Chapter Text
George would describe his mind when inside his race helmet similarly to how he thinks a horse would feel with its blinders on. No peripheral vision. No unnecessary thinking. Just pure concentration. Locked in. Previously, he believed this was just the nature of the sport, and that every driver felt this way, but had come to realise the privilege of utter focus was all his. He was grateful for this quality, as an over-thinker. He wasn’t an over-thinker in the way you would think, like how some people dissect every social interaction with the dedication of a civil engineer triple, double checking that their maths won’t make a building’s structural supports collapse and kill a bunch of office workers, but in the way he could get lost in his head for hours at a time.
Like that. Right there. Where did the office workers come from?
With that, George decided to shut off his brain and enjoy the further peace that came with having his helmet on, before he had to soon take it off. He gently navigated his Mercedes into the pits, hands gripping the wheel slightly tighter than normal. Just enough to make his joints feel tight, but not enough to make his knuckles white. Engineers swarmed the car as soon as it came to a stop, impatient to roll it into the garage and fuss over tiny mechanical parts George could only dream of understanding. He passed the steering wheel into a random, blue-gloved hand, and braced his hands either side of the cockpit, using the halo to propel himself out of the car. Almost as soon as his race boots hit the ground, the car had been wheeled away, and George’s hands fell to his sides with exhaustion.
P12. In his Mercedes Rocketship. In the said-to-be World Drivers’ Championship winning car, he had come P12.
George yanked off his helmet with a little more force than necessary, bracing it under his right bicep, and pulled out his wired earphones. All of a sudden, the noise of the pit lane rushed in; the spike in volume almost dizzying. Fans cheered, race engineers spoke into comms, team principals barked orders. The loudest ringing in the pit lane, however, was his own perfectionist mind, repeating: ‘P12, P12, P12.’ It didn’t acknowledge the engine issues, or the tyre degradation, or the strategic mistakes of the team, because this was his P12. His fault.
His fault, as he queued to be weighed.
P12, as shifted his helmet to underneath his left arm.
His fault, as he picked up his electrolyte drink.
P12, as he made his way back to his driver’s room with large strides, sliding through the crowd, mind still running a mile a minute repeating the same words over and over until something else broke through the stream-
‘Failure.’
It was enough for him to hesitate before taking his next step.
It wasn’t said in a way George was familiar with, or that he had previously encountered. It wasn’t: ‘I failed,’ or ’this was a failure,’ or ‘the car failed,’ it was spoken like a truth. Like a truth from the gut. Like a belief so powerful it stole his breath. This wasn’t a temporary thought, it was a deep-rooted accusation. ‘YOU are a failure.’ Like it was an undisputable fact that could not be repaired. Inherently pessimistic in the word’s lack of room for growth.
George had never thought that kind of way before; it felt as if someone else had spoken to him from inside his head. As if someone had broached his only truly private space and poisoned it with negativity.
George slumped onto his drivers’ room sofa and dropped his helmet to the floor, blue eyes unfocused on the blank wall ahead as he analysed the word. Picking apart every letter as if it would tell him where it came from, as if it would have a return label and details on how to send it back.
He furrowed his brow and shook his head. Not now. He had to do media and get back to the hotel and sleep and fly to Japan tomorrow. He didn’t have time for silly dissections of his thoughts.
Later that night, George’s hotel room key beeped as he opened his door, breaching a hush that had long since settled over Shanghai. He winced at his own breaking of the distastefully carpeted hotel corridor’s still silence, then slowly pushed open the wooden door, which thankfully didn’t creak.
Everything had gone to plan. Everything was normal. And if George lined up his skincare products a little more meticulously than usual, and folded all his clothes while packing into too-perfect little squares, and organised the (frankly excessive) amount of decorative pillows he had found on the bed upon arrival last week by colour and size, it wasn’t to regain some sense of lost adequacy or to calm his spinning mind. It was just a coincidence, really. Wasn’t even worth a second looking at or unpacking.
