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George knew who he was. He had been preparing for this all winter break, all seven years, all his life— for this new, brilliant period in his story, when he would finally get everything. When he would finally be able to shed the skin of an awkward, lanky child who no one likes, and become truly himself—a knight in shining armor, a champion and a winner. Maybe he was confused about who he wanted to appear and who he really was, but he knew exactly who he didn’t want to be anymore. Weak.
He was tired of being weak in everything. To fall short of a certain level, to lose and look for the culprits, because he had no greater weakness than pride.
He was tired of appearing strong by accepting a loss, he no longer wanted to lose at all. And finally, he had a real chance.
Australia left him slightly drunk on champagne and adrenaline, and he felt that he was talking too much, as he could see in Charles's disapproving gaze and the greedy interviewer's willingness to put quotation marks around his words and place them in the most prominent places. But for the first time, he felt that the reality he was living in was becoming the reality for everyone else as well. He was happy, and that happiness made him toxic.
In the context of noble metals, he was a copper that resembled gold until it began to oxidize under the influence of its environment, and now his shining armor was beginning to turn green.
Shanghai. No place loved him as much as this. He drank it in, hungrily and insatiably, arriving early to feel it for as long as possible. When the car stalled in the middle of qualifying, George's heart almost followed suit. It was like a nightmare, and George, with his nervous nature, had seen plenty of those. P2. No change. The nightmare was beginning to seep into the beautiful world George had created.
The podium was worse than the race itself. Toto, satisfied and even joyful, hugged Kimi as if he had given birth to him himself. George didn't know where to look, rubbing his hands over his helmet, which now seemed silly—a special paint for a special race. A race he had failed. He had never felt so disgusted with being second. Second between two firsts. The weight of Toto's hand quickly disappeared, and George watched in slow motion as he pulled Lewis away, gripping his shoulders and looking into his eyes. He was glad that the camera was focused on his back.
Toto had never looked at him the way he looked at those two. George had had plenty of time to come to terms with it, and he had. It no longer hurt. But sometimes he felt as if Toto was deliberately reopening his wounds, preventing them from healing, preventing him from forgetting how little he truly meant.
It was hurtful with Lewis, but understandable. George consoled himself with the thought that it was inappropriate to compare himself to a seven-time champion, even in the context of self-flagellation. Then the rumors about Max started circulating, and George clenched his teeth and understood. Accepted. Verstappen was one of a kind, and for Toto, it wasn't a matter of feelings; anyone in his position would be interested in such potential. However, George continued to hope that his dedication meant something, that he would one day feel it being reciprocated.
But then Kimi appeared, and everything fell apart. Because it turned out that anyone would be better than George, even a child with no experience. It wasn't a matter of prospects, money, or victories, but of emotions. Kimi made mistakes like any rookie, just like George had done in the past. But unlike George, Kimi didn't receive the cold stares and judgments. Instead, he received the support of a father figure. Kimi already had a loving father. George felt like a child when he thought about it. But it wasn't fair.
For Kimi, Toto was a kind boss. For George, Toto was much more than that. Wolff knew this, he quickly realized what was going on and used it against George, turning him into a drug addict for his approval.
If it had been Max, he wouldn't have been able to do that. Despite his trauma, Max emerged from his childhood as a loyal dog, accepting the bone from his owner only. Beatings as well. However, George emerged from his childhood not as an animal, but as a fluid entity that disintegrated without a strong hand to shape it. He unconditionally entrusted himself to Toto, allowing him to define where he began and where he ended. Now, those hands no longer wanted to hold him together, and he was spreading out without any support.
He felt betrayed, but it wasn't Toto's fault that George didn't understand the situation until it was too late. No matter how well he performed, he would never become a legend, and Toto only loved phenomenal drivers. George simply didn't possess that quality.
This realization calmed something long-standing and bloody within him, something that tore at his soul and ached, ached, ached with no end. He was no longer surprised by the difference in Toto's treatment of him and Kimi, or by how much Toto missed Lewis and their shared victories. George wondered if it was better for Toto to lose with Lewis or to win with him. The answer seemed obvious, but George was no longer so certain.
But to see it in a moment of vulnerability, right under his nose and in front of the whole world, was something George wasn't prepared for, and no one else would have been in his place.
“Toto wants to make history with Kimi, and he’s willing to sacrifice George, just watch.”
