Chapter Text
George had always known he was beautiful.
Not in the way people sometimes meant it — the passing comment from a stranger, the flattering light in a well-posed photo. He knew it in the marrow-deep, exhausting kind of way, the way that came from a lifetime of noticing glances before he noticed people, the way doors opened and hands lingered and voices softened in his presence. He knew it in the way his reflection looked back at him with the same measured gaze every morning, like it was aware of its own power.
It had its advantages, sure. A smile could get him past awkward silences. A tilt of the head could smooth over an interview gone wrong. In a world as unforgiving as Formula 1, that kind of easy charm was currency — one he learned to spend carefully. But it came with the other thing too. The part no one liked to admit existed. The part where beauty wasn’t a gift, it was a magnet. And sometimes magnets pulled in all the wrong things.
The cons had always outweighed the pros, and he’d told himself that often enough to believe it. Being beautiful made you visible, and being visible made you vulnerable. It meant attention you didn’t want, offers you couldn’t take, people you couldn’t afford to disappoint. It meant moments like this — moments that felt like they’d been brewing for months, maybe years, waiting for just the right alignment of mistakes to fall into place.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this room, not in this hour, not with the weight of everything pressing against his skin. The air felt too thick, like it was carrying all the unsaid words between them, and George found himself wishing he could shed it like a race suit at the end of a punishing stint.
He had rules. He’d built his life around them, stacked them one on top of the other until they formed a neat little wall. Rule number one: the career comes first. Always. There had never been a moment where he thought otherwise — not when he was eight years old in the freezing rain at a kart track, not when he was nineteen sleeping in rented flats between junior series rounds, not even when he got the call from Mercedes. This was the dream, the one his family had burned their hands and backs for. His father’s lectures, his mother’s sacrifices — all of it funnelled into one singular focus.
Rule number two: don’t get involved. Not with anyone who could make things messy. Definitely not with another driver. Definitely not with someone who could turn the paddock into a rumour mill on legs.
And yet here he was.
It didn’t matter how he tried to frame it in his head, there was no clean way to explain how he’d landed in this situation. He could replay the last few weeks in his mind over and over, trace every decision and every look exchanged like he was reviewing a race replay — still, the footage never told the whole story. There were gaps, half-seconds where instinct took over, where his better judgement was replaced by something reckless and hungry.
The worst part was knowing it wasn’t his fault. Not really.
He’d tell himself that in the quiet moments. He’d repeat it like a mantra when the guilt started to gnaw — this wasn’t your fault, George. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t plan it. Things just… happened. People just… happened.
But guilt had a way of sticking, like marbles rattling in a chassis. He could feel it even now, rolling around in his chest, cold and heavy.
He thought of his father, not in the warm, Sunday-afternoon way but in the clipped, unimpressed way. The voice in his head was stern, disappointed. Your family didn’t work day and night for you to throw it away on something stupid. And stupid this was. Dangerous, too.
Toto would have his head if he knew. The man had enough to deal with without one of his drivers playing out some ill-advised personal drama that could splash across headlines. George could picture it perfectly — the raised eyebrows, the sharp intake of breath, the faint edge of disbelief in his voice.
He shifted in his seat, eyes flicking to the floor as though the carpet might give him an answer. It didn’t.
He’d always been good at compartmentalising. Helmets on, emotions off. You had to be, in this sport. You couldn’t think about your personal life at 320 km/h, not when one lapse of focus could send you into the wall. But there were some things that didn’t stay neatly zipped away. Some things bled through the cracks no matter how tightly you sealed them.
This was one of those things.
It had started with something small. A joke here, a glance there. The kind of harmless interaction you could file away as nothing — until it wasn’t nothing anymore. Until it became the thing you thought about in the quiet before sleep, the thing you caught yourself waiting for.
George dragged a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw the flicker of shapes in the dark. It didn’t help. The truth sat there, silent and undeniable: he’d crossed a line. Or maybe two. And now, there was no clean way back.
The worst part was the certainty that this would never end neatly. One way or another, someone was going to lose. Maybe it would be him.
He sat back, exhaling slow through his nose, like it might make the air around him lighter. It didn’t.
The hum of the world outside the room — cars, voices, faint echoes of laughter — felt far away, like they belonged to someone else’s life. This was his, now: the weight of choices he hadn’t meant to make, the mess he couldn’t unmake.