George took an extra half an hour than usual to fall asleep.
— — —
With the next morning didn’t come the relief George was expecting. Light filtered through the beige hotel blinds as he cracked his eyes open, slowly taking in the ceiling cracks as they un-blurred.
He still felt heavy.
Generally after a tough race he would feel bad, for sure, but it tended to dissipate by the morning, the disappointment left behind in favour of progression and working towards the next race. But this time he had a weariness set into his bones he wasn’t used to as a morning person. It wasn’t just tiredness, it was his body physically resisting getting up, seemingly pulling him into the mattress.
He should ignore it. It’s fine. He’s just tired, and the race was worse than usual yesterday. It wasn't a big deal.
He folded aside the duvet still with the same precision as every morning, and dragged his feet sluggishly to the en-suite. George squinted at the harsh bathroom light as he met his own eyes in the mirror, and ignored that he could visibly see the effects of his restless night. After showering, he picked up his doctor-approved specific toothpaste, squeezing one and a half centimetre’s worth onto his equally carefully chosen electric toothbrush, then ran it under the sink. But only after recapping the tube, and lining the objects on the bathroom counter in the exact configuration he had left them last night. George was about as meticulous as one could get brushing his teeth, counting exactly the same rhythmic brushes for each tooth before moving onto the next: side, bottom, inside, next. As he completed his brushing with the exact amount of force required to clean but not damage his enamel, George stared into his own eyes in the mirror. He looked… detached. It was like he was looking but not really, like his brain was far away, except he wasn’t thinking about anything that would constitute daydreaming. He was just... absent-ish. It did register he looked slightly less put together than usual. A minuscule amount that probably no one would notice, but George had noticed and it was getting on his nerves a little. He was known for perfection and restraint and being the picture perfect image of PR training, and George valued this highly. His image was important to him.
He finished his three minutes of brushing (exactly) and pushed the thought aside, going about his morning skin-and-hair care routines with more force than usual, attempting to will his put-togetherness to return with anger. Once satisfied with the result and confident even Alex wouldn’t notice the difference in his appearance, George left the bathroom and approached the travel clothing he had lain out the night before.
A comfortable navy Polo Ralph-Lauren quarter zip, with the horse logo’s shiny thread catching the soft filtered sunlight as it sat on the left breast. It was tightly woven enough that it looked presentable, but still soft enough he wouldn’t be uncomfortable on the plane or in the airport, and thin enough to account for any weather. He’d only be slightly warm if it was hot in Japan (which it shouldn’t be- he checked multiple times) and wouldn’t be cold should the temperature be lower than expected. Beside the top were some beige trousers: the specific material he knew wouldn’t crease easily, but also appeared chino-like and ironed. After getting dressed with a military precision it didn’t require, George secured his Schaffhausen watch onto his left wrist (where it should be worn), as he was always conscious of branding and sponsors and clauses- all those formal contracts that just meant: ‘If you wear our competitors’ products, we will be sad and take it personally and possibly have a word with your CEO,’ which was equal parts incredibly childish and just the way it was.
Making his way back to the bathroom, George collected the final items to pack, including toiletries and chargers and a few other bits and bobs, and fit them all perfectly into their designated places in his suitcase that he always put them in. He zipped his suitcase, positioned it by the door, parallel to the wall, did a final sweep of his room to make sure he hadn’t left anything (even though it was almost impossible he had forgotten even a single item), and slipped on his trainers. As much as he wanted to always appear smart, George couldn’t compromise on comfortable footwear. There was no way he was wearing dress shoes in an airport- it was unnecessary with all the blisters he would acquire. The practicality outweighed the fashionable benefits.
He made his way down to breakfast, trying on his smile in the lift. Not too PR (his friends would notice immediately) but also not too large and jovial (because they’d see right through that, too).
