nothing but f1c

“Maybe I should just surprise him. Be assertive, you know. Ask him on a date. Ask for what I want. I don’t really feel like waiting around, because he probably doesn’t have all that much time anyways. How long does it take to fly back to Monaco, you reckon?”

She’s looking at you, as if you’ve got his schedule memorised. As if you’d know the exact time difference, at any given moment. The assumption settles uneasily in your stomach.

When you just shrug, she sighs. “Okay, you’re right – maybe that’s a bit too much. But like, brainstorm with me here. What would he like to do? What could be like a fun date idea for a millionaire who’s got everything? I’d have picked your place of work, but now that he’s an Ambassador that’s probably not fun anymore.”

You purse your lips to hide the way in which they want to pull into a scowl instead. The question isn’t meant to be a trap, but it feels like one anyways. Shouldn’t it be just as difficult for you to answer this as it is for Rachel?

And yet, you can’t help the suggestions from rolling off your tongue. You want her to have a good time. You want George to have a good time. You want both of them to be happy. They’re your friends. Seeing them get together, making each other happy... It would be a good thing. “Probably something active, like, an experience. But not too taxing/risky becase of his racing. He likes learning new things. He’s into marine life, sure, but you could go to the Natural History Museum? Then dinner somewhere on the water? Maybe a cooking class.”

Your friend makes a face. She’s not a history buff, doesn’t particularly enjoy museums. But Rachel loves a good restaurant. “D’you think he’s an Italian kind of guy? Or like, high-end sushi or something. I can surely find out,” she mutters, no longer paying attention to the race as she starts scrolling on her phone.

It’s ironic, how once again you’ve seemingly gotten swept up in the whirlwind of shenanigans that Rachel gets up to whilst chasing her own dreams. This is how she’d introduced you to burrito bowls once upon a time, how she’d gotten you to move to Monaco, and how you’d ended up being the one collecting shitty postcards and practicing your penmanship for fun – even though it was Rachel who’d initially wanted to try calligraphy. Now it’s you who’s watching races, and finding yourself overly invested in how Mercedes and Williams are handling the new regulations. She'd broadened your horizons plenty of times before. Always to your benefit. Maybe this can be your payment.

George doesn’t win. Has a run of bad luck, ends up slotting into third place as he barely makes it onto the podium. It doesn’t surprise you when days later Rachel tells you with a pout that he’s declined her offer to go for commiseration drinks.

What does surprise you, is running into him at your offices after that. “I thought you’d be too busy licking your wounds to show your face around here,” you smile as he comes over to hug you, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“It’s still a podium,” George insists, drawing away in mock offense, but his eyes sparkle in amusement. He hums, once. “So you watched, huh?”

Feeling caught out, you shrug, ignoring the way blood is rushing to your cheeks. “I mean, it feels like the thing a good friend does, yeah? I keep up with you, you keep up with me.”

There’s no reason for the smug expression on George’s face. “That’s right. I like keeping up with you. Much more interesting than the Kardashians. Sorry Lewis.”

A snort escapes your lips, before you’re pushing him along to the lunch room. “You’re such a bad gossip. Are you any good at keeping secrets at all?”

George’s quiet at that. When you throw him a sideways glance, he blinks once to get rid of the strange look in his eyes, then gives you a tentative smile as he changes the topic to your favourite fish.

The topic of Rachel, however, doesn’t get brought up at all that day, and you leave work with a strange pit in your stomach that only grows when you come back home to your best friend. The next time you happen to come across George, you’ll do better, you promise yourself.

It’s not a big deal. Or well, it doesn’t have to be one. As long as the next time, you’ll definitely make sure the conversation leads back to propping up your best friend. Like you’re supposed to do.

Rachel will never have to know the way in which you like to make these pockets of time stretch. Enjoy bringing out the smile on George’s face, to see wonder dancing across his features and a content sparkle in his eyes. It’s not yours to keep or create.

So next time. Next time it’ll be different. Except the next time truly happens to be an accident. George is with his niece and nephew, and what you presume to be a security guard, when he spots you meandering down the shopping aisles.

“Look who we have here,” he muses. “Seems a little unethical – the seafood specialist shopping in the seafood aisle.”

“It’s not for me,” you blurt, “these are for Ray,” holding up the packaged shrimp like some sort of peace offering. “I don’t actually eat much seafood. Don’t like the texture. Also – I know too much.”

George doesn’t hide his smile as you shudder for dramatic effect. “You should talk to Lando when you come to a race next. He’ll commiserate with you on that. These are my sister’s kids, by the way,” he says, then introduces you as if it’s obvious you’ll be seeing them in the future. Just like he assumes so easily you’ll be at a next race. Like your part in his life is permanent, even though it’s been nothing but an accident so far.  

