George does not think about it. His feet just move.
Years of muscle memory do not care that his overalls are different now, that the logo on his chest bears a different name. His body still knows which corner of the paddock holds the quiet bathroom. The one nobody checks because it sits tucked behind the alcove where the spare wing sets used to live. Old habits. Old home.
The fluorescent tubes give the same flickery, low-voltage buzz they always did. George leaves the main switch off, standing in the half-dark as the pressure finally bleeds away. It is not crying, exactly. More that his face stops holding itself together.
He plants both palms against the cold porcelain sink and bows his head. Breathing becomes something he has to remember to do. In. Out. Again.
And somehow he feels like the only person in his garage who noticed.
The door creaks open on dry hinges.
“Oh. Sorry, mate. Didn’t know anyone was in here.”
George barely startles. He looks up at the mirror.
Alex stands in the doorway, halfway through stepping inside, looking like a man who came searching for somewhere quiet to wash his hands and accidentally found the aftermath of a natural disaster.
He does not make it weird, either.
He hooks a heel behind the door and nudges it shut. The latch clicks. His hands disappear into his pockets as he leans against the wood, giving George exactly as much space as the room allows.
“Hundred races today, yeah?”
A short, damp laugh escapes George.
Alex says it simply. Not like a consolation prize. Or like something that needs qualifying.
“Hundred races. P2.” He shrugs. “That’s not nothing.”
George watches a bead of water cling stubbornly to the chrome tap.
“Nobody else is going to say it today, are they?” Alex asks.
It’s not really a question.
Alex pushes off the door.
He crosses the room and settles beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder. The same distance they used to stand apart as teenagers waiting for a karting session to start. The backdrop has changed from pitlane fencing to a stained mirror, but the spacing remains.
George closes his eyes. A tiny fraction of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“Hundred races, mate. Proud of you.”
“Door’s always open.” Alex glances back towards it. “Well. Clearly it wasn’t locked. That’s how we ended up here. But you know what I mean.”
George huffs a laugh and drags the heels of his hands across his eyes.
Then he looks properly at Alex.
The familiar kit. The logos. The context clicks into place.
“You broke Mansell’s record today.”
Alex blinks. Then immediately groans.
“Oh my god. Don’t remind me.” He drags a hand down his face.“I completely forgot.”
“Most Williams starts ever, and I spent the afternoon eleven laps down, unclassified, getting targeted by flying camera bolts.”
George feels another knot loosen somewhere behind his ribs.
“My team got fined twice before the race even started because we left tyre blankets on the grid. Nigel Mansell is probably looking at the timing sheets right now going, ‘Who is this bloke, and why is he in my car?’”
The laugh that escapes George this time feels different
“That’s so unfair,” he says. “You should get a parade. Instead you got a loose fastener and a box on the grass.”
“I know!” Alex throws both hands into the air. “Most starts in team history and I didn’t even see the chequered flag.”
“They’re going to put an asterisk on the trophy.”
“There definitely should be.”
For a moment they are both smiling. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead.
Alex leans back against the sink. “There’s not going to be a trophy, George.”
“But we can probably find a couple of hospitality beers and pretend.”
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