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Chapter Text

The lights danced around him in array of reds and oranges, and the bass of the techno beat practically vibrated uncomfortably throughout his chest. This wasn't George's idea of a perfect night ,but then again, this night wasn't about him- it was about Alex. And when his longtime best friend decided that he wanted to celebrate his placement in one of Amsterdam's top teaching-hospitals at one of the most high-end and exclusive nightclubs in Amsterdam, George couldn't say no. No matter how much he wanted to.

It wasn't that he didn't want to support Alex or not celebrate his achievements, it was just that his friend's success was cruel reminder at the life George could've lived if the universe had just been a tad bit kinder to him. That the dream they both shared was only in reach for one of them, had already been grabbed at with both hands and never let go. Alex was able to go to university, able to make it through an absolutely brutal six years, and now was going on to training as a general practitioner while George was — well George wasn't doing any of that.

Not because he didn't want to — God knew he wanted to, he just didn't have the funds nor the time. He was busy working two jobs that barely paid enough for his shitty apartment. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he could scour enough to pay for heating and water. But everything else was extra: food, clothes, etc. All things he'd prefer to have but just couldn't afford. In fact, he definitely couldn't afford this night out. George only had about 50 euros left to his name when he came to club, and he was already down to half that, largely due to the entrance fee. But it was no matter, he was going to show up for his oldest friend even if it killed him — which it just might if Alex didn't get off the bar soon.

"Georgie, come up here!" Alex shouted over the noise, drink in hand and face flushed. They'd already been here for hours, and his friend was well and truly plastered.

He could only shake his head. "Not drunk enough for that mate. Why don't you come on down? Getting a bit lonely here."

Alex only laughed, "Get a drink, Georgie! Come on, stop being such a bore!"

George let out a short laugh and shifted uneasily. He loved Alex, truly, but sometimes the man was as thick as a board and as stubborn as mule. George kept his finances quiet or as much as he could, and usually he was able to explain away why he hadn't ordered something or bought something on their hangouts. Usually Alex let it go easily enough even if he didn't necessarily believe his friend, but tonight the man was blasted and couldn't let go of the fact that George hadn't had a single drop of alcohol the entirety of the night.

George had only just opened his mouth when he was saved from responding.

"Alex Albon! What are you doing up there?"

Lily He was Alex's girlfriend, and in that moment, George's savior. In an instant of hearing her voice Alex scrambled down from the bar and thrusted himself into her arms. George had to put a hand to her back to help keep them from spilling onto the ground. She laughed as he buried his head into her throat, murmuring something about loving her or being in love with her and how much he missed her. George could only smile.

"I think it's time to get you home, love," Lily said.

Even with George's help, getting an intoxicated Alex out of the club took the better part of an hour. It was going well initially until he had realized that both George and Lily were trying to guide him out, and he resolutely wanted to stay. Begging over and over again for "just one more" drink.

When they finally were able to wrestle him out and into the cool air the night, he had thankfully lost all fight and allowed George to help him into the awaiting Uber. Just as he was about to back away from the car, Lily caught his hand. "Are you sure you don't want to catch a ride with us?"

"I'm good, it's just a short walk from here," George said, and he wasn't lying… relatively. The walk from the club to his own apartment was much shorter than it would be from theirs to his.

Lily still looked unsure before smiling tightly. "If you're sure. Make sure you call when you make it back alright?"

He smiled softly. "Of course."

And with that, he watched them ride away until the taillights of the car were just a distant memory. It was late, and he had a long way to walk, but something in him didn't want to start the trek back to his dreary apartment where nothing waited for him. Sighing, he shoved his hands into his front pockets and looked around.

There weren't many out at this time of night — or rather early morning he supposed — either they were all still deep in the thralls of partying or asleep like normal members of the public. Taking a deep breath, he started to turn towards the direction of his apartment — he'd need the sleep to make it through work tomorrow after all — when the doors slammed open, and a blonde man stalked out in rage, ignoring all calls that came after him.

"Fuck off!" the man had called behind him.

"But Mr. Verstappen-" the tired worker that had followed the man out stopped short when the man — Mr. Verstappen, he supposed, sent them a chilling look.

George could only stare at the interaction. The man was well dressed, in a dark suit that looked like it cost more than any money George would ever see in his lifetime, and had an air about him that screamed danger.

Besides the color of his hair and the sharpness of the man's jawline, George couldn't make out any discernible features, but he knew without a doubt that this man was attractive. Attractive in a way that reeked of trouble and with an apparent temper that George knew he didn't want directed at him.

He tried to take a step away, to slink into the background, anywhere that would take him away from the man, not wanting to draw his ire or his attention. However, he didn't realize he was so close to curb and stumbled. Loudly. Thankfully he was able to recover before falling on his ass, but even before he met the gaze of the man he knew the damage had been done. Despite not wanting the attention of this Verstappen fellow, he now had it.

