Archive of Our Own

It’s raining in Sepang.

He’s told it’s monsoon season. That the light drizzle that’s been misting down all morning is expected. He was first briefed about the weather months ago, when Malaysia was confirmed to be hosting this season’s Bahrain Grand Prix, and has been reminded of it consistently in every strategy and sim race since: Sepang will likely be a wet race. 

“Toto says the storm isn’t clearing,” Kimi tells him the moment George takes a step into Mercedes hospitality. He’s leaning against a table with his arms crossed in a projected cool confidence, but George knows better, can practically feel the nervous energy thrumming off him. 

“Rain brings the best drivers to the front.” George smacks a hand on Kimi’s shoulder and squeezes the tense muscle he feels there. He knows Kimi has been putting in extra hours on the simulator with strategy over this track, that Toto has seemed to be particularly concerned about Kimi’s potential here, that Kimi, like George, has never raced Sepang. 

George likes Kimi and wants him to do well - but he likes winning more, and after his Grand Slam in Baku, he feels really fucking good about his chances here. 

Mercedes can give Kimi everything. It can give him a car that doesn’t fail with millions of dollars worth of strategy and simulations and contingencies for every letter of the alphabet -  but it can’t give him years behind the wheel. Rain brings the best drivers to the front because a slick track evens the playing field - the fastest car on the grid can’t win if their driver is hesitating on a wet circuit. 

And Verstappen is pole position. Max, who will cut his own legs off before giving a single inch to another driver. Maybe it’s greedy, but George is craving another dozen laps with him like Baku. He wants to be pushed and push back. He wants to fucking race. 

Thunder crashes outside. “Uh oh,” Kimi says, just in time for the downpour to start. “… is this normal?” 

It is not normal. It’s not normal to keep extending a race delay due to rain only to have half the grid immediately stall during their formation lap. George watches Lewis and Max literally grind to a halt in the middle of the track - leading to a race suspension. 

“Software update,” Toto tells George and Kimi when they pull themselves out of their cars and return to the Mercedes garage. “FIA says thirty minutes for the cars to be updated with the new software.” 

“What exactly is the issue?” George asks, hyperaware of the reporters and news cameras already descending back into the paddock with the news of the delay. He needs to choose his words carefully - appearing to question the new regulations won’t do him any favors, especially with Toto, their most vocal supporter. Mercedes is dominating because of them. He shouldn’t rock the boat.

“Some sort of weather safety override with the power unit,” Toto says, already listening to something on his headset and moving on from the conversation. “Strategy wants to go over the latest weather forecast and another virtual walk of the track. We need to keep it fresh Kimi, I know it’s your first time here.”

Toto drops a paternal hand to Kimi’s shoulder, and he immediately leaves George’s side to walk with him back inside the garage. Kimi barely takes two steps before a Mercedes staff member is sliding an ice-cold towel around his neck, and Toto nods in approval. 

George… doesn’t want to do this. “I should check in with everyone.”

Toto nods but doesn’t look back. Kimi shoots him a small wave before disappearing into the sea of silver and teal. 

Serving as Director of the GPDA is a genuine pleasure to George, and he takes his job seriously - it also being a great reason to get the fuck out of the Mercedes garage is just a perk. 

It’s a swarm of engineers across the pit garages. Hundreds of uniforms in a rainbow of colors make it hard to pick out anyone in the chaos, but before George can head to the next garage, his phone buzzes. 

Verstappen: Software update for rain? 

George glances back at the Mercedes garage as if Toto can somehow see his texts.

Interesting that we’ve been preparing for this weather for a month, but this is the first time the FIA has considered it. He quickly types out before putting his phone away. 

His first stop is McLaren where he confirms with Oscar that his team was told the same. Software update. Something to do with the hybrid power unit. 

“Bit of chaos.” Oscar nods to the mess of the paddock. “Do you think we’ll even race?” He asks and takes a sip from his water bottle. 

“No doubt in my mind,” George says. Money, FIA politics, sponsorship promises to the Bahraini and Malaysian governments - the race will happen even if their cars have to be pushed to the finish. “Where’s Lando?”

“Bathroom,” Oscar says just as someone in a McLaren logo’d polo cuts between them, knocking their hand into Oscar, who drops his water bottle, spilling it across the cement. 

“Shit,” The man says by way of apology, but is already hurrying past them both, no time to spare as he hurries through the paddock. 

“Who was that?” George asks curiously. 

Oscar frowns, head creasing. “… I don’t know. Media crew maybe? We’ve had some turnover.” 

George tilts backward, watching the stranger disappear into the crowd as quickly as he appeared. He doesn’t press Oscar about his reaction, just makes sure he doesn’t have any concerns about the delay or update that would need to be raised with the FIA before making his way to the next garage. 

Williams, Aston Martin, Cadillac - he makes his way through the garages and back up again, making sure everyone is equally informed and that there are no concerns - even if he gets a lot of eye rolls. Fernando gives him a thumbs up, not moved by much these days, and he spends a solid ten minutes just chatting with the Haas boys and then again with Liam and Arvid at Racing Bulls. He spends extra time with the younger drivers, wanting to make sure they were aware of their voice and to bring any concerns to him regarding the strangeness of the situation. 

“This is what we’ve descended into.” Charles points up at the TV in the Ferrari garage. “Pure spectacle, no racing.” 

“Is this a formal complaint I should be writing down?” George grins. “Charles Leclerc says he’d like to race his car once per spectacle.” 

“My racing should be the spectacle.” Charles counters. 

George laughs, right as Lewis enters the Ferrari garage. He doesn’t linger, just gives George a casual pat on his back before walking straight to the back of the garage and disappearing around the corner. Which is fine. Just fine. Doesn’t bother him at all. 

He leaves Red Bull for last. Partly because he’s not sure their driver will even be there to talk with him. Things have been … strange this year. Different. George isn’t sure how to put into words what has shifted in their relationship. Max still irritates him in a way no other driver can, pulling out a side of George on the track and with the media that surprises even himself sometimes. But lately there’s been a sort of familiarity. George finds himself looking for Max’s reaction when something happens on and off the track - and more often than not will find the man already looking his way. And Baku…

Well. Baku had been spectacular. 

George approaches the Red Bull garage and does his best to look like he’s not disappointed that it’s Isack leaning against the pit wall. All good, Isack needs to hear what he has to say much more than Max cares to. 

“Do you want me to get Max?” Isack asks him before George can even begin his now practiced speech about the software update and car safety concerns. Ah, he must have spotted George doing the rounds. 

“Best not,” George smiles. “You feeling alright with the race suspension?” 

Isack has questions about the update timeline George can’t answer but promises to get back to him after his meeting later in the week. He makes a note on his phone with the other concerns drivers have asked him to raise. Then he’s being flagged down by his team. 

