Chapter Text
"Alright guys, just a couple more shots and we'll be all done for today." The photographer said, bending down to look into the lens of her camera. George took a deep breath and positioned himself back into his stance.
"Smile, pretty boy. It won't take much longer." Alain smirked, shuffling his feet back onto his designated spot.
They had been doing media all day long, and George was over it. All he wanted was to get on track in Bahrain and prove he belonged in one of F1's most prestigious teams. The media had been relentlessly comparing him with the other two rookies for the upcoming season, trying to decide who would reign supreme over the rest.
"I tuoi capelli sono così belli, George. Il tuo parrucchiere potrebbe tagliare anche i miei?" Alessandro quipped from behind the cameras, running a hand over his balding head.
"You have no hair to style, scoccio." George smiled back. His Italian was certainly improving from the time spent in Maranello over the winter. His Italian F4 days had helped as well. His father had dreamed since George was little that he'd be a Ferrari driver, and now here he was, quipping back and forth with the team principal.
"For our final shots I just want you two standing at an angle looking at us while holding your helmets down at your sides." The photographer said. George transitioned his helmet to his other hand and stood tall, putting his serious face back on. The camera flashed multiple times, adding on to the thousand other pictures they had taken today.
George held still for a few seconds after the last flash, waiting for the photographer to lower her camera before he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. His shoulders dropped almost instantly.
"Perfetto," she said, smiling as she flipped through the shots on her screen. "Really, really good work today."
Alain stretched his arms above his head, groaning. "If anyone asks, I'm telling them Ferrari used us as mannequins for eight hours straight."
"You pose well for a mannequin," Alessandro replied dryly, hands clasped behind his back as he approached. "A very... stiff one."
Alain shot him a look. George stifled a laugh, rubbing his thumb along the ridge of his helmet.
Technicians began wheeling away light stands, the studio lights dimming one by one. Through the open door, George could see a sliver of the corridor- red walls, polished floors, the unmistakable hum of activity deeper in the factory. Even after weeks here, Maranello still felt unreal. Sacred, almost.
"Alright, we're officially finished," the photographer called out, unplugging the last cable. "You boys are free."
"Grazie a Dio," Alain muttered.
George rolled his neck, feeling the stiffness set in now that adrenaline had stopped forcing him upright. "If I have to see another camera today, I may have a breakdown."
"Ah, but tomorrow you will see many," Alessandro said, patting his shoulder as he walked past. "Ferrari is a hungry beast. It likes attention."
George managed a wry smile. "I'm starting to notice."
Alessandro paused, glancing back at him with something almost fond in his expression. "You're handling it well. Better than most rookies we've had through this building." He nodded toward the hallway. "Go get changed. Early morning tomorrow for the shakedown. Then, it'll be time to go to Bahrain before you know it."
George nodded, clutching his helmet a little tighter. Cars on track, finally something real, something that felt like his purpose, not posing. He could practically feel the wheel in his hands already.
As he and Alain stepped out of the studio, Alain bumped him lightly with his shoulder. "Hey. Media stuff is all done. Soon you'll get to show them what you can actually do."
George exhaled, the weight on his chest easing just enough to breathe properly again. "Can't wait."
And as they headed down the red hallway toward the main building, the nerves buzzing under his skin finally shifted into something else, anticipation. George closed the door to his room and stripped off the dark red race suit before changing into a pair of black sweats and a white sweatshirt. He took a moment to ground himself, admiring the small room he got to call his own at the factory before eventually stepping out.
"You need a ride home, G?" Alain asked after George emerged, his backpack now slung over his shoulder.
"Yes, please. If you don't mind." George smiled dimly, feeling exhausted from the relentless schedule he'd been put through.
Alain waved a hand dismissively as they headed toward the parking lot. "Of course I don't mind. I'd be offended if you said no."
The late afternoon air was cooler outside, the sun dipping low over the hills that wrapped around Maranello like a familiar embrace. Alain unlocked his car and tossed his bag into the back before sliding into the driver's seat. George settled in beside him, backpack carefully wedged at his feet.
