The whole thing, is that George never should've acknowledged any of this in the first place. He's got enough on his plate as is, being the top driver in the team now. Big legacy to live up to and all. Not that George isn't confident that he can't do that, it's just—that's not all he has on his plate.
It's a horrid secret, really. Monstrous, terrifying, overwhelming. Difficult to control. Rarely does it interfere with racing, he's dealt with the thing for decades now, keeping a distracting sparkling cover to prevent anyone from looking a little too closely. George even updates his strategies now and again; it's all buried in an excel file locked behind several password-protected folders and has a crypticly simple name that no one would ever dare open, lest they pass away from boredom by the mere idea of looking through ASSOCIATION_INFO.xls and good, that's how George feels too.
Kimi's advances started out innocent, stuff that George might've done if he had more guts when he was young and still starstruck by the brilliant drivers surrounding him. A lot of it feels like testing the waters to see how George would react to his younger teammate picking at the sort of feelings that drivers don't talk about these days. It's the sort of situation that'd get you dropped into boiling water by everyone who feels slighted by that sort of thing. Most living creatures don't make it out of the boiling water, or if they do, they are forever altered, stained.
So, it becomes routine to ignore the shooting stars dancing behind those wide brown eyes and beneath soft, put-together curly hair to match. George wears the brotherly aura that the Mercedes PR team wants him too like he'd wear a jacket that's been worn so long the sleeves are at the edge of life, ready to snap and give way to the emptiness beyond. Well-loved. He could repair it. George chooses not to. The rugged and used aura is important.
It escalates after he accidentally acknowledges the advances for what they are, as Kimi's arm is slipped around George's waist, his own holding his shorter teammate up by hooking a hand into his armpit while they stumble out of a bar. Kimi's face is flushed and he smells like alcohol and smoke, even though he didn't smoke. The combination burns in George's nostrils, even as they reach the cool June air. Kimi is smiling up at him in a dopey, drippy wet type of way that makes George's stomach flip. The temperature has dropped several degrees since they entered the bar hours earlier but George feels warm, so warm that it invokes memories of—
"George," Kimi starts, squeezing George's waist as he leans his full weight into him. "You—I know you know what I've been doing," he slurs.
Kimi's sharp canine teeth glow with the soft streetlights. His eyes are wide and sparkling and George can only imagine what sorts of universes could be spawned from within Kimi's vision. He's got the drive for it, he's been molded well by his creators, he's shaped for this,
"Why don't you ever answer?" he whines. "I'm—" hiccup "—trying very hard to get you to notice me."
George pulls Kimi along the sidewalk, his eyes forced down to his phone as he tries to remember who drove them here in the first place. A member of the team, surely. Kimi huffs, squeezing George hard enough for him to wince.
"Just get an uber or something, no?"
"Yeah, okay, an uber," George mumbles as he flips through his apps.
He gets them a ride while Kimi leans into him harder, nuzzling his nose into the sleeve of George's shirt. Puffs of his breath penetrate the fabric and George shudders. Nine minutes until their driver arrives. George pulls them to a damp, uncomfortable bench in the meantime. Kimi makes himself comfortable, glued to George's side. His eyes are closed as he hums a tune to the last song that had been blasted over the sweaty electric dance floor.
When the noise teeters off, George checks his phone. Four minutes. Kimi shifts to peer up at him, and there's a new emotion writing itself into his skin. He'd liken it to when Kimi is focused on the car, figuring out something he hasn't quite gotten yet, an intense and determined destination, but this isn't that. George shifts, trying to put even a sliver of distance between them. Kimi stops him, peering at him.
"Do you ever take it off?" Any sign that he'd been drinking other than the stench has disappeared like running water.
George's brows furrow. "What? Take what off?"
"Mm, I suppose not," Kimi muses, a dangerous grin takes over his whole face, boyish with chaos.
Figuring out what makes someone tick is so fun. Imagine taking a puzzle apart and then putting it back together, reading how each piece slots in again and viewing the complete picture after. The infuriatingly perfect appearances, the carefully calculated lines to anyone, a FRAGILE label on a box. Yes, it's all curation. Kimi is certain of that much. That's the name of the game these days, play a role, see how fans flock to it, shine it up, maybe show a few rough edges—those add depth and intrigue—then rinse and repeat.
George floundering makes all the individual pieces that Kimi can identify all the more interesting. He has yet to see a single one that feels like the real George. Even drunk, the man has an ironclad grip on how he conducts himself. The closest he thinks there is to a real George is the spat from Qatar last year. He wasn't in the team yet, then.
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