When they get back in their cars, Mercedes dominates the start. Tyres and strategy and experience lead for most of the race, and Max does what he does best. He fucking takes, and George chases - 

- But not for long. He’s slow where Kimi is quick, the car not responding to him like it should, making him hesitate on corners. Kimi has pace, Kimi wants position, Kimi overtakes. Kimi and Max fight while George claws for the leftover spot on the podium, watching Lewis climb the rankings with each pass of the grandstand screens. Max is going to get his first win of the season, and George is barely a footnote in the race - he needs to fight, he needs to put pressure on Kimi, he’s going to prove himself as the first seat - 

And then his power unit fails. He DNFs barely five laps from his podium. He watches Max and Kimi disappear around the turn and take his Championship aspirations with them. 

Thunder rolls in the sky, and George can do nothing but sit there as seventeen cars pass him by. Rain brings the best drivers to the front. 

…

George is happy for Max. He is. He knew the streak without wins was eating at him, and this one is historic in so many different ways - the TV in his driver’s room keeps telling him so. 72 wins for RedBull, the same as Schumacher for Ferrari. Another legend races with George - then races right past him. 

It’s shitty, but George doesn’t follow the Mercedes team to the podium. He’s very familiar with what Kimi looks like getting his trophy, he’s not missing out on much. 

“We’ll fix it,” Toto had promised him when he’d arrived back at hospitality from the track, the race still going around them, the stands screaming Max’s name.

Interesting how Kimi’s car never had to be fixed like this, but George didn’t say that. He nodded his head and accepted Toto’s hand on his shoulder like the good fucking team player he is. Someone who could see the bigger picture. Politics George, it’s Kimi’s year but maybe - 

George needs to leave. 

Max will be the feature in the press room - him and Lewis. A climb from p17 to podium is incredible - everyone knows it. Everyone is talking about it. Each TV he passes on his way through Mercedes hospitality is playing highlight clips of Lewis’s overtakes and Max’s dominance interspersed with footage of George’s car pathetically slowing to a stop five laps from finish. He keeps walking. 

The team is gone, celebrating at the ceremony with Kimi. The press will all be congregated there, which works out for George - if all goes well, he can slip out unnoticed. No post race interview where he’s asked the same question over and over and over - 

“Unfortunate end to the race, George. How do you feel this will affect your championship fight?” 

Killed any chance of it, actually. Thanks for the question, mate. 

He heads through the staff entrance of the main building to cut through to the parking garage. His phone is buzzing, most likely the army of people who run the Mercedes media team realizing he isn’t there to do press. He ignores it. 

He’s almost to the garage when he hears talking. He can see two people by a vending machine off to the side of a hallway, a large TV camera on the floor next to them, and press passes around their necks. It seems this is a common place to avoid the crowds. 

“We need to get back in ten, Mercedes is going to make a statement,” One of them says, a short woman in slacks. “I want to get the shot of Russel walking in.” 

“There’s no rush, we’ve already got the footage of his car. We don’t need anything else,” Her partner says, crushing his coffee cup. 

“Are you kidding? This is going to get insane views, his fans will be all over it.” 

“Mercedes has fans,” The man corrects. “No one likes George Russel.” 

George rolls his jaw and resists the ridiculous urge to walk over and announce himself. This is nothing he hasn’t heard before, baseless gossip column chatter. He slips past them and makes his way to his car unnoticed, his jaw still clenched. 

He doesn’t open his phone until after he stretches, showers, and settles into bed at the hotel. He apparently hadn’t been completely alone in the parking garage because someone had gotten a photo of him getting into his car, alone. He’s been tagged over a thousand times in different versions of it online with captions laughing at his poor sportsmanship. 

His unread messages are extensive, everyone from half the Mercedes team asking where the hell he went to a large portion of his contact list sending PR approved condolences about the retirement. He lazily scrolls through without opening them, not in the mood to be pitied - until Max’s name catches his eye. 

Verstappen: They’re never going to give it to you. 

George stares at the text. His thumb hovers over the keys to type out a response, a million biting remarks and scathing daggers at the tip of his tongue for Max’s own failing for the championship. If he wants to cut, then George will slice to the bone. He never even saw Max at the track besides a few fleeting moments getting in and out of their cars. What gave him the fucking right? 

George remembers the feeling of his car stalling. There were no words then, and there aren’t now. He puts his phone on the nightstand and turns out the light. 

…

“Toto says the storm isn’t clearing.” 

George stares at Kimi. Kimi’s mouth is moving, but whatever words he’s saying, George can’t make sense of them. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep in his hotel - but now he’s at the paddock? He had a flight in the morning for Singapore. What the hell - ?

“-rge? George?”

George blinks and finds Kimi staring at him with big, concerned eyes. “Sorry, what was that?” 

“You don’t seem so good,” Kimi frowns. “Do you need medical?” 

Medical where? Where are they? This isn’t Singapore. He brushes past Kimi, heading toward the windows of the hospitality unit.

Thunder crashes overhead, and lightning quickly follows, lighting up the entire track. 

“… that’s Sepang.” 

He can feel Kimi move to his side. “Yes.”

The stands are full, two hundred thousand people he can hear the muffled screams of through the glass. Drivers are walking the paddock. Engineers are surrounding the cars. It’s race day. 

“Kimi,” George says slowly. 

“Hm?” 

“What did we do yesterday?” 

“Um, practice? Then qualifying?” Kimi says, still staring at George. “I think I should go tell someone -“ 

“Today is the Bahrain Grand Prix?” George asks, forcing the words out and into the sticky, tropical air like this might change something. “Today?”

Kimi’s eyes widen, “Toto!” he shouts, and when the man doesn’t immediately appear, he starts grabbing staff. “Can you find Toto? Do you know where Toto is?” 

George doesn’t fight with the medical team Toto summons too hard. He lets them check him over, writing down all the little test results as if they could somehow reveal a diagnosis that made any of this logical. He mostly watches the TV, his heart rate gradually speeding up on the monitor as torrential rains descend and the race is repeatedly delayed. 

Toto crouches in front of him, blocking his view of the screen. “Do you feel alright to race, George?” 

“Yes,” George says immediately. The answer will never be no. 

Toto searches his face for a moment. “Medical is clearing you. Do you have any idea what this was about?” 

“Stress?” George offers an easy explanation, happy to give Toto what he needs to hear. Never a problem, always a solution at hand - these are things he’s proud to supply. “I could probably be sleeping better. Just a little lapse, humidity is getting to me.” 

“You don’t handle the heat well,” Toto agrees and pats his leg.

Pat. Pat. Pat. Good boy. 

The race finally has a start time and George gets in his car in a daze. It’s possible he’s just had the most bizarre case of déjà vu ever encountered - everything just felt so real. The race, the retirement, the rain - all of it. His hands flex on the wheel as he prepares for the start, trying his best to ignore the tiniest, insane part of him that wonders what will happen when their cars take off in the rain. 

Max and Lewis slow to a stop immediately. The race start is suspended. 

George pulls his car back to the Mercedes garage and climbs out on autopilot. He stands there for a moment, watching the engineers and staff from all the teams flood out onto the track in a sea of color. It’s the same. It’s - Jesus, it’s the same. It’s the same fucking day.

“Software update,” He hears Toto say from somewhere behind him. “FIA says thirty minutes for the cars to be updated with the new software.”

George continues to stare. He hasn’t raced yet. It’s the same day, and he has a chance to fix this nightmare. He can change that podium. 