They pulled out onto the narrow road leading away from the factory, the iconic red buildings shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a few minutes, Alain let the silence sit, engine humming steadily beneath them.
"So," he said at last, eyes still on the road. "You nervous?"
George's fingers tightened briefly around the strap of his backpack. He considered brushing it off, giving the kind of answer everyone expected. Instead, he sighed. "Yeah. I am. I mean- Ferrari. It's not exactly a quiet place to be a rookie."
Alain smiled, just slightly. "Good. If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried." He glanced over at George. "Nerves mean you care. The trick is not letting them drive the car for you."
George let out a small breath of a laugh. "Easier said than done."
"Always is," Alain agreed. "Listen, people are going to talk. They'll compare you to every other rookie, every past Ferrari driver, every fantasy they've built in their heads. None of that matters once you're in the cockpit. What matters is what you feel through the wheel, what the car tells you, and trusting yourself enough to listen."
George nodded, eyes fixed out the window as the crowded townhouses of Maranello blurred past. "And if I mess up?"
"You will," Alain said simply. "We all do. The difference is what you do after. Learn fast, don't carry it longer than one lap, and don't try to be a hero just because of the badge on your chest." He paused. "Ferrari doesn't need a hero. It needs a driver who finishes races and builds something."
The words settled deep, steadying something in George's chest.
They turned down a quieter road, stone walls and cypress trees lining the way. The house appeared just ahead, warm-toned, familiar, tucked into the hillside like it had been waiting for him. His father had bought it years ago, back when Italian F4 had felt like the biggest step of his life. George had bought an apartment in Monaco like the rest of the drivers always do, but this felt more comfortable to him.
Alain slowed the car and pulled up in front.
George reached for the door, then hesitated. "Thanks. For the ride. And... for that."
Alain nodded once. "Get some rest. Tomorrow it starts for real."
George stepped out, watching the car disappear back down the road before turning toward the house. The nerves were still there, but now, they felt manageable. Almost welcome.
George barely made it two steps into the house before the exhaustion caught up with him. He kicked his shoes off by the door, dropped his backpack against the wall, and collapsed face-up onto the couch with a long groan. The ceiling felt too bright, his limbs heavy, his mind still buzzing with red cars and cameras and expectations. He shut his eyes, telling himself he'd rest for just a minute.
A soft knock echoed through the house.
George groaned again, this time louder, dragging an arm over his face. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. He stayed still for a beat, hoping, irrationally, it might go away.
The knock came again. Gentle. Insistent.
"Alright, alright," he sighed, pushing himself up and padding toward the door.
When he pulled it open, his breath caught.
"Ciao, Georgie."
Luca Cobboli stood on the doorstep, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, dark hair a little longer than George remembered, smile just as familiar. Too familiar. The kind that carried history with it- late nights, reckless choices, the kind of closeness that lingered long after it probably should have faded.
George and Luca had always been in the same circle. They ended up in the European Championship in karts together when they were kids, but never truly talked. They became inseparable whilst driving in Italian F4 together, and, funnily enough, becoming neighbors in Maranello.
Luca was far taller than George, he had almost four inches on him, and was only older by three months. George was always faster than him in karts and single seaters, yet Luca was incredibly talented. He ended up signing in the World Endurance Championship with Porsche, driving in one of their LMGT3 cars.
His hair was dark brown and curly and matching brown eyes. He had a thick Italian accent, yet spoke perfect english too. He'd been the one constant in George's life as he got older, even if they didn't see each other as much.
"Luca," George said, the tiredness melting into something warm and unexpected. "I- wow. Hi."
Luca's eyes flicked over him, taking in the sweats, the loose sweatshirt, the obvious fatigue. "Rough day?"
"You have no idea," George said, stepping aside without thinking. "Come in."
Luca did, glancing around the house like he'd done a hundred times before. "Is your dad here?"
George shook his head, closing the door behind him. "No. He's in the States. Business stuff."
"Ah," Luca said, something unreadable passing across his face before the smile returned. "Just you, then."
