Chapter Text
“So, Max,” he asks lightly, “what do you do for a living?”
Max feels it hit like a stone dropped into still water. His mind races for a split second.
Lie.
Don’t lie.
Lie carefully.
Say nothing at all.
Across the table, the Russells stiffen. Alison’s hand pauses mid-reach for the wine. Steve’s fork froze mid-air. Ben stops chewing entirely. They all know this moment matters. They’re bracing for impact because they are terrified not only of what Max might say, but of what George might hear.
Max remembers what Ben told him that morning. About how they protected George from everything just to keep him alive and to keep everything what’s left of him. "One more seizure," Ben had said. One more and… Max swallows.
And yet…
There’s George, sitting right in front of him, eyes bright and genuinely curious. George, his moon guy and George was also George Russell, his rival, his… whatever George was to him before it still matters.
It breaks something in Max’s chest to lie to him. So he makes a choice. He won’t rip the truth open all at once just what his family did before. But he won’t erase himself either.
Slow. careful.
In George’s own time.
Max clears his throat, “How about… you guess?”
George blinks once. Then twice. Then he laughs under his breath, like he’s just been handed a riddle he didnt know he wanted.
“Oh,” he says as he leans back in his chair. “Alright. Don’t complain if I’m terrifyingly accurate.”
Max smiles, the Russells exchange looks.
George tilts his head, openly studying Max now. His gaze drifts over broad sholders, down his strong arms, lingering just long enough to be noticeable. He squints lightly, like Max is a very delicate math equation.
“You like cats,” George says.
Max’s eyebrow twitches.
“You definitely love them,” George continues, “You absolutely talks to them when no one’s around.”
“Thats a bold assumption,” Max says dryly.
“And your plants,” George warming up now, “You care about them, but you’re convinced they hate you.”
“Theyre dramatic,” Max mutters.
George laughs brightly and something loosens in Max’s chest.
“You moved here for the quiet,” George continues with a softer voice, “You like silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind where your thoughts finally shut up.”
Max’s jaws tightens and George notices, so he instinctively presses on with a lighter tone to keep things safe.
“So,” he says, tapping the table, “Which tells me… whatever you did before was loud. Constant people everywhere. Noise you couldn’t escape.”
Max doesn’t deny it and doesn’t interrupt either.
George squints dramatically, “Also…” he pauses and looks at MAx up and down. “You’ve got a really nice body.”
Max’s ears go red. Ben chokes on his wine. Steve stares very hard at the wall like it has suddenly become fascinating.
“George,” Alison hisses.
“What?” George says innocently, “It’s relevant.”
Max clears his throat. “Is it?”
“Absolutely,” George replies. “You dont get shoulders like that from a desk job.”
Max laughs. “Alright, keep going, prin–mate.” He almost choked. Good thing no one catches when he almost said, ‘princess’ to George. Get a grip, Max! He thought.
“You look cold,” George speaks again, “Intimidating, like you’d scare off strangers without trying.”
Max smirks. “I do.”
“But,” George adds, “you’re not. You’re just impatient.”
“With my garden,” Max supplies.
“With everything,” George counters. “You expect things to work immediately. When they don’t happen, you get frustrated but not angry. More like… disappointed."
Max stills.
George shrugs, “You’ve got this nonchalant, mysterious vibes going on. Closed-off. But there’s warmth there. You wouldnt have stayed here if there wasnt.”
The room feels smaller now and quieter.
“So,” George concludes, tapping his chin. “You work somewhere loud. High pressure. Probably physical… dangerous, maybe?” He squints again. “A fighter?”
Max’s breath catches as a memory flashes uninvited. He’s remembering an interview a few years ago. A stupid question about what the F1 drivers would do if they weren’t drivers. And when George was asked about Max, he’d just smiled saying ‘Street Fighter’ like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
(for anyone who wants to watch the interview)
“A fighter,” MAx says. “That’s a really good guess.”
George perks up, “Yeah?”
“But,” Max continues gently, “no.”
George groans. “Damn it–wait–”
“I’ll tell you,” Max says.
The Russells tense, George straightens. Max meets his eyes, no smile now and no teasing.
“I’m a driver.”
George blinks. “...Like… uber?”
Max laughs, “A race driver.”
“Oh.”
Just ‘Oh’.
George frowns, “Like… race race?”
“Formula 1 to be specific,” Max answers.
George turns immediately to his brother. “That’s your childhood dream, right? The racing thing?”
Ben nods quickly. “Yep, karts. When I was a kid.”
Max looks at Ben with surprise. “Really?”
Ben shrugs, “I used to, thats just it.”
Steve clears his throat. “We’re farmers,” he says firmly. “Born and bred.”
Max swallows.
