Chapter Text
It is no secret on the grid that Max’s alter is a lion. It’s splashed across every graphic that accompanies the driver; his helmet, his racesuit, all of his team-issued RedBull clothes, there is even a tiny lion keychain on the backpack he brings to the paddock. After all, when your alter is something so evidently magnificent, it would be a shame to not flaunt it endlessly.
When George first got into Formula 1, he had spent every race weekend with his eyes stuck to that shiny red graphic, tracing its sharp points and curving lines. He imagines Max to be much the same; the white fangs that flash in a rare smile, rounded lion ears poking up out of his messy hair post-race.
Post-race Max is perhaps George’s favourite Max, partly because the man is flush with victory and pride, but mostly because George cannot fathom being confident enough in your alter to let it out during a race.
When he had expressed this to Alex and Lando late one night, they laughed in his face and accused him of fancying Max, but that’s not true at all. George just thinks that he would never let his serval side out, standing on the top step of a podium.
It’s not that he’s ashamed of his alter or anything— there’s nothing wrong with it— but sometimes he thinks that maybe if it was something more fierce, or powerful, like Max’s lion, then maybe people would like him more, he wouldn’t be stuck in this championship limbo with Toto. When he is dragged into another meeting with his team principal, listening to how the future needed to be was not decided yet, and George needed to just try harder if he wanted the championship, he clenches his jaw tight and thinks about how much he would love to roar at Toto and confront him about his engine failures, Kimi’s perfect car. That’s what he thinks Max did with Horner, anyway. How else would he have gotten four world championships?
Unfortunately, servals can’t really roar. All George can manage are some low growls or snarls, and if he’s feeling particularly territorial, he can make a cackling grunt noise, like a hoarse scream, scratching his throat. He doesn’t think that would be particularly frightening to anyone, save for a mouse or a bird.
When he was little, back when his parents were working another job to afford his karting and his siblings had all grown up and left, he would hide in his bedroom with the curtains drawn and the door locked and listen for any strange sounds that seeped through the walls. King’s Lynn was not a wild or dangerous place, but when the wind would blow particularly hard and rattle the windows, George used to hiss and make pathetic little growls while he curled up in the corner of his room. He knew, even then, that his alter wasn’t very strong or intimidating to anyone, and that if there was really a monster or a beast out there, his claws wouldn’t be enough to stop them from tearing his house down, and him with it.
Once he grew up a bit more, gained a few extra inches on his classmates and could look at his father eye-to-eye, those fears shrunk and George practiced his growls on the field mice and robins that he found in the acres between his house and the neighbours. He grew used to slipping into that spotted fur, and the feeling of blood and bones between his teeth. He remembers the exhilaration of leaping into the sky, weightless for only a second, before his fangs clamped down on some poor, unsuspecting bird, and warm blood ran down his chin. It was the best he ever felt, back then, the feeling that for once, he was in control of what was around him, he could get what he wanted without the fear of someone bigger stepping in and stealing it from him. Before he was winning races in his little 63 go-kart, he was snapping at the creatures around his house, chasing that dominance.
It had been years now, since George killed just for the thrill of it. Racing in Formula 1 means that every second of his day is planned out on a Google Calendar, and the little downtime allocated to his alter is usually spent napping. He can’t afford to be foolish with his time, not when his future is so uncertain.
Anyway, all that is to say is George doesn’t really make a big deal of showing off his serval in the paddock. He’s been asked about it before, his reluctance to embrace that animal side of him a bit more, but he laughs it off and leads into another question before anyone can get too suspicious about his insecurities. Luckily, the reporters are not too concerned with his lack of ears or a tail right now; rather the lack of his championship lead seems to make headlines easier.
—
George breathes in the thick, hot air of Miami and glances to his side. Alex is chattering on about some sort of date he’s excited to take Lily on after this weekend (“even I get sick of a boat after a while, I mean, who wants to see just water all day?”), and George is content to let his best friend’s voice slip through his ears and zone out a bit. The warmth of the sun was really speaking to his feline side, and he could feel his brain twitching to find a nice smooth rock to lie on.
“Hey, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Alex raises a brow at him.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Lily’s date, right?” George manages an easy smile. “You’re feeling very lovestruck, and that,”
“Of course I’m lovestruck, there’s nothing much else to catch my attention these days. Especially not on track,”
George grimaces and tries to offer an apologetic smile at Alex. The Williams car is a load of shit this year, even after all of James Vowles’ promises, and George knows a lot about driving a Williams shitbox, so he hopes Alex takes his empathy genuinely. Even though he’s not their driver anymore, George gets an ugly feeling in his chest when he sees them do poorly, a little old loyalty ringing in his heart.