Not knowing what to do , George tried smiling, but it fell when the man remained unmoved. The harshness of his gaze was off-putting and unsettling, and George wanted nothing more then to shift on his feet, but somehow he knew squirming would end poorly for him.

"Mr. Verstappen-" and thank Christ for the worker's interrupting because the man's gaze was drawn away from George, and he felt that he could finally breathe again.

The worker wrung their hands before starting, "Mr. Verstappen, Mr. Ricciardo has highly advised that you wait until-"

The man reached into his suit pocket in a move that had the young worker flinching and George panicking. But what the man pulled out wasn't a gun or a knife or any other sort of weapon, but a pack of cigarettes. He said nothing as he plucked one out of the carton. George's heart yearned at the sight, God how he wished he could afford the good ones instead of rationing them for when he really needed them.

The sound of quiet cursing broke him out of his thoughts, and suddenly the blonde was looking towards him again, "You have a light?"

He was nodding before he could realize, but when he made no move to fish out his lighter from the pocket of his jeans, the man snapped at him, spurning George into action, and his lighter was into the other man's hands before he knew it.

As the man inhaled, it seemed that George and the worker whose name tag he could now make out to read "Mark" waited with bated breath.

As he exhaled, he said, "Daniel can keep his advice to himself. Now be a good boy and leave me the fuck alone before — well I'll leave that up to your imagination."

Mark paled, and with a quick nod, hurried back into the club, leaving George and this 'Mr. Verstappen' alone.

George flinched when Mr. Verstappen stepped towards him, but he only slapped the lighter back into his hand. They said nothing to one another as the man smoked, taking one long pull after another. Never sparing George another glance.

Just when George had the courage to even think about moving away and off to his shitty apartment — that honestly looked better and better by the moment — the stranger looked at him again, blue eyes seeming to drink him in.

He took one last pull before flicking the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it beneath his foot, "Come, I'm taking you to dinner,"

It took everything in George not to recoil in shock, "I'm sorry?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Dinner. Or breakfast if you prefer. Consider it an apology."

He didn't offer him his hand, or even spare a glance behind him as he strode down the sidewalk, like he had no doubt that George would follow him. And against all his better judgment, George did.

Chapter Text

George tried to protest as this 'Mr. Verstappen' led him into one of Amsterdam's most expensive steakhouses. The type of place he once used to dream of eating at. A place he had resigned himself to never being able to go even if he saved for years.

When he had tried to tell the man that one, he couldn't afford it and two, that there was no way a place like this was open in this weird time that lay somewhere between late, late night and early, early morning the man only waved him off.

As they entered the threshold of the restaurant, he couldn't help how his mouth dropped open. The walls were all warm wood with gold inlays, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and cloth napkins laid in intricate shapes at the tables. There was no one at the hostess stand, but the stranger— Mr. Verstappen — ignored it, striding past like he owned the place before picking a table at the very center of the restaurant.

He said nothing as George loitered at the entrance of the dining before finally pulling out a chair and gesturing George forward with a click of his tongue. Once George took the offered seat the man then pushed in the chair with surprising gentleness that seemed out of place on the man, before taking a chair of his own.

George could only stare as he watched the man open the menu, following the way his eyes scanned every line. "If you don't find something on your own, I will order for you."

"Oh, um. Yes, of course." George reached for the menu with shaking hands. Glancing at the menu he felt himself blanch, there were no prices. He set the menu down, it was fine. So what if he hadn't eaten in a day or was it two now? He'd survive another day; he had before.

It was not even a minute later that George spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and a waiter dressed in a crisp black collared shirt and nice black dress pants approached.

"Hello Mr. Verstappen," he paused when he took in George, his skin tight jeans and neon green mesh crop top that decidedly did not fit in with extravagance of the room around them, "and sir's guest. Have you made a decision?"

"Yes, I will have my usual, as well as a gin and tonic," when the waiter turned towards him, George stuttered as he tried to find the words to say that he was alright, just a water, please, if they'd be so kind, but Mr. Verstappen interrupted him before he could form a single syllable, "He will have the same except get him a glass of the Masseto."

The waiter nodded, took both menus, and then they were left alone once more. George shifted in his seat and tried not to wither under the Dutchman's steel gaze. Who was this man that he could walk in at ungodly hours and be served within seconds of entering the building.

"I don't. I mean I can't—um that is to say I won't be able to pay for this. Mr. Verstappen," he tagged the man's name at the end in a desperate attempt to not sound ungrateful. He wasn't quite sure he managed it.

Mr. Verstappen only leaned back, and stated with a casual finality, "You're not paying."

"I'm sorry? What do you mean I'm not paying?"

The blonde didn't say anything as the waiter dropped off their drinks, and he had downed half the gin and tonic in one go, "You apologize a lot. And I meant exactly what I said, you're not paying. You think I invite people out and then make them pay?"

He gently rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers and watched as the red wine flowed upwards before receding, "Wasn't aware it was an invitation, Mr. Verstappen."

At his words the man grinned, "That's because it wasn't. And fuck off with the 'Mr. Verstappen' shit, you don't work for me."

