Chapter Text
The Qatar sun blazed relentlessly, a molten orb hanging in the sky. The shimmering heat waves distorted the world, transforming the Losail International Circuit into a suffocating furnace. Drivers, engineers, and even spectators sweltered under the oppressive conditions, sweat soaking through fireproof suits and uniforms alike. The scent of rubber and fuel hung thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of desperation—this was no ordinary race; this was war.
The atmosphere was tense, almost tangible, a tightly wound spring ready to snap. For Max Verstappen, reigning champion and unapologetic force of nature, this race was about proving a point. The fiery Dutchman paced through Red Bull’s garage, his jaw clenched so tight it might shatter.
“He’s two-faced, you know,” Max muttered to his engineer Gianpiero, who had heard the tirade a dozen times since quali day. “George fucking Russell. Smiling for the cameras, acting like butter wouldn’t melt, but the moment he’s in the stewards’ room, he’s sharpening the knives.”
Gianpiero, accustomed to Max’s moods, simply handed over a water bottle. “Focus on the race, Max. Leave the politics for later.”
But Max wasn’t having it. “No, mate, he’s got it coming. You don’t stab me in the back and expect me to forget it.”
In the Mercedes garage, George Russell was equally fired up. “Bully,” he spat the word as he pulled on his gloves, his accent sharpening. “That’s all Max Verstappen is. Shoves you on track, pushes you off it—he doesn’t give a damn. And now he’s throwing threats like some playground thug.”
Toto Wolff looked up from his data screen, his expression a careful mix of concern and irritation. “George, let’s not lose our heads. This isn’t about Verstappen. It’s about bringing the car home in one piece and scoring points.”
George snorted, a bitter laugh. “Tell that to Max when he’s screaming about putting my head through a wall.”
The drivers’ animosity simmered in the desert heat, a volatile cocktail of pride, frustration, and competitive fire.
Lights Out and Mayhem Ensues.
As the race began, the chaos was immediate. The scorching heat punished both man and machine; tyres blistered, engines overheated, and drivers wrestled with cars on the edge of control.
Max was a blur of aggression, his Red Bull slicing through the pack with surgical precision. George, equally determined, fought tooth and nail to hold his ground.
By lap 42, they were side by side, two gladiators locked in battle, neither willing to yield an inch.
“Wheel-to-wheel with Verstappen!” George’s engineer, Marcus, barked through the radio. “Careful, George. Keep it clean.”
But clean wasn’t on the agenda. Max, his frustration bubbling over, made an audacious move on the outside of Turn 10. George, no stranger to hard racing, held firm, forcing Max wide.
“You’re not getting past me that easy,” George muttered under his breath.
Max’s response was immediate—a bold lunge into Turn 11, the cars millimetres apart, sparks flying as their wheels kissed. And then it happened.
A sickening crunch. The Red Bull and Mercedes tangled in a brutal embrace, sending George’s car spinning violently into the barrier. The impact was catastrophic, the force flipping the car. The world tilted, a kaleidoscope of screams, smoke, and shattering metal.
Max’s car skidded to a halt mere metres from the wreckage, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. He slammed the steering wheel in frustration, his breath ragged. “For fuck’s sake!”
In the Mercedes garage, panic erupted. “George! GEORGE!” Toto’s voice cut through the chaos as the cameras zeroed in on the upturned car.
Inside the cockpit, George’s world was a blur of pain and confusion. His head throbbed, the heat oppressive, and every nerve in his body screamed in protest. Voices swirled around him—Marcus shouting instructions, Toto’s panicked tones, the medical team yelling orders.
It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to do anything but endure the searing agony. But he couldn’t. His body refused to obey, and darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.
Somewhere in the cacophony, a voice cut through—a voice he recognised. Harsh, sharp, and dripping with venom.
“I’ll put your head on the fucking wall.”
Max’s threat.
The words echoed, a cruel reminder as the blackness finally swallowed him whole.
And then, silence. A single, steady beep pierced the air.
🎰
George Russell's eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. His head felt heavy, but not with pain—more like a warm haze clouding his thoughts. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, the soft golden light illuminating the room.
The bed beneath him was luxurious, with a mattress so perfectly cushioned that it seemed to cradle him. The pillows were plush and inviting, exuding a faint scent of eucalyptus. A refreshing coolness lingered in the air, unlike the sterile tang he expected from a hospital.
“Blimey,” George murmured groggily, shifting slightly. He froze almost immediately, his brow furrowing as he registered something—or rather, someone.