You wonder if you’ve already missed the opportunity to plug Rachel beyond her love for shrimp. A small, dark crevice of your mind questions if that’s even really an accident, or if you’ve perhaps done that on purpose. Then again, dating is perhaps not really a topic you’d bring up around his niece and nephew. Or in a public place, for that matter.

“Maybe,” you allow in lieu of response, and try not to think too hard about the implication of George’s words, or your lack of words in return. “Nice to meet you two. What a great uncle you have, ensuring you both get to wear race winner caps out and about!”

“Next one’s for you, promise,” he says. Your eyes shoot up to meet his in surprise.

His nephew pulls on George’s shirt, tells him they need to still get snacks – that Uncle Georgie had promised them as much after all. But George’s eyes, his gentle smile are still stuck on you. Waiting for a reply you can’t seem to sound out, not even in your own head.

Eventually, you just scrunch your nose. Try to pretend you’re unaffected as you shake your head. “That’s alright. Save it for Rachel. She’d love that, you know?”

George’s smile falters a little. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Text her, will you?”

You don’t wait for his response. Instead, you throw a quick bye over your shoulder, then scurry towards the self-checkout. When you get home, Rachel squeals in delight at her latest message. There’s no need to guess who it’s from.

It’s tickets for his next race, an invitation for the both of you to join him in the Mercedes garage. The decision’s made before you even register the words coming out of your own mouth. “You should go, I’ll stay here. Maybe it’ll get you some one on one time,” you encourage Ray.

Instead, you end up watching at home with a furrow in your brows as George crosses the line in fourth – clearly frustrated throughout the entire weekend.

Rachel has dinner with him, though. And his physio. And his race engineer. And his press officer. She's slightly disappointed when she relays it back to you. You try to suppress the way in which your heart flips at the non-date of it all, then insist it’s probably George being a gentleman. That the timing probably was off, what with his disappointing race. It’s all true, yet the words still feel like lie after lie as they effortlessly tumble out of your mouth.

But then a week passes by, another race happens, and all of a sudden George has the next weekend off. Rachel’s texted him, has decided to ask him out herself. Except it’s you who gets a text instead.

Hey.

Hi.

Can I call you?

You can, I just don’t know if you should.

Why shouldn’t I? I’ve missed you.

When you don’t respond, he predictably tries to call you next.

Equally predictable, you pick up on the second ring.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says in lieu of greeting. “We’re friends. I call my friends all the time to check in on them. We've been over this.”

You hum in acknowledgment. He’s not wrong. Of course he isn’t. And he probably truly doesn’t mean anything else by it. But the thing is… You do. As much as you try and pretend that’s not the case, you know that your heart skips a beat when he says he misses you. When he takes time out of his day to talk to you. But there’s the lingering voice of Rachel in your head, telling you that she has finally found the right kind of man to get serious with. That she’d worship the ground he walks on. That she believes George belongs with her.

And you can tell it’s different this time. It’s not a silly crush to her. He’s a real person, not just a fantasy. A real person that she likes. He’s not yours to like. So you fold all your feelings back into a paper crane and let them take flight.

“Maybe. Do you have us all on rotation, then?” You end up joking in return. 

“Oh yeah. I’ve got a spreadsheet and everything.”

It’s hard not to fall into easy banter with him, and you figure noone needs to know how fond your smile is and who caused it. There isn’t anyone around to witness it anyways, you consider as your eyes scan the empty office that surrounds you. It is a Saturday afternoon after all. Hell, you shouldn’t be in the office either. But it’s your sanctuary, the one place you can gather your thoughts or escape from them – whatever mood strikes.

Taking a call from perhaps the reason you’re here in the first place is probably a sign for you to leave. Then again, this place has been haunted by George ever since he first came to visit. What is one more call going to do.

“Does it include question prompts? Like a little checklist to see how we are all doing, who might be in need of a follow-up soon?”

He tsks over the phone. “You know I don’t do anything half-heartedly.”

That hits a little closer than you’d like. “No,” you hum. “I suppose you don’t.”

Wanting to keep the silence from wrapping around the conversation and suffocating it before it’s even truly begun, you ask about your prompt. “What made you want to check in on me?”

George grins through the phone. “I always want to check in on you. But I do have an ulterior motive this time.”

You have to clear your throat, pretend that his casual words don’t affect you.  “Oh?”

“I want to buy a yacht,” he announces.

“You want to buy a yacht.”

Slowly repeating the words back to him doesn’t make them make more sense, unfortunately. When you tell George as much, asking what that has to do with you, it’s clear you’ve played perfectly into his hands.

