was hoping for a seat, and I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”

Max furrowed his brow, pressed, “There’s no disadvantage to you being a vampire.”

“I know, I know, it’s just—” Daniel let out a self-depreciating chuckle, “It;’s embarrassing being let go for a driver nearly half your age. An an aussie driver, I don’t know, it stung more, I guess. And just—I was really happy to be back in Red Bull again, Maxy, you know that.”

Max felt, no, he knew his heart flipped slightly at the nickname.

“You could’ve died! We don’t have bloodbags on hand, and—wait, how are you—”

“I’ve got blood, animal blood, Jenson hooked me up with a guy.” Dnaiel reassured Max, who didn’t feel that reassured, “And I know, I’m sorry, that was stupid, but hey, look who came to save the day!”

“Barely,” Max breathed, “Thank fuck for the red flag, or what would you have done? Just sat here? Not gone to the medical centre?”

Dnaiel was looking at him with a painfully soft expression, but Max was on a bit of a roll now and the words simply tumbled out of his throat. Maybe that post-orgasm bliss also contributed to the post-orgasm complete lack of filler.

“I was so worried in the car, but of course GP didn’t tell me anything where you were, and I was thinking, you know, at the start of the week, that you were probably a vampire, and it was terrifying, to be driving and not knowing if you just—”

Max couldn’t finish his sentence before Daniel already had his lips on Max.

And well— Daniel tasted like iron, and with a pang Max realised he was probably tasting his own blood on Daniel’s chapped lips, and he was only slightly horrified at himself over how hot he found that. Daniel was edging closer to Max, his hand on Max’s leg, warm, and Max was kissing back, his words died in his throat as Daniel pried open his lips slightly with his tongue (his longer tongue, Max easily remembered, his tongue which was—) teasing the inside of Max’s cheek, sending slight tingly feelings down Max’s spine and warmth rushing to his toes, and Max could feel Dnaiel’s fangs catch on his own lips, the blood seeping into Max’s own mouth and a sliver of saliva tinged pink running down his throat.

Daniel pulled back with a wet noise, his eyes were dark, irises blown dark and shadowed by red. Max stifled the urge to make a disappointed needy whine. Fuck, Max loved him so much.

“That was unfair.” He said with a slight pout, though Max knew he was already grinning. 

“What was?” Daniel asked, faux-innocent.

“Interrupting me! When I was concerned! And distracting me, and your... your mouth, and your tongue and—”

“Yeah, the deg was okay, I was surprised,” Max said, pulling his mouth off the straw. It left a pretty light sheen over his lips, as if he didn’t look delicious enough under the lights. Well, the lights before, they were just standing in a random hallway somewhere waiting for the podium to be set-up.

Max licked his lips, darting out a red tongue, and swallowed. The chewed straw was out of his mouth now, drooping over as Max put the presumably empty water bottle on the ground, an annoyed expression on his face.

“They’re taking forever,” Max complained, slanting the staff around them a look who ignored him in favour of talking into their headsets.

George made a compassionate noise, but Lando was looking at Max with an interesting glint in his eye, expression unreadable. Max didn’t seem to notice as he sighed, annoyed, dragging a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up on its ends, a bit like a ruffled kitten.

“Thirsty?” Lando asked, a weird edge to his voice. 

If Max noticed, he didn’t say anything, just nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed around nothing.

“Here, you can have mine,” Lando offered, handing his water bottle to Max, green Monster branding stark on the sides.

Max hesitated.

“I haven’t drank from it,” Lando said, nudging it at Max, who took it reluctantly.

Max muttered, “You know that that’s not what I’m worried about.”

He twisted the cap off the bottle and drank from it, holding it at a tilted angle and drank greedily, his throat bobbling, the muscles of his neck moving as he drank. Max had undone the collar of his racesuit and unzipped it halfway, and George could see the faint outlines of his chest rising and falling as he drank.

Lando was openly watching Max now, chewing on his bottom lip slightly as Max drank, his long fingers wrapped around the graphic of Lando’s iconic blobs, a pinkie hooked at the base of the water bottle. George could admit he himself was also watching Max, entranced, and he turned away, staring at a patch of the wall instead.

“What’s the deficit now?” George asked, waiting for something to say.

Lando’s interested expression turned sour, scowled, “I’m leading.”

“He means me,” Max said, giving Lando a look that George couldn’t understand, handing the water bottle back to Lando, wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand, “You’re going to win anyways, stop worrying.”

Lando ignored Max’s statement in lieu of recapping his water bottle, hand stilling as he inspected the contents.

“You finished all the water.”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Max shot back, “Steal George’s if you’re thirsty."

“I’m not thirsty,” Lando replied, his voice off, “Are you?”

Max gave Lando a knowing look, to which Lando rolled his eyes in response, but there was a weird charged energy between them. George felt like he was intruding.

