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gr4cier4cie · 2 days ago

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♡ hometown glory (some things never change) ♡

or: george was your best friend. still is, if you're being honest with yourself. when your paths happen to cross by chance a decade after you last saw each other, it becomes harder and harder to deny that you really let him go. fem!childhood!bf!reader x george russell

warnings: would it be gracie without angst? NAH. thank you so so so much to @binisainz for being the reason i wrote for george XOXO!!

♡

you hear him before you see him. he's laughing when your eyes finally land, the sight of him cutting through the paddock like a perfectly-executed qualifying lap. and isn't that just so typical of george russell? always finding ways to wreck you when you least expect it, even after a decade of careful, practiced indifference. you kept your distance. he kept his. (well, you tried, anyway. worked for haas. then ferrari. a brief stint at aston martin. and now mercedes. it was chance, you reasoned. not fate.)

your feet move before your brain can catch up. (muscle memory, you'll tell yourself later. your body remembers the pull of him, the orbit of eyes you thought you'd left behind.) "george?"

his name feels foreign and familiar all at once, reminiscent of an old jumper left unworn. you watch his spine straighten (still terrible posture, some things never change), watch recognition ripple across his features like rain on a race track. and when he turns, when his eyes catch yours, you fight to breathe.

"bloody hell," he whispers, and oh–oh no, because his media smile is cracking open into something real, something that looks too much like the boy who used to climb through your window with contraband sweets and whispered dreams about a life on the track. "jesus. it's really you."

here is what no one told you about the passage of time: it's supposed to make things easier. smooth the rough edges of memories until everything feels distant and dull. but standing here, watching george's hands fidget like they used to before important races, as if he's fighting the urge to reach out to grasp your palm in his (like he used to), you feel every second of the last decade go up in smoke.

you both move forward. both stop short. because how do you greet someone who used to know every corner of your soul (and your home)? how do you greet a stranger?

you settle for a half-hug over his shoulder, reaching up to let your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck. he feels the same. looks the same. sounds the same. how come, then, does everything feel so damn different? how come, then, does everything feel like it's changed?

"i watched your last race," you offer like you haven't watched every single one. like you don't still have his first karting trophy hidden in a box under your bed (the one he'd pressed into your hands with that crooked smile, insisting "it's lucky when you hold it, you know it is").

"yeah? how'd i do?" you are suddenly reminded of the way he used to practice podium speeches in your backyard during the summer months, begging you to pretend to interview him so someday, he'd be ready. "been a bit busy lately, haven't i?"

yes. yes, you have been. you laugh, but it's careful. cautious.

there are thousands of questions fighting to escape: do you still hate mushrooms? did you ever finish that book i lent you? do you ever think about that night before you left, when you looked at me like you'd miss me forever?

instead, what comes out is: "you sure have."

something flickers across his face then, something that makes your ribcage feel too small for your lungs. because this is george–your george–who used to know exactly how many sugars you took in your tea, who spent an entire summer helping you perfect your parallel parking. who promised he'd never forget you, right before he left for racing academy and disappeared from your life like smoke after a burnout.

"listen," he starts. "i've got this thing tonight, at the dorchester. terrible food. but maybe—"

"george!" a voice cuts through the moment like a safety car deployment. "five minute warning!"

he winces, and for a second, you see that little boy again, the one who always had somewhere else to be, someone else to become. who had dreams that touched the moon and back. "i have to—"

"go," you finish, because some habits are harder to break than others. "i know."

he takes a step backward, then stops. reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "your number," he says, not quite a question. "is it still—?"

"i changed it," you reply, and watch his face fall just slightly. awareness dawns. (you're not the same as you were.) "but i'm sure you can find me. you always could."

it's only after he's gone, swallowed by the crowd and his obligations, that you realize you're shaking. because george russell still smells like lazy sunday mornings and all of his goddamn broken promises, and you're suddenly, terrifyingly certain that you never actually learned how to exist in a world where you're not in love with him.

oh, how the time flies.

♡

here's the thing about press conferences at the dorchester: george has done exactly thirty-seven of them. he knows this because he counts them now, uses them to mark time like tire compounds or engine modes or the number of times he almost called you over the years (hundreds, not that he's keeping track).

tonight makes thirty-eight, and he can't focus on a single bloody word.

"—your thoughts on the upcoming race weekend, george?"

he blinks at the sky sports microphone suddenly in his face. tries to remember how to string words together.