"Yeah. Just me." George hesitated, then added, "Do you want a drink?"
"Sure," Luca said easily. "Whatever you've got."
"I was wondering when you'd pay me a visit. I've been here for weeks." George said, meandering towards the kitchen, his heart rate slightly elevated.
"Mama and I were in Greece for a while, just a vacation. She wants to see you soon." Luca responded, removing his coat and throwing it over the back of the couch.
"I can stop by tomorrow evening, I have my shakedown at Fiorano tomorrow."
George grabbed two beers from the fridge and brought them back to the living room. Luca had already claimed one end of the couch, relaxed like he belonged there. George dropped down beside him, leaving just enough space to pretend there wasn't a pull between them that had never really gone away.
"You could have just texted me, you know." Luca smirked, their fingers brushing as George handed over the beer.
George's face went hot as he looked at the floor. "I know, I just didn't know if you still wanted to see me, or whatever."
Luca's smile turned into a warmer one, as if his heart was melting a little. "Oh, my baby boy. I always want to see you. Though I assume this will be the last time we meet like this." Both of their smiles faded.
"Yea, I can't really do this after today, you know with-,"
"Media and stuff. I know George. This getting out would ruin you, I know. It wouldn't be great for me either, you know." Luca said, brushing the back of his fingers against the side of George's head.
"You're not upset?" George asked, leaning into Luca's touch.
"Of course not. We've been messing around with each other for years, it's not like we're dating." Luca shrugged, now propping up his head on his hand. "I'm always a call away if you need a good fuck."
George laughed, finally easing up now that the hard part was done.
They talked at first about harmless things, how long George would be in Italy this time, Luca's upcoming season in the World Endurance Championship, mutual names from their F4 days. It felt easy. Familiar. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Luca took a sip of his beer, then glanced sideways at George. "So," he said casually, "Ferrari rookie now. Big deal." A pause. "Found any girls yet?"
George nearly choked on his drink. "What?"
Luca laughed. "Relax. I'm just asking. You know- new paddock, new opportunities."
George stared at the bottle in his hands. "No," he admitted. "I haven't."
Luca raised an eyebrow. "At all?"
George shook his head. "Not... not really."
Luca leaned back against the couch, studying him with an expression George knew too well. "You know," he said slowly, "you probably should. At some point. Kind of surprising you haven't."
George's chest tightened, heat creeping up his neck. "Why is that surprising?"
Luca smirked, eyes lingering just a second too long. "Because I know you, Georgie. And because you're an F1 driver. You can get any girl you want."
The silence that followed was charged, heavy with things neither of them said. George swallowed, unsure whether the nervous flutter in his stomach was from the conversation, or from Luca sitting just inches away, like no time had passed at all.
George wasn't sure who leaned in first.
Maybe it was Luca, inching closer under the guise of reaching for his beer. Maybe it was George, finally giving in to the pull that had been sitting between them since the door opened. Either way, the space disappeared quickly, Luca's knee brushing his, Luca's shoulder pressing in, the familiar scent of him stirring something reckless and nostalgic in George's chest.
"You're staring," Luca murmured, a teasing lilt to his voice.
"Am not," George shot back, though he didn't pull away.
Luca smiled, softer this time, and then his hand was on George's jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek like he'd done it a hundred times before. The kiss came easily, warm, unhurried, like they were slipping back into an old rhythm neither of them had ever really forgotten.
George exhaled into it, fingers curling into Luca's shirt. The tiredness from the day dulled at the edges, replaced by something grounding and familiar. Luca tasted like beer and something sweet, and when he pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against George's, George laughed under his breath.
"Upstairs?" Luca asked quietly.
George nodded.
They didn't rush it, but they didn't hesitate either. The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they went up, muscle memory guiding them down the hall to George's room. It looked different now, cleaner, more adult, but the bones of it were the same. The same room. The same bed. The same place where everything had first shifted years ago.
The door closed softly behind them.