There was weight on his waist. Something firm, solid, and definitely human. And worse, another weight, warm and intrusive, nestled far too close to his... his...
“Wot the bloody hell?” he muttered under his breath, still groggy but rapidly waking up.
He tried to move his arm, only to realise that the pressure tightened around his waist and lower half, pulling him closer into an uncomfortably intimate hold. He winced, his body still stiff but oddly... unhurt? That couldn’t be right. The last thing he remembered was—
The crash. The sound of metal screaming as it crumpled, the air thick with smoke and heat. The pain, sharp and unrelenting, as his car flipped into the wall.
He should be in agony. Yet here he was, practically swaddled, feeling bizarrely comfortable.
“What did they pump me full of? Industrial-grade morphine?” he wondered aloud, his voice raspy.
Slowly, George cracked one eye open, expecting to see white hospital walls, a nurse, or maybe his mum and dad hovering nervously. But the blurry sight that greeted him was distinctly not a hospital room.
The room was tastefully decorated in muted tones of beige and cream, accented with wooden furniture and soft throws. There was an expensive-looking vase on the nightstand, holding fresh flowers—was that lavender?—and a large window letting in the soft glow of dawn.
“Def’ not an NHS suite,” George muttered with a dry chuckle. “Toto must’ve shelled out for private care.”
But as his vision cleared, a niggling unease crept in. The room wasn’t just unfamiliar—it was entirely wrong. Where were the monitors? The IV drip? The endless beeping?
Panic flared. His heart rate spiked as he tried to push himself up, but the hold around his body tugged him back down. George’s movements stilled as his mind raced.
What... was holding him?
Bracing himself, he slowly turned his head and blinked his eyes open fully, his breath catching as his gaze settled on—
“MAX?!”
There he was, Max Verstappen, lying beside him. His messy blonde hair was sprawled across the pillow, his arm draped possessively over George’s waist. Another arm—God help him—rested far too close to George’s most private areas. The Dutchman was utterly relaxed, his lips parted as he let out soft snores.
Oh. And they were both naked.
George’s heart nearly stopped. He looked down at himself, then at Max, confirming his worst fears. His cheeks flushed crimson as mortification clawed at his insides.
“What the actual fuck?!” George’s voice broke into a panicked scream as he flailed, shoving Max with all his strength.
The sudden force sent Max tumbling out of bed with a loud thud. “Aaargh! Godverdomme!” Max yelped, landing in an undignified heap on the floor, his tousled hair sticking up in every direction. He groggily rubbed his eyes, blinking in confusion. “What the fuck, George?”
George scrambled to grab a blanket, hastily wrapping it around himself. “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE? WHY ARE YOU NAKED? WHY AM I NAKED?”
Max, still half-asleep, frowned up at him from the floor. “Why are you screaming? And why the hell did you kick me off the bed?”
“Why?! Why?! Because I woke up in bed with you!” George’s voice cracked, high-pitched with panic. “AND WE’RE BOTH BLOODY STARKERS!”
Max looked down at himself, finally registering his nudity. Instead of panicking, he smirked. “Well, that’s not new, is it?”
“NOT NEW?!” George shrieked, clutching the blanket tighter. “What are you on about?!”
Max tilted his head, his confusion deepening. “Why are you acting like this? We always sleep like this, schat.” His voice softened with affection, completely oblivious to George’s growing horror. “Was I too rough last night? Is that why you’re upset?”
“Rough?!” George spluttered, his face burning brighter than the Qatari sun. “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!”
Max leaned against the bed, giving him a concerned look. “George, calm down. You’re acting... weird. Did you hit your head or something?”
George froze. He grabbed his head, his mind spinning. “I... I crashed. I remember the crash. I remember pain. I remember...” He paused, swallowing hard. “I remember you threatening to put my head on a wall!”
Max flinched. “Love, what are you talking about... you’re my husband and I—”
“YOUR WHAT?!” George’s shriek could have shattered glass.
Max’s brows knitted in confusion. “...Husband? George, are you okay? Seriously, this isn’t funny.”
George clutched his blanket like a lifeline, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared at Max, the man who had spent years being his rival—his mortal enemy, he swore. And now, here he was, looking genuinely concerned, naked, and claiming they were married.
What the actual hell was going on?
