Max Verstappen and George Russell

Night. The taxi stopped in front of my house. I pulled Max out of the car—he was barely standing, hot, drunk, sick. I carried him on my back while he muttered something about the "Demerstraat." " Idiot, " I whispered, pulling him into the elevator. He slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. "Just a moment, Max. Just a little longer. " In the apartment, I sat him down on the sofa. He tried to immediately fall onto his side, but I grabbed his shoulders. "Take off your shoes first. I'm serious. You won't fall asleep in them. " He mumbled something, but took the shoes off—I helped, pulling them off his feet. Max sat and looked at me with a bleary gaze. "You shouldn't have, " he said hoarsely. "I'll do it myself..."
—You would have fallen down in the middle of the street yourself, Verstappen. And don't start. I put my palm to his forehead—it was burning. Damn. —Temperature. Sit here, I'll be right back. I returned with tea and pills. Max obediently drank everything, without even snapping—that was strange. Then I wet a towel with cold water and put it to his forehead. He hissed. —Quiet. It helps. Mom did that. He chuckled—weakly, but still. —Your mother, judging by everything, is a saintly woman.
“That’s just how she is. Shut up and lie down. ” He fell asleep within five minutes. I stood next to him, watching him breathe evenly, heavily. I covered him with a blanket. And only then did I allow myself to exhale. I looked at him—the one who, just six months ago, looked at me like an enemy. Who wrote me notes, who argued until he was hoarse, who stood under the shaky wall and refused to leave. Who now lies on my couch, trusting me with his illness. “Oh, God, Max,” I whispered. He didn’t answer. And maybe that was for the best.