“George?” 

He feels a tug on his polo and looks down to see Kimi’s scrunched face. Someone has already given him his cooling towel. “Are you coming with us?” 

Right. Toto wants to talk strategy with Kimi. “Ah, you go on ahead. I think I should probably check in with everyone,” He says. 

Kimi nods, giving him one last once over before joining Toto to walk back into the garage. 

George does not check in with the drivers. Instead, he goes to find his engineering team. 

He asks about the power unit. He asks about the upgrade package. He asks his lead engineer to please do one more visual confirmation that every component is running optimally. He goes over every mile difference between his PU and Kimi’s.

His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

He’s reassured that it’s fine, that he’s overreacting about the software update, that everything is working exactly as it should. He’s pushing it, he knows. That his team is just seeing overcompensating perfectionist George Russel nitpicking their work, but there has to be something he can fix - 

“George?” 

He tears his eyes away from the monitor tracking his engine’s response time to see Ollie Bearman standing hesitantly at the mouth of the garage. He’s worrying his Haas cap between his hands, looking unsure if it was alright to even be standing there. 

George abandons the monitor. “Ollie,” He greets, heading outside to meet him. He puts a hand on Ollie’s back, casually guiding him a few paces over and out of reach of the Mercedes garage. No need for him to be swallowed by the beast. 

“Um, sorry - I know that we don’t have a lot of time,” Ollie says. “I just didn’t know if I needed to um, file something with you now? If I had an issue with the power unit? Or maybe it doesn’t matter? I’m not sure how any of this works,” He says, his shoulders hunched like he’s afraid of bothering George at all about this. “I don’t want to do anything wrong.” 

“No, no, no,” George shakes his head. “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong - the opposite, actually. This is what I’m here for.” 

Ollie relaxes, and George goes into his usual GPDA spiel, the same one he gave extensively yesterday - but how would Ollie know that? His chest twists with the ugly feeling of disappointing him. Ollie is practically still a teenager, and George wasn’t there to assist. He failed. 

By the time Ollie heads back to his garage, the swarm of crew and staff on the track has thinned. Ten minutes to race start. 

“You’re slacking.” 

George recognizes the voice - how could he not - but he’s still surprised when he turns around to see Max leaning against the wall between their garages. “Excuse me?” 

Max doesn’t repeat himself. 

George is suddenly, blindingly furious. Max had won yesterday. He had won, and George had lost everything, and he had the nerve to send a text as disgusting as that to him before his car was even cold - and now he wants to criticize his GPDA work? Again? As if George doesn’t know exactly where his shortcomings fall. “I don’t need this right now,” he says tightly. 

“You don’t respond to my text, and Ollie had to come and find you. What exactly is your job if you’re unavailable when drivers have questions?” Max stands up straight. 

George is well aware that he has shirked his duties  - but how does he explain to Max that if he didn’t check the car, there would be nothing left for him? That it would be over. That there would be no racing come contract renewal and he’d have to give up his position anyway. So instead he offers him something much simpler. 

He walks away. He retreats from Max. He steps back into the maw of the Mercedes garage and does not emerge until Toto escorts him to his car. This is familiar - this is something George can excel at. 

George’s car fails five laps from the finish. 

He doesn’t wait this time, uncaring of who sees him leave. The cameras flash, and questions are thrown at him as he shamelessly walks through the media line to get to the parking garage. He spots a few shocked faces on his fellow drivers, but George has nothing to offer them. 

What about the team? What about the car? What about Kimi? The whispers of the press follow him all the way to the car. 

Max doesn’t text him. He waits for it, but it never comes.

…

George is not surprised when he opens his eyes and finds Kimi’s excited face staring up at him. Tired, yes. But not surprised. 

He’s stuck then, in some sort of infinite dream, his days repeating until… until what? Kimi watched that alien movie on their flight a few months ago, some Science Fiction nonsense about killing aliens over and over again with the days repeating. He’d seen that 90’s Groundhog movie with his Mom when he was a kid. He doesn’t know how any of that applies. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. 

Unless he’s not supposed to do anything. 

He leaves Kimi at Mercedes and walks over to Red Bull hospitality, the rain starting to fall as he makes the short walk between buildings. 

Isack is having a coffee under the awning. “Do you want me to get Max?” He asks, gesturing for George to join him underneath for cover. 

He asked the same on their first race day, but George hasn’t done his rounds yet with the drivers. How does Isack know that’s who he’s here to see? Maybe he hasn’t hid the irritation on his face as well as he thought. 

“If you would,” he nods his thanks. 

Max takes his sweet time, dragging his feet and purposely keeping him waiting, if George had to guess, but eventually he emerges, the top half of his Red Bull racing suit hanging around his waist. “What?” 

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” He glances behind Max at the bustling Red Bull unit. “In private.” 

Max raises an eyebrow. “It’s raining.” 

“Then grab an umbrella.” 

Max scowls but picks up a branded umbrella from a table and pushes past George to step out into the rain. George joins him, leading the way behind the hospitality buildings to the cramped alleys of temporary storage units that offered them a small amount of privacy. 

“Race start is in fifteen minutes. What have you come to cry to me about?” Max asks. He sounds bored. 

George wipes his face as the rain starts to pick up. It doesn’t do much, his hair already soaked to his forehead and catching in his eye lashes. “Have you cursed me?” 

“What?” Max stares at him. If he’s shocked George hasn’t come to talk about FIA politics, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he just looks confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“You’ve got to know,” George has to raise his voice to be heard over the rain now, the wind picking up around them in a storm that will delay the race for almost two hours. “You’ve done something to me!” 

Max’s eyes widen. His head turns to the alley they’re secluded in before taking a step forward. They’re nearly chest to chest now, the Red Bull umbrella covering them both. “And it’s a curse?” He hisses. 

George blinks. If this is Max’s admission of guilt, it’s a strange one. The tropical air is humid between them, their breath ghosting over each other’s skin as the rain soaks the ground beneath them. “Yes,” He whispers. 

Max’s mouth pulls into a snarl. “Why are you telling me this before a race?” 

“Because I thought we were past this,” George snarls back. Max pushes, he pulls, that’s how they always end up here. “I thought Baku was - we were - “ 

Max’s stares at him. “I thought so too.” 

George’s mouth goes slack. He doesn’t understand. The rain is going to drown them both while he’s stuck here trying to read the expression on Max’s face. “Something is wrong,” He finally settles on. “I… I know what’s going to happen in the race.” 

Max rolls his eyes, “Sure. Russell to P1, huh?” 

“It’s not about the positions,” he says says and something in his tone brings Max’s eyes back to his face. “It’s not about who wins. I know exactly what is going to happen. We’re going to be delayed and then we’ll have a suspended start because the FIA has fucked up their software for this kind of weather. They’ll update all their cars and then when we start - Bottas is going to spin out and then - ” 
“What is this?” Max interrupts. 

“It’s what’s going to happen!” 

Max’s eyes narrow. “Have you been seen by medical?” 

“Fucking - forget it,” George steps out from under the umbrella. “I hope you enjoy yourself.” 