(because you're still here. still real. still... his. how is he supposed to think about track conditions when all he can think about is the way you'd stopped short of hugging him, like you weren't sure you had the right anymore? like you didn't know him?)

"the track conditions are..." he starts, then loses the thread completely. because his brain is stuck on replay: the way you'd said his name, soft and uncertain and achingly familiar. the way you'd looked at him like he was simultaneously the boy you used to know and a stranger wearing his face. words simply tasted like ash in his mouth.

toto shoots him a concerned look from the corner, the same look he gives when george takes a corner too hot, when he pushes the car past its limits, when he risks everything for one perfect moment.

"sorry," he manages, with a self-deprecating laugh that sounds hollow even to his own ears. "bit knackered from quali. the track conditions are looking promising, and mercedes has put in some brilliant work on the car."

somewhere in london, you're probably going about your evening, and he doesn't know what you do, where you live, if you still drink that horrible peach tea you used to love. doesn't know if you're seeing someone, if you're happy, if you think about him even half as much as he thinks about you.

that's a lie.

he knows exactly what you do–saw it on linkedin during one of those nights, when the weight of missed chances felt heavier than marble on his chest. senior engineering project manager. of course you are.

"—about your rivalry with max this season?"

christ, he's zoning out again. (he'd stalked your instagram, too, when it got really unbearable. had seen you in one of his old hats, in a post buried in your tagged photos from silverstone a few years ago. you didn't know how he'd searched the crowd that day, aching for a sight of you.)

"george." toto's voice cut in, his hand on george's shoulder breaking his reverie. "i think that's enough questions for tonight, yes?"

he pulls out his phone back in his driver's room before he can think better of it. your old number is still in his contacts, and he hovers a thumb over it, gritting his teeth.

but i'm sure you can find me. you always could.

it takes him exactly three minutes to find your current number. (being a formula one driver has its perks, and having a very efficient personal assistant is one of them.) he stares at it for so long the screen dims, brightens, then dims again.

his hands are shaking as he types. (this is somehow harder than threading the needle between two cars at 200 miles per hour.)

Do you still take your tea with four sugars?

you respond within seconds.

No. It's six now. But I'd be willing to revisit four.

he actually laughs out loud. tries to keep from finding the nearest toilet and flushing his phone down it.

Breakfast this weekend?

the three dots taunt him for a minute. then two. then three. then:

Only if you're paying.

it is terrifying, how easy it is to fall back into old patterns with you. how easy you have made it. but he is smiling when he clicks send.

Deal. See you soon. Missed you.

you heart the message. then, minutes later, respond only with:

Missed you too.

♡

mayfair isn't foreign to you.

you know its streets like you know your own heartbeat. know which galleries on mount street will let you wander for hours without buying anything you can't afford. know which bakeries have the best pastries, which corners of the layout catch the morning sun, which benches in berkeley square are perfect for people-watching.

but seeing george russell sitting in your favorite café at a table near the window, leg bouncing under the table, is foreign. new.

your breath catches in your throat. (how are you supposed to handle this? handle him? how are you supposed to walk in there and pretend that ten years ago, george russell didn't know every corner of your soul?) you could simply turn around. could text some excuse about traffic, or a meeting, or—

he looks up.

you go in.

"you're early," you say, sliding into the seat across from him, lips quirking upward. "that's new." your eyes catch on his lips as they widen; he is sharp where he used to be soft, all media smiles and crisp white collars. you force your hands to steady. (you're too fond of his instagram nowadays, scrolling through picture after picture until your eyes cross. dinners with people you don't recognize. races won, races lost. women of his past with their arms wrapped around his neck. that last one always makes you cry.)

he rolls his eyes, but there's something soft in it. something knowing. "and you're perfectly on time. that's not."

the waiter arrives, saving you from having to answer. george orders an omelet without mushrooms, and something in your chest clenches. "still hate them, then?" you ask, tilting your head. "mushrooms?"

"some things never change," he says softly.

you take a deliberate sip of your tea to avoid his eyes. (he'd ordered you four sugars. of course.) "like what?"

his fingers tap against the table. one-two-three, one-two-three, like he's counting lap times or measuring the distance between then and now. between decades. "like you."

(you're aware that george russell calculates everything. brake points and racing lines and the exact pressure needed to make a car dance on the edge of control. well, everything except the way he could have called you 520 times had he only picked up the phone once a damn week.)

