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George had been cruising all the way up on P3, he was so proud of himself to have gotten all the way from P8 — maybe today would be a good race; he’d be able to fight Max for P1, having the excitement of last week back once more.
Though, there was a small pit of dread in his stomach — one he couldn’t quite explain. He had a foreboding feeling of dread. It didn’t help that his weekend had been shit, his own boyfriend had been bad mouthing him in the press — saying that he shouldn’t be complaining about the heat, even if it was putting his own health at risk.
Then, Toto was calling him ‘emotional’ to the media, and making it seem like he was crying everyday over Kimi’s wins. Everyone seemed to be against him at the moment, but it didn’t surprise him — the one weekend that Toto wasn’t there he had done his best race of the season, yet now that he was back George felt as if something bad was going to happen.
Though, he was doing so well, maybe for once his car wouldn’t give up on him — there were only five laps to go, he could stay in 3rd, get another podium after so many unfortunate weekends, and continue to close the gap between him and Kimi; maybe get the world championship that he craved so badly.
Suddenly, his system starting malfunctioning — he had to slowly turn to the side of the track, trying not to get caught between the other cars as his own one came to a slow halt. Fuck, of course his car decided to fail on him when he was so high up the grid. Sometimes, he wondered if Toto had some sort of kill switch for the car; that he pushed it whenever George was doing too well.
For a moment, he just sat there in his car, staring at the wheel — he still couldn’t quite comprehend the fact that he was out of the race. He had been having such a good period lately, but clearly nobody else wanted him to do well. He should have expected it.
Every time he was doing well, the race after his car would suddenly malfunction, leaving him with a DNF.
He was tired of it at this point, tired of having to put on his usual PR smile and letting the team get away with it — he wasn’t naive, even though they seemed to assume he was. He had been so young when he had first joined the team, and Toto seemed to still perceive him as that young, ‘over emotional’, little boy.
But, he wasn’t that anymore. Hadn’t been that for years. No, but everyone thought he was — they had all assumed that he was still that weak, feeble, bright eyed formula 2 champion. It seemed to be the common perception of him, it was either that or the idea that he was a tyrant. Nobody seemed to be able to make their mind up about him.
“George, you can get out of the car now mate.” George gnawed on his bottom lip, attempting to push down the rage that was beginning to boil within — he had never felt so angry before. He had been treated like shit all year, and this was his last straw.
He wasn’t going to get his revenge on that stupid team, no matter what it took.
“Yeah, I’m coming back to the pit. Unfortunately isn’t it.”
“Yeah, sorry George. It was a good race too, so sorry this happened.” But they weren’t sorry, and George knew that — it didn’t take a genius to see. He already knew that Toto was probably smiling deep down, obviously not doing so on camera — yet, it wouldn’t surprise George if he did do that.
Maybe, George should just become what Toto Wolff wanted — Kimi Antonelli. If he became the exact thing that the older man wanted, then maybe he wouldn’t be pushed to the side anymore. He would actually have a part within Mercedes again.
Standing at the pit lane watching the race didn’t make him feel much better. Having to watch his stupid teammate win just made his feel worse — it made him feel even worse than any of the interviews could have.
That could have been him up on that fucking podium, but no instead it was the ‘brilliant teenager’ winning, just as he always did. Every week, time after time. It was non-stop. Exhausting.
“Woo! Kimi win!!” He could hear people cheering behind him at witnessing Kimi on the podium, but all George felt was a sense of emptiness, he couldn’t even be angry anymore. But, he also couldn’t feel proud anymore.
Even with his boyfriends pole position, he still didn’t feel much towards it — a few months ago, even after a DNF he would have still gone down and kissed Max on the cheek, congratulating him on an amazing race. But today he couldn’t even do that, he couldn’t seem to find it in himself to care.
Max had so many other people around to support him, George’s congratulations wasn’t that important. And, if it was then he would simply call George — beg him to come to their hotel room. Right now, all he wanted was to get shitfaced and cry in someone’s arms.
He wondered if Lando would be willing to go out clubbing with him, the man seemed to go out and drink whatever the occasion so he wouldn’t be too surprised if his friend said yes to his request. Wasting no time, he made his way down to the McLaren garage — not even acknowledging the pitying looks that weren’t sent his way.