George smiles again and looks back at Max. “So… how fast are you?”
Max smiles. “Fast enough.”
Ben rolls his eyes and looks at his parents as if he’s saying Can you believe what this guy is saying? A god damn 5-time world champion!
“What’s the fastest?” George asks eagerly.
“About three hundred kilometers per hour.”
George’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell! That’s terrifying. I could never. I don’t even drive.”
Max’s smile falters. “What do you mean you dont?”
George shrugs lightly. “I had an accident years ago. Trauma and all that. So, I’m having trouble being behind the wheels now but I’m fine as a passenger.”
Something settles heavily in Max’s chest. Trying to sink in all the information he learned,
Ben finally interrupted their conversation. “So Max,” he says pointedly, “how long are you gonna stay here in Norfolk? You’re just vacationing, right?”
Max looks at Ben, then Steve, then Alison.
And then George.
“Well,” he says slowly, “it was supposed to be a vacation. But now… I’ve got reason to stay.”
George brightens. “Well, whatever that reason is, I hope it’s worth it.”
“They are,” Max says, implying a person.
George blushes.
Max smiles.
“So,” Max adds casually, “does the offer still stand?”
“Offer?” George said, confused.
“The garden,” Max clarifies. “Will you help me with my garden?”
George lights up. “OF COURSE!”
Ben groans.
Steve sighs.
Alison worries.
But they won’t stop it because stopping it would raise too many questions.
And whatever Max Verstappen is planning, all they can do now is hope it doesn’t hurt the boy they worked so hard to keep alive.
_____
The plates are cleared slowly. Ben stacks dishes at the sink and Steve insists on washing even though Alison tells him that he’s doing it wrong. George dries plates, humming something tuneless, completely at ease.
Max watches it all.
“Well,” Steve says, wiping his hands on a towel. “It’s late.”
That’s the polite way of saying go home now.
Max nods. “Yeah, I should head out.”
George looks up immediately “Already?” The world slips out before he can stop.
Alison noticed. “You can walk him out,” she says quickly. “It’s dark.”
George smiles. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Ben opens his mouth to object, then thinks better of it and turns back to the sink muttering curses.
Outside, the night air is cool and smells like soil and damp leaves. The stars are faint but stubborn, peeking through thin clouds. Gravel crunches under their shoes as they walk toward the gate.
“So,” George says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Your garden.”
Max exhales a laugh. “Yeah, my tragic garden.”
“I don’t think it’s tragic,” George says seriously. “Plants can sense intention.”
Max side-eyes him. “You’re saying my tomatoes know I’m disappointed in them?”
“Absolutely.”
Max laughs, genuinely. It feels strange how easy and natural it is around George now.
“You free tomorrow?” Max asks, trying to sound casual.
George nods instantly. “Yes.”
“Good,” Max says. “I could use… some help. With the tomatoes.”
George grins. “I’ll bring gloves.”
They stop at the gate.
For a second, neither of them moves.
“Well,” George says softly, rocking back on his heels. “Goodnight, Max.”
“Goodnight, George.”
It’s simple. It shouldn’t feel like anything. And yet Max walks home with his chest tight and his mind louder than it’s been in weeks.
______
Max doesn’t turn on the lights when he gets inside. He kicks off his shoes and moves through the house by muscle memory alone. The place is quiet in that deep, rural way: no engines, no radios, no distant city hum. He showers quickly then climbs into bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.
He can’t sleep. George’s voice echoes instead. His laugh… The way his eyes lit up when he talked about plants like they were people. The way he’d said I’ll bring gloves like it was a promise.
Max exhales slowly and drags a hand over his face.
This is dangerous. Not because George doesn’t remember but because he does, just not the way Max does.
Max rolls onto his side. He thinks of the crash… the empty garages and unanswered questions. And the way George’s name still sits heavy in his chest after all this time.
He thinks about what not to do.
Don’t shove memories down his throat.
Don’t say you used to.
Don’t say we were.
Don’t say you lo–.
Max closes his eyes.
George doesn’t need to remember everything at once. He doesn’t need the noise, the lights, the pressure. He doesn’t need Formula 1 shoved back into his hands like a weapon.
He needs grounding.
Something slow and safe.
A garden.
Max lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. Of course it would be something this mundane. Of course George Russell who once the sharpest mind in the paddock would now be coaxed back to himself through tomatoes and soil and silence.
“I’ll do it properly this time,” Max murmurs into the dark.
He’ll let George lead.
Let him ask.
Let him remember in fragments, if he remembers at all.
And if he never does…
Max swallows.
…then he’ll still make sure George is happy.
Somewhere down the road, George Russell is sleeping, unaware of the careful, terrifying promise being made across the farmland.
Tomorrow, they’ll start with the garden.
🏁