“Yeah,” Max conceded finally, pulling his arms over his head in a stretch, bending his elbow over and letting out a low noise at the stretch of muscle. George tried to ignore it.

“You can have my water, if you want,” George offered, the words coming out without his brain registering it.

Max visibly perked up, his eyes sparkling, “Really? Thanks.”

His hand brushed against George’s briefly as he took the Mercedes branded water bottle from George, and George tried not to shiver. This time, Max didn’t seem too fussed, almost impatient, and he took the straw George was absently chewing on earlier and closed his lips around it, drinking rapidly. Something passed over Lando’s gaze that George couldn’t catch before he had quickly launched into conversation about the MotoGP season, Max nodding enthusiastically in response, but barely pulling his lips off George’s straw to say anything actual in reply.

A staff member tapped George’s shoulder, getting their attention. The podium was finally ready. 

George was supposed to leave first, the person taking third, and he brushed past Max to walk out to the crispy LA night. As he squeezed past Max in the tight hallway, his arm lightly brushed up against Max’s front torso, making him gasp suddenly, jerking backwards and turning away from George. Before he left for the podium, he could see the back of Max’s ears turning red, speaking quickly and lowly to Lando, words George couldn’t catch.

Max was radiant on the podium. He usually was, but sparkling bright under the night and completely sopping wet, George couldn’t keep his eyes off Max. He was drinking greedily from the champagne bottle, his eyes shut almost in an image of ecstasy as his throat bobbed. George forced himself to pull his gaze away, taking a long drag from his own bottle, but when he diverted his eyes he found Lando also watching Max, chewing on his lips. 

Max was flushed as he clinked his champagne bottle against George’s, a pleased smile on his face.

“Still thirsty?” George teased, and Max rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, actually,” Max confessed, “But I shouldn’t’ve, because now—”

What happened now, George wouldn’t know because Lando reached over suddenly with an intentional glint in his eye and clapped Max heavily on the shoulder, his hand lingering on Max’s bicep and rubbing slightly before he removed his hand. And Max, oh Max, the moment Lando touched him Max gasped, a quick intake of breath as he shuddered, a blush quickly crawling onto his face. He turned away from George to give Lando a Look, and his eyes were dark and shaded. 

Max didn’t usually act like this, touchy Max Verstappen who loved to clap people on the shoulder and knock ankles in press conferences. Touchy Max Verstappen who was reduced to a heavily breathing mess at a brief swipe of Lando’s hand, and Lando seemed to know that keenly.

Oh.

The door unlocked, revealing not Max but Lando, his hair fussed, his expression set in annoyance that melted into angry confusion when he saw George. Lando was still wearing a McLaren T-shirt that was folded and disheveled on his form, tanned forearm holding the door open.

“What,” Lando said, deadpan, more statement than question.

George didn't really have an answer, opening his mouth and closing it and then opening it again to speak before he was interrupted by Max's voice coming from the bedroom.

“Who is it?” Max called out, voice loud but almost sweet, and Lando's expression immediately softened.

“George.”

There was a pregnant pause, like consideration, like Max was rolling George's name around his mouth and deciding if it was tasty enough to bite down.

“Invite him in,” Max said, finally, “He can watch.”

Watch what? George bit back, but it wasn't like he didn't know.

Lando hid a scowl but pushed the door further open to let George in, slamming it shut as soon as Geroge had stepped into the small hallway of the hotel room. Lando didn't make eye-contact with George, just ignored him and walked down the corridor to the bedroom with an open door, letting George follow Lando on auto-pilot. Max was in the bedroom, his legs spread and his face flushed, perched on the end edge of the large bed. His eyes were glazed and wandering, and he visibly perked up when Lando entered the room.

Lando still refused to acknowledge George's presence, just walked forward towards Max and grabbed his chin roughly, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Lando's eyes were shut, and he kissed with the same ferocity and undeniable jealousy Lando raced Max on track. Max let out a short soft noise of surprise before he reciprocated quickly, hand sliding down to grab at Lando's arse as Lando slipped into the space between Max's thighs, sitting on his right leg. Lando’s shorts were riding up on his leg, bronzed skin that Max immediately covered with his hand, pale fingers splayed over Lando’s thigh, gripping it tightly.

George couldn’t tell who was in charge here. Lando was perched on Max’s leg, Max’s hand possessively over his thigh and yet— Lando’s hand was carding roughly through Max’s thin dirty blond strands, and from the angle George could see, Lando was controlling the kiss, biting and nibbling and dirty in the way it made Max gasp and squirm against Lando’s hold. George also wasn’t sure what his role was, but he was pretty content to just watch, back against the wall, twisting a bit of the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. 

George couldn’t tell who was in charge here until he could, until Lando pushed himself off Max, stood up as Max made an annoyed pleading noise, hands wrapped around nothing, four time world champion reduced to a flushed and needy mess.