“I’m so very glad you asked. You see, I want to buy a yacht so I can go for diving trips whenever I’ve got some time. But I also need it to be ecologically sound. The least harmful to marine life. So I thought, I need an expert. I need you.”

The words settle into your skin, like a dangerous lick of fire giving off its first warning. Not to touch, not to get close, not to stare at the blue core for too long, lest you might lose yourself in it. But just like a moth to a flame, you can’t help it. Can’t keep yourself from reaching out, touching, staring at blue eyes until they swallow you whole, knowing full well you will be the one who ends up getting burned.  “Alright. Tell me when and where, I guess. Let’s make an ethical millionaire out of you.”

You don’t tell Rachel. It’s not right, but you tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to make her sad. In fact, you should probably be annoyed with George. He’s ghosting your friend and spending his day shopping for a yacht, rather than taking Ray out for a coffee. You should’ve told him no.

It’s the ugly part of you, the side that’s always in the shadows, that wins out in the end. You know you’re pretending – can’t even convince yourself fully that this is fine. And yet you’re still here, standing in the harbor of Monaco, waving awkwardly as George pulls up in a car that looks wholly unsafe.

“What the hell is this?”

He steps out of what might as well double as a toy car. “A Fiat jolly. A joyride, if you will.”

You raise an eyebrow, swiftly stepping aside while he pulls himself up and out of the vehicle. It’s a weak attempt at maintaining some distance, and one that George ignores entirely as he leans in to kiss your cheek.

“Shall we?” He breezes past you, easy smile on his face like you’ve hung out like this a thousand times before. Like your stomach isn’t currently up in your throat, reminding you of how this moment shouldn’t belong to you.

But it’s too late to turn back now, and an ever growing part of you also just doesn’t want to turn back. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with accompanying him for this. He’d asked his friend, because he knew you’re an expert. And he needs an expert.

It’s a feeble argument – one that feels more like a technicality than the truth. Still. As long as nobody knows, there’s also no need to explain anything. To defend a friendship that shouldn’t exist, to avoid touches that shouldn’t linger.  

The wind sighs as you step ontothe deck of the first yacht of the day.  It’s not the first time you've been on one, but it is the first time you get to leisurely explore one. A hand brushes your waist when you wobble slightly on your feet, and then George is right there steadying you.

“Careful,” he mutters around a smile. For a second, you feel stuck in the moment. As if there’s a tiny pocket of the universe carved out just for the two of you, finally getting to exist in just each other’s orbit.

“Ahem, it’s – we have a shoes off policy on deck, if you could just,” one of the deckhands interrupts. George’s hand slides off your waist, as you fumble to unlace your sneakers as quickly as possible.

There’s another salesperson awaiting your arrival, handing the two of you a glass of champagne like there’s already something to celebrate. “We’re very happy to have you consider one of our newer models, and I can assure you that everything’s as sustainable as possible. We can run through the specs at the very end,” the man who introduces himself as Paul Enright smiles at George.

He just points at you instead. “Don’t look at me for that part, that’s going to be all her.”

Paul doesn’t bat an eye, not even when a treacherous blush takes over your cheeks, just nods in acknowledgment and motions for the two of you to follow him. It’s a nice yacht, you think. Not that there’s a lot of comparison you can do. For as much as you’re willing to humour George and delude yourself, you’re not actually much of a connoisseur.

Paul does most of the talking throughout the tour, occasionally volleying back and forth with George, who’s apparently got opinions about the amount of beds and baths. “I should be able to have a nice bath on board, for after,” he justifies. Paul seems delighted by this, and eagerly points out the options for built-in outdoor showers as well as bathtubs in the primary ensuite. “We’ve previously fitted one of your colleagues’ yachts with a custom made lion mosaic,” he shares.

“You’re a Verstappen fan?” George asks casually, Paul realising his faux-pas only as he’s mid-nod.

“I mean, I am a Silver Arrows fan, too. But four championships in a row is – well. It’s impressive.”

George nods politely, corner of his mouth curving upwards. “Hopefully the Mercedes car is competitive enough to keep it at four.”

It effectively kills the conversation. And while you try to get things back on track by asking about the heat recovery systems, hull optimisation, and rotor blades – Paul is a little less delighted to answer your questions. Nonetheless, he remains eager to please and has clearly picked up on George’s earlier directive. So when you sit back down on the main deck, it’s you he turns to as he hands over a folder of specs and certifications.

Except he’s come to the wrong conclusion.

“If I may,” Paul adds before leaving the two of you to talk on deck. “It’s great to see such a trusting partnership.”