George sat frozen on the edge of the bed, his breathing erratic, his heart pounding like he’d just finished a sprint race. His fingers clutched the blanket around his waist as if it were his last anchor to sanity. Max Verstappen, of all people, had just kissed him on the cheek and left the room to make breakfast.
Not just Max Verstappen, naked Max Verstappen.
The shock of waking up beside his fiercest rival—no, scratch that, his enemy—was already enough to send his mind reeling. But Max’s casual words, the affectionate touches, the goddamn wedding photo on the bedside table…
“What in the actual fuck…” George whispered to himself, his voice trembling.
His gaze darted to the photo again, his mind rebelling against what his eyes were showing him. He was in a crisp white suit, smiling—smiling!—as Max, dressed in an elegant black suit, stood beside him, his hand possessively resting on George’s waist. The backdrop was stunning: a beach at sunset, the waves painted gold and orange. Their smiles looked genuine, radiant even, as though they were truly in love.
It was disgusting.
He checks his phone- which looked suspiciously not his. The model... unknown to him. But it was his definitely. And the date—2028. Four years ahead of where George’s mind insisted they were.
“This has to be a prank,” George muttered, his voice shaking. “Lando. It’s bloody Lando. Or Alex. Maybe Charles.” He nodded to himself, trying to force the idea to stick. “They’re taking the piss. Got me drugged up or somethin’. Wouldn’t put it past ‘em.”
He scrambled for his phone, which sat charging on the nightstand, the sleek device unfamiliar but intuitive enough to unlock with his fingerprint. The home screen was horrifying: a picture of him and Max, both in matching bathrobes, holding a pair of ridiculously fluffy kittens.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He flipped to Instagram, frantically scrolling through what appeared to be his account. It was all there—photos of them travelling the world together, goofy selfies in Red Bull and Mercedes garages, an anniversary post celebrating “four amazing years with my Maxie 💙.”
George wanted to vomit.
“Why would I—what the bloody hell happened?!” His voice cracked, and his chest tightened with panic. Tears pricked his eyes, but he shook them off, clenching his jaw. “No. No, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
Against his better judgement, he opened Google and typed his own name.
The top results were nauseating.
- "F1 Power Couple George Russell and Max Verstappen Celebrate Fourth Anniversary!"
- "How George and Max Overcame Rivalry to Build a Beautiful Life Together."
- "GAX Fan Club Reaches 10 Million Followers on TikTok."
George’s grip on the phone tightened. “I’m gonna kill them. Whoever’s behind this, they’re dead.”
But his rational mind whispered something far worse: This isn’t a prank.
He shoved the phone down, the screen flickering off as he stared blankly ahead. It was too much. He needed to think, to process, but his skin itched with discomfort, and a sticky feeling clung to him. The residue of sweat and something else he really didn’t want to identify made his stomach churn.
“I need a shower,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
The ensuite bathroom was as lavish as the bedroom, with sleek marble counters, rainfall showerheads, and a bathtub big enough to swim in. George caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a look of utter disbelief plastered across his face.
“What the hell’s happened to me?” he whispered.
The warm water cascaded over him, washing away the grime but not the confusion. George stood under the spray far longer than necessary, trying to piece together anything that made sense.
The crash was real. The pain was real. He knew it was 2024. And yet here he was, four years ahead, apparently married to Max Verstappen of all people.
It defied logic, but the world around him was consistent in its story. The details were too perfect, too lived-in, to be an elaborate prank.
“Bloody hell,” George muttered as he turned off the water.
Dressed in comfortable sweats he’d found neatly folded in a drawer—his drawer, apparently—George ventured out of the bedroom, determined to find answers.
The house was massive, open-plan, with high ceilings and glass walls that overlooked a sprawling garden. It was modern yet homely, with personal touches everywhere—photos of him and Max (the horror), trinkets from various races, and a few of Max’s trophies displayed proudly on a sideboard.
George paused in the kitchen doorway. Max stood at the counter, his back to George, flipping pancakes with casual ease. He was humming to himself, wearing joggers slung low on his hips and absolutely nothing else.
“Morning, baby,” Max said without turning around, his voice warm and affectionate. “Pancakes are almost ready. Coffee’s on the table.”
George stiffened. “Erm. Thanks.”
Max finally turned, a soft smile on his face that faltered slightly when he saw George’s tense expression. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting… off.”
George forced a smile that felt like it might crack his face. “Yeah. Just… tired. Had a bad dream, that’s all.”
Max’s eyes softened with concern as he approached. George instinctively stepped back, but Max stopped, holding up his hands. “Okay, I won’t push. But if you need to talk, I’m here.”