Questions swam around George's head. Who was this man? He tried to recount what he knew of him: first, he had some power in the Nightclub otherwise the worker wouldn't have been scared shitless, second, he had money if he could eat somewhere like this. In fact, he was probably loaded with the way he could gain service at this time of night. Third, he was undeniably handsome from the slope of his nose, to the blue of his eyes, to the scruff that lined his jaw. And finally, he was dangerous, but in what way George hadn't quite figured out yet.

He didn't know why the man invited him here or why he was buying him dinner, and he didn't know the man's first name. The first couple of questions George doubted he would get the answer to, but the latter was easily rectified. He chuckled slightly, trying to find his footing, "Then what am I supposed to call you? I don't even know who you are."

The man snorted as if he thought George was joking, but when he saw no recognition in his eyes, he stopped but a closed lipped smile remained, "My God you're serious," he leaned forward and shrugged.

"It's probably better that way," Max considered George carefully, "You may call me Max. Now I've answered a question of yours, maybe you can answer one of mine."

George couldn't help the soft scoff he let out, "What questions could you possibly have that I could answer?"

The blonde's—Max's grin widened, "I want to know your name."

George brought the glass to his lips, "What on earth for?" he asked before taking a small sip. Letting the wine wash over his tongue, Verstappen—Max, his mind corrected, chose well.

If Max was taken aback by his tone, he didn't let it show, "Since when is it a crime to want to know more about a beautiful man?"

At that, he felt his face flush, and he found it hard to remember the reservations he had at the start of this dinner and shifted once again, "Of course it's not a crime, but it's," he paused, "unexpected."

Another moment passed while Max waited for him to say more, and eventually he did, but not before his gaze shifter back towards the table, "George. My name is George."

"George," he said it softly, with an almost reverence to the name. And when George braved a quick glance, he could see that the man was inexplicably pleased, like a cat that caught the canary, "It suits you," he said at last.

George said nothing as he kept his eyes on his glass, rolling it in between his hands once again. But Max wouldn't allow it, and he soon felt a warm hand cup his chin and tipped it upward so that George met his eyes.

"Tell me about yourself, George," it was an order thinly veiled as a request that George couldn't—wouldn't refuse.

Staring into the deep blue of Max's eyes, he spoke, "What would you like to know?"

Max's eyes shone, and his grin turned sharp, "Everything."

Chapter Text

Turned out George couldn't tell Verstap-Max 'everything' in a single night, even when he thought there wasn't all that much to tell. But for every word he uttered, Max had at least two questions in return, always with a smile that quirked up in amusement. Never before had George felt so seen — like someone actually cared about what he was saying.

They talked for what seemed like forever, long after the sun rose and their plates having long been cleared (he knew the food was going to be excellent, but it truly surpassed even his highest hopes). Max didn't speak often, preferring, it seemed, to listen rather than talk, a rare trait in a man. On the rare chance George gathered some courage to ask him something, Max's answers were measured, or he evaded the question entirely. It was odd, but George couldn't find it in himself to care, not with the wine and warm food settling within him. It was silencing the hunger pains that had been harassing him for some time — maybe it had been longer than two days since he ate last.

In the end, he could've spent hours-days speaking with the mysterious Dutchman, and a part of him wanted to desperately. However, all good things must come to an end, and theirs came with a distinct ring of a phone.

"Shit, give me a second," the Dutchman rose and stepped away from the table.

George didn't mind, it gave him a chance to slip out his own phone. He sighed when he saw it was almost dead; his battery never lasted long these days. When he finally swiped it open, he could see that there were several texts from Lily asking if he made it home safe. He was in the midst of typing a quick response when he heard a raised voice.

Max's phone call was decidedly not going well it seemed, as the blonde's voice got louder and angrier. George couldn't understand what was being said, never seeing the need to learn Dutch in the time he'd been in the Netherlands, but he knew enough to know that Max was beyond furious.

George shifted in his seat then, memories of the hours earlier flashing to the forefront of his mind. If Max had been angry then, he was beyond furious now, stalking back and forth at the back of the restaurant like a lion out for blood.

The room that had felt so warm and inviting now felt ice cold, and George shifted in his seat again. His mind was screaming at him to leave — to flee from this man. He felt stupid, incredibly stupid in that moment because he had let himself believe that the danger that had clung to Max like a second skin was a mistake. Or maybe not a mistake, but rather a misunderstanding that let itself be known if only for a brief second before dissipating into the air never to be seen again.

George had let the wine, the meal, and the good conversation make him forget the fear on the worker's face as he had hurried after Max. How terrified he looked and how George felt when he reached into his jacket — sure Max only ended up taking out a pack of cigarettes, but that didn't mean that wasn't anything else there. In fact, George thought he saw the faint outline of holster beneath the man's suit. This man — Max was dangerous, and at the end of the day, George didn't know him.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear Max return to their table. When Max didn't sit down, George found himself swallowing - hard.