"i'm not..." you start, then stop, swallowing hard. "i'm not the same."

his smile is soft. knowing. "aren't you?" you're suddenly all the more aware of the way his ice-blue gaze trails across your face, your neck, the line of your shoulders.

"i mean," you continue, lacking conviction. "i moved out of king lynn."

"your parents still live there, don't they?" george cuts in, crooking a brow. "how's your mum?"

you shrug, lifting your cup to your mouth. "she's... good. fine." she misses you, is what you didn't say. she was there for me when you left and all of a sudden life felt empty without you. she asks me about you, even now, despite the fact that we don't talk. she's still insistent on the idea that i'll be your wife, someday. "and yours?"

george huffs. "hasn't changed since you saw her last." it is strangely comforting, for him to act like ten years is nothing more than a weekend away. "she asks about you more than she asks about me, actually."

you choke, flinching. "what do you tell her?"

he looks away, caught. "usually just change the subject." his fingers resume their tapping, and you fight the urge to shadow his palms with yours, touch him for the hell of it. "are you..." he inhales sharply. "are you seeing anyone?"

you look up, startled by the change in his tone. "no."

"why?" (it's so like him, to demand explanations, wanting to know everything and anything.)

"i just can't. right now." the words fall like something breaking, like a confession you hadn't exactly meant to let loose. "there's a lot. with work, i mean. you would know."

his nod is slow. you could fool yourself into believing it is understanding if it wasn't for the slight narrowing of his eyes, the furrow of his brow. "i remember you saying london was the city of love."

that's only because you were in it, you want to scream. "that's paris," you chuckle, stirring another sugar cube into your tea. "besides, it's not... the right time for me. i haven't even been with anyone since—" oh, god.

he stares at you for a beat too long, fingers curling around his coffee cup like it's the only thing anchoring him to his seat. "do you ever think about it? that night?"

you blink once. then twice. debate not answering. "which one?"

he breathes out a laugh—soft and hollow and almost fond. fond of you. “you know which one.”

(the creak of your bedroom window as he climbed in, shoes toed off at the foot of your bed. the way you sat up, cross-legged, knees touching his as he sat beside you. your fingers in his hair while he confessed he was scared he'd never make it in the junior team all alone, that he wasn't good enough, that he'd miss you more than he thought he could miss anything. your lips brushing his, his hands trembling on your bare waist, the sunrise bleeding through your curtains as he pulled you into his chest. intimacy you let him have. a moment you let him keep. he left before your mum woke up and never came home.)

you look away. suddenly your eyes sting, and you actively steady your breath. "we were kids, george. it didn’t mean anything.”

he stiffens. his voice is quiet when he says, “it did.” then again, louder, like maybe if he says it twice it’ll matter more. “it meant everything to me.”

your answering smile holds no warmth. “but you didn’t call.”

he doesn't answer right away. just looks at you like he's seeing you again for the first time. as if you're fine art he once knew by heart, now dusted off and hung in a new gallery. it would have been easier, if he were heartless. cold.

"i was a coward," he says finally. "i thought if i stayed away from you, it would hurt less. the leaving."

you drop your eyes to the table. "yeah, well. it hurt like hell for me." he leans forward—to do what, you're not sure. to grab your hand? to press his forehead to yours like he had done when you were both nineteen, and young, and stupid, and desperately in love?

"let me make it up to you." his voice is broken. "please."

you can't bring yourself to look at him. "you can’t just—" you swallow hard. "george. you can’t just show up after a decade and expect a do-over. it's... done."

his eyes flicker down to your mouth and back up again. "don’t give me a do-over," he says, pleading. "give me a moment."

he leans across the table.

you don't stop him. not this time.

his lips are soft and sure against yours—tasting of regret and honeyed tea, ten years too late and somehow right on time. your fingers curl around the edge of the table, unable to give yourself the permission to hold him. that is, until he reaches forward and pries your white knuckles from the edge and interlaces your fingers with his. (for a second, just a second, it feels like forever.)

"some things," george whispers against your skin as you pull away, gripping the collar of his shirt for dear life, "never change."

for once, you think he might be right.

♡

note: goddamn WHY HAVE I WAITED SO LONG TO WRITE FOR GEORGE THIS WAS SO FUN i adore this concept hehe please let me know if you'd like to see childhoodbf!reader with any of the other drivers!! i also think imma keep this as a oneshot so this is where the story ends for these two!! MWAH as always!!

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