Your eyebrow shoot up as you sneak a glance to George, who’s just nodding along blithely. His shirt sleeve billows in the wind, caressing your arm as it goes. A reminder of how close you’re standing. You’re not entirely sure if the ensuing goosebumps are because it’s too close, or not close enough.

The salesman’s statement is incredibly presumptuous, and you can’t quite tell whether it’s envy or admiration you detect in his voice through the buzzing in your head. Why isn’t George correcting him?

“However, should you need anything else, you have my number.”

Envy it is, with a touch of smarminess, then. Even though there’s really nothing to be envious of. There is no partnership. George doesn’t like you like that. You don’t like him that either. And if either of you did, well. You shouldn’t.

A single chuckle escapes George the moment Paul’s out of earshot. As he shifts, you pretend not to notice how his shirt finally retreats from touching your skin. “Ha. I wasn’t sure if he was going to either add a grand onto this model or give us a discount.”

You roll your eyes and leaf through the folder of documents. “Come on. Everyone likes you, George.”

He hums, looks at you askance before he pulls at the folder. “Everyone?”

“I’m pretty sure even that guy’s a little bit in love with you,” you joke, sidestepping his question.

“He just told you to call him, I’m pretty sure.” George retorts, and you snort at his obliviousness. “I’m pretty sure out of the two of us, it’s you who has his number – not me.”

He purses his lips, as if he’s quietly processing whether he’s surprised or annoyed at the revelation that he was wrong. “Hm. Well. Still,” he insists. “I could show you a Twitter thread right now that tells you very clearly not everybody likes me. Besides, I don’t care about everyone. I only care about specific people.” The way he’s staring at you as he says it sends a little forbidden thrill up your spine.

It’d be so easy to fall into his gravity. Or maybe you’re already stuck in his orbit, on the verge of crashing right through the atmosphere and burning as you go. Except there’s someone else that’s anchoring you already, pulling you back from destroying the prettiest constellation you’ve ever built. A friendship for life, someone you’d consider a sister first, a friend second. So maybe all you’re ever meant to be is to be caught in between. Aligned, but hidden and never quite meeting, like a syzygy in the sky.

“So. What do you think? Could she be yours?” Paul interrupts. Your breath hitches, and you look away. Pretend there’s no tension hanging in the air as you let the moment fade. Or try to, anyways.

It’s hard, when George’s shoulder brushes yours, as he stands up and reaches for your shoes. He briefly shoots the man a conspiratorial smile that turns slightly fond when his eyes find yours. They remind you so much of the sky, and just like that you’re helplessly falling all over again.

“You understand, Paul, that this isn’t a rash decision. But between the two of us, I’d really like for her to be.”

Paul smiles. "You're a good man. I'm sure you'll make the right choice."

The words have you crash-landing right back into reality. Because what if the right decision might not be in the cards? Guilt follows you all the way home.

a/n: girly pop is having a realisation. she can't wash away a crush that's already rooted into your bloodstream like a pesky little wildflower - even if it's inappropriate because he's meant to be your friend's next boyfriend... except what if he wasn't :) :)

please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts, any comment, reblog, like is appreciated so so much by me <3 if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know either via ask or here in the comments below x

You pick up on the third buzz, sounding breathless for all the wrong reasons. “Hiya, am I interrupting?”

George sounds cheery, and air fills your lungs again. Not an emergency.  

“No?” You squeak out as you have another look around the office. One of your colleagues is still seated at her desk, clearly trying her hardest not to listen in.

The downside of being a texter, is that you answering a phone call – at the office no less – is such an anomaly, it’s worth paying attention to. “I’m at work, sorry, just finding a quiet spot.”

You move to the break room which is blissfully empty of people, the only witness to your conversation being Andy the cowfish. An involuntary smile takes over, anxiety slowly dissipating from your nervous system.

“Oh. I forgot about the time difference, sorry about that. I didn’t realise you’d be at work. But, well. It’s sorta related, though, I suppose,” George starts.

When you don’t respond right away, he pauses to ask if you’re alright. It makes you even more determined to convince him everything’s fine.

Except he doesn’t buy it, which frustrates and fascinates you in equal parts. Especially because it’s very easy to picture him with that tiny dissatisfied frown on his face. The one that makes him look like an unsettled cocker spaniel, more concerned than he’d have any right to be. “You sound a bit out of breath,” he insists and you hate that he’s right.  

You shake your head, realise he can’t see you, then huff in mixed defeat and annoyance. “No, it’s just – people calling out of the blue always gets my heartrate up.”

It’s quiet for a second, heat rising to your cheeks as you scramble for something else to say. Anything to dissolve the awkwardness you’d unknowingly introduced into a conversation that’s now destined to die before it’s even properly begun.