George had always known he was beautiful. He just hadn’t realised beauty could be a trap.
And if he was honest, he wasn’t sure he’d survive this one.
It started with Max.
George had known Max since he was eleven years old. He’d had a stupid crush on him back then — and even now, looking back, George couldn’t decide if it had been some childish fantasy or the first hint of something that would eventually turn into this. A really stupid crush. To be fair, Max was far too good-looking for his own good.
And hot.
Not in the way some people were just generically attractive. No — Max was the kind of hot that had edges. The kind that drew you in precisely because it wasn’t soft. The way he spoke, clipped and deliberate, like he’d already decided whether or not you were worth his time before you’d opened your mouth. The way he’d sigh — long, sharp, as if you’d already bored him without even trying. The no-nonsense attitude. The brutal honesty.
People called him blunt. Arrogant. Unbearable.
George called it magnetic.
It wasn’t that Max was trying to be difficult — he just didn’t care to soften the truth for anyone. And George… well, he found that maddeningly attractive. And dangerous. And deeply, deeply unfair. Because Max wasn’t just good-looking; he was one of the most brilliant drivers to ever grace Formula 1. People were already calling him the best in history. That kind of talent made everything about him sharper, brighter.
George had never meant to get involved with him. He hadn’t even really liked him like that back then — at least, not in any real, tangible way. Sure, he’d thought Max was attractive, but attraction and actually doing something about it were entirely different beasts. George had his career to think about. He wasn’t about to risk it over a driver with a temper and a pair of ridiculously sharp cheekbones.
But then…
It had been one of those days where the adrenaline of the race still hummed through George’s veins hours after the chequered flag. He’d been walking through the paddock, still replaying moments of the race in his mind, when he spotted Max. Not doing anything particularly remarkable — just stripping out of his race suit, the white fireproof undershirt sticking to his skin.
George’s eyes lingered longer than they should have. The undershirt peeled up, revealing sweat-slicked skin, the line of muscle down his stomach catching the light. His tongue pushed into his cheek as he tugged at a stubborn zipper, and George thought — God, that’s unfair. There was stubble along his jaw, catching the sun, making him look just a little too dangerous.
And then Max looked up.
George froze.
Their eyes met, and Max’s mouth curved — not into a friendly smile, but something sharper, something knowing. A smirk that said I see you.
Heat flooded George’s face, and he turned away so fast his neck hurt.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But the next race weekend, at an afterparty, George was drunk. Not the falling-over kind, just the warm, uninhibited kind where you make bad decisions and think they’re brilliant at the time. The music was loud, the lights low, and Max was there. George didn’t even remember deciding to do it — one second he was watching Max across the room, and the next he was walking up to him, asking him to dance.
Max had raised an eyebrow. But he came.
The dance floor wasn’t really a dance floor — just a crowded space where bodies moved together under pulsing lights. They were too close. George didn’t care. And then, without thinking, he leaned in, and Max met him halfway.
The kiss was… hot. Messy, sure, but hot. Max kissed like he drove — aggressive, consuming, like the only acceptable outcome was total surrender. George let himself be pulled under. It was only later he realised they hadn’t stopped there.
One blurred taxi ride later, they were in George’s hotel room.
Max didn’t just kiss him — he devoured him. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to pull a sound from George’s throat. It was embarrassing, really, how quickly George gave in, how he begged without even thinking about it.
The next morning, Max was gone. No note. No conversation.
And in the paddock, he pretended it never happened.
But George knew better. Because sometimes, just sometimes, he’d catch Max watching him across the hospitality suite. Not the casual, passing kind of look — something sharper, heavier.
It happened again in Baku, 2023. They’d fought — not unusual for them — but this time, the tension didn’t dissolve after the press obligations. It followed them back to the hotel. One knock on the door later, and Max was inside.
The sex was different this time. Not softer — Max didn’t do soft — but more deliberate. He’d pulled George apart with his hands, his mouth, his voice. And in the middle of it, he’d said it.
Princess.
George didn’t know if it was meant to be mocking or affectionate. He only knew it left him shivering.
It didn’t become a routine, not really. They weren’t sneaking around every race weekend. It happened only a handful of times — always after some kind of fight. And yet, somewhere between those moments, George’s feelings shifted.