It’s a pathetic, wet walk back to Mercedes. He feels Max’s eyes on him long after he’s turned the corner. 

The race stars, and then it’s suspended. The same as it always is. 

George lays down in the Mercedes garage, willing his soaking wet hair to dry despite the humidity. He needs to talk to the drivers - Ollie at the very least. He knows the rest of them only tolerate his insistence on doing things by the book. He just wants everyone to be heard, that no one is screwed over by something bigger than themselves. 

A shadow passes over top of him. George opens his eyes to find Max staring down at him. 

“How did you get in here?” He asks. It’s not exactly locked down security, especially for a world champion, but he’s pretty sure their main competition shouldn’t be allowed to just waltz in and have a look at their performance monitors. 

“Toto,” Max says simply. 

Right. George feels stupid for even asking. “Alright, what are you doing here then?” he mutters and sits up. 

“So you have a whistle blower in the FIA?” Max asks, casually sitting down next to him on the bench. 

George’s eyes widen, his head darting to the side to see if anyone overheard him. “Be careful with throwing around accusations like that,” he hisses. “Especially in here.” 

“What else am I supposed to think?” Max crosses his legs. “You knew what was going to happen with the cars. That they needed a software update for the weather. You knew about a huge weakness in the new regulations.” 

“Because you cursed me,” He whispers, shoving a finger into Max’s chest. 

Max squints. “… you’re being literal?” 

“For Christ’s sake,” George’s head falls back against the bench. “I wish you had the decency to just kill me instead.” 

“British humor escapes me, I find it stupid,” Max says. “You think I have gone to a witch or some sort of mystic person? A Witte Wieven? And that I wasted my one real curse on George Russell?” 

“I would not put it past you.” 

“There are much more interesting people I would like to curse. You don’t even make the list. And for what? The curse of foresight?” 

“It’s the same day,” George snaps, and it feels good to say it out loud. So good he doesn’t bother to worry about how insane he sounds. “This is my third day racing the Grand Prix. I keep waking up at the start of the race.” 

Max laughs. George wants to smack him, but he holds back, a few brain cells of self control still firing inside him. 

“You are loyal, I will give you that,” Max says. “You’re repeating days, that’s your cover for having insider information?” 

George ignores him. 

“Oh come on,” Max smacks a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me about this race. Bottas spins out and then what?” 

“And then I DNF five laps from finish,” George snaps. “Lewis climbs to P3 from the back of the grid while Kimi gets second - and a WDC title all but guaranteed because my car couldn’t make it to the end. And you - “ 

Max put his hands to George’s mouth, stopping him from speaking. “I don’t need to know that.”

Max’s hand is warm - everything is warm here, there is no escaping the humidity - but it presses firmly against his mouth. When George speaks, his lips brush against his skin. “Why not?” 

“I make my own fate. The opposite of a curse.” 

George can’t disagree. 

When the race finally starts, it feels different. Perhaps because George has told someone about this hell, even if they don’t believe him. The world feels a tiny bit less isolated, if only for the next few hours until everything starts again.

And yet, nothing changes. 

Bottas spins out. He fights Kimi for second place behind Max and his car will not cooperate, dropping him further behind as he chases after the last podium seat. And, like always, his engine fails right before the finish. 

It’s still just as humiliating, but this time there is a small silver lining. Max will know he was telling the truth. Max won’t be able to logic this away. Maybe Max will take him more seriously and rack his brain for whatever magic he’s come across lately with bad intentions for George. It makes the walk through Mercedes hospitality to the viewing room a little less miserable. 

Except he’s forgotten one thing. Max never follows script. 

“Hamilton is P3” 

“What happened to George?” 

They’re playing Max’s radio. George watches the onboard camera as his hands flex against the steering wheel. 

“Retired.” 

And that’s the end of it for the next lap. Max continues in first as Kimi chases and everything is exactly as it always is - 

And then Max slows. His pace decreases abruptly, the gap between him and Kimi shrinking until Kimi is right on his wheel. When Kimi moves to overtake him, Max strikes. 

Contact. Kimi hits the wall with precision - not enough to be catastrophic, but enough to put an end to his race. DNF. 

Max crosses the finish line, followed by Lewis and then Charles. George can hear Toto’s shouting outrage from outside. The Mercedes team stares in shock at the screen. 

George cracks a smile. 

…

Kimi is alright, thank God. George meets him when the cart rolls up to bring him back to hospitality and gives him a firm hug. “That’s both of us today,” he says, rubbing Kimi’s back as he presses his face into George’s chest with a heaving sigh much too heavy for his age. 

“Is he mad?” Kimi asks, his voice muffled. 

George doesn’t have to look at Toto to know the answer. “Not at you,” He says and squeezes Kimi a bit tighter. “It’s an honor, you know, to be taken out by Max Verstappen. Chin up.” 

Kimi swallows and takes a step back from his arms, jutting his chin up high. 

“There we are,” George smiles. “Come on, we’ll go together.” 

Toto has calmed by the time they join him. He ruffles Kimi’s hair and smacks George’s shoulder and tells them in no uncertain terms that this sort of carelessness will never happen again. He’ll make sure it never happens again because this is on all of them. George nods because he’d rather die than disappoint Toto, and he’s in a Hell of that exact creation. 

George skips the podium and heads to the FIA temporary office space. He knows where Max will be. 

The crowds have dispersed, and the track has gone silent by the time Max finally emerges, a thick folder of citation history in his hand. “Well?” George asks. “What’s the verdict?” 

“They want to ban me,” Max says. “But they can’t. So I’ll have a disciplinary hearing in two days to decide what will be the appropriate punishment.” 

“You gave up your win. Your record streak,” George says, knowing that Max is well aware of this, but he can’t let it sit unacknowledged. 

Max shrugs and starts to walk to the parking Garage. “If what you’ve been saying is true, then I’ll have another chance at it tomorrow.” 

George gaps before hurrying after him. “You believe me then?” 

“Hard not to after what happened.” 

“But you… you changed it.” 

Max glances at him. “Did you think it couldn’t be?” 

George frowns. “I guess I hadn’t considered it.” 

Max sighs. “They’re never going to give it to you. You’re going to have to take the championship from Toto.” 

George stills, Max’s text hanging in the air between them, a little different than he remembered it. “Not Kimi?” 

“Kimi fights fair. Toto does not, not with you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Max shrugs and unlocks his car. “You should tell me again.” 

“Tell you what?” George frowns. “About the loop?” 

Max nods. “Maybe you need to win. You’ll need to convince me before we race to let you.” 

“Let me?” George scoffs. “I’ve won more races this season than you have - especially today! You’re sitting at zero.” 

“That attitude is not going to help you.” 

“You really can’t think of anything? You haven’t been around anything that could have done this to me? Maybe you tossed a coin into a fountain? Blown out a birthday candle?” George sighs. 

“George,” Max says, and if George didn’t know better, he’d say he sounds almost fond. “I just gave up my record for you. Try not to be an ass.” 

…

George doesn’t tell Max in the next loop, but his point repeats in his head during the delayed start. Max had been able to change the outcome of the race, maybe George needs to do something similar. 