“I’ll text you next time then? Would that help,” George offers, and you don’t know what to do with that. Except say that it’d be nice, and you’d appreciate it.

It’s a kindness he doesn’t have to give, but he moves the conversation on like nothing’s happened. The ease of the gesture reminds you a little bit of your best friend, and you’re instantly brought back down to Earth.

Part of you is relieved when it turns out he really is calling about work, needs to clarify some dates and figures. There’s no risk of grey areas, tip-toeing around or overthinking on your end.

Though the thing is.

He still didn’t need to call you to get those answers. When you casually bring it up, he just as casually tells you that he knows.

“Just wanted to chat. I like talking to you, so why not kill two birds with one stone? ‘M just being efficient. It’s a racing driver specialty. Always looking for those small gains.”

The comment shouldn’t fluster you, know it’s just a silly joke. And yet, it does. Like every time you’re reminded of the fact there is a George who exists out there for the whole world to consume. A part of him, or a version of him that seemingly everyone else has known except you – that Rachel has been interested in way earlier than you ever could have.

You don’t know how to articulate why that matters to you, not even to yourself. It bites away and stings at the corners of your mind. Like a thorn that’s wedged itself too deep with every prod, and will no longer come out. Not without force. Not without drawing blood.

“Speaking of races,” he continues, “Did you manage to talk to Ray? How does she feel about coming to one? You'd get to see where I work and all that, feels only fair, yeah?”

Maybe.

It also feels a little too close for comfort. Most of the time you can sort of pretend that George the F1 driver doesn’t really exist to you. Just George does. The one who shows up to the Institute, who’s met Andy just last week, and who laughs at your jokes. Of course there’s extremely wealthy George who invites you to lavish parties on boats, doesn’t care about spilled drinks on designer outfits, and plans his diving trips around his jet and sponsor availability.

But even that George still is different – separate – from this abstract image of the Mercedes driver that everyone is seemingly in love with.

A part of you would love to go, wants to see what George loves doing, what he waxes poetic about whenever given the chance. Another part of you is a bit scared of what you’ll find. If the whirlwind’s too much, if it inevitably sets you down a path you can’t come back from – or one you might not be able to compete with or catch up to. What if it's not gravity but a black hole, waiting patiently to swallow you down?  

“Where are you racing next?” You stall, staring at Andy in his rehab tank.

“Monza. Not far, you wouldn’t even need to fly – unless you wanted to, then I could probably arrange it. Some of us drive, it’s about four hours. Probably less.”

He’s almost ready to move on to the bigger aquarium, and as glad as you are for his progress, you’re going to miss his presence here. But he’ll be back to his natural habitat, back to doing what he does best – protecting coral reefs as a moving part in a wider ecosystem.

“And isn’t it Rachel’s birthday in two weeks? Would that be a good present?”

You smile tersely, feeling a little stupid. George had remembered her birthday. He’s merely asking you for advice on a gift. It’s not an invitation meant for you. “Yes, she would love that. That’s really very sweet of you.”

Maybe it’s time for you to take a page out of Andy’s book, to remind yourself of the bigger picture here. Focus on doing what you do best. Be gentle, and play the protective part you know you're good at. Dispel whatever’s making your heart feel a little bit restless whenever George pops up in your orbit. Because you can see how he lights up Rachel’s world. And you don’t poison things that could be beautiful – you keep them safe.

Or maybe it’s that you don’t want to risk anything that might affect the carefully constructed equilibrium that makes up your friendship with George instead.

Perhaps, the thing you’re protecting is just your own heart. Sacrifice and selfishness dressed up in exactly the same cloak.  

“Great, that’s great. Would you need- well, it’s just that I've been wondering. Ack,” he sounds equal parts relieved and rushed on the phone, as if he’s accidentally found himself in far deeper waters than he intended. Is still figuring out if he’s able to stand or swim.

Your heart clenches a little, anxiety dipping back into your veins like it never left. “What is it?”

“I’m just wondering how many tickets you’ll need. Like, will it be just the two of you, or will you need a plus one?”

Dumbfounded, you wonder out loud why you’d need a plus one or even consider asking for one.

“Well, I just wasn’t sure if that guy you were with when we first met – if maybe he was your boyfriend.”

A warbled sound leaves your lips, hand clutching the phone tightly. The implication is so bizarre, that you can’t even form a proper response beyond incredulously uttering his name out loud. Just to confirm who George is talking about.

“Wes? The guy who was wearing an obnoxious suit, has a loud laugh?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” George confirms haltingly.

“Oh my god, I’m genuinely not even sure how to process this. Me and Wes?,” you can’t help but repeat. “No, that’s actually painful to think you or anyone would think I’d be into… that.”