He told himself it wasn’t surprising. He’d had a crush on Max for years, and now he’d seen pieces of him no one else got to see. And Max… Max sometimes stayed. Not long. But long enough to blur the lines.
He’d check on George in ways that didn’t make sense for something casual. He’d drag him to grab food between sessions. He’d rest a hand on George’s face like he was trying to commit it to memory. And sometimes, across the paddock, George would catch him staring — not with the calculating focus of a driver, but with something fierce, something almost protective.
It was enough to make George believe, just a little, that maybe Max liked him too.
And that would have been complicated enough on its own.
But then Oscar came along.
George first met Oscar in 2021.
Oscar had been just a rookie then, tucked into Alpine’s junior programme, wide-eyed but carrying himself like someone who’d already made peace with the fact that he’d have to prove himself in every room he stepped into. George had seen him around before — at tests, in hospitality — but that day was the first time they’d actually spoken.
George hadn’t been at his best.
He was in a bathroom stall, the kind of cramped, tiled space that smelled faintly of cleaning solution and something sharper. His knees were drawn in close, his forehead pressed to the wall, the burn of acid still in his throat. It wasn’t unusual. Not for him.
People saw the height first, the lean lines, the way a race suit hung off his frame and assumed he’d just been born that way. They didn’t see the sacrifices — the half-meals skipped without a second thought, the quiet decisions to force something back up when the scales tipped the wrong way. He’d been living like that for so long it was almost muscle memory.
That day, he’d gone too far.
The door creaked when he stepped out, the fluorescent light above him too bright after the muted shadows of the stall. And there was Oscar, leaning casually against the wall near the sinks.
He looked up at George with an expression that wasn’t pity — George would have hated pity — but something softer. Something that said I see you, and I’m not going to make a scene about it.
“Mint?” Oscar had asked, holding out a little tin.
George blinked at him, then forced a smile. “Ate something wrong.”
Oscar didn’t call him on it. Just offered a small nod and clicked the tin closed.
When George made for the door, Oscar’s voice followed him, low and certain. “You look good.”
Maybe he meant it as some casual rookie-to-senior compliment. Maybe he’d said it because he knew exactly why George had been in that stall. Either way, it made something in George loosen.
He’d turned back with a genuine smile. “Thanks.”
And that was that. Or so George thought.
2023 came, and Oscar arrived in Formula 1 for real.
It wasn’t surprising when he impressed the grid — the kid was good. Calm under pressure, sharp in his moves, quick to learn. George noticed, of course. Everyone did. But noticing wasn’t the same as thinking about it beyond race results and headlines.
Then came Canada, 2024.
George had cost Oscar a podium — his fault, no excuses. The kind of on-track tangle that could sour a relationship before it even started. He’d decided to make it right, walking up to Oscar’s hotel room later that night to apologise face-to-face.
The door opened.
Oscar was shirtless.
George’s brain didn’t quite catch up fast enough. His eyes lingered — on the line of his shoulders, the easy tan, the way his hair stuck up slightly like he’d been running his hands through it. Then George realised, too late, that he was staring. He muttered an apology, some half-strung sentence about the race, and Oscar just waved it off. Said it was fine. Smiled, even.
George left before he did something stupid.
Las Vegas, 2024.
George won. The champagne was still sticky on his skin when the night started to blur into neon lights and music too loud to think. Somewhere in the middle of it, he and Oscar ended up kissing.
It wasn’t a thing — not to George, anyway. He’d kissed Lewis before, danced with Carlos, almost kissed Alex if Alex hadn’t had a girlfriend. Vegas was a place where lines got fuzzy.
But Australia, was different.
Oscar spun in the race. P9. For a home Grand Prix, it was brutal. George found him after the podium ceremony, slouched on the ground with his head in his hands, still in his race suit.
George sat down beside him. No cameras, no audience, just the two of them on a bit of quiet concrete in the back corridors of the paddock.
“Home races can be shit,” George said lightly. “I’ve had plenty.”
Oscar didn’t laugh. But he listened. And George stayed, not rushing to fill the silence, just letting the moment breathe.
The next race, Oscar held an umbrella over George’s head during the grid walk. A small thing, but somehow it stayed with him.