They kissed again, slower this time, Luca backing George toward the bed. George sat down, tugging Luca with him, laughter bubbling up when Luca lost his balance and had to catch himself with a hand on the mattress.
"Still clumsy," George teased.
"Still rude," Luca replied, grinning as he leaned back in, hands slipping under the hem of George's sweatshirt.
Things grew warmer, closer- easy touches, familiar patterns. Luca's mouth traced along George's jaw, his neck, and George tipped his head back instinctively, eyes fluttering shut.
Luca kissed him again, deeper this time, like he was reclaiming the moment he'd interrupted with his clumsiness. George responded instinctively, hands sliding up Luca's back, grounding himself in the familiar strength there. Luca shifted his weight, nudging George fully onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath them in a way that sent a sharp, nostalgic rush through George's chest.
"This room," Luca murmured against his mouth. "Still feels the same."
George swallowed. "Yeah. It does."
Luca's kisses trailed lower, unhurried but intentional, like he was reminding George exactly how this used to go. George let himself sink into it, fingers tightening in the sheets, the noise of the world fading down to breath and touch and memory. He'd missed this, missed how easy it felt with Luca, how he didn't have to think so much.
Luca shifted again, bracing himself above George, and George's heart thudded hard against his ribs. For a moment, it felt inevitable, like slipping back into a groove worn years ago.
"God," Luca murmured, lips brushing George's ear, "you still make that face."
George scoffed weakly. "You're literally on top of me."
"Exactly," Luca said, pleased. He shifted his weight, deliberate, confident, like this had always been how it went between them. Like he knew exactly where George would melt and didn't need to rush to get there.
George's thoughts blurred, the day finally slipping away, Ferrari, media, expectations, all replaced by muscle memory and the steady grounding presence of Luca above him. His fingers slid up Luca's back, nails digging in just enough to make Luca grin.
Luca got into a rhythm eventually, making George's breaths quicker and more harsh. His neck strained as he melted back further into the pillow.
After a few minutes, Luca stopped completely.
"You know," Luca said thoughtfully, entirely too casual for the moment, "if I were you, I'd be very distracted racing that Dream guy."
George let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "You are unbelievable."
"I'm serious!" Luca insisted, bracing himself with one arm and gesturing vaguely with the other. "Have you seen him? Tall, blonde, stupidly handsome. Very unfair of McLaren, honestly."
"This is not the time," George groaned, dropping his head back and pushing against Luca's chest.
Luca laughed, the sound warm and unrepentant. "I'm just saying, if you end up staring at him on the grid, I won't blame you."
"I am not going to stare at my rival," George muttered.
"Mmhmm," Luca hummed. "That's what you said about me, too. Back in F4."
George opened his eyes, shooting him a look. "That is not the same thing."
Luca leaned down, stealing a kiss that cut off whatever protest George had lined up. When he pulled back, his smile was softer, teasing but fond.
"Relax, Georgie," he murmured. "Right now, I've got your attention."
And he did.
Whatever jokes Luca cracked after that dissolved into quiet, broken laughter and soft murmurs as the world narrowed back down to the room, the bed, the familiar cadence between them. Outside, the house stayed still, Maranello settling into night as George let himself be pulled under by something easy, something known.
For tonight, at least, that was enough.
When they were all done with sweat sticking to every part of them, they lay tangled together beneath the sheets, the room quiet except for the soft tick of cooling air and the distant sounds of night settling outside. George was on his back, staring up at the ceiling he'd known since he was a teenager, Luca stretched comfortably at his side, one arm slung loosely across George's stomach like it had every other time.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
George was the one who broke the silence. "So," he said softly, voice still rough around the edges, "how's your season looking?"
Luca shifted, propping his head up on his hand to look at him. "WEC this year," he said. "Properly this time. Full program." There was a note of pride there, tempered with realism. "It's different. Longer races. More patience. Less... chaos than single-seaters."
George smiled faintly. "You'll be good at it."
"I hope so." Luca shrugged. "It's time. I'm not sixteen anymore, chasing every race like it's the last one." He paused, then added lightly, "Also means I should probably find a girlfriend."