“I was just trying to be polite, I don’t know your type,” George is quick to defend around a laugh.

It’s innocent, you know it is. And yet, it suddenly feels hot inside the break room, t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to the back of your neck. You take a step back from Andy’s tank, acutely aware of the heat emanating from the aquarium’s temperature and lighting installation. It does nothing to cool you down.

“Well. It certainly isn’t Wes, that’s for sure. Besides. Not really dating anyone at the moment. Just – practicing peace and what not.”

There’s a lull, and you wonder if George has also clocked the shift in the conversation. As if you’ve accidentally stumbled into forbidden territory, and now you’re trying to discreetly extract yourself without leaving a trace.

“Right. Yeah. That’s. Good for you. I er- I’ll make sure there’s two passes for you and Rachel then. If you need any help sorting out transportation, let me know.”

The glowing embers of everything unspoken slowly fade into the background as you hang up. They roar briefly when your colleague asks who just called, but they’ve been firmly doused by the time you tell Rachel about her imminent birthday surprise.

Her excitement reaches new heights when you step into the paddock together, eyes eagerly flitting across the entire area. It’s a little overwhelming – the sounds, smells, and just sheer amount of people who’re mulling around. The whole thing is just absolutely nothing like you’ve ever experienced, nor is it what you’d expected.

Rachel smiles indulgently when you say as much, and you’re glad you’re not alone in it.

“Trust me, I’m nervous, too. Trying to brace myself for seeing George all dressed up and ready to race. He probably won’t actually have time to entertain us, but God I can’t believe we’re actually here! In Monza! On my fucking birthday!”

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and you can feel the tension lift from your shoulders as you follow in her footsteps. You’ve never minded that, being the calm after her storm. Just hovering in her orbit, two stars connected by a constellation of your own making. She makes it easier, though, slipping into the Mercedes hospitality room like you belong – as if you’ve done it a thousand times over already.

You’ve just gotten up to get another coffee, your last one before you’ll get a tour around the grid, when there’s a commotion happening outside. It’s the first taste of the actual pandemonium that follows the drivers. There’s photographers, fans, and sponsors who are all eager to get a piece of the two people driving the Silver Arrows.

And then all of a sudden there’s George himself, setting foot in the space that seems just that tiny bit smaller and more suffocating now. Because he somehow always seems to know where to look to catch your gaze, to notice you. He perks up, nodding in acknowledgment as he follows after the engineer who’s walking with him. Shoots you a small smile, before he disappears elsewhere.

You can’t dwell on the missed opportunity to say hi, because you’ve got a grid tour to go on anyways. It’s overwhelming and a little bit dizzying to realise just how big these races are. How many people work like moving parts with such precision, mirroring their own microcosm of an ecosystem right there in the paddock. There’s so much to see, to learn, and to try yourself, laughing as you have a go at a pitstop simulator with Rachel.

When the tour’s finally wrapped up, you leave for the Mercedes motorhome with a thousand questions, and Rachel with hands full of Ferrari merchandise. “We’re in Italy - it’d be more blasphemous for me not to buy anything, than it is to bring it with me to the Mercedes hospitality,” she tries to reassure you on the way there, but gets distracted halfway through when she spots another pop-up store.

It only takes one pleading look in your direction, before she’s speeding off, promising she’ll meet you at Mercedes after. It gives you time to head for the bathrooms first, finding some peace and quiet among the air freshener.

Still, you’re a little afraid of what you’ll find when you come back out again.

It’s not Rachel decked out head to toe in Ferrari gear, but a freshly changed George rocking back on his heels. His hair’s hanging loose across his forehead, curling slightly near his ears.

“You’re here,” words tripping on your tongue as he moves to hug you.

“I am. Did you miss me?” He teases, hand still resting on your waist.

The truth is a slippery thing, squeezing past your teeth and into open air. “Maybe I did,” you cringe. “Just a little bit.”

George bites down on a grin, and you can’t help but mirror his giddy expression. It’s nice to come across a little bit of familiarity with all the chaos around.

“Then again, you’re the one waiting for me outside of the bathroom,” you add belatedly, just to see him lose the battle over his facial expression. He cocks his head in amusement.

“Touché. Just wanted to say hi real quick and welcome you to my world. How’re you finding it so far? How’s the birthday girl enjoying things?”

You react just a beat too late, eyes lingering on where the sleeve of his shirt is pulling against his biceps as he moves his arm away from you.

“I’m pretty sure she’s fully dressed like she was personally invited by Ferrari at this stage. Supposed to meet her outside, then we’re headed for dinner.”

He winces. “Please make sure she doesn’t wear that tomorrow during qualis. Can’t be having Ferrari wearing guests in the motorhome.”