George considers himself a very clean driver. He’s not like Max, he’s not looking for dirty wins at all costs. But this is his fourth time racing Sepang … 

He cuts off Kimi straight off the start and takes the lead. He chooses aggressive lines, swinging widely on defense like a man who has nothing to lose. He’s familiar with the corners now, knows the wettest spots on the track, and is setting lap times that have his race engineer cutting himself off in shock. On his fourth race of the Sepang Circuit, George Russel flies. 

And then Max is there. 

George thought leading this race was thrilling but it pales to this. It’s a cheap consolation prize to fighting with Max on the track. This is what George should be doing every race - Max in his mirrors, Max at his side, their cars edging so close they nearly collide before backing off at the turns. George has something Max wants, and he’s going to make him work for it. 

For ten laps they go back and forth, Max overtaking then George, a fight on the straights for speed and desperate overtakes that push their cars to the limit. Max barely manages to get in front of him and George jerks his car to let him at the last moment, well aware Max isn’t above sending them both into the wall to overtake, but George doesn’t want this to end so soon. 

“George, Kimi has pace. Please give position.” 

 George’s eyes dart to his mirrors. He can’t even see Kimi behind him. 

“I think I’m in a good spot -“ He says into the radio. 

“Give Kimi position. That’s team orders.” 

George’s hands tighten on the wheel. This is his race and the only good thing that has come out of the past few horrible loops. He doesn’t want to give Max up. 

He ignores the radio, boosting forward to put more pressure on Max. Tomorrow he’ll be good and race like he’s supposed to. Tomorrow he’ll be a good teammate, a good Mercedes boy, a good son. But today, he’ll be  - 

George’s car jerks underneath him. The engine grinds, and his speed quickly falls. He’s got enough momentum to pull to the side of the track as a yellow flag comes out. He’s only made it through half the race. 

Today, he’s a good bitch. 

Toto has a lot of words for him after. He pushed the car too hard, he was driving recklessly, he put Kimi in a worse position - what the hell was he even thinking? 

George doesn’t answer. It’s true, if the engine was going to fail, driving like that didn’t do it any favors. It makes sense that George degraded it too fast. That it’s his fault. 

It’s just strange it happened right after he ignored team orders. 

He ends up on a couch in hospitality, still in his racing suit as he watches the rest of the race. He can’t be bothered changing. He can’t be bothered with much at all as he watches Max cross the finish line. He feels dazed as he watches the race recap, so different from what it had been the past few days. Instead of George Russell’s pathetic retirement, the commentators focus on his fight for first. His fight with Max. 

Long after the cool down room and podium, the clips keep playing. The Mercedes staff has left, leaving George alone in the dark hospitality room with the light of the screen flickering over his face. 

“You didn’t do press.” 

George continues to stare as a clip of Max taking a risky turn close to the wall plays for the fifth time. “I didn’t.” 

“They kept asking me about you.” 

“I bet you told them to shove it.” 

Max steps in front of him, blocking George’s view of the screen. “I told them I couldn’t wait to do it again.” 

George looks up at Max - a different view then he usually gets. He’s showered since the race, clean and pressed in a branded polo and jeans. George feels like a mess next to him, his hair still sweat slicked to his forehead and his race suit sticking to him. “To win?” 

“To race you,” Max says and sits down next to him on the couch. “I’m sorry about your car.” 

George rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not.” 

Max cracks a smile. “I’m not sorry I won. But I would have liked to do it beating you, not because your car is shit.” 

“Awfully picky.” 

“I’ve been told I’m difficult,” Max agrees. Have they always sat this close together? George doesn’t remember, but Max’s arm is pressing into his, and with each breath he takes, a little of the tension leaves George’s body. 

“That was a great run,” Max murmurs, eyes on the screen. “I’ve never seen you defend like that.”

George’s heart pounds in his throat. 

…

If he’s not allowed to win, then maybe the race is the problem. Maybe the race needs to not happen at all. Maybe it’s a curse of the Sepang track being taken out on George. 

“Toto says the storm isn’t clearing.” 

“Does he now?” George says, already walking past Kimi to get out of hospitality. 

A familiar set of footprints follows. “Where are we going?” 

“FIA management,” he says. “This will be educational for you, actually. Come along too, Kimi.” 

…

“As you can see, the safety car is just unable to get any grip in this weather - oh, this is just in. George Russell is calling for an immediate vote for - am I hearing this right? A permanent race suspension?” 

“George Russell, Director of the GPDA, is calling into question the safety of drivers under the new FIA regulations. The race start is going to continue to be delayed until the  drivers can come to an agreement.” 

“Have you ever heard of anything like this happening?” 

“Not that I can ever remember in my years racing.”

“You can count on George Russell to call a meeting at any rate.”  

…

They’re crowded into one of the temporary meeting rooms that have been set up on the track, all 22 drivers and four FIA representatives. It’s chaos. 

“No one is making you race in this weather, George,” Lando laughs loudly. “Can we get this over with? I wanna finish this race before midnight.” 

George rubs the bridge of his news as the chatter from the drivers increases. This is always the rebuttal every time he tries to bring up safety - that he’s soft and high maintenance for wanting it and everyone else is just fine. 

“George has brought to our attention a critical error in the latest software release. We’re confident that we can patch the issue and send out an update in as little as half an hour,” Sarah, the FIA representative, explains. 

“It shouldn’t be on us to be bringing this issue to the FIA,” George says firmly. “I recommend in the interest of all drivers here that we cancel the Grand Prix until a full diagnostic can be run on the issue.” 

“Why?” Charles asks. “If the problem is fixed, then we can race.” 

“Yes, but if they didn’t know about this, what other issues might arise? Engine failure? No acceleration? They could ruin our race but also kill someone.” 

“Sounds like regular racing,” Max says bluntly. His arms are crossed and he’s slumped low in his chair, unimpressed with being forced to attend the meeting at all. “There’s always a risk. Things fail and we fix them. If you can’t handle that then maybe you shouldn’t be racing.” 

George’s jaw clenches. “One less driver on the grid always benefits you.” 

“Oh fuck off, George,” Max sits up. “Stop dragging us into your political bullshit. We’re here to race, not cry about it.” 

George knows he’s lost before they call the vote. He can’t win here, not over something like this. They think he’s always crying wolf over regulations and - 

Well. Point proven. No one likes George Russell. 

…

George crashes his car into Max at the start line. He waits until Max cuts in front of him and then fully accelerates, shoving them back into the wall before anyone else can reach the first turn. Max gets out of his car ready to fight. He’s swearing viciously, guaranteeing himself a penalty just as bad as George’s for the crash, but George helpfully cuts him off by shoving him to the ground. Max throws the first punch. Trackside security has to pull them off each other. 

It doesn’t solve anything, but George feels a little better. 

…

Short of a war, he’s not sure what would make the FIA cancel the race. He told Oscar the same, in what feels like years ago now. There is no doubt in his mind that they will always race if the FIA has any say. 

So, perhaps he needs to get a different governing board involved. 

It’s not pleasant, what he does, but he’s running out of options. He takes the antifreeze from the Mercedes garage storage where there aren’t any cameras. He dumps the entire thing into his water bottle. 

