Work Text:
perfunctory and curt is how he describes the congratulations from toto wolff himself. george is bleeding unceremoniously from his heart, shards of disappointment lodged with his soul caked by the skin of his own body.
hot and heavy, dip yourself into shame.
george finds this short congratulations a means of rejection.
–
rejection is lodging yourself into shame, sticky with the sheen of crystalline.
the next time it happens is under the same circumstance, an accompaniment to this discordant symphony. a hand is clasped onto lewis’ shoulder, toto’s heavy brown eyes along with the older brit’s.
“deeply gutted,” lewis is warm with him, voice gently treading on the territory of a wounded animal.
toto’s eyes rake over his bones, undressing his skin shamelessly. george has never felt more exposed. the austrian offers words with something that george wouldn’t place as kindness.
“you tried your best, george,” there is no apology for the car’s mechanical errors. “next time, your race will be better.”
yes, george’s gaze meets the floor, heat fiery and coiled deep within his stomach. rage, distant memory, promises made for no particular reason. next year, his home race will end up better.
george swallows.
“great race, lewis,” his voice is disconnected, and cradles the words with untrained arms when he responds to lewis, acknowledging toto’s words with a handmaid’s subservient gaze. “you deserve it.”
it feels scripted sometimes, the way lewis won perfectly with his last year in the mercedes team that was their home. lewis’ thousand-watt grin is locked away in his eyes once again, something george can’t help but notice almost constantly.
a british driver, winning the british grand prix, for the team based in brackley. george couldn’t help but wish it was him instead, silverstone brimming under his fingertips as he recounted something hydraulic.
swallow, again.
–
in the hotel, he’s pressed flush against toto’s chest, nose nudging along the man’s collarbone as he feels a hand grounding him. toto’s perfunctory congratulations rings in his ears, even as the man’s dull fingernails rake against the nape of his neck.
george lets his eyes close shut, something churning in his stomach – something like a yearn – when he thinks about the congratulations lewis had received from toto fucking wolff.
unceremoniously, the same blood drips down – heart wrenched in shame and on his sleeve – when he smiles to himself, knowing that toto is with him. knowing that his team principal is with him and not anyone else.
“what are you smiling about, george?”
and it’s toto’s rash voice again. george’s hands snake their way into toto’s hair, dipping down into his neck. his smile is pressed against toto’s neck, it makes sense, that toto knows. the skin touching is scorching, heat seeping into his fingers and any place of contact whenever he brushes up against the man.
some sort of mental jumping jack or prostration crosses his mind instead of this innate ability he had of coming up with something snarky in response so he just shrugs in response, lifting his head out of the crevice between toto’s neck and shoulder.
he turns onto his back from his side, rolling with a huff, sun dancing along the edge of his cheek and penetrating his gaze – yearning blue and a crystalline property when hit by the sun.
george can’t see and he’d be damned if he was stumbling about like an injured deer.
he’s on a bed, very couth of him, very organized of toto. oh, did he mention – it was toto’s bed.
the brit may be further from toto, but he cranes his neck over, gaze meeting the stiff eyes, hanging like lead, directed towards him – which happened to be toto’s eyes – and he musters up some sort of a response.
“just thinking.”
“about what?” and it is toto’s turn to break down something, walls crumbling down from this exterior that seeped below george’s skin.
breaths are hot and heavy, the sun is burning his cheek – or maybe that’s shame – toto’s gaze still sneaking into his peripheral when he decided to look ahead.
“not much.”
if it was anything like austria, toto would map the straights of his body, each curve acquainted with a turn, fingers brushing against the track of his body. george splays his palm out on the wrinkled sheets of toto’s hotel room bed, another hand snaking up to toto’s chest – ruching up the man’s button-down shirt.
his gaze doesn’t ask for much. it’s hot, heavy like the breath he takes, alluding to something more.
“what do you,” toto’s voice is that of a rasp, something that is all too familiar for george, fuzzy in his ears when he tries to conjure something that makes sense. “what is it that you want, george?”
a finger meets the skin of toto’s chest, warm. wisps of fire curl in his gut when toto doesn’t stop his arm by holding his wrist stiff like a dagger. his finger sways, additional ones given, before they rake along toto’s abdomen – strung tight – in a way that he’s never seen toto.
if it was anything like austria, george thinks again, thick arousal would be more evident.
but when he meets toto’s eyes again with a cautionary gaze, he realizes it’s – that it might just be – like before.