George sauntered into the hotel’s breakfast restaurant with what he hoped was a believable level of nonchalance. He chose a round table with exactly enough seats for who he knew would join him, pulling out the chair for himself that was the most in the corner with his back to the wall. It wasn’t meant to be in the traumatised, emotionally stunted anime protagonist spy way where they needed to see the whole room- it was more that he just… didn’t like it when people walked behind him. Didn’t want to give them room to perceive him or judge his posture or catch him off guard. It was an understandable, normal enough thing. He thought. He hoped.
George was, of course, 15 minutes early to the agreed breakfast-meet-up time, because he was always the first to arrive for everything, and sat and waited. Once other hotel guests began to shuffle tiredly into the room, George shifted from waiting and staring at the wall to waiting and staring at the Home Screen of his phone. He knew when he got that far away look in his eyes it was a bit scary, especially to mothers.
The first to arrive of the drivers were Alex, Oscar, and Max- just as he had expected, and Alex took the seat next to him while Max and Oscar chatted about something downforce related, mindlessly pulling out the seats directly across the table. As Alex sat down, he looked right at George. ‘Right at,’ because he didn’t just pass over looking at him, vaguely taking in details as one did when taking in a room, he focused on George, taking in micro-expressions and the details of his face and the slight emptiness of his blue eyes.
“Hi.”
It didn’t mean anything other than that. There were no undertones. Alex hadn’t noticed anything yet, but George socially floundered a little (unexpectedly) looking for the right words to make sure Alex didn’t realise he wasn’t feeling good. But he was never good at lying to Alex.
“Morning.”
The hesitation had been enough. Alex’s body turned slightly more towards George, his brows furrowing a little, and cocked his head to the side.
“You okay?”
George did his best to push the emptiness behind his eyes, not wanting Alex to pick up on more than he already had, and forced his facial muscles to relax.
“Yeah, just still dreaming, I think. You? Sleep well?”
It worked. Alex turned away again, slouching slightly into his chair. Good job, George.
“Oh yeah I get that. Sometimes I wake up and I’ve just had a dream about my normal life, and it was so mundane that I don’t even know what’s going on for like five minutes-“
George’s perfect posture softened minutely as he listened to Alex talk. The way his voice was a little raspy, thick with sleep and easy on George’s sensitive ears. The way he could be talking about absolutely anything and George could listen for hours. George’s mouth quirked into a half-smile as he thought about how grateful he was for his best friend.
“- anyway, I’m gonna get some food from the buffet. Come on.”
Buffet. Right. George hated buffets with a passion- he didn’t want the option to choose so early in the morning, and he wasn’t good at cooking, so if it was fancy things how was he meant to know what went together? He just wanted a menu and someone to give him something tasty that definitely worked and that he didn’t have to think about too hard. Unfortunately, every single hotel breakfast he’d ever had always was a buffet breakfast. Always. And with the number of hotels he went to a year, George had had to accept this reality.
He split from Alex, grabbing a plate and assessing the available options. Surprisingly, he wasn’t that hungry, despite having last eaten at the team dinner the night before. His appetite was nowhere to be seen, and the thought of a slice of toast had him queasy. Right. Nothing heavy then. He scanned the seemingly endless displays of food until he landed on a spread of eggs and tomatoes mixed with mushrooms. He made his way over. Not scrambled eggs- those had too much of a possibility to be gooey with that weird texture when there’s evidently too much milk. Boiled. He’d go for hard boiled. That felt safe. No runny yolk that would make him feel sicker, and no mess on the plate apart from shell. He took two hard boiled eggs, and a healthy portion of the tomato-mushroom mix that genuinely looked delicious. On his way back to the table, he picked up a cappuccino, some cutlery, and a pot of Greek yogurt.
He sat back down next to Alex, who had smashed avocado on toast with smoked salmon topped off with a fried egg. It made his stomach rumble. It looked amazing.