Somewhere in 2025, they got close.
It wasn’t just about racing anymore. They talked about their siblings, swapped gripes about travel schedules, traded quiet jokes during press conferences. George liked the way Oscar listened, the way he never made him feel like he was competing for his attention.
And yes — they slept together. More than once.
The first time, Oscar kissed him first. George was sober, which was unusual for these sorts of mistakes. But it didn’t feel like a mistake.
Unlike Max, Oscar was gentle. He asked if George was okay more than once, not out of insecurity, but out of genuine care. He stayed after. He didn’t rush. He made love to George — not just fucked him — and there was something in that difference that George hadn’t realised he needed until it was there.
Oscar gave him the princess treatment without irony. Let George have the last bite of dessert. Texted to check if he’d gotten back to the hotel safely. Rested a hand on the small of his back when they walked together.
George adored it. He adored him.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because Max was still there, too.
George was halfway through telling Alex the story about the time they’d nearly been late to the drivers’ briefing in Bahrain — because someone, cough, Alex, had decided they could “definitely” squeeze in a twenty-minute detour for bubble tea — when arms slid around his chest from behind.
Warm. Steady. Familiar.
“Hi,” Oscar’s voice came, low against his ear.
George’s smile was instant. “Hey,” he said, twisting slightly to glance back at him.
Oscar’s eyes were bright, and he offered Alex a quick, polite nod. “Hey, mate.”
“Hi,” Alex said, his tone neutral in that very Alex way — friendly enough, but with the faintest edge of …and who are you touching my best friend in front of me like that?
“Free tonight?” Oscar asked, his chin brushing George’s shoulder as he leaned in just enough to make it feel like their own little bubble. “I was thinking dinner.”
George’s smile widened.
Alex frowned. “George, didn’t you promise to attend SIM wi—”
“I’ll be there,” George cut in quickly, turning back to Oscar as though Alex hadn’t spoken at all.
Oscar’s brows drew together, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face. “You don’t have to if you’re busy. Really, I—”
“I want to,” George interrupted again, his tone easy, warm.
Something in Oscar’s shoulders eased, and he smiled. “Alright then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Perfect.”
Oscar gave his shoulder a light squeeze before straightening, his hand trailing away as he left the room. George’s gaze followed him until the door clicked shut.
When he finally turned back to Alex, his best friend was sitting there with his arms folded and a frown deep enough to rival Toto’s on a bad day.
“You promised to go to SIM with Max,” Alex said flatly.
George’s eyes went wide. “Oh, crap.”
Alex’s brow arched.
“Blimey,” George muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, this is—ah, I’ve really messed up here.”
“Really messed up,” Alex agreed, crossing his arms tighter. “What happened to making time for your friends, huh? Or are we just scheduling around your… extracurricular activities now?”
“It’s not—” George stopped, groaned, dropped his head into his hands. “Blimey.”
Alex just shook his head. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself, mate.”
George groaned again, louder this time, already picturing the inevitable fallout.
By the time George got back to his hotel room that night, his head was a mess.
He shut the door behind him, tossed his bag into the corner, and all but collapsed onto the bed. His legs dangled over the edge, his hands tucked under his hoodie — Max’s hoodie, of course.
It was ridiculous how much bigger it was on him. The hem brushed his knees when he stood up in it, and the sleeves nearly swallowed his hands whole. But it was warm, and soft, and smelled faintly like Max’s cologne — that sharp, clean scent that had wormed its way into George’s brain months ago.
He’d told himself he kept it because it was comfortable. That was a lie.
Much like the one forming in his head now.
George stared at the ceiling, running through the evening’s plans in his mind — dinner with Oscar, SIM with Max — and felt the weight of impending disaster settle on his chest. There was no way to do both. No way to keep them from knowing about each other’s… involvement.
Unless…
It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t clever, really. But it would work.
He sat up, hoodie pooling around him like a blanket, and typed out the same message to both.
Hey. Bit of a headache. Not feeling great. Think I’ll stay in tonight.
The replies came almost instantly.
Oscar’s first:
Oh no. Are you okay? Want me to come over? I can bring soup and some medicine.
George’s chest tightened at the thought of Oscar showing up at his door, gentle and earnest. He typed back a quick reassurance that he’d be fine with rest.
