Chapter Text
Sunday, July 7, 2024
George was used to finding a silver lining in shit situations, but retiring from his home race after putting it on pole didn’t leave him with much to work with.
The flat was quiet, too quiet after the roar of Silverstone. Rain misted the windowpanes. The faint hum of traffic outside only made the silence feel heavier.
At least he wasn’t stuck in a hotel and could sulk in his own living room.
At least his teammate had won and gotten good points for the team.
At least it wasn’t his fault.
And that’s about where his silver linings for Silverstone 2024 ended.
At least he had this bottle of scotch from Christmas last year. Fuck, that was the real silver lining. He squinted at the label. Okay, maybe not scotch. Bourbon worked too.
Figures. Even his self-pity couldn’t stay on brand.
He unscrewed the top and drank straight from the neck. It burned going down, sweet where it shouldn’t be, but he liked the sting. It felt earned.
At least he had finished his media duties early. That one was a more bittersweet silver lining. At least he had all night to wallow. That was a better one.
Alex had offered to come by with dinner, but George didn’t want company. Alex knew him too well, knew when to leave him to sulk without all the chattering and sympathy.
George took another swig. The bottle thudded against the coffee table. He ordered chicken from his favorite place, threw on a hoodie and joggers, and parked himself on the couch. His thumb moved on autopilot from Instagram to Twitter to TikTok, every other post about the race. Every clip of Lewis wrapped up in the Union Jack sent a twitch through his jaw. He swiped it all away.
On Twitch, he found someone streaming a game he liked and let the noise fill the flat. He fetched his food at the door and ate greasy chicken with one hand, the bourbon resting by his knee. The chatter from the screen made a pleasant hum, easy to laugh along with, easy not to think. That was the point.
By almost midnight, he should have been asleep. But sleep meant thinking, and thinking meant Silverstone. So, no, he would keep not caring a little longer.
He pried open a tub of sorbet from the freezer, hacked at it with a spoon until the surface chipped like ice, then gave up. Too freezer-burnt to be worth it.
The streamer signed off, leaving a silence that rang. George scrolled through the recommended feeds, eyes half-lidded and sticky with exhaustion. One stream title briefly caught his attention.
FORMULA ONE SILVERSTONE REACTION.
It wasn’t exactly original, but the description below made him snort.
“RIP GEORGE RUSSELL.”
RIP, indeed.
He hovered over the thumbnail longer than he would admit, then clicked out of morbid curiosity and a bit of ego.
The bloke on screen looked like any number of sim racers with dark-blond hair, light scruff, and a cheap camera. He was reclined in his racing chair, the broadcast feed minimized in the corner.
“No, mate, you’re crazy,” the streamer was laughing as George tuned in. “Ricciardo’s overtake on Norris in lap one was way more impressive than Hamilton passing Russell.”
Interesting take. George didn’t immediately feel like turning it off. He took another sip and went rummaging for chocolate.
“No, that’s what I’m saying,” the streamer continued. “Hamilton passing Russell in the wet when Russell had mechanical issues means nothing. He took advantage—yeah, fair, but did you see Norris in quali? Daniel should’ve been nowhere near that quick, and he still got him in three turns with a limping Red Bull.”
George raised his eyebrows, nodding to himself. Fair point. Daniel might still be leading the championship, but the McLarens had the faster car. Lando should’ve never let him past.
“Nah, you’re just fucking obsessed with Hamilton, mate,” the streamer laughed again. He had a nice, raspy voice with a hint of a lisp. George found he quite liked the sound of it.
Bingo. George pulled out a box of Kinder chocolates from his aunt who still thought he was twelve. The crinkle of the foil made him grin. He padded back to the couch and collapsed in a victorious heap. Tonight, he kind of was twelve. Thanks, Patricia.
The stream hovered around a few hundred viewers. @SuperMax had a decent following, chat flying fast with F1 takes and bad jokes.
“Somebody else, please donate so I can answer a different question! I am tired of Dante wanting me to suck Hamilton’s dick,” SuperMax pleaded, laughing, hands pressed together like a prayer.
George squinted at the “Donate for any ask” banner. He felt brave. Or tipsy. He forgot what the difference between the two was. Sod it. He typed in an amount and hit send before he could second-guess himself.
“If one more person votes for Norris overtaking Daniel for Overtake of the Day, I’m quitting,” SuperMax announced, mock-serious.
“Leclerc overtaking Stroll?! Mate, be serious.” His laugh was low and infectious, and George found himself laughing right along with him.
“Stroll might be good in the wet, but Leclerc has a Ferrari, mate. He should be fighting at the front.”
George unwrapped another candy bar and washed it down with more bourbon. Heat spread through his chest, fuzzing at the edges of his thoughts. He was a little drunk. A little.
A chime rang out; the screen flashed with a new donation alert.
“Oh, thank you for the—sixty-three? Williams_racing63! See, you guys need to learn from this guy. Sixty-three Euro!” Max slapped his desk, grinning wide, eyes bright.
“That’s a proper starting price for a question.” His smile reached all the way to his eyes. George wasn’t sure he could smile that much if he tried.
“Okay, okay. ‘Shag, marry, avoid—Silverstone podium?’” Max burst out laughing at the question. George couldn’t stop his own grin spreading wide.