Max didn't look all that angry at first glance, but he did look incredibly irritated. Still, he smiled at George, "I've had a wonderful time George, but I'm afraid I've got business to attend to."

In what George felt was a sheer moment of insanity he asked, "What happened?"

The corner of Max's lips fell downwards before quickly turning upwards again, lips closed.

"Nothing for you to worry about. Now, let me take you home," he offered George his hand.

It wasn't a question, that much George knew. Putting his hand in Max's, he was almost taken aback by the conformability of it, how their hands seemed to slot together perfectly. It made the smart side — the rational side — of his brain shut up, all the concerns of earlier falling away if for a moment. He didn't get to savor the feeling long though, because as soon as they made it outside the restaurant, Max pulled their hands apart.

It was fine, George thought, "Why would we hold hands on the way back to the club?" They had a nice night, but that was all. He shouldn't want to hold hands with the Dutchman anyways. He should be preparing himself for the walk back.

But then he felt a hand on the small of his back, guiding him to the curb. Parked in front of the restaurant was the nicest Ferrari George had ever seen. He didn't realize his feet had moved until he stood right in front of the sports car, and the hand at his back dropped.

He tried not to let his mouth fall open when Max opened the car door for him, but he didn't dare step a foot inside. "Are you serious?"

The Dutchman's eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, "No, I'm going to let you walk home. Of course, I'm serious. Why wouldn't I be?"

George could only let out a small laugh, "I-I just mean that this is- What if I get it dirty?" He looked down at his clothes that had clearly seen better days: he didn't belong in a Ferrari.

At his words, Max closed his eyes and breathed deeply, "George. Get in the car."

"But-"

Max cut him off, "But nothing. If I was worried about a little dirt, I wouldn't have asked for this car to be brought round. Now. Get. In the car. Please."

He weighed the options, gnawing at his lip. Was this a good idea? He didn't know Max. But the blonde had been good to him so far, even when George thought otherwise, even when George was afraid. But George shouldn't be frightened, not if he was going to get in a car with this man. It would be such a long walk back to his apartment, and Max hadn't really done anything to justify him being afraid.

Making up his mind, he slid into the passenger seat. Max closed the door after him; it shut with a small click. Slipping into the drivers seat, he turned on the heat. George hadn't noticed the goosebumps making their way up his arms. Before he knew it, he was watching the streets of Amsterdam pass by, only jumping when he felt a warm, calloused hand brushing at the top of his thigh before settling, hot and heavy.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days after a clandestine promise on the steps of George's apartment building while the sky started to rain down on them. It was a magical moment, fit for the movie screen. But just like a movie, it ended with a finality that hurt George tremendously for what really only amounted to a few nice hours with a man he didn't really know.

Even thinking of the night made him flush. Max had walked him up the cracked steps of his building with the same hand that seemed to have burned it's imprint into his thigh now cupped his back. He had looked at George, stared into his eyes and said, "I'll see you soon, schatje. Sleep well."

That had been four days ago, and day by day his hope dwindled further and further with every passing hour that he didn't hear from the blond. Especially after the second day when he realized he hadn't given Max his phone number nor, in turn, did he get the other man's. By the third day, he thought he should cut his losses with no small amount of resentment; Max knew where he lived: if he wanted to, he would find a way to contact George. By the last day, George had finally left the Dutchman firmly in the rear view and tried to bring his focus back onto what really matter: not losing his job.

Which to be quite frank, was going to be fucking impossible at this rate. David, his manager from hell, was the worst boss on the planet and made sure George knew that he hated him with every fiber of his being.

It hadn't been so bad at first. The restaurant, if you could even call it that, was a small hole in the wall that used to be coveted by the locals. They served the best herring George had ever tasted. However, there was a change in ownership not soon after he had gotten hired. Apparently Simone's, the then-owner, mother had gotten sick, and she couldn't manage the place and take care of her mother. Soon after the sale, things started to fall apart: slowly, like snowflakes falling, landing softly, one right after the other. But it wasn't long before the gently falling snow became a icy blizzard, and George found himself smack dab in the middle of it.

Which brought him to his predicament now, "Please David, I just don't understand why my hours have been cut?"

The whale of a man just looked at him, and short as he was, George had a perfect view of the bald spot the man desperately tried to cover with a god-awful toupee.

"Don't know what to tell you mate," a permanent sneer was etched on his face, "You're just not as… good as Chelsea. Gotten complaints, y'know."

The man's eyes drifted away from George, and without turning, George already knew he was staring at Chelsea, the new hire's, ass. The man was a disgusting pig and didn't even have the decency to at least try and hide it.

Taking in a deep breath, George tried again. "What were the complaints?"

David only hummed.

"David, look, I really— love this job. If there are ways to improve, I'd love to hear them," he tried. God knows the leech wouldn't give a shit that George needed this job in tandem with his other, two blocks away, in order to eat. Well, not really eat, seeing as the last time he ate was a day and a half ago, but still the principle remained— he needed this job.