It tastes sweet. It goes down easy. 

He drinks half the bottle before making his way to his car for their first attempt at a race start. He feels strange - drunk. The world around him blurs and his stomach cramps. Someone hands him his helmet. George glances down the track at the other drivers climbing into their cars. Is that what he’s supposed to do? He can’t drive like this. He giggles a little at the thought. 

“George?” 

There are people talking to him, but he can’t focus. His vision swims with the lights above the track, and suddenly he’s on his knees. He coughs, choking on his breath. There’s shouting, and it’s very loud - he winces and tries to get back up but his body fights him. His hands are wet - why is he wet? Is that blood? 

He blinks. Lewis is above him. He looks upset. 

“What’s wrong?” He tries to ask, but it comes out strange and slurred. 

“Medical is coming,” Lewis tells him urgently, and he sounds so serious. Well - Lewis always sounds serious. He catches Kimi peeking out over Lewis’s shoulder, and he also looks upset. How has George managed to piss everyone off today? The only person missing is - 

“Move.” 

Ah. Max is here. Max is glaring at him like George has just put a hole in his car. He’s on his knees next to Lewis, his gloved hands hovering like they want to do something, but he can’t figure out what. 

George coughs again and more blood splatters all over his race suit. He hears gasps. 

“Get those fucking cameras out of here!” Max snarls. 

Lewis’s hand is on the back of his neck, keeping him from choking. “I miss you,” he tries to tell him, but it’s hard to move his mouth. He thinks there are more people now. Colorful driver suits stand around him, but he can’t quite focus on anything at all. 

...

If you’re just joining us, George Russell has been airlifted to Hospital Cyberjaya after having a medical emergency on the race track. We’re told local police have been called, and we’re awaiting word from the FIA. Please keep Russell in your thoughts.” 

…

Toto is sitting at his bedside when George wakes up. 

“Thank God,” Toto sighs in relief as soon as he sees George’s open eyes. “You are not allowed to do that ever again.” 

George cracks a smile. His throat feels like shit. “What happened?” He asks, his voice like sandpaper. Did they fall for his set up? “What day is it?

“Someone - and we will find out who - put antifreeze in your water bottle,” Toto explains, his fingers curling into a fist. “The police are going through the cameras at the track as we speak - it’s only been a few hours.” 

George nods, knowing his little performance probably doesn’t have much time left. “And the race?” 

“The FIA cleared everyone for a go ahead after the police finished the preliminary - which I think is complete bullshit,” Toto explains. “But it didn’t matter, no one would do it.” 

“What?” George shakes his head, not understanding. 

“No one would race. Lewis called a vote and it was unanimous. They were going to stage a grid walk off unless the FIA canceled it.” 

George stares at Toto. “The drivers… canceled it.” He thinks of that impossible meeting he called where Max had practically shot him for even suggesting a race not go ahead. That these were risks they all happily took. 

“They did,” Toto confirms and reaches a hand out to run through George’s hair, lingering there like he needed the reassurance George was in one piece. “For you.” 

George can’t help himself. He leans into the touch. 

“I know this year hasn’t gone how you hoped,” Toto says gently. “But you’re still my boy, George. You’ll have your turn.” 

He wonders, a bit pathetically, if that has ever really made a difference. 

…

George tries not to be too disappointed when he wakes up at the start of the loop. It was a long shot anyway. At the very least, his body doesn’t feel like it’s dying anymore. His last hope is that Max is right. George needs to win - but there is no way in hell he’s going to humiliate himself by asking for his help. 

So he races. Again and again and again. He pushes track limits and lines. He uses every car to his advantage to diminish drag. He races smooth, he pushes hard, and everything in between. The only difference any of it makes is the lap he ends on when his engine fails. 

He’s experimenting with different ways to take the last turn to reduce the most strain on his engine when his acceleration abruptly dies and he sends his car straight into the side wall after only five laps. It’s going to be one of those days. 

He climbs out of his car and waves to signal he’s alright - all extremely familiar at this point. A safety car is deployed, and he climbs out to stand on the edge of the track until he’s given the signal to climb through the fence. He did not account for Lando. 

Lando, who is either not paying attention or has decided to try and keep his tyres as warm as possible despite the safety car, hits the turn at full acceleration only for the front of his car to catch on George’s tyre and send the car flying straight into the wall. The same wall George is waiting against. 

Everything feels slow for a moment. George watches the McLaren flip once directly in front of him, so close he could reach out and touch it. He can read each of the sponsorship stickers on the body and see the print of Lando’s helmet. There is nothing George can do, no time to even brace for impact, he can only watch as the tail wing comes right for him - then passes right over the top of his helmet. The car rolls once more before landing right side up in a crushed pile in the middle of the track. 

George drops to his knees. Regardless of the loop, he’d rather not find out if death is something he can come back from. His breath feels shallow, the memory of the heat of the car just a few inches from his face repeating in his mind. There’s always a risk every time you got in a car but that… that would have been a horrible way to go.

The footage is even worse. Every TV back at the paddock is playing it, the shocking clip of George standing in his racing suit and helmet as the wing of Norris’s car perfectly slices through the air less than an inch above his head. 

“This would have surely been a horrific tragedy if anything had gone even the tiniest bit differently. That wing would have decapitated Russell if he had been only a step further on the track.” 

“Baffling move from last year’s World Champion Lando Norris. Do you think he has any idea of what he could have just caused? He’s just lost McLaren any chance at the constructors’ championship for the ban surely coming his way and above all else, a miracle is the only reason a driver isn’t dead today.”

"We’re taking you now to where our Grand Prix winner Max Verstappen is climbing out of his car to celebrate his first win of this season - oh, it looks like Verstappen isn’t stopping at the podium and … seems to be heading to the McLaren garage!"

George runs back out to parc fermé just in time to see Max grab Lando by the collar of his racing suit. “Are you a fucking idiot? Do you know what a safety car means!"

Cameras are flashing, and George has to fight through the crowd to get to them. Lewis has somehow appeared - he seems to be doing that a lot lately - standing just behind Max with his arms crossed, as if this is all completely normal. Like the four time and seven time world champions regularly have discussions on track rules with Lando since he’s won his first. 

He barely manages to grab Max’s arm before he can bring his fist to Lando’s jaw. “Enough!” 

Lando is breathing hard, staring up at Max like a reaper had just appeared in front of him before he drags his gaze over. “George,” He says, and his voice cracks. “I am so sorry - “ 

Max abruptly lets go of him, letting Lando fall to his knees on the ground as he storms off, pushing through the wall of press in the direction of his garage. 

“Don’t mind him,” George says and helps Lando up. “I’d only be pissed if you actually killed me. It was an accident.” 

Lando shakes his head, “God, can you imagine? That clip they showed - George I can’t believe I did that -“ 

“We can talk about it later,” George says and pats his back. “Maybe tomorrow. After we’ve cooled down and there aren’t this many cameras filming us.” 

Lewis is still standing there after he gets Lando back into his garage. “Are you going to try and punch him too?” 

Lewis shakes his head as he walks over to George’s side and drops an arm around his shoulders. “I think Max wanted to kill him.” 