Before George could respond, Max leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. George’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t move, too stunned to react.
“Breakfast’ll be ready in five,” Max said softly before turning back to the stove.
George stood frozen, his cheek tingling where Max’s lips had touched. He glanced around the kitchen, the warmth of the home starkly at odds with the cold knot of confusion in his chest.
What the hell is happening to me?
🎰
George stared blankly at the plate of pancakes before him, the sweet aroma of maple syrup doing little to entice his appetite. His mind was a tangled mess of confusion and disbelief. The sheer audacity of his current situation was staggering.
His fork dangled limply between his fingers as he stared at the food, the weight of it all pressing on his chest like a concrete block. The clink of a wrench hitting the floor in the garage echoed faintly through the house. Max was out there, tinkering with something—probably a car, George assumed, because what else would Max ever care about?
"What the actual hell..." he muttered under his breath, trying to wrap his head around the idea.
The door creaked open, and moments later, Max’s familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway. George hastily shoved his fork into the pancake stack, pretending he was mid-bite when Max re-entered the kitchen.
Max’s face lit up when he saw George, but his smile quickly faded as his sharp eyes caught sight of the untouched food.
“George…” Max’s tone was soft but laced with concern. He crossed the room in just a few strides, kneeling beside George’s chair and cupping his face with both hands. His touch was warm and firm, his thumbs brushing lightly over George’s cheekbones as if he were made of porcelain. “Love, you need to eat. Starving yourself isn’t going to do you or the baby any good.”
George froze. His brain stalled as those words hung in the air. The baby.
“B-Baby?” he stammered, his voice cracking.
Max tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah…? Babe, don’t play coy. I know you don’t like breakfast much, but you’re four months along now—you need to eat for you and the baby, yeah?”
Four months?!
George’s stomach dropped, and his breath hitched. He couldn’t stop his mind from spiraling. I’m pregnant with Max’s child?!
Of course, he’d dreamed of having children one day—two or three, maybe more, with the love of his life after retiring from Formula 1. It was a distant fantasy he kept buried beneath layers of professionalism. And now… now, somehow, he was married to Max Verstappen, pregnant with Max’s baby.
A faint laugh escaped his lips, unconvincing even to himself. “B-Baby… y-yeah. Yeah. Ha… ha… I know.”
Max’s concerned expression deepened, his blue eyes searching George’s. “Schatjie, are you okay? You’ve been acting strange all morning.”
George plastered on the most convincing smile he could muster, even though he felt like screaming. “Yep! Ecstatic! Totally fine!”
Max studied him for a moment longer before nodding slowly, though his concern didn’t completely fade. “Alright…” he said cautiously. Then, as though the universe hadn’t thrown enough curveballs at George, Max added casually, “I’ll go and wake Henry up.”
“Who?” George blurted, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Max froze mid-turn, his brows shooting up in surprise. He turned back slowly, eyeing George like he’d grown a second head. “Henry,” Max repeated, enunciating the name carefully as if George might not have heard him properly. “George… don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our son too?”
Our son?
George felt his throat tighten. His vision blurred for a moment, and his palms grew clammy. He’d been pregnant twice?!
“No! Of course not!” he said quickly, waving his hands defensively. “I just… thought he was already awake. That’s all. Haha…”
Max’s expression softened, and a small chuckle escaped him. “You’re lucky I love you, you know,” he said, shaking his head fondly. He started for the hallway again but paused to glance over his shoulder, grinning. “Next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve forgotten you’re a two-time World Drivers’ Champion, huh?”
George’s eyes widened, but he forced out a laugh. “Haha… yeah. As if I’d forget that…”
“2025 and 2027,” Max added proudly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
George’s fake laugh grew more strained. “Right. Of course. Haha…”
Max laughed along with him, oblivious to George’s inner turmoil. “I’ll go get Henry. You eat, okay?”
As soon as Max left the room, George’s forced smile crumbled. He slumped back in his chair, his mind racing. 2025 and 2027? Two-time World Champion? Married to Max? A son? Pregnant again?! What the actual hell is going on?!
He stared down at the plate in front of him, the pancakes now cold and unappealing. His appetite was nonexistent, but he knew he couldn’t let Max suspect anything.
"I need to figure this out," George whispered to himself, gripping the edge of the table. “Just play along. Wait it out. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to pick up the fork. Baby steps, he thought grimly. Baby steps.