“I guess I can’t say the same for you, though,” Alex accepts his smile and returns one of his own. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Mercedes mind games have really been getting to you?”
George feels all of the lovely warmth the sun baked into him evaporate at the mention of the championship. It’s stupid, because everything he does is for that damn trophy, but he likes to ignore it and pretend that his eyebags and hours on the sim are just because he has some sick pleasure for self-mutilation, not because his teenage teammate is going to beat him to his childhood dream.
“Nah, it’s all okay,” George shrugs. “Just some leftover fatigue from Suzuka.”
Alex definitely doesn’t believe him, but there’s nothing he can do to stop George’s anxiety, and over a decade of friendship has taught him George won’t give up until he’s dead in the ground. Maybe even then, he’d come back as a vengeful spirit.
They reach Williams’ motorhome, and George waves Alex off, feeling relieved that he won’t be subject to any interrogation about his health, and then feeling guilty for that relief, when he knows his friend cares about him deeply. He’s rewarded for his unkind thought when the smell of amber and sandalwood invade his senses.
Felines have always been able to smell each other's scents, and the bigger the cat, the stronger the smell. George first smelt Max back when they used to kart against each other, when Max still had a milk, soft sweetness to him. Now, his scent screams lion, and George can feel the hairs on his neck rise up territorially when Max brushes by.
George nods in lieu of a greeting towards him, he doesn’t dare open his mouth lest he taste Max’s rich amber on his tongue. The man in question gives him a half-smile back, flicking his eyes briefly to George’s athletic shorts, then up at his face.
George feels his face colour; he hadn’t changed from when he got home yesterday, too frantic to do anything but analyse his race data, so he knows the shorts are a little too wrinkled to be acceptable, and probably stink of his scent after not washing them. George doesn’t know what he smells like, no other feline had ever been close enough to tell him, but judging from the grimace on Max’s face, it's not nice.
Great. As if the championship lead (Kimi’s, not his, of course), his slightly complicated relationship with his serval side, now he also feels the burn of embarrassment from pissing Max off with his scent.
George quickens his pace so he can duck into the Mercedes’ motorhome and escape Max’s judging gaze,but just as he steps over the threshold of the entrance, Max calls him.
“George. Hold up,”
George turns around, eyebrows raised. What does Max want? It’s only Thursday, George couldn’t have impeded him yet.
“Give this to Kimi, yeah? I couldn’t find him this morning, and he left it yesterday.” Max holds out a Mercedes cap, a glaring ‘12’ stamped onto the rim.
George nods, grabs the cap quickly to avoid brushing Max’s fingers. “You were out with Kimi last night?”
“Yeah. Just playing padel, you know,” Max stuffs his hand inside his pants pocket.
George feels something bitter curl up in his chest, before he remembers Max is a cat too, and can probably smell his scent souring with displeasure. He reins it in before it manifests, and turns to head back into the motorhome. He calls out a half-hearted goodbye, but he’s too busy biting his cheek to hear if Max replies.
There’s nothing wrong with hanging out with people, Kimi is funny and bright and entertaining, it makes sense for Max to be friends with him. Besides, padel is the most common way drivers catch-up with each other, even if nobody outside himself and Carlos are actually any good. George is pretty sure most times he plays with Lando or Charles, they only accept the invite so they can go out for lunch after. He’s only ever played once with Max, although the memory is hazy underneath the current stress of his racing. Maybe that’s why Kimi went to play with Max instead of him, it’s more fun to play with someone that isn’t whacking the ball like it’s their team principal, making terrifying expressions of rage and fear. He’s seen the photo with Kimi after that one race.
Max and George aren’t close, especially not after the clusterfuck of 2024 and 2025, but George’s weird admiration for Max’s confidence still stains his perception, and a little part of him wants to bite Max like he bit those birds, claiming a sort of dominance over him. Obviously, he wouldn’t, because that’s backward and uncouth, but he thought maybe this year, with his rocketship car (bar the malfunctions), Max would take him seriously as a contender and pay a bit more attention to him.
But Kimi has apparently taken that role, so George quashes whatever weird complex he has about confident lions and prepares himself for the day of media ahead.