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George Russell gave up on keeping up with trends a long time ago. Carmen had tried to explain some things to him, but she had given up on that a long time ago. Given up on him as well, but that was neither here nor there.
He had just finished a quick shower before media, washing champagne out of his hair, what should have felt like victory on the podium instead tasting like relief, and an aching hollowness.
He had known Kimi’s dnf would dim the mood, but George’s dnfs hadn’t stopped anyone from celebrating his teammate’s points. He supposes expecting fairness is not quite appropriate, not when Toto had made clear he expected everyone to support the championship battle a certain way.
Still, walking out of the cooldown room onto the Barcelona podium felt like a cold shock. Where he had expected the usual small throng of Mercedes black and teal, there was nothing. Papaya and crimson rippled beneath them, a roiling sea of celebration that seemed to crest over George, emptiness ringing in his ears as he mechanically douses whoever else was standing next to him in fizzy liquid, hands cold, smile frozen on his face.
100 races. If you had told 14 year old George he would have raced under the silver stars of Mercedes 100 times, he would probably have fainted. Or asked for legally defensible proof. Probably both.
100 races, and no one is there. He even wishes for Carmen, who would have politely clapped. Or his family, who he had told it was okay they couldn't make it, he’d be fine. He had thought he would be. Now he just wants to be alone.
He moved through debrief and media like a ghost, though there seemed to be some kind of new slang now. It kept surprising him, especially as people mentioned Max, who George wasn’t aware had done anything crazier than normal on the Spanish track. The term was odd enough to somewhat knock him out of his numb stupor.
Twinning? What the blazes is a twinning?
To some extent, he still usually understood what the team was saying, especially if it was English. Maybe the Sarah and the PR team was making some kind of bit video, yes that had to be it. Another “skibidi toilet Baku” skit of some sort. He still didn’t understand that.
He would have to ask someone why people kept mentioning him being a twin, or a doppelgänger. There was no one he knew who had the same gangly limbs and odd blue eyes at the paddock that day, but he had been rather preoccupied first with racing, then with processing the sudden cold shoulder from his own team.
At least the PR team was still talking to him. He knew Toto had told them to tone down on the media presence, focusing on Kimi’s side of things for better impact, but he admits he had started to miss the giggling interns enjoying his misery over a game or trivia. If he wanted the team to pay attention to him though, all he had to do was drive better. Or so Toto told him. Maybe just a podium wasn’t what he meant. Maybe 100 drives pushing his best wasn’t enough.
Louisa, one of the pit crew, walked past him with a slap on the shoulder
“Hey princessa, good podium, but you didn’t tell me you two were twinning! Trying to confuse people yeah?”
Cackling as she strode off, the tall woman left George utterly confused. The Brit was visibly buffering still as he walked through the hospitality, dodging wires and Netflix crews on autopilot.
When he reached the drivers lounge, he wasn’t surprised to see Fred and Doriane tossing his trophy back and forth on the couch.
“George! Amazing race, really good!” Dori’s blinding grin appeared as the two noticed him. “Congrats on the podium!”
“Thanks Doriane, I appreciate it. It’s nice to finish well today.”
“Yeah, for your one hundredth, right? Man I thought for sure I was seeing double earlier yeah? What happened, did he lose a bet?”
“Not you too,” George groans. “Is this some kind of mind game to psyche me out?”
Fred, who had been laughing, sprawled out like a baby fawn, sits up. “Wait, you don’t know?” His big eyes widen. Dori stifles a giggle.
“Know what.”
His thoughts are everywhere. Did Toto say something to media again? Is his car disqualified and everyone is teasing him for it? Did sky sports say…
“About Max.”
His thoughts grind to a halt. Max. The mere mention of the Dutch driver causes a little swoop in his stomach, the same one that makes his ears burn whenever the other driver walks past. But it doesn’t matter because the Red Bull driver doesn’t care for George and that’s just the way it was. Had been since Qatar. Maybe before then. It wasn’t like George had ever done anything special enough to garner the attention of the four time world champion.
“What about Max.”
The blondes just blink back at him, and he sighs. His hand comes up to his forehead as he enunciates again;
“What did he do?”
“His helmet.” Dori blurts. “He stole your helmet!”
George blinks. Then blinks again. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been that. He stares at the F1A champion in confusion.
“He what?”
“Dori’s right.” Fred nods solemnly. “It’s 100% yours, he all but admitted it to Jenson.”
“How on earth did he get my helmet?” This was not making anything clearer. Was this what having kids felt like?