“Lando,” Max whined, as Lando stood up, his eyes dark. 

Lando slanted a glance towards George before he walked away towards the minifridge, opening the tiny compartment and pulling out a four-pack of water bottles, his lips in a thin determined line. Max’s eyes widened with both arousal and surprise, and he nodded his head ever so slightly at George’s direction, an unspoken question towards Lando. Lando ignored Max, holding out a chilled water bottle towards Max, resting the base of the plastic bottle on Max’s cheek, the one facing towards George who could see a thin line of condensation trickle down Max’s neck and disappear into his collar. 

Lando held eye contact with Max as he swiped the bottle across Max’s cheek, condensation leaving droplets that George longed to lick off, wetness that Max left staining his face, left dripping off his cheekbone. Lando glanced briefly in George’s direction before he uncapped the water bottle and held it out towards Max, and unspoken demand. 

And Max? He drank it all.

Fingers wrapped around the base of the water bottle, head tipped back slightly to expose the bobbing column of his throat towards George, his adam’s apple catching the light of the desk-lamp as Max drank, gulped down the entire bottle in one smooth go, his eyes fluttering shut as he did so, as if drinking water itself was a sexual experience Lando and George could only watch. It might as well have been, George thought, by the way Max cradled the base of the bottle, hand slick with condensation, his pretty pink lips wrapped around the cork of the water bottle, shining with spit and water. Max crushed the water bottle when he was done in record time, the water disappeared in an instant, the crushed water bottle chucked on the ground somewhere. 

“Happy?” Max asked Lando, voice mocking, but it wavered and came out as more of a plea than a slight. Lando pursed his lips.

“Maybe.”

He leaned forward and captured Max in a kiss again, and George could see Lando’s palm wandering up Max’s clothed thigh, running over Max’s god forsaken skinny jeans, the contact making Max gasp, but no, not as much at before, not in that overstimulated way Max whined on the podium.

Lando seemed to sense that George had recognised it too, and he threw George a smirk, and oh Lando’s expression was hungry.

He watched Max finish the next two bottles, standing over him, eyes dark. Drunk on the power, George thought, drunk on the power of Max’s own addiction and his own perverse hold over Max’s unusual compliance. 

Lando was silent before, though he wasn’t now, teasing Max as he drank, as the bottle crushed and Max’s pace slowed, squirming from where he was perched on the bed.

“How d’you feel?” 

“Full,” Max admitted, voice soft, “Really full.”

“Mmm, yeah.”

Lando dragged a hand across Max’s chest through his T-shirt and Max gasped, that full bodied squirm that gave George sympathetic goosebumps at the sound. Max was completely red now, from his ears to his neck, and George would bet despite the three bottles Max had already drunk, he would be hot to the touch.

“Do you think you can get the last bottle down?” Lando asked, and there was an edge to his voice, half arousal, half pure demand, a hand still on Max’s shoulder. 

The contact alone seemed to drive Max mad, his leg trembling, and Max shook his head ever so slightly.

Lando made a disbelieving noise, and turned towards George.

“Do you think he can get the last bottle down?”

George froze, his eyes widening, surprised at finally being addressed after he was treated as if part of the furniture for the last half an hour. The surprise quickly faded into a strong desire that George didn’t know he even had.

“He can, obviously,” George replied, and because he was feeling a little over-eager and confident, George added, “He’s gagging for it, can’t you see?”

Max’s face was flushed, but not in anger, and his eyes were unfocused, staring down in the vague direction of Lando’s face, barely any reaction to George’s comment. That wouldn’t do.

George wandered a little closer until he was sitting on the deskchair near the bed, watching Max sip and choke and drink down the last bottle that Lando had handed him. His eyes were watering a smidge now, glazed and glassy, and Max pulled off the bottle, breathless.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly as Lando and George watched, the bottle trembling in his fingers before it crashed to the ground, spilling all over Lando’s shoes. Lando didn’t even seem to notice the wetness, his eyes fixated on one thing and one thing only — Max’s flushed expression, the slight hint of tears leaking from his eyes, and his reddened lips.

God, did George have to do everything around here?

George got up from his chair and slotted himself in between Max’s spread thighs, taking the spot Lando had vacated. He could hear a sharp intake of air from Lando at George’s action, though he didn’t make any move to stop him. Max looked up at George, eyes glassy, and George couldn’t’ve been any more turned on.

Well. He could be, if persuaded. If Max—

George pressed two fingers against Max’s swollen abdomen, making him gasp, a full bodied shiver. 

“Fuck,” Max groaned, “Don’t do that, I’m too oversensitive right now, I can’t—”

George ignored him, his other hand dragging over Max’s shoulder, loud shudders collapsing out of Max’s lips as George touched him, squirming and shivering. George pressed his fingers harder against Max’s abdomen, and he groaned, a loud needy sound that went straight to George’s cock. 