“Lando.” He paused behind the other driver, who was in a conversation with his engineer — the younger man looks slightly surprised to see George behind them, like it was bizarre for the taller to be in the McLaren garage. Though, he still turned and pulled George into a shoulder hug.
“What’s up mate! Thought you would have been with Maxie celebrating?” Lando teased softly, George knew he meant well so he simply rolled his eyes and leant into the contact — he didn’t even want to think about Max right now, he was just as bad as Toto and Kimi, treating him one way in private and another way to the media.
“I want to go out and get drunk.”
“Oh—! That’s.. that’s new for you Georgie.. do I need to call Alex so you two can watch a movie together or something like you usually feel down?” Lando and Alex were used to George having low days, and often would just spend them in someone’s apartment — or hotel room depending on if they had a race — watching movies and drinking hot chocolate.
“No. I want to go get shit faced, before I throw myself off of the top of the fucking Mercedes hospitality.” Lando froze, as did his engineer. Though used to George’s low moods, they had never gotten so bad that the other driver brought up suicidal thoughts.
“Oh.. uh.. yeah, yeah we can go get shit faced mate.” Slipping a tense smile onto his lips, Lando steered George out of the garage — a sense of worry gnawing at him. He wasn’t used to seeing George this bad, and he wondered if it would be a good idea to text Max, even though George had seemed hesitant to go and celebrate his boyfriend.
Lando slipped his phone into his pocket as he and George made their way into the club, he made sure to stay as close to the other man as possible — not sure where he was at mentally. He hated having even heard the thoughts slip from George’s mouth, and he didn’t want to think about what was going on in George’s own mind.
I mean, him and Alex had been waiting for him to finally crack from the pressures of Mercedes — from their poor treatment towards him, but they had expected anger and tears. Not.. this sort of emptiness. George looked like he was just floating about listlessly, not sure what to do with himself now that he was remaining as the second driver in a team that had promised him everything.
Lando wasn’t sure what to do, in the short period of time that he had been focused on his phone, George had already ordered and downed 3 shots — he was a lightweight too, so it wouldn’t take long for the other man to be absolutely wasted.
Lando hoped that Max would be here soon, as he wasn’t sure how to help George.
“Lando? He alright?” Lando turned around at the sound of the Dutch accent, Max jogging over to his side, standing there with a concerned crease to his brow — he looked more worried that Lando had ever seen him before, it was cute to see just how caring he seemed to be towards the Brit.
“Hm. See for yourself mate.. he’s over by the bar there getting drunk. I think you should just tKe him back to you guys’ hotel and make sure he’s alright. He doesn’t seem like himself..” crossing his arms, Lando glanced over at Max who was now stood directly beside him — the two of them casting their focus towards George, who was throwing back yet another shot.
“Right. He’s going to be difficult.” Sighing, Max patted Lando on the shoulder — a sign that he could head out, that Max could take care of this by himself — before heading over to his partner.
“Hi baby.” He slipped into the chair beside the Brit, a hand snaking around his waist — he didn’t like how thin it was, clearly George had been neglecting himself much more than Max had realised. He hated how ignorant he seemed to have been towards how upset his boyfriend was.
“Ohhh, hello my winner!” George giggled, putting his head on Max’s shoulder — leaning closer into the older man’s contact. He spun on his chair slightly so that he could wrap his arms around Max’s neck. He smelt horribly of vodka, which just made Max even more worried. George rarely drank, and if so it would usually just be a glass of wine before bed. But, here was absolutely pissed trying to clamber into his boyfriend’s lap.
“Hm. You’re rather drunk, aren’t you schat?” Deciding to take a soft tone with him, Max slowly ran his thumbs along George’s hip bones — hoping to soothe any tensions within the other driver. All he wanted was to get his boyfriend to their hotel so that they could rest; so that he could attempt to figure out what sort of things were plaguing the other’s mind.
“Nuh-uh.. I’m sooo sober!” Max rolled his eyes, being careful as he lifted his boyfriend from the stool — the younger man luckily made no complaints as he was picked up; Max just hoped it would stay that way.
He hoped that tomorrow, when George was better, he would be able to explain what had caused all this — how Max could help. But, for now he was fine with slowly carrying the terrifyingly light man to their hotel.
Hopefully a nice night of rest would lead George to feel better.