“No, like, he stole the design but, I think you have to see it.” Fred rambled. His phone was out and he wasn’t even looking at George now, frantically typing as Doriane looked over his shoulder. Then the phone is being shoved in his face as Fred presses play on a video already on twitter.
It is Max, and George has to squint, because the helmet, it does look familiar. It certainly isn’t Max’s normal one. Then the audio waffles a bit and steadies as Jenson asks the Dutchman a question.
“…special occasion of sorts? Any reason?”
“Yeah just wanted to try something, you know. Sometimes things come full circle, and it’s just crazy to see how racing changes, how people and cars come and go and move around. How some things stay. 100 races could go by here at Barcelona and I’m just glad to still be here with the grid and drivers here, with Red Bull.”
The sentimental, and lengthy, response is definitely not Max’s usual “car is shit, I’m going to die, fuck you my helmet is a helmet.” But as Jenson asks another question, George can’t help but focus on the blondes words.
“100 races could go by, here at Barcelona”
He looks at the helmet again as the video ends, stilling, his brain arriving at a possibility so absurd he almost laughs.
“How things change."
The helmet isn’t too different from Max’s typical one, but George would recognize the slashes of white and red anywhere, the placement of the number.
" Still be here."
Max was wearing a near exact replica of his first f1 helmet.
His, George Russell’s first helmet, the one he had almost carried to bed with him after his first free practice, and now Max is wearing it.
It says 33. It has Red Bull logos all over it.
And it is still horribly, terribly recognizable as George’s.
George swallows, something in his chest easing after the silence of the podium. That horrid clenching feeling in his gut smoothed out a bit, the selfish lonely part of him calming just a bit at the idea of somebody else acknowledging him. Seeing him.
Dori and Fred are now discussing something else, probably about the upcoming testing in Brackley, as George walks out in a daze.
The garage remains busy, Kimi’s side a whirlwind of engineers and testing equipment.
Nobody stops him. Bono bumps into him on the way out, but just says “see you later, Russell.”
He walks outside and ignores the phone buzzing since he got out of the car. Just because his team had forgotten, didn’t mean the fans had. If only they could fix the car too. Oh well. A fight for tomorrow.
Tonight, he would go to the hotel, and sleep. He had podiumed at Barcelona. He had survived Mercedes for 100 races, even if they were keen to get rid of him soon. And apparently, Max had noticed the 100, even if nobody else had.
George didn’t want to think too hard about how the hurt roiling in his stomach, sour with abandonment, settled almost instantly with the mere suggestion of the Red Bull driver’s acknowledgment.
Up ahead, he sees navy. Speak of the devil.
“Max!” He calls out, jogging to catch the blonde, who pauses at the yell.
George stumbles to a stop in front of the other driver.
“Your helmet. For today.”
“Yeah? What about it?”
Max’s head tilts to the side, as if confused. “We do wear helmets for races, yes.”
“No, I, ugh.” Now he just felt silly. What if it was all in his head? Would Max laugh at him for thinking himself so important as to be paid homage to in a helmet. God, better get this over with.
“Did you do it on purpose?”
He hates the way his voice trembles.
Max looks him dead in the eye, and grins. Softly, as if they were both in on a terribly funny inside joke.
“Of course. It is similar to my current one, and I thought it was fitting with what today was. I am lucky to race against you.”
George blinks. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
George is now blushing, thoughts scrambled by the blunt honesty and fondness in Max’s tone.
He stays frozen as Max, still smiling, leans in. “Good night George. I will see you soon, yes?”
“erm, yes.”
“Good.”
And with that, the world champion nods and then turns, walking back towards Red Bull. George lets him.
Later that evening, the Brit is folding notes from the engineering session when Margaret knocks, and a familiar face walks in.
“Hi George, lovely drive today.” Claire looks the exact same as she did when he stepped into a Williams for the first time, and a genuine smile spreads across his face as he gets up to hug her. “Hi Claire.”
She puts her hands on his shoulders. “George I did try to get here for the podium, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry…” the “no one else was” goes unsaid. “I wish you had someone there for you” she finishes instead. He nods, accepting her apology, the small warmth from her support settling in his chest. It’s true he would have been crushed about the obvious neglect on any other version of the day. And yet.
He finds himself smiling at Claire instead, and assurances come easy as he pictures a certain Red Bull driver.
“Don’t worry. I did.”
Claire smiles, “good. Give them my thanks.”
"I think I will, I have to have a chat with him actually. We’ve been long due a proper conversation.”
Claire laughs. “Well, if he’s got your back, he’s good enough for me. Have a good on George. Congrats on 100 with Mercedes.”
fin