“i just,” george thinks it’s hoarse when he speaks. he swallows, “i want – wanted you.”
george feels naked again, undressed by toto’s eyes.
“is that so.”
it is not a question as it is a statement towards george. toto hums, a deep rumble george tries to find, hands prying george’s off. so he is disappointed.
okay.
–
rejection not only finds him before the summer break, aching and lingering as it tugs at his heart – that already managed to bleed out like a ruptured vessel – but also after, in the form of this rookie upstart that managed to captivate toto.
he huffs a short breath, eyes on the monitors when he watches the practice in monza – the one he should be in.
his heart does a small twist when – of course, they don’t tell him before – toto announces that antonelli is their future. later, toto rephrases it, makes sure that george is included in this statement, too.
george doesn’t expect much. to be fair, he expected very little with how everything was playing out now.
the car is crashed, antonelli is signed, and antonelli is apparently their future, toto’s newest golden boy.
he has played second fiddle to lewis for only so long. he won f2, only to reach a measly seat in a williams. and now, he bleeds out, blood drying and caked on his skin, soul stripped and exposed when toto’s gaze lingers for too long.
george doesn’t matter. he never has. he could only be golden for so long.
nothing gold can stay. not even the stir of pride in his stomach when he’s invited to toto’s hotel later for a glass of champagne, the brit on his damn heels like a starved puppy.
the same heart wrenches subsequently.
–
when george drinks at the party, something fruity fizzing on his tongue, he likes to transport himself into brazil of 2022. he closes his eyes shut, still reminiscent on his grip on the phone. on the buzz of the call, on the look on toto’s face.
there’s a warm hand – not toto’s – on his shoulder, and he’s spun around. his drink sloshes, sticky and sheening on his fingertips that grip the glass tighter, and his strangely – watery, actually – blue gaze meets alex’s.
“alex,” george murmurs, voice a desperate yet wispy keen – not quite there, but obviously present.
“p5 and p9, isn’t that something to celebrate?”
“you are teasing me,” george hides the grin, unease festering in his stomach.
disappointment, disappointment.
he clicks his tongue, the glint in alex’s eye spiraling him into this strange, sticky feeling of shame.
hot and something he can drown in.
george loses balance, knees shaking. of course, they are shaking.
alex knows him like the back of his hand. alex smiles, and george is there at his beck and call. he did not think that their friendship would stain like this, fondness ebbing away into something he would like to call love.
george loves like he wants. unceremoniously.
–
something is buried right under his skin, something that made him different. fingers down his throat make a gurgle sound and he can’t quite decide if he likes this yet.
maybe this is what will keep toto around.
a hand cups along his jaw.
he clenches his jaw, bone pressed against the man’s heavy palm.
warmth seeps through but he still feels cold. he didn’t quite get it right, but he’s almost there. maybe better luck next time. unceremoniously, his heart finds a way onto his sleeve again. raw and bloody, gutted and strung.
it’s the echo of a future that george doesn’t want to reply to.
italian sun manages to burn him once more and he thinks that maybe he should try to cover up again.
–
anodyne is inoffensive like antonelli is to media.
he has the same youthful glint in his eyes – similar to lewis’, but so, so different – and it is a little impossible to hate him. a little. george finds a way when he sees toto’s hand around the boy’s waist.
the same thing edges at him, a gnawing – rip of his muscle and skin – churn of his stomach and a flinch. george, instead of finding himself doused in a memory of brazil and toto’s face, finds himself with the memory of just a few days ago.
toto’s hand – heavy, because george knows how it feels – clasping antonelli’s own. a whisper in his ear. scratch that george desperately wants to itch, wants to pick at the scab of his body trying to heal.
there is another thousand-watt grin locked away, this time in antonelli’s eyes, when he speaks on the behalf of himself and on how he could never replace hamilton or anything like that.
at least the kid was semi-competent.
george feels betrayal lodge in his back. mercedes team principal, couth, “antonelli is mercedes’ future, our future,” and george stands right next to them.
that flashes before him, a scene playing like a broken record.
george swallows.
this time, ceremoniously, his heart attempts to patch up again.
–