Max was crying now, proper fat tears trickling down his face. He was wrecked, a fucked-out expression from just drinking water, and George’s touch, George’s presence. The tears leaking out of Max’s eyes, small trickles of water compared to the wetness in the divot of his throat, droplets that Max had failed to swallow up, was unfairly hot.

“Lando,” George called out, no, demanded, “Fill up the water bottle that Max didn’t finish.”

Max’s eyes widened slightly, though he didn’t say anything, and George could hear Lando behind him picking up the fallen bottle and walking over towards the water-tap.

“You’re so pretty like this,” George cooed, demeaning. Where did this come from? George couldn’t care less right now. He pressed his thumbs into the sensitive skin underneath Max’s jawline and Max flushed, his thighs clenching to press against George’s leg. A few tears slipped out and trickled onto George’s hand, and he brought it to his mouth, relishing the salty coolness.

George pressed a hand against Max’s abdomen before letting go, Max gasping in its absence.

“So perfect like this, the great Max Verstappen, foiled by a bit of water.”

Max blinked, like he was trying to formulate a response to George’s teasing, but nothing came out. The tears were trickling down and George leaned forward to lick them off Max’s face, dragging his tongue against Max’s sharp cheekbone.

Max gasped, loudly. It seemed like the sensation of George’s hot wet tongue against his oversenstitive skin was a lot. Though, not too much, not yet.

“George, please, I need to—”

George knew what Max needed. George also didn’t feel much like giving Max what he needed. 

“Hey,” Lando interrupted, handing George the water-bottle, filled to the brim. His eyes were dark with desire, but he seemed to be content with just doing what George wanted him to do, as long as Max was still a squirming gasping mess. Interesting.

George grabbed the back of Max’s neck, not gently, and pressed his thumb against the divot at the back of his neck, making him gasp. Making him open his lips for George to tip the water down his throat. Max reflectively wrapped his lips around the nose of the bottle, and George tried and failed not to groan at the scene. The tears were drying on Max’s cheeks, and that just wouldn’t do.

“Fuck, George, is that even—?” 

Max was still drinking, little kitten sips as George held the bottle tipped upwards, resting against Max’s leg, His palm was splayed over Max’s abdomen, rubbing soft soothing circles against the cotton shirt that was decisively not soothing, not by the way Max’s breathing became choppy and shallow, and definitely not by the way Max was grinding into George’s thigh, rotating his hips softly in a way that looked half painful and half deliciously pleasureful.

Lando was still standing in the background. George had nearly forgotten him in his haste, in his obsession with the noises Max was making, the sounds that seemed to vibrate from his throat to his thigh.

Lando made a choked noise as Max finished the waterbottle, somehow, the last drip slipping out of the corner of his mouth and down his neck which George pounced on, immediately, his tongue sticking out to lick a hot stripe up Max’s throat, another finger hooking into the hollow of his collarbone, then sucking, swallowing, kissing hard against Max’s hot skin enough to bruise. Max was still now, so still except for the minuscule jerks and movement he made as George sucked harder, his hips stuttering as George pressed closer against him. He was crying again, and George happily lapped up Max’s tears, happily drank it down as he littered Max’s skin with hickeys. Something about the taste of Max’s tears, salty yet clear and something so incredible Max went straight to George’s cock. No wonder Max loved drinking water. 

In George’s grasp, Max seemed to be overstimulated and struck dumb simultaneously, his skin hot with goosebumps, his reactions slow, but electric.

“Fuck, George,” Lando said, his voice far away, drowned out by the sound of Max’s hot gasps against George’s ear, his hand scratching at George’s back, “That’s so hot, fuck.”

George made a noise in approval, Max breath falling out choked as George dragged his teeth over Max’s wet cheeks and onto his mouth, Max’s hips bucking up against George as he kissed Max, properly, sticking his tongue and dragging it along the inside of Max’s cheek. That, somehow, was Max’s breaking point.

“Fuck—” 

Max pushed George off him with a ferocity George hadn’t seen since the podium, dashing out of the bedroom. George watched him go, breathing heavily, the last shadow of Max’s foot disappearing from the doorway and the door to the bathroom banging open. 

George turned around to share a glance with Lando, who opened his mouth to speak when they were suddenly interrupted by the sound of water hitting porcelain. 

Lando shut his mouth.

George couldn’t help but listen, throat dry, his dick hardening in his shorts as they heard Max piss, the steady stream that just seemed to carry on and on and on until it stopped. There wasn’t a sound of a zipper, though, not until Max let out a low groan, loud enough to be heard from the other room, and they could hear a liquid hitting the back of the urinal again.

“Fuck,” Lando sighed, his cheeks flushed, eyes dark, and dragged a hand over his hair, “He’s going to be the death of me.”