You salute him, promising that Rachel knows better than that.

“Out of the two of us, you should probably be more worried about me making some sort of accidental faux pas.”

George snorts, eyes twinkling and clearly dying to bring up how you two met. Your cheeks heat at the memory. “I swear I won’t ruin any clothes this time.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he laughs, then checks his watch and winces for real this time. “I do have to go to my debrief now. See you tomorrow?”

He’s already leaning in for a hug, knows the answer will be yes to his question anyways. When he pulls back, his brows are jut the tiniest bit furrowed.  “What?” You can’t help but ask.

George looks away and rubs his neck awkwardly. “Well. It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest.”

“I doubt that,” you frown, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall of the motorhome. The picture of calm.

He shoots you a small smile, hesitates for seemingly one second before bracing himself. “Just – we’re not supposed to be superstitious. But. Just in case, would you wish me good luck?”

It’s not embarrassing. What it is, however, is dangerous. Still, how are you meant to deny him that? So you nod slowly, then press a kiss to his cheek. “You won’t need it, I’m sure, though. Good luck, George.”

The exchange is all you can think about for the rest of the weekend. The kiss had been impulsive on your end. Fitting at the time, but it starts to feel more and more like a Judas kiss as the hours tick by. You’ve damned yourself, stepped over an invisible line that you were never meant to cross.

The telltale sign is that you can’t bring yourself to tell Rachel about it. If it truly was as innocent as you’d like it to be, you wouldn’t be hesitating to bring it up. But the fact of the matter is the longer it takes, the harder it gets, and the worse it would look. So you resolve not to mention it all, and hope George won’t bring it up either.

Not that you see much of him throughout the weekend. For as boring as you’d secretly feared watching cars race for hours on end would be, the whole paddock descends into pure chaos with a constant cacophony of noise and pit crews mulling around. Plus, there’s all the cameras and broadcasters – an entire media pen filled with people ready to comment on what happens both on and off track.

Thankfully, you’re somewhat hidden from it all in the back of the Mercedes motorhome. Out of sight, and out of mind. It’s a blessing to you, but Ray seems to think it less so. “I don’t want to complain, obviously. Being here is already a dream. It’s just that I don’t want to feel like an afterthought. He invited us. Not the other way around.”

She’s easily mollified at the prospect of getting to see George after, once the race has ended and he’s been on the podium. It’s the first thing he asks when you pile into a van with him and some other team members, on your way to a club.

“Did you manage to see the ceremony? My eyes are still stinging a bit, to be honest,” he asks, and Rachel grins. Offers to check from up close, only to conclude he’s handsome even with a slightly irritated, red eye.

Someone snorts, quick to point out the red flush on George’s cheeks at the comment. You watch it unfold, squeeze Rachel’s hand when she reaches out, and convince yourself it’s all good.

Pretend you’re not third wheeling, even though the drink that’s keeping you company would probably say otherwise. Rachel’s dancing with George, swaying from side to side, more like. Hands hanging onto his neck, while he raises his own to bop to the music. It’s difficult not to smile at how his gangly limbs seem to move to an otherworldly beat, completely out of sync with the actual rhythm of the song.

But then his eyes find yours, and he makes an aborted gesture for you to join, at the same time that Ray’s hand manages to turn his face back towards her.

The smile drops from your face just as quickly as it had come on. You recognise the move. Have seen her use it a thousand times before. Hell, you’ve used it yourself in the past, too. Never on the same man, though.

Had never wanted to.

Had never felt the urge to prevent a head-on collision like you do now.

George doesn’t see the hesitation, or the aborted smile on your face. Can’t see it, because he’s now too preoccupied with the fact that Rachel’s kissing him.

And there it is, the line in the sand you'd drawn ages ago. Latched onto it, as if it wouldn't wash away with the first hint of waves hitting the shore.

You know you should move, should stop staring at the tableau in front of you and just leave it be. Still, knowing it and doing it are two vastly different things. You’re nothing but a fly that’s gotten stuck in a trap of her own making, feet glued to the floor.

Helplessly, you watch on and realise that denying the pull of your heart or the way your skin tingles when George is close, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Like trying to chase your own shadow away, every attempt just sees you confronted with your own inconvenient feelings all over again.

It’s a stranger who saves you, jostling into you and knocking you out of your momentary stupor. The impact causes their drink to spill over your shoulder, of which the irony is not lost on you.

Perhaps what you need is some air. To dry your shirt and find some perspective in the crisp evening sky, remind yourself this is how things were always supposed to go. The smoking area is the closest thing you can find, without leaving the club altogether.