“He wants to kill everyone,” George says as Lewis starts to guide them back to the hospitality units. 

Lewis raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on that. 

Max is waiting for him outside his drivers room. George should probably be surprised, but nothing that has happened in here with Max has been normal. “By all means,” He says dryly and opens up the door for him to come inside. 

Max doesn’t bother with a response, simply steps into the room and kicks the door closed. “Are you alright?” 

George nods and unzips his suit. “Not a scratch. It felt much more serious when it happened, but I’m in one piece.” 

“He should be banned. Tonight.” 

George raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you believe in banning drivers for stealing a few extra seconds?” 

“That wasn’t stealing, that was as good as a murder attempt,” Max’s hands fist at his sides. “He could have killed you - he should have killed you.” 

“I rather like that he didn’t -“ 

“Have you seen that footage?” Max snarls, “That should have been it for you. That would have been it one thousand times to one!” He slams his fist down on the table, and the room goes silent.  

“Are you okay, Max?” George asks softly. 

Max swallows, his eyes trailing over George’s face. He reaches out a tentative hand and presses his thumb to the hollow of George’s neck, his breath hitching as he feels the hammer of his pulse. He keeps it there for a breath before slowly dragging it up the length of George’s neck, forcing him to tilt his head back until Max’s thumb stops at his jaw. 

“Is this okay?” Max murmurs. 

George swallows, feeling the rise and fall of Max’s thumb against his skin. He’s not sure what this is but he knows the answer: “Yes.” 

Max’s fingers join his thumb, grabbing the edge of George’s jaw and tilting it down to meet his gaze. “ I -“ 

Somewhere in the unit a door slams closed. There’s laughter, people talking as they walk past, the walls too thin to not pick up every sound. 

Max drops his hand. George tries not to whine. 

“This isn’t - not here,” Max clears his throat. “You should get some rest anyway.” 

George nods, not knowing what else to do. Max gives him one last lingering look before he slips out of the room.

...

After thirty one loops - he counts them every day - George gives up. To win, he's going to need Max’s assistance as disgusting as it is to say, but his pride has really taken a nose dive the past few days. He can do what Max suggested in the first place and convince him before the race begins. 

Isack gets Max for him, and after a short argument, he follows him out into the rain, the same as before. George leads them out behind the storage buildings as thunder crashes overhead. 

“Race start is in fifteen minutes. What have you come to cry to me about?” Max asks from under his umbrella. 

George takes a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain his situation. “This is going to be difficult to hear,” he starts, trying to find his way to the point without Max immediately thinking he’s gone insane. “But I need you to believe me.” 

Max raises an eyebrow. 

“I - “ George looks up at the wet sky, letting the strike of rain ground him for a moment. He can do this, he can convince Max before they race. “I’ve been living in hell over this, but I have no other options here, Max.” 

“Get on with it, or I’m walking away.” 

“Right - so,” George clears his throat. “I’m stuck here and you’re the only one who has ever seemed to make a difference in what happens. You always win - which has left me with no choice but to tell you how I -“ 

“You’re insufferable,” Max says, and before George can defend himself, Max’s takes a step forward and presses his mouth against George’s. 

Oh. Max thinks  - 

They’re kissing. George can’t think clearly because Max is kissing him. Max has grabbed George by the collar of his race suit to make him bend down so he can kiss him without having to stretch. His mouth tastes like the Red Bull he’d been drinking when George went to get him. His lips are soft. These are all new and very interesting things George learns in the few seconds they’re pressed against each other. 

They pull away from each other at the same time. Max is very helpfully still holding the umbrella, and they stay, pressed close underneath it, just breathing each other’s air for a long moment. 

Max interrupts it first, because he’s an ass. “You need to learn to shut up - oof” 

George kisses him, grabbing at Max’s shoulders to pull him closer. What a fucking idiot - 

A click. Soft, barely audible over the rain. 

They both break away to turn toward the noise, just in time to see a flash of orange disappear between two of the storage buildings. They glance at each other before going to investigate. 

The temporary units lead to a dead end, a third storage container having been set directly behind it, leaving a man in a Mclaren polo awkwardly caught in the alley. “Just taking stock,” He says to them with a nervous laugh. 

George squints. This was the staff member who had run between him and Oscar on that very first loop. Had he always been here, watching him fight with Max on a previous day and now - well, what they had done instead.

“Give me your phone,” Max says. 

The man doesn’t argue and shakily hands it over. 

“Oscar says they’ve had some staff turnover,” George says, lurking over Max’s shoulder to see the photo album he’s flipping through. Pictures of McLaren specs, a few of the Haas drivers half naked in a sauna, and finally a very rainy photo of him and Max under the umbrella. Max deletes them all. 

“So… are you just selling photos to anyone who will take them?” George asks, not able to find a real motive besides gossip in the subject matter. 

The man glares. “Are you and your boyfriend going to rat me out?” 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” George and Max say at the same time. They purposely don’t look at each other. 

“I don’t ever want to see you around here again,” Max says. George would agree if everything wasn’t just going to repeat tomorrow. Instead, he snaps the phone in half. 

“Leave,” George points at the staff exit. The man doesn’t need to be told twice.

Max’s watch beeps and he sighs. “Race start,” He says, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “We should - “ He cuts off, staring at George. 

“What?”

Max clears his throat and reaches out, brushing his thumb over the edge of George’s jaw. “Nothing,” He says and quickly pulls his hand away, practically running back to the Red Bull garage. 

Right. Max had kissed him. He had kissed Max. And somehow he hadn’t even been able to properly bring up the time loop. Great work, George. 

He considers Max is just fucking with him, but then, what does it mean that George kissed him the second time? He didn’t feel particularly pissed, he just wanted to shut him up like he’d shut George up…

They start the race, then suspend it, the same as always. The paddock turns into chaos. George’s mind is on Max. 

“George!’ Kimi cackles when he spots him coming out of his car. “Who have you been kissing?” 

George chokes on his water. “What?”

Kimi gestures to his jaw before laughing again, and George makes a beeline for his driver room He stares at himself in the mirror, his jaw covered in a red graze from his bottom lip to his chin. Beard burn. He has beard burn from Max’s stupid stubble. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” He says under his breath and starts searching for shaving lotion in the toiletries basket to try and calm his skin down. Max doesn’t text him, which he finds a bit strange, but maybe he’s still reeling about the kiss himself. 

The kiss. George thinks he should probably feel more strange about it, but when he searches for any negative emotions, he comes up short. In light of a time loop, kissing Max feels like the most normal thing in the world. 

He emerges from his room and heads back to the garage. Kimi has disappeared with Toto, which means he’ll have some time to himself before the race resumes. He just needs to end the loop and try again tomorrow. 

“Are you making your rounds?” 

George turns to find Max standing at the edge of the garage. He doesn’t pass through today, lingering on the edge like he was waiting for George to step out and join him. 

He doesn’t hesitate to do just that. 

“Did you have a question?” He asks. Max has never done this, come to talk with him during the break. He always sequestered himself inside Red Bull, only texting George if things were alright between them. 