Seeming to realize that George wasn't going to go away and sick of his pestering, the beady eyed man sighed, "Look mate, I wouldn't be so keen on bothering me when there's tables you could be serving. Now stop fucking about, table 8 just got seated. I'd hustle if I were you."

Smiling tightly, he nodded, "Thank you, David. 'Preciate it."

The man hummed noncommittally, leering again at Chelsea. George could tell it was making her uncomfortable, but beyond making sure she wasn't left alone with the creep, there was nothing he could do. He needed this job, finding another would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack: hard as hell.

Already turning towards the table, he tried to make his smile warmer, "Hello gentlemen, welcome in. What can I get started for you?"

The duo that sat at the table were, in three words: tall, dark, and handsome. He didn't think anything of them, he saw plenty of people every day. Sure, they didn't seem the usual type to frequent a place as decrepit as this, but tourists were a dime a dozen here.

"How 'bout a name, gorgeous?" The man on the left asked, leaning forward. He was definitely a tourist if his accent was anything to go by. Australian maybe? It didn't really matter. He wouldn't be any different than any of the other people that came in and thought they could sweet talk him.

He didn't let his smile falter, "George. Perhaps you'd like-"

"George eh?" the curly haired man said, shifting back and turning towards his more stoic friend, "Imagine that." He grinned then, all sunshine and honey, but there was a coldness that lingered in his eyes. It made desperation claw at his chest, begging him to run.

Swallowing carefully, "Have you had a chance to look over the menu? We offer a great-"

"You're not from around here, are you? With that accent I'd wager somewhere in England," the Australian carried on as if George hadn't said a thing. His grin sharpened, sweet but malicious, like he knew the effect he was having on George, and he was thrilled by it.

George glanced at the friend but flinched when he found the man staring back at him. He wasn't as handsome as his associate, but his gaze was no less harsh. It was then that George spied the matching pinky rings they both wore, sterling silver if he had to guess, a lion's head etched into the signet. Chills ran down his spine, yet still he kept his smile.

But the man wasn't finished, "England, England, England. What a place, been there a few times on business. Traveled all over, can't say I'm a fan though. Say, you're not from Brackley are you?"

"No. Um," he hesitated,"No I'm not from Brackley. I'm actually from—"

"Oh don't tell me," he said with mock fury before smirking, "that ruins the fun. Don't worry, I'll think of it eventually. Get us each a glass of Cab Sauv—"

"No," his mysterious friend cut him off, " Don't listen to him. I want a tequila soda."

If the Aussie was offended by the interruption, he didn't let it show. Instead, he rolled his eyes good-naturally and nodded, "Fine, a glass of Cab Sauv and a tequila soda. Make sure to use Patrón otherwise my friend here will get upset."

George nodded tightly and quickly excused himself from the table. He was wrong to think that these guests would be like any other table. In fact, he couldn't help but feel like he's never had a guest like this before. Sure there were some that thought they were better than him or treated him like a bug under their shoe, but these men— these men were something else.

They unsettled him in a way he didn't understand. Besides the earlier flirtation and whatever the fuck you'd call what came after, they had been perfectly polite guests. Sure, they stared at him. Often. And sometimes, when he drew near, they'd stop their conversation and only resume once he was well out of earshot.

They dined at a leisurely pace and, based on the ill-tempered looks he was getting from David, he knew he should start subtly hinting that they leave, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because just as much as they were watching him, he was watching them.

The way their dark suits sat perfectly on their shoulders, to the confidence they wore like ink in their skin. They carried themselves like they were untouchable, like they were the most dangerous things in the room. They probably—no they definitely were. George spared one glance towards the table; it was supposed to be quick, a fleeting thing, but then blue eyes met brown, and he was beckoned over.

He didn't hurry, didn't let his steps falter. Instead, he carefully put one foot in front of the other. So, what? What if he was a little frightened of the two men? What if he was sure they knew he was? He still didn't have to show it.

"Yes? How can I help you, gentlemen?" He wasn't quiet, but he was calm, and his voice didn't waver.

The Australian was reclined in what George knew to be a terribly uncomfortable chair, "Check please."

George could've sighed with relief. Whatever game the dark haired man had been playing earlier was over, and they'd be on their way. "Of course."

When he dropped the check and tried to quickly move on, table 3 had made it abundantly clear he was needed, or at least that's what he told himself, not wanting to linger with these men. But before he could make a clean getaway, a hand wrapped itself around his wrist, stopping him. Looking down he swallowed, the man's gaze had turned predatory, his grin sharp like knives. "Thank you for your wonderful service, George."

George nodded, before it became clear the man was looking for a response. "Of course, sir."

He looked at his wrist— the man still hadn't let it go. As if the man was a mind reader, he suddenly let go, "Sorry 'bout that. Just wanted to thank you," he shifted slightly, "Also wanted to tell you I think I figured it out."

"I'm sorry?"

At his words the man only smirked, "King's Lynn."