George hastily put his phone away, wishing he hadn't gone online that day. It couldn't be true; Toto hadn't completely lost his mind over their strange, dysfunctional family. He still had the mind of an investor, and he should have known that George had more experience and better chances and—
P4.
He couldn't see where he was going. He felt that he was being filmed, and he lowered his head, as if the helmet wasn't protecting his tears from the prying eyes.
He continued to slide down the most humiliating positions, not even making it to the podium. And all because of Toto.
All because of Toto.
“You did it on purpose?”
Wolf looked up at him with narrowed, pleased eyes, and the spark went out of them immediately. He hadn’t been thinking about his car’s malfunction until George interrupted his thoughts, that's for sure.
“What do you mean?” He always did that — he would ask a question to give himself more time to think about the answer.
“My car, Toto, you decided to tinker with it like it’s a lab rat, the first-pilot’s car.”
Toto raised an eyebrow slightly, a subtle movement that made George feel like the ground was shifting beneath his feet. He didn't agree.
"It happens. We were unlucky."
"I was." George spat out the word with too much arrogance. Toto didn't question him, just gave him a steely look.
"I was unlucky, but Kimi's been suspiciously lucky lately."
Toto's lips curled, he began to get angry. George had once feared his anger more than anything else in the world. Even now, he was afraid, and his fingers trembled, either with resentment or with terror.
"You're implying," Toto paused and made sure George was looking directly at him, "that my priority this season is Kimi?" He chose his words carefully, professionally, and did not react to the provocation.
"I'm implying that you've decided to dump me." The word was harsh, whispering too loudly about everything George truly meant.
Toto looked at him but stayed silent, his face showing nothing, neither open anger nor frustration. Nothing. George never aroused strong emotions in him, only varying degrees of indifference.
Sometimes George felt that it wasn't his father's fault that he had grown up with a two-faced personality. At least, it wasn't his biological father's fault. With Toto, he always had to play mind games, sensing the slightest change in his eyes, the tilt of the head, or the way his hand rested on his shoulder. To make Toto react, he had to piss him off. George couldn't receive his love, but he could gain his attention. The attention of someone who was observing a persistent fly on the ceiling. He was willing to go to such lengths, and he didn't squeamish.
“Let’s stay within understandable terminology.” A polished version of “did you even hear what the fuck you just said?”
Why is Toto never afraid to disappoint him? Why is it George’s main concern not to disappoint their team?
“You dumped me.” He repeated, the words sounding pathetic. George hoped that there was a hint of anger on his face. Anything other than resentment.
“George,” Toto stood up from the table, turning away from him, “I’m counting on your maturity, you’re an experienced driver now…”
He never really speaks to him, as if they were alone, even when they are. Toto always delivers his lines for the cameras, infusing damage control into every well-thought-out phrase. George would rather have him yell at him.
“... but you're acting like a child.”
Toto had said that before, a couple of times, but that was before Kimi and before the words took on a whole new meaning. Now they implied that George was behaving worse than a child, and a very specific one at that.
Now he felt ashamed that he had come to Toto in the first place, that he had dared to express his resentment. His emotions were exhausting Wolff, and he struggled not to apologize out loud This was always the case, Toto making him feel guilty when it was most convenient for him to shift the blame onto George.
“I was a child when I first came—”
“No, you weren't.”
“But I felt like a child!” Lost and hurt, in a team that couldn’t unlock his potential. Ignored. He wrote a letter to Torger Wolff in the mail, sure that it would end up in the spam folder forever. So when he received a response and was invited to Williams, George felt that it was more than he had expected and certainly more than he deserved. His admiration for Toto had persisted for years, as had his subservient desire to prove that it was the right choice. He truly felt different around Toto—weak and trapped, which were the defining feelings of his childhood.
But he'd chosen the worst way to convey that to Toto.
Wolff's frown betrayed his annoyance as he approached George, clearly considering how to get him out of his office.
“I—” He should try to explain how much Toto meant to him. Maybe then he'd be kind to him out of pity.
With a dull thud, a hand brushed his lips, leaving a slight, dull ache. George stared at Toto in disbelief, unsure of what had just happened.
He'd slapped him. On the lips.
“Shut your mouth.” It sounded the same as always—final and convincing. It was better not to argue.