There is a part of you that sighs in relief, that feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You were right, after all. He is a good guy, but this was the extent to which your worlds were probably ever meant to collide. And it’s clear, now. Done. No more wiggle room or grey area – he’s Rachel’s. Nevertheless, while it’s not a lie when you consider yourself happy for her, there’s still the lingering taste of disappointment on the back of your tongue.

You look up at the sky, try to pinpoint the constellations meant to ground you and figure out how to navigate the feelings still looming under the surface. Prowling like a tiger, ready to swallow you whole somewhere in between Cassiopeia and Cygnus.

The smell of smoke is heavy around you, an unforgiving cloak as any. Someone coughs, and your eyes snap back to find none other than George himself stepping into the secluded area.

“Fuck, I forgot how much Italians love to smoke,” he says in lieu of greeting.

A smile pulls at your lips. “They love a lot of things, have lots of vices. Many of them greatly tempting.”

George lifts an eyebrow, settles into a spot next to you as his fingertips graze your shoulder blade. “You smoke, then?”

You snort, gesture with your hands to show how empty they are as you covertly widen the space between the two of you. “Was more referring to the wine and pasta. But why are you here, and not tearing it up inside on the dance floor with Ray?”

It’s George’s turn to look slightly taken aback by the question.

“She’s off to the bathroom. Line seemed quite long. But I – she kissed me. Just now. I don’t know if you saw,” he trails off questioningly. You don’t know what the right answer would be, the one he wants to hear. When all you do is nod, he deflates just a little.

“Right. Well. It took me by surprise a bit. I – I didn’t plan for that to happen. I might drive fast cars for a living, I’m not much of a risk taker outside of that.”

George pauses, seems to mull over the words he wants to say next. When you dare to look at him – truly look at him, that is, you can notice a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. The way in which his eyes are glazed over a bit, heavy-lidded like the adrenalin has worn off, and the alcohol has finally reached its target. He’s drunk.

Suddenly you’re struck with the realisation that you have no idea whether George is even allowed to get drunk. If he’s a lightweight or not – if he gets forgetful, or emotional, or handsy when inebriated. If it’s going to make him brave, or incredibly stupid.

“You see. Because I don’t want to hurt you. I like you, but she’s your best friend and she kissed me. And so I wanna know what you want me to do. Since it was your kiss that got me my podium.”

Your heart lurches in your throat. Brave and stupid it is.

“It was only a kiss,” you protest softly, because that’s what it should be. “It could mean nothing.”

Even if it feels definite and like a door drawn shut. The words are a feeble attempt at an excuse meant to defuse and distract, but you can’t make yourself lie to George either. So you stay silent when he protests that it could just as easily mean something instead.  

You can’t do anything, not when his blue eyes are staring straight at you, long lashes sticking together as he blinks lazily, the remnants of what must’ve been another champagne shower at the club. It’s as if he’s taking his time to really see you, to scan for the lies you will not tell. But there’s so many withheld truths, you can only pray he won’t look up and pluck them straight out of the sky.

“So you don’t mind?” He insists.

“You’re a very likable guy,” you counter, and his brow furrows at the non-answer. “I’m sure everyone here likes you.”

In the time you’ve known George, he’s always been patient. Non-confrontational. He doesn’t rush you, but it’s clear that his self-control is fraying at the seams now. He takes a step closer.

“Everyone?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you try to look anywhere else but his face. Try not to think of how his soft stubble has scratched your lips just yesterday. “You know, I once got this piece of advice. If you really like someone, become friends with them. It’s better than dating them.”

It’s said gently, but the words aren’t any less piercing. There’s no misunderstanding what you mean.

“Friends,” George sounds out the word as if trying on a new pair of shoes that you’re a little unsure of. You almost want to beg him to please give in, to make it easier for you.

“If that’s what you want, what would make you happy,” he drags out, and there’s a millisecond in which you feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment. You stamp down on it before it truly catches fire, like it never even existed. But there’s the echo of something aching in your chest that lingers long after the weekend ends.

There’s 3 stitches in your hand, and 4 missed calls on your phone when you walk out of the hospital again. Three of them are from Alex. Those are easy to ignore. Too easy, perhaps.

The fourth one makes your stomach turn. It’s Carmen. The only reason she’d call at this hour is because Alex has already spoken to George, who in turn has now escalated the situation to Carmen.

And of course, you love Carmen. But perhaps you loved her better when she was just your friend – and not the weapon of choice to figure out your whereabouts.

Instead, you send a quick text to Alex. “Stitched up. Going to a hotel for the night. Don’t call me.”

Of course he calls again, immediately, because he is stubborn and doesn't listen. His bullish attitude was something that you'd found enticing at the start. How relentless he was in his pursuit of you.