Max shakes his head, “I think it’ll be good for me to hear what the other drivers say,” he says as if this is totally normal. As if he has ever, in his racing career, volunteered to spend time with George talking about politics. Maybe Max is the one who needs to be seen by medical today. 

George must be looking at him strangely because Max scoffs and elbows him, “Stop.” 

George just shrugs and leads the way to the McLaren garage. If Max wants to come, he’s not going to stop him. They can talk with the drivers. He feels Max’s eyes on him as they walk, and it takes a moment to remember the rash still on his jaw. “Admiring your handiwork?” He asks dryly. “Really lovely.” 

“I think so.” 

George nearly trips on his own feet. Max just laughs and walks ahead. 

The sight of George and Max together seems to inspire a bit of panic in the other drivers. He feels bad about it, understanding that to the rookies especially, this could be interpreted as a sign of a coming apocalypse. He gets a lot more questions and more drivers coming to talk to him - even Lando jogs over to the Alpine garage to get the talk all over again after hearing from Oscar that they’d come through. 

Max is in a good mood, which helps settle some of the anxiety. He laughs with the rookies and chats for a good few minutes with Charlies in the Ferrari garage. He walks at George’s side the entire length of parc fermé until they’re back at the split between Red Bull and Mercedes. 

George knows this is when he should bring it up. That he should explain to Max that he needs to win, that if Max can do whatever he can from the front of the grid, George can work from behind and maybe then he’ll finally be able to get out of here - 

But George doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to ask Max to lose. He doesn’t want to win a race like that. He doesn’t want to decide the outcome before the driver has even gotten in their car. 

George decides he’d rather damn himself than be fixed to win. 

“I don’t have a lot of confidence in my car,” He says softly. 

Max shrugs. “You’re not always going to. You’re going to lose a lot in this business.” 

“I think,” George says slowly. “I think no one else does either.” 

Max’s mouth thins and he looks behind George to the Mercedes garage before meeting his eyes again, “So?” 

“What do you mean, so?” 

“So, they don’t have confidence. No one is going to give you that. No one is going to give you a perfect car. No one is going to give you a championship title.” 

“And I’m just supposed to lose?” He hisses. 

Max gestures around them. “You’re going to. Maybe you win today, but you lose tomorrow. What matters is that you race how you want. That you are happy with your performance at the end of this. Toto can’t give you that.” 

George’s hands fist at his sides. “That’s shitty advice.” 

“Because it’s not advice, it’s the truth,” Max says and bumps his arm against George’s. “I need to go, I’ll see you on the track.” 

…

The race is the same, it’s always the same, everything is the fucking same - 

They fall into their usual position, Max at the front, then George, with Kimi gaining in third. It’s exhausting to have to do this. George has been having a good day - maybe the best day in a really long time. 

He takes the corners quick, not as fast as he knows he can after racing this track countless times, but enough to keep Kimi further back. He’s chasing Max, and that’s enough to keep his mood from completely falling. He’s going to be stuck here, doing this forever, because he can’t manage to do the one job he’s supposed to be one of the best in the world at. 

“George, Kimi has pace. Please give position.” 

He’s going to die here because a teenager is better than him. Because he’s failed before he ever got to really try. Because all George has ever done is beg and no one will fucking give anything to him but scraps - 

“Give Kimi position. That’s team orders.” 

George turns off his radio. In the silence, he can only stare at the road and Max ahead. He wants something and he’s going to try. Max must have been told about his radio trouble from his engineer because George can see his head repeatedly glancing back in his mirrors. He spares him a thumbs up. 

He’s ten laps from finish and is going to have to manage it without going into pit. If he doesn’t push the engine he might be able to get the car across the line. He’s is driving blind now but it’s alright. He knows this track better than any other he’s raced on. He’s not going to DNF. Toto wants dominance but George has control. 

He doesn’t push, he just follows, keeping himself tight to Max without attacking as they eat up a few more laps. Lap five comes and goes. George’s hands tighten around the wheel. 

On lap four the engine starts to slow. He can feel the telltale warnings and backs off, letting Max go as he slows to a more manageable pace. Kimi flies by him seconds later. Two more laps. 

Lewis passes him, on the chase for a podium he well deserves but all George wants to do is finish. He’s so close. One more lap disappears underneath him. He’s not sure at this point how much of his speed is coasting, but he’s going to take it, he’s going to use everything he fucking can to get over that line as he hears the stands start to scream. Max has won. The end is in sight, and he’s still on the track. 

Charles overtakes right before the finish, and it’s all George can do to keep his car moving over the line before it grinds to a halt six feet after the finish. He’s fifth. He made fifth. He fucking scored points. He stares up at his position on the screen and nearly cries. He crawled on his hands and knees, but he did it. The air is still wet and his hair sticks to his head underneath the helmet from the humidity as a light drizzle falls on the track. Rain brings the best drivers to the front. 

It doesn’t take very long for Toto to figure out there is no issue with his radio and he’s pissed, but George doesn’t care. He stays in the garage long enough to change out of his race suit and jogs to the podium in time to see Max get his trophy. Kimi beams at him as soon as he spots him in the crowd, like he’s been looking the entire time, every loop. 

Max finds him before the cool down room. 

“Big win, congratulations,” George says, unable to help the grin on his face at the obvious joy all over Max. “You keep your record.” 

“Yes,” Max agrees and slips something into George’s hands. “For after,” he says before following Lewis to the cool down room. 

George looks down at his hand to find a folded Post-it note. There’s a room number written on it. 

…

George has done a few stupid things during his loops. This is by far the stupidest. 

“Should we talk about it - uh, us?” He asks Max before he’s even all the way inside his hotel. 

Max rolls his eyes and slams the door closed, “No. No more fucking talking,” He says and grabs George’s shoulders to pull him down into a heated kiss. 

…

It’s the sun that wakes him up in the morning. He scrunches his nose, burying his face into the hotel duvet to try and block out the sunlight. A rough voice laughs from somewhere to his right and a callused hand runs down the length of his back, more teasing than comforting. “Has the sun upset you?” 

George mutters darkly under his breath. Max and his stupid comments, didn’t he know it was always raining - 

George bolts upright in bed. Max is lounging against the pillows, an iPad propped up against his thigh as footage of yesterday’s race plays on repeat. The spread of the blanket between his legs is the only thing giving him an inch of modesty. His hand hovers in the space between them, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch George and is worried about doing something wrong. 

“What’s today?” George whispers. 

Max stares at him. “Monday.” 

He stares back. “And yesterday?” 

“Sunday. Race day.” 

“Holy shit,” George whispers and falls back into the pillows, staring out the balcony window. “I did it. Holy fucking shit.” The loop broke. He's out. Was it just finishing the race? Or something else -?

Max’s face suddenly blocks his view of the morning sunlight. “This wasn’t what I expected you to freak out about.” 

George rolls his eyes then quickly pulls them up and away from Max’s bare chest. Right. They’re still naked, and he can now see the purpling bite marks trailing down Max’s collar bone to the jut of his hip. 

Max follows his gaze, “You bite like you’re hungry.” 

George smiles, all teeth.