George wouldn’t have even if he could, and he couldn’t. It was the most humiliating thing he’d ever experienced—he’d been physically silenced, dismissively, without regard for any boundaries, personal space, or decency. George unconsciously touched his lips with his fingers, still staring with his big, wet eyes at Toto.
“Toto—”
Now it was a hand, pressed firmly against his face, cutting off all possibilities to talk. George could smell his cologne from the edge of his jacket.
“I told you to shut your mouth.” Toto squeezed George’s face harder. “Have you lost your mind? You follow my commands. I say, you do. On the track, in interviews, always, George.” His face was much closer now, and George could see the fine lines of anger that were only visible at this close range.
“You’ve gone too far, it won’t do. All I see now is your smug face. I hate even the way you walk, because even that you do to spite me. I took you in because I had no choice, you were shaking like a leaf, twitching your long nose all the time, you were,” Toto paused, searching for the right word, but there was no attempt to soften the blow, “you were terrible, George. I’m not saying this out of anger, I’m saying it to remind you where we stand.”
Why them and not me?
George wanted to ask, wanted to whisper it into the hand that covered his mouth. All his life, he'd been trying to jump over his head, trying to outrun the wrong time on the speedometer and defeat the unbeatable. He'd always taken on impossible tasks, but why couldn't he do this one? Why, when it wasn't about his efforts but about who he was, couldn't fate cooperate?
What was so special about Kimi that he didn’t have? About Lewis?
His cheeks ached from the pressure of Toto's fingers, and his knuckles were already stained with heavy tears.
He was like a dog that had been taken in off the street and had its fangs pulled out so it wouldn't bite beloved children. But it was still loyal. George didn't know what to do; he felt powerless, angry, desperate, and something unthinkable that made him do what he did next.
His teeth sank into Toto's palm, and he felt the skin crack under his fangs. Toto let out a rumbling hiss “Mistkerl”.
His mouth was free again, and George inhaled harshly, as if Toto had been preventing him from breathing as well. But he was never given the opportunity to speak, as there was a sudden crack, and George saw a white flash before he was slammed against the table behind him. He slumped to the floor, touching his cheek. His skin was numb, and all he could feel was the throbbing of blood that was painting his face with a large, red bruise.
He looked up at Toto, staring in shock at the man's angry face. He could speak now, he could ask why, but he continued to stare in disbelief. Toto had hit him, twice, and George had bitten him. A hysterical thought crossed his mind to check his contract, to see if there was anything about biting the hands of one's superiors. There had to be something about beating employees though.
Toto straightened his jacket, now examining the damage from George’s teeth—he’d bitten into the inside of his middle finger, and deeply, judging by the way the blood wouldn’t stop.
They were both in some strange reality that would collapse as soon as one of them left the room. George didn’t know who had created it: him, with his complaints, or Toto, with his anger. He didn’t know how to exist in this reality, but something told him that he could do crazy things in it.
“Not good, George…” Toto finally said, in the same tone he’d used to reprimand him after a bad practice. “What should I do about this?” He waved his finger in front of George’s face, demonstrating the damage.
He could do crazy things in it.
George opened his mouth, wincing slightly as his jaw cracked, and stuck out his tongue. He probably looked silly, Toto definitely thought he looked silly—
Two fingers gently pressed down on his tongue. George tried to stick it out further, choking slightly. Blood dripped onto his tongue, and he licked it off, now openly licking Wolff's fingers. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he hadn't expected Toto's blood to taste any different, but the taste made his cheeks burn more, and he attributed it to the effects of the slap.
The fingers on his tongue twitched and pushed deeper into his mouth, causing George to choke on his own saliva. He made a strangled sound, but Toto didn't relent. His fingers now roamed erratically across the inside of George's mouth, and George would occasionally tilt his head back to prevent the nails from scratching his throat.
He looked up at Toto, and for the first time, there was a hint of interest in his eyes. The cold pupils flickered, absorbing every movement of George's tongue, taking in his wet lips and red cheeks. And the bruise left by his hand.
Toto pinched his cheek between his thumb and index finger, pulling it with a wet, disgusting sound, and George bent down, following the pain.
The fingers slipped out of his mouth, and Toto wiped them on his cheek, on the bruise.
“Contact our make-up artists.”
He watched Toto's broad back as he silently left the office, leaving George sitting on the floor, feeling the cold on his wet chin and the blood in his mouth.