#wrote this in a fugue and read it back precisely once so i don't really know what's happening here bon appetit

[onadarklingplain]

happy qatar race weekend to all those who yearn for the galex hot lap video. here's one possible reason they never posted it By the time Alex rounds the last corner and comes onto the finish straight, feet landing on the pavement in time with Patrick’s, he’s disgusting with sweat, covered in a fine layer of grime. It’s late enough that the track has quieted a little from the feeding frenzy of media day, but someone has been doing hot laps, the screeching sound of the tyres echoing around the track, the smell of rubber heavy in the hot air.

The track is so flat and featureless that he can see the group from ages away, the distant figures getting clearer, more distinct, the closer Alex gets. It’s obvious it’s Mercedes by the time he rounds the last corner, the team shirts bright under the floodlights, but he doesn’t clock that it’s George until it’s too late.

“Albono,” George calls out just as Alex is about to escape down the pit lane, and everyone’s heads turn. He’s smiling, relaxed, one hand curled loosely around a crash helmet, his hair a mess.

The last thing Alex wants to do coming off the back of a DNF is schmooze with whatever VIP George has been tasked with showing a good time. He had done enough interviews already — he was done putting on a polite facade. He looks at Patrick like Patrick is at all likely to save him from this interaction: conjure a fake debrief or invent dinner plans, anything, something. It’s basically Patrick’s job, Alex thinks desperately, to streamline Alex’s weekends, spare him unnecessary distraction. The fucker just looks back implacably, shrugs. 

“Should’ve known it was you on track,” Alex says, because he has to say something. “We were almost run down at least twice.” Now that he’s stopped moving, he can feel the lactic burn in his muscles, a soreness creeping in all over: his legs, his chest, his lungs.

George laughs, sharp and loud like there aren’t a dozen people watching them have this conversation.   

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Without even saying anything real, his voice sounds impossibly fond. It’s written all over his face, everything. Alex’s throat feels tight; he tries to tell himself it’s just the heat, the relentless humidity.

“I’m talking about vehicular manslaughter, mate,” Alex jokes, and several of the dozen on-lookers laugh.

“I’m a very careful driver,” George says, laying his free hand over his chest in mock hurt.

Alex has already opened his mouth to refute George’s outrageous lie, half a dozen examples on the tip of his tongue, when someone from the socials team appears in between them. “Alex, do you have some time for some quick photos for the channels?” Alex looks back at Patrick again, who just shrugs again, the traitor. He’s really leaving Alex to the dogs this weekend. 

Alex is only halfway through stuttering through his own crap excuse when the entire Williams marketing team appears from nowhere like there’s some kind of inter-team bat signal or they have spidey senses whose only function is alerting them to postable moments happening on track.   

“I can do you one better, Albono,” George says, and before Alex can brace himself, George is stepping closer. A second later, he’s holding a helmet to Alex’s chest. “I’ll show you a bad driver. Get in the car, I’m giving you a ride.”

Alex hasn’t been in a car with George since their road trip back from Monza, and now the very idea of it feels somehow — dangerous. Like all the unbalanced tension between them is going to come tottering over with the first graze of the accelerator.

He tries, feebly, to say that he wouldn’t want to take time away from a sponsor, but it doesn’t work. He’s in the passenger seat, camera pressed into his hands before he can work up a coherent protest. The door swings shut, and when Alex looks over, George is grinning like an idiot, his cheeks all squished up against the sides of his helmet. Nothing for it. The red recording light is already on, the show already started.   

“George is going to show me how to do a lap of Qatar and impart some wisdom, isn’t that right? Williams driver solidarity.” Alex says for the video before the silence has a chance to grow, and he angles the lens so that George is filling the viewfinder, his hands wrapped nonchalantly around the steering wheel.

“I’m going to show you how a good driver does a lap of Qatar,” George corrects lightly, shifting into gear and stepping on the accelerator.

Alex doesn’t mean to yell, but the second George pulls away from the line and goes into the first corner, he forgets entirely about the camera in his hands and makes some noises that aren’t befit the dignity of a Formula 1 driver.

“Is this revenge for something?” Alex asks when George breaks too late into the second corner, and he gets thrown against the seat belt.

“You’re telling everyone I’m a bad driver,” George says ridiculously, and when Alex chances a glance over, he’s pouting, his lips pushed out in a show of petulance. “You said it on the fan stage in front of everyone, mate. There are like a million TikTok’s, I’ve been sent the link at least half a dozen times.”

“The evidence is conclusive from where I’m sitting,” Alex says. “Not sure I’m going to make it to the end of this season if you keep driving me around. In Monza —”

He cuts himself off before he can say anything stupid. They’re not talking about Monza, they haven’t talked about Monza. Alex had kind of been planning on never saying the word Monza in front of George again.

“Look,” George says, and when Alex chances another glance over, his face is all flushed, a pretty pink working down his neck. “Monza — I didn’t mean it. You can just like, forget about — forget I did that. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

Alex had mostly been thinking about how fucked up he had acted, but before he can say that, George goes into a corner, and Alex’s body slams sideways, the whole line of his body flush against the door, handle digging into his ribs. He’s starting to feel vaguely sick, the last drinks bottle Patrick had pressed on him sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach, and the lights are going by dizzyingly fast now, everything a blur outside of the car windows. 

“George, fuck, Jesus Christ,” Alex pants. It’s like all the air has been shocked out of his lungs. George is surely right on the limit, the rear of the car stepping out like crazy, the rear wheel dipping into the gravel. “Oh my god, George, Georgie, fuck, come on, please.”