When Max finally calmed down, he leaned back, still chuckling. “See, chat? This is what I mean. You pay right, you ask right. Learn from Williams.”
He tapped his chin, deliberating. “All right—avoid Hamilton. No question. Shag Norris. Marry Daniel.” His grin widened, satisfied with his own logic.
“I am not obsessed with Daniel,” he protested at the exploding chat. “Come on, I am of course a Red Bull fan. But this question’s really more interesting if Russell’s on the podium instead.” He waggled his eyebrows at the camera.
George blinked, half disbelieving, then fumbled for his phone. His vision wobbled. Whatever. He had another question ready.
“Dante, you can marry Hamilton all you like,” Max was saying. “We of course remember how much he whined after 2021. I’d rather hang out with his dog.”
George laughed out loud. Roscoe was the best. Brought out the best in Lewis, too.
“No, last year, Silverstone was the same three,” Max answered an unseen question. “2022 was Sainz, Pérez, Hamilton.” He scratched his chin, eyes darting between chat replies.
“I bet Sainz would be a fun ride, you know?” Max laughed, a little flirty. George laughed too. All in good fun, right? So silly.
“Yeah, no, marry Checo, shag Sainz, avoid Hamilton,” Max nodded, fixing his hair. “Checo would make me a beautiful bride.”
Another chime signaled another donation.
“Ah! Thanks for the… sixty-three again? Williams!” Max’s grin spread slow and genuine.
George preened, warmth blooming in his chest. He liked making Max happy. He liked Max’s mouth. Er. Anyway.
“‘Shag, marry, avoid: Russell, Norris, Ricciardo?’” Max read, pushing a hand through his hair, straight, thick, a little messy. George wondered absently how soft it felt.
“Shag Daniel, marry Russell, kill Norris,” Max decided at last, and took a sip from a bubbly glass George hadn’t noticed before. Sparkling water? Maybe vodka tonic. George watched his throat work as he drank.
Max chuckled, shaking his head at chat. “Don’t come for me just because I said something bad about one of your papaya boys.”
He squinted. “Katie, Lando will not die because I didn’t pick him over George Russell in a Shag, Marry, Avoid. It’s not my fault you don’t appreciate good taste when you see it.”
He smirked at the camera. “And I speak for all of us when I say I see good taste when I see George Russell.”
He bit his lower lip, tipping his head back as he laughed, and something fluttered in George’s stomach warm and unwelcome.
“Nilla_wafer, I can walk outside and find five twinks who look like Lando Norris in ten minutes.” Max held up his hand, spreading his fingers. Nice hands, George thought vaguely.
Then, leaning close to the mic, his voice gone conspiratorial, Max spoke again. “Mate, I would climb George Russell like a tree. So posh, so trim—yeah, I’d take that model for a test drive.”
George’s laughter stuttered. The flutter in his stomach deepened into a burn. This wasn’t what he had expected when he had clicked the stream, or when he had donated, or when he had stayed. He shifted on the sofa, ignoring the heat crawling through him. He was just tipsy. Max was just being funny. That was all.
“How are you lot blind like this?” Max continued, gesturing animatedly. “You’ve got Ricciardo, Russell, and Norris, and you pick the curly-haired shorties? Be serious. George would treat me like a princess.”
He tucked imaginary hair behind his ear, voice pitched higher. “No, not because I’m a pillow princess, Ferdinand. Because George is a prince.”
He said it with such conviction that George felt a pang right in his chest, and a strange twinge in his dick. He was apparently king of strange bodily sensations tonight.
He took another long swig. One more ask wouldn’t hurt. Definitely not weird. His thumbs clumsily tapped out another donation as one leg bounced restlessly against the floor.
“I am not debating the hotness of Daniel over Checo right now,” Max laughed. “Both Red Bull drivers are hot. You should love them for how they drive—yeah, even if Checo’s not having a great year. He’s still a good driver. There’s always more going on than we know.”
Another chime sounded, startling George despite knowing what triggered it.
“Mate! Williams! Sixty-three again? You’re spoiling me.” Max’s grin was instant, bright. He leaned in to read.
“Who do I think should have won Silverstone?” He tilted his head. “Well, Williams… it’s racing. There’s no should. What happened, happened. Hamilton won.”
He gestured with both hands, animated. “People say, ‘If there were a few more laps, the McLarens would have caught up,’ or ‘If Ricciardo had one more shot, he’d have passed Hamilton.’ That doesn’t matter. If is the death of racing.”
He paused, shoulders softening. “If Russell’s car hadn’t failed, maybe he’d have fought Hamilton. Probably. But it did fail. These things happen.”
Max looked down for a moment, chewing his lip. “You’ll never have everything go right as a driver. That’s why you prepare, you do your best, and you accept what comes.” He gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Williams. Probably not what you wanted to hear.”
George shook his head absurdly, as if SuperMax could see him. The man was right. He had waltzed into the weekend certain of a podium, and when the universe hadn’t played along, it had felt personal. But sometimes, that was racing.
He sent a single heart emoji in chat, then pulled a throw blanket over himself. The glow of the monitor painted his flat in soft blues. SuperMax’s voice carried on in amused bursts, calm explanations, and that gorgeous raspy laugh.
George closed his eyes and let it keep him company.