George turned his head toward him. "A girlfriend?"
Luca nodded, expression easy but honest. "Someone normal. Someone who doesn't disappear for months at a time or meet me only when you're back in Italy."
The words settled between them, heavier than George expected.
"You should, too," Luca continued, gentler now. "Someone new. Someone who fits the life you're about to have."
George swallowed. "You think so?"
"I know so," Luca said. He traced a lazy line along George's side, familiar but unclaiming. "We're not going to keep doing this. You'll be everywhere- testing, racing, being Ferrari's golden boy. And I'll be chasing endurance trophies and pretending I like three-hour stints."
George let out a quiet laugh, though his chest ached a little. "Yeah. Probably."
Luca leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to his shoulder, affectionate and final in a way that made George's throat tighten. "Doesn't mean this wasn't good," he said. "It was. It always was."
George nodded, eyes burning just slightly. "Yeah. It was."
"I'll always be proud to know I was the one who took a future F1 champion's virginity, though." Luca laughed.
"God, I hate you." George smacked Luca on the shoulder, shaking his head. "We'll still be friends though, right? Like I can text you and you'll answer?" He asked, feeling an overwhelming feeling rising in his chest. His eyes stung, threatening to let tears fall.
"Of course, G. This isn't like a breakup, you know that right?" Luca said, propping himself up on his elbow. He cupped George's chin and forced his eyes to meet his own. "We're always gonna be friends. We were friends first. I'm here in your corner, you can call and text me whenever and I'll be there."
"Ok, good." George nodded, breathing out a sigh of relief.
They settled back into the pillows, not quite touching now but still close enough to share warmth. Tomorrow would come soon, shakedowns, flights, a season that would change everything.
Tonight, though, they let the past rest where it belonged.
—
The shakedown was over almost before it began.
George climbed out of the car with his pulse still humming under his skin, helmet dangling from his hand as the mechanics swarmed in. It hadn't been about lap times or limits, just systems, just feel, but the moment the tires had touched the tarmac, everything had clicked into place. The steering felt alive in his hands. The power delivery was clean. The car responded like it wanted to be driven hard.
"Good job," Kevan said over the radio as George unbuckled. "Everything looked solid."
"Felt good," George replied honestly, sliding out of the cockpit.
He stood off to the side as the crew prepped the car for Alain's run, tugging his balaclava off and wiping sweat from the back of his neck. The adrenaline faded slowly, leaving him restless, buzzing with unused energy.
Almost without thinking, he reached for his phone in his helmet cubby before taking a seat.
McLaren was everywhere.
The algorithm had decided, apparently, that today was papaya day.
Dream stepping into his car, helmet on, visor down- sharp, focused. Dream laughing during an interview, dimples flashing briefly before he schooled his expression back into something composed. A slow-motion clip of him pulling on his gloves, jaw set, eyes locked ahead.
George scrolled. Once. Twice.
He hated how his chest tightened.
Sapnap popped up next, grinning as usual, waving at fans as if this was all easy. Another clip showed the two of them walking side by side through the McLaren garage, shoulders brushing, comfortable in a way that made George irrationally tense.
"Get a grip," he muttered under his breath.
Alain's engine fired behind him, the sound ripping through the garage. George barely noticed. His thumb hovered, then tapped another video of Dream climbing out of the car, hair damp with sweat, flushed and smiling as a mechanic said something off-camera that made him laugh.
The frustration hit sharp and unwelcome.
This was stupid. He hadn't even met him properly. Had no reason to be this distracted, this aware. Dream was a rival. A McLaren driver. Someone George would be fighting on track in a matter of weeks.
And yet.
George locked his phone and shoved it back into his cubby harder than necessary, jaw tightening. He stared out at the pit lane, forcing himself to focus on the sound of Alain's car as it disappeared down the straight.
"Focus," he muttered under his breath. "Ferrari driver. That's what matters."
But the image lingered anyway, green eyes, easy confidence, papaya colors burned into the back of his mind, and George hated himself just a little for how difficult it was to let go.