At this point, the latecomers had arrived. Kimi sat to George’s right, and Ollie next to him, with Lando taking up the seat between Oscar and Alex. Charles and Pierre were speaking in rapid French, seated between Max and Ollie. The nine drivers settled into casual morning chatter, the hum gently filling the silence that had preceded their arrival. Kimi had a plate full of beans on toast, turkey rashers and hash browns, and was wolfing down the lot so fast Ollie choked on his orange juice from laughter. Kimi always took advantage of the morning after a race, where he had lost enough weight to eat whatever he wanted before he had to get back to the F1 driver diet. His commitment to eating as much as possible was admirable, and George found himself smiling along a little with Ollie. George knew he couldn’t do what Kimi did, though. Kimi was young and had a good metabolism and was still growing- he could afford to eat more- but George was long past that stage, and knew any extra calories would convert straight into fat.
Kimi paused eating for a moment to take a gulp of his glass of milk, and caught sight of George’s measly breakfast.
“Wow, George,” he exclaimed with an Italian drawl, his voice just slightly above the noise level an adult morning required, “you are amazing. I can not ever stick to my diet like you.”
And then Kimi went right back to eating and chatting with Ollie about some online monkey George knew nothing about as if Kimi’s words hadn’t had more of an impact on George than they should have. As if George hadn’t frozen, his left arm propped on the table, knife still halfway through cutting into a tomato. Was this amazing? He just wasn’t hungry, so had taken less heavy things. Is this what he should be doing to be a good driver? Had he been eating too much all this time, and was that why he hadn’t been in World Driver’s Champion contention until now?
Alex brought George back to reality, gently touching his left forearm with his fingertips. The contact of skin on skin due to George’s quarter zip sleeve rolled up to just before his elbow sent goosebumps down his arm. The grounding sensation made him relax the tense fingers gripping his knife in his left hand, and George stopped thinking.
“Is that all you’re having?”
It could have sounded accusatory if said by anyone else, but the softness to Alex’s voice calmed George. He felt safe, but he also knew he wouldn’t get away with lying to Alex. Alex was asking more than the question he had voiced, and they were both privy to this. There had to be an element of truth.
“…I’m not that hungry. Been feeling a bit down ‘cause of the race result yesterday.”
Alex nodded knowingly. He understood that. Any driver would. They were bred from youth to value winning like a lifeline, the competitiveness instilled into their bones so deeply that losing could make them question the driving skills they had spent more than two decades honing.
Alex leant back in his chair again, knowing exactly when and how to give George physical and emotional space. What did he do in a past life to deserve this man as a best friend?
“Just don’t let it eat you, you know? It was the car anyway, and P12 is not the worst that could have happened. You’re a brilliant driver, George.”
Oh, Alex. Sweet Alex who, even driving perfectly in his Williams, had still placed lower than George with all his engine failure and tyre issues and strategy mess-ups. Who was still comforting George despite placing in P15.
“Thanks. It means a lot.”
George wasn’t lying. Alex gave George a reassuring nod, and then turned back to his food, each bite looking like it tasted heavenly.
After a while of chewing in silence and listening to the various conversations around the table, Alex quietly placed a triangular slice of his avocado, salmon, and egg on toast onto George’s plate. He hadn’t missed George’s longing looks at the dish. Who was he kidding? Alex never missed anything when it came to George. He read him like the simplest children’s book he’d ever seen; like he had a manual of George’s feelings and expressions and behaviours completely committed to memory: a George encyclopedia.
“Alex-“
“Do you want to watch a film on the plane?”
“You really didn’t-“
“What about Casino Royale?”
George wasn’t winning this.
He did love James Bond.
Especially that film.
“Yeah. I love that film. You flying private?”
George didn’t know why he asked. Alex and George always flew together, and almost never flew private. In Melbourne they had booked seats for this exact flight together to make sure they were next to each other.
Alex looked satisfied. He had clearly won the argument before it had even started. He didn’t answer the private jet question, knowing it was rhetorical and just to change the subject.
George ate the bite of Alex’s food begrudgingly.
It was delicious.
Annoying.