Two words. Two tiny little words that, in a normal context, a normal moment would have been fine. But now? Now, they had George freezing.

"That's where you're from," it wasn't a question. It was a statement, like the man knew without a doubt he was right. And he was.

Then suddenly, both men rose. They weren't as tall as George, not many were, but he still felt dwarfed beside them. The tall one, the one that had been taunting George all night, stared up at him, brought his hand into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a wallet. He dumped some notes on the table, way more than the meal was worth.

Slapping his shoulder, he moved past him and said, "It was nice meeting you George Russell."

And just like that, they were gone.

Chapter Text

That night, George couldn't help the paranoid feeling that followed him all the way home; the feeling didn't subside when he passed the threshold of his apartment; it didn't fade when he was finally surrounded by the dreary four walls that had become his home.

In fact, the feeling of being watched lingered for days after, yet he didn't see either of the two men again. There were times when he thought he felt a pair of eyes on him, or someone lingering a step of two behind for longer than what could be considered coincidental, but nothing else. That was what disturbed him more, the casualty of how his life seemingly went back to normal after a pair of men, each undoubtedly dangerous, came to his work knowing his name: his full name, he didn't give them his last name— he was certain of it. They knew where he was from, precisely. And George was positive that man with dark curls and big nose knew before he even opened his mouth. He was purposely taunting him, toying with him. Yet George didn't understand what the game was or when it had even started.

The only upside was that the tip the Aussie left was outrageous. So outrageous that for the first time in what felt like years, George could afford three meals a day for a week if he wanted to. He wouldn't, money like that likely wouldn't ever come again. Still, George never wanted to see those men again—whoever they were.

Against his better judgment, he kept it to himself. Not just the mysterious men, but Max as well. It was better that way, easier. Though what wasn't easier was trying to justify himself to his friends who didn't let go that the night of his celebration, George didn't make it home to the early hours of morning, long after he had shuffled his friend into the car. Which led him to where is now.

They met in a nice cafe near the hospital. Crazily enough, Alex had miraculously just finished on-boarding, or whatever it is they call it, and said he wanted to catch up. And George just so happened to have a rare day off. Fucking David still wasn't scheduling him, and his other job was closed on Wednesdays.

Alex took a sip of his tea. "I'm just saying George, you can be honest. I won't be offended if you wanted to keep the party going after we left—mostly. Look, Lily was just worried, and so was I when we realized you only said you were back home hours after you'd seen us off. It doesn't take you that long to walk back to yours, mate."

George could only sigh and fiddled with the sticker on his cup where it was already beginning to peel. Maybe he would have to throw his friend a bone after all.

"Nothing crazy happened."

But his friend only rolled his eyes. "Mate, if it was nothing, you'd just tell me."

George tried a different tactic. "My door just wouldn't open, had to call maintenance. They obviously didn't pick up before I said 'fuck it' and found a way to wedge it open. Like I said, nothing crazy. Just was busy dealing with that, you know how shit my apartment is."

After all, it was true. His apartment was shit.

It didn't look like Alex was buying the explanation, and just when George thought he'd keep pressing, that he'd call George out on the lie, he spoke, "Fine, I'll let it go for now. Your apartment is shit."

George huffed out a laugh. "Thanks mate. How's the hospital?"

His lifelong friend only shrugged and had a small smile on his face, "It's fine. I mean I haven't been in it much. Just did the on-boarding paperwork bit today, but I'm excited." And then he frowned.

"I am sorry, George."

Playing dumb, he asked, "Why are you sorry? You should be excited, it's been your dream for ages."

"It's been our dream for ages, you mean."

George couldn't help the sigh that left him then. He didn't really want to get into this now, but Alex continued, "You should be there with me George. Look, I know your options are limited but— have you at least looked at the pamphlets I gave you?"

He hadn't. The pamphlets his well-meaning, stubborn-ass of a friend gave him lay piled under various bills and other things. He couldn't bear to look at them. They were all programs or night schools where George could take a class or two, a way he could crawl closer and closer to his dream. It wasn't like he hadn't thought of the options. Searched every nook and cranny for some type of way to become a doctor. But all those options required things that George just didn't have: money and time.

So he shrugged, trying to shoot for casual, joking almost. "Not yet. Besides, you know how busy I am. Where would I find the time?"

Alex just nodded, though his eyes seemed sad. "Yeah alright, mate. So, tell me how'd you get into your apartment? Don't tell me you squeezed through the crack underneath the door, you're not that skinny."

And just like that, the conversation was steered back on the track of lightheartedness. They spent the next hour or so catching up, making plans, and it wasn't long before George was walking back to his apartment as the sky opened up, drenching him to the bone. I should really invest in an umbrella or a better raincoat, he thought bitterly.

Safe to say he was in a terrible mood, and it only got worse when he saw what awaited him on his steps. The ghost of a man that haunted his mind for days after their late night meeting, was there just under the awning. His dirty blonde hair was styled, he no longer had any faint stubble. He was dressed in a similar manner to how he had been that night, though this time in a suit of charcoal, no tie, and the collar of his shirt undone. It filled George with fury to see Max. Why, after all this time, had he come now.