Then Max’s reply lit up his screen.
Alright, darling. Rest up.
Two words, and George’s stupid heart betrayed him, skipping like it had just seen the chequered flag.
He dropped back onto the bed, burying his face in the oversized hoodie, muffling the groan that escaped him.
“Crikey,” he muttered into the fabric, not sure if he was cursing his own luck or the fact that he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what the hell he was going to do about any of this.
The world still felt like it was vibrating.
George was buzzing — no, thrumming — with that post-podium high, the kind you only got when every lap had been a fight and every overtake had been a risk. His cheeks hurt from smiling, but he couldn’t stop. People were calling his name as he walked through the paddock, mechanics from other teams nodding their quiet respect, camera crews tracking his every move.
He barely noticed the footsteps behind him until a hand closed firmly around his arm and pulled.
George’s breath caught, half in surprise, half in instinct, as he was spun into the shadowed gap between two motorhomes.
It was Max.
Before George could even get a word out, Max leaned in, closing the space between them with a kiss that was more force than finesse. George’s free hand came up on reflex, fingers curling behind Max’s neck. The scent of sweat and engine oil clung faintly to him, heat radiating from his skin.
When Max finally broke away just enough to speak, his voice was low. “Good race.”
That, more than anything, made George’s heart skip. Max didn’t give out compliments like that. Not to him. Not often.
George barely had time to process it before Max’s forehead pressed against his, close enough that George could feel the faint ghost of his breath.
“See you later, schat,” Max murmured, the Dutch word curling through the air between them.
And then he was gone, disappearing back into the bustle of the paddock as quickly as he’d arrived.
George stayed there for a beat, catching his breath, before stepping into the familiar space of the Mercedes motorhome.
Inside, Oscar was waiting.
He was perched casually on the edge of one of the lounge chairs, scrolling through something on his phone, but his whole face lit up when he saw George. “Podium boy!” he grinned, standing and crossing the space in a few quick strides.
George opened his mouth to say something — what, he wasn’t entirely sure — but Oscar leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his lips.
“Brilliant job,” Oscar said, his voice carrying none of Max’s intensity but all of his sincerity. “You were flying out there.”
George smiled back, the warmth in his chest shifting into something softer.
Before he could say more, Oscar’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, frowning slightly when he saw the name. “Andrea,” he muttered.
“Go,” George said lightly.
Oscar hesitated, then leaned in to press another quick kiss to George’s lips. “I’ll see you later.”
George stood there long after the door closed behind him. His fingertips brushed lightly over his mouth — the same mouth Max had kissed only minutes earlier.
For the first time, the realisation landed with actual weight: he was sleeping with both of them. And worse — much worse — he might actually like them both.
“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
George startled at the sound of Lando’s voice. He turned to see his friend leaning against the doorway, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, expression somewhere between curious and annoyed.
“Nothing,” George said quickly. “Just—thinking.”
Lando stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Thinking about how you’re juggling two people who don’t know about each other?”
George’s head snapped up. “I’m not—”
“You are.” Lando crossed his arms. “I’m not stupid. You think no one notices when you disappear with Max one weekend and Oscar the next? And now, today, you let both of them kiss you within the same hour.”
“That’s not—”
“It is, George.” Lando’s voice was sharper now, cutting through the haze of George’s denial. “And you need to face it. You’re dragging them both along. They both think they’ve got something with you. And maybe they do. But they don’t know they’re sharing it.”
George exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him. “It’s not like I planned this.”
“I know you didn’t,” Lando said, a touch softer now. “But it’s still happening. And the longer you avoid dealing with it, the worse it’s going to get.”
George looked away, jaw tight.
Lando stepped closer. “You can’t have it both ways, mate. Not without someone getting hurt. Probably both of them. And maybe you too.”
For a long moment, George said nothing.
Lando gave him one last searching look, then shook his head. “Sort it out, George.”
When he left, the room felt quieter than before.
George sat down heavily on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. He thought about Oscar’s easy smile, the way he made George feel cared for in a way he hadn’t realised he’d needed.
He thought about Max’s rare praise, the way it could light up his whole chest with a single word.
He thought about how he didn’t just like them both.
He might be in love with Oscar.
And he might be in love with Max.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.