For a moment, he thought about turning around. How dare this man just come back out of nowhere, waltzing in like he hadn't given George his word that he'd see him again. That he'd see him again soon.

That was what really pissed him off, the fact that Max had given him his word and didn't honor it. And maybe it wasn't rational, holding the man to his late night promise. He didn't know Max, and yeah the date had been great, wonderful even, but it was just a few hours, a nice meal, and an even nicer car. And technically, Max hadn't even asked, just commanded him to come along, to follow him. George was stupid that night, following a mysterious man, and he couldn't forget the red flags. The red flags that waved at him now, frantically, so fast as to say "Don't do it!" and "Stop before it's too late!"

But George was never good at listening to them. No, he would confront the man regardless of how his heart pounded in his chest.

Max wasn't smoking when he finally reached him, but George could still smell the faint scent of tobacco in the air. And when he got close enough, he caught a whiff of Max's cologne, a surprising mix of coconut and lavender.

Instead of greeting the blonde, George glared at his door as he struggled to get his keys out from his pocket. His jeans were so soaked it was impossible to get anything out of them without some fight. Max said nothing beside him, but George could tell the man was amused. He huffed as he finally felt the ridges of his keys, but he yanked too hard and they ended up flying outward. He clenched his hands as they clattered onto the stone steps right next to spotless dress shoes.

Gritting his teeth, he moved to pick them up, but before he could, a shoe stepped over them. Bent down, he glared up at Max. "Move."

But Max was anything but intimated, George was sure he wasn't putting off the truly furious fuck off vibes he wanted to, resembling a drowned rat more than any raging beast. Max laughed, it wasn't cold or cruel, but instead it was laced with a hint of disbelief. Like he couldn't believe George was speaking to him in that tone. No one probably ever had, George thought.

"No. I've been waiting to speak with you." Even his tone pissed George off.

He shot back up, and it was just then that George realized how much taller he was than the other man. He had at least three inches on him, and he had to make them count, he straightened his back. "You've been waiting? Funny that."

"You're upset. I understand. I just had some… unexpected business come up."

"Business," he couldn't help but breathe out a laugh, "Sure. Seems likely enough."

Still unbothered, Max continued, "Look why don't you let me inside, we can talk it over. We had a good time, no?"

"Absolutely not." He never let anyone come into his apartment. He definitely wouldn't be letting a man like Max in. Someone so clearly used to wealth and opulence. It'd be like taking the Queen to a dump site; over his dead body would George let him in.

"Look at me schatje." George hated that he followed the order and prepared himself to see some form of ridicule, but when their eyes met, there was none. "I understand that I hurt your feelings. Let me make it up to you. I promise I'll make it worth your while."

There it was, that word 'promise'. If anything, invoking that word hardened George's resolve.

"Fuck off."

At his words Max laughed. Actually laughed. He had laughed earlier, but this one was different. It wasn't disbelief, no. It was a laugh entrenched with amusement, like he found George's words not only funny, but hilarious. All it did was fuel George more, but once again, when George opened his mouth, Max was already speaking.

"You truly are a wonder schatje." Then he moved his foot. "This is far from over. I'll see you soon, I promise."

And for the second time in as many days, George was left behind staring at the back of a mysterious man. Shoving his key into the lock, he rushed inside, but not before stealing one last look at Max. Somehow he knew Max was right, this, whatever 'this' was, wasn't over. Far from it.

Chapter Text

After Max left him on the steps of his building George was fuming. So much so that he had taken to pacing in what little space his apartment had afforded him, and he couldn't sleep at all as he replayed the interaction over and over again in his head.

By morning, his rage hadn't softened. In fact, it only blazed stronger when there was a knock at his door, and a young man who introduced himself as Yuki gave him the largest bouquet of blue hydrangeas and white roses George had ever seen. The bouquet was gorgeous, because of-fucking-course it was, and it was also the biggest waste of money, even if the flowers just so happened to be his favorite.

When he tried to question the young man, Yuki only smiled and said simply, "The boss wanted to let you know that he was thinking of you."

And before George could ask anything else, Yuki left down the stairwell as quickly as he had come, not turning around even when George called after him. Reluctantly, George brought the flowers inside, and after several minutes of trying to rearrange the shit on his window sill, decided the perfect spot would be his coffee table which had the flowers bathing in a warm ray of sunshine.

By the time he got to work, another serving job with a more palatable manager, he'd calmed down a little. Thinking over and over again about the flowers; they were perfect, and in a way, they reminded George of home. His mother always considered herself a botanist of some sort, planting this and that. Most of the time it was vegetables, but his mother would always have at least one row of hydrangeas outside their house. They weren't always blue, usually they were purple, his mother's favorite color, but every once in a while she would switch it up, citing the need for 'something new.' He didn't miss England often, and he missed his mother less and less each day, but when he did get a bout of homesickness, when he craved her gentle touch, he always found his way to some hydrangeas.

However, the thought of flowers was quickly forgotten as the dinner rush came, and George bounced into a rhythm. Much to his surprise he was having the best night serving he'd ever had. None of his tables were difficult, none of them needed modifications or substitutions, and every table he served left a much appreciated tip. He didn't know if there was something in the air or if there was a full moon, but with only an hour left in his shift he was unrepentantly pleased with how today worked out.

His good humor didn't last though, as he spotted who sat at his last table. It was the Aussie from before. A healthy dose of fear hit him then, as well as unbridled rage: what was it with these men that just wouldn't leave him alone? Still, he hadn't wavered the other day and sure as fuck wouldn't waver now.

Stalking over, he was prepared to give this man with his ridiculously large nose the lecture of his life, but just as he opened his mouth the Australian beat him to it, "My my you are a busy bee, aren't you? George Russell."

He smirked as he said it too, the smug bastard.

"Quit that."

The man just shot him a dazzling smile. "Not quite sure I know what you mean George Russell."

George ground his teeth. "Yes, you do. Now I don't know what your problem is, and I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I want no part in it. So please, leave me alone."

And as if there was a flashback to that night, a hand wrapped around his wrist, this time in a punishing grip. "Sit down, George Russell."

"I'm working." he tried to shake him off.

The man only tsked and dragged George down until he was sitting across from him. "Don't worry, I already spoke to your boss. Nice lady. She's going to let us have our little chat, no penalty to you. I made sure of it."

He smirked again and stared down at him for a few moments, as if to make sure George wouldn't bolt the moment he released his wrist, then he let go.

"What, no questions?"

George only stared.

The Aussie slouched back before running a hand through his dark curls. "Alright, fair enough. Don't worry it's nothing bad, scout's honor and all that," he reached a hand into his jacket and George couldn't help but tense, but the Australian only pulled out a white envelope.

"I come bearing gifts. Or rather, an invitation."

George said nothing. What on Earth could he say to that.

"Now don't be so excited mate, you're going to start blowing up the room with that energy," he laughed to himself.

"What the fuck?"

The Australian only shrugged and gestured to the envelope. "Open it, I can tell you're dying in anticipation."

He hesitated for a moment, but only just, before he tentatively picked up the envelope. The first thing he noticed was that it was heavy in his hand, and it was sealed with a stamp. Prying it open, he couldn't fucking believe it.

"That fucking asshole. Who does he think he is?" He couldn't help but let out his frustration.

The man across from him only grinned larger before lighting up a cigarette. "You can't smoke in here," George felt it was important to point out.

Scoffing, "I can smoke where I want, mate."

"Listen, why are you giving this to me?"

"It's the boss's orders," he said so simply, so honestly. Like it was the obvious answer and that he was amazed George even had to ask.

George bit his lip, "The 'boss'?"

The Australian— he really needed to ask him his name — tilted his head, before taking a long pull. He held it for several moments before breathing it out. "Look George, I know you're a bright one. Surely, I don't have to spell it out for you."

When George made no move to speak, he sighed, before putting out his cig. "Look mate, Max is," he paused, "Max is a very powerful man. And for some reason, he's taken a liking to you. Accept the invitation. Or don't."

He thought back to the night he first met Max.

"Wasn't aware it was an invitation, Mr. Verstappen."

At his words the man grinned, "That's because it wasn't."

"It's not really an invitation," he thumbed at the thick paper.

The man smiled again, this time more warmly. "I knew you were bright," he said before he stood, reaching into his jacket again, and this time pulling out his wallet.

George stayed focused on the 'invitation', "You don't have to do that."

The man paused, glancing down, a couple hundred notes in his hand.

"You don't have to fucking pay me. Who even are you, the errand boy?" He couldn't help the anger that swelled up in him again.

"I pay you because I like you, George Russell. Don't be fucking rude. We both know you need the money." He leaned down then, crowding into George's space, until George could feel the heat of his breath fanning his skin. His smile from earlier was nowhere in sight.

George could only swallow, and he held his breath as the Aussie came closer than before. "If the boss wasn't so taken with you, I'd have your tongue for that. Never. Call me an 'errand' boy again. As for my name, you can just call me Mr. Ricciardo for now."

And just as soon as he stepped into George's space, he was gone, flinging the notes on the table before storming away.

As soon as the man was gone, George heaved, trying with all his might to get some form of air into him. Just trying to breathe while his heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest.

He scanned the paper again.

"Schatje,

Tomorrow evening I'm taking you to dinner. Be ready at 6:30. "

He swallowed; this wasn't an invitation, and even if it were, he could not refuse it, not really. But he thought back to the flowers that sat in a pretty vase in the middle of his apartment, about the hydrangeas, about his mother. He thought about how comfortable he felt in the blond's presence, how they spoke for hours on end, how Max had listened. And he found that he didn't really want to refuse this 'invitation'. Not really.