Alex expects George to laugh at him, expects him to rub it in a little bit, call Alex a baby, but he’s still focused when he brings them into the next corner, jaw clenched tight, right on the edge of too fast, and Alex throws out his free hand wildly, looking for anything to steady himself — the hand break would be ideal, but failing that, he’ll take whatever: the seat back, the centre console, George’s thigh — except what he finds isn’t George’s thigh at all. He’s overshot his mark catastrophically.

It’s shock enough to make his brain forget about his engrained fear impulse entirely, all the adrenaline in his veins redirected in one violent realisation: George is hard.

He should move his hand. If he just moves his hand real quick, it might not even be weird. It will just be another thing to not talk about.

Instead, Alex finds himself saying “George,” again and somehow, he’s enough out of his body that he manages to make it come out vaguely normal. He feels barely in control of himself as he squeezes just a little, feeling the outline of George’s dick through his trousers.

“Alex,” George chokes out, but he doesn’t let up, throwing the car into the hairpin with just as much vigour as before, the squealing of the tyres suddenly louder in comparison to the unnegotiated silence that’s settled in the car. Alex’s hand shifts a little with the momentum, and the heel of his palm rubs against the head of George’s dick, drawing out a whimper that Alex almost can’t hear, small and sweet and delicious.

It’s very stupid. They’re in a fuck off fancy car that neither of them owns, and it would be mortifying to explain how it ended up in the wall. Both of their teams are waiting for them in the pits. Alex doesn’t even — He told George that he didn’t — Even though Alex had —

“Come on, George,” Alex says again, and he lets his fingers inch down lower so he’s cupping George properly. When George takes the next corner, he does such a showy drift that Alex has to squeeze again, his fingers tight, dragging along the dark linen. Everything outside of the car is a blur now, the universe narrowed down to one moment, one car, just like it had when they were idiot kids, when they didn’t know any better.

“Alex, fuck,” George says, and when Alex looks over, his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, like he’s biting back something more. Alex wishes he could see more of his face, wishes the stupid, glaring helmet wasn’t in the way.

“I see why you’re such a criminal on the road,” Alex says. “If you’re distracted like this constantly. What do you call this lap time?”

“I’m not—“ George starts before Alex shifts his wrist again, drawing out a delicious gasp. “This isn’t like, a regular— Jesus Christ, you’re a menace.”

Alex has to give it to him; even if starts missing apexes, spilling messily into the run-off, he manages to keep the car running. In the privacy of his mind, Alex can’t say without reservation that he would be able to do better. It makes him redouble his efforts, a destructive, unsuitable urge bubbling up to drive George to distraction, to make him put all his cards on the table for real, no take-backs. He drags his hand steadily up, building a relentless rhythm, drawing out the sweetest moans even as George keeps worrying away at his lower lip.

It’s when they’re just coming into the final sector, running down the sweeping straight between 11 and 12, that George suddenly says, his voice high and breathy, “Alex you can’t, I’m going to come, please.” He’s properly squirming against Alex’s hand now, his hips canting up, looking for more, and Alex’s fingertips feel almost numb, tingling with too much sensation.

“Yeah,” Alex says, encouraging. “Yeah, you are. Come on, come on.”

Alex isn’t even looking at the track anymore, has no idea where they are. Everything feels messy, sloppy, and he can’t take his eyes away from George, the frozen bliss on his face, his creased brow, scrunched nose. His mouth has fallen open, a silent cry, the spit shine on his lips catching the lights. It’s like the snap of a rubber band when George’s dick jerks against his hand, and Alex can feel the warm wet even through the layers of fabric. The feeling is so all-consuming that he hardly even notices that they’re spinning out until the force of the car launching over a curb jolts his hand away.

His eyes close on instinct, braced for an impact, but when he opens them, they’re fine, the car merely facing the wrong way up the track, stalled out. Next to him, George is panting, his hands still gripped tightly around the wheel. He looks unfortunately wrecked, considering they’ll both have to parade in front of a dozen cameras the second they bring the car back, but Alex thinks he’s maybe never looked better, a light sheen of sweat sitting on his face, glistening in the light. It hits him all at once, a sudden surge of undefinable emotion. George is — mad, perfect. He was an idiot, in Italy, for not saying yes when George asked. He was an idiot for putting it all at risk.

There’s a second when Alex worries that he’s really fucked up, and he tries to delicately defuse the tension. “Okay, so when I said you were a bad driver, I didn’t really—”

“Alex, so help me,” George says. His eyes are still closed, but his shoulders have relaxed, all the tension slipping away from his face. “You are never allowed to say shit about Monza again after this, I mean it. Not when I — I’m supposed to bring two more VIPs around after this, and I’m disgusting now.”

“Right well, you’re the one who put me in the car,” Alex points out. “So I don’t see how that part is my fault. This was fully your bad idea.”

Alex almost misses it entirely when George says, his voice barely above a murmur, “It was a good idea.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t refute it, but to agree would be — he doesn’t know. He adjusts himself carefully, tucking his dick up into his waistband, but they can’t stay there long. Someone is bound to come investigate if they don’t get moving sharpish after a spin.

“We’re going to have to burn this memory card. Or like, run it over. Would that work?” he says eventually, remembering the camera in his hand. He definitely hadn’t kept it on George, but whatever it caught was surely damaging for both of them, even if it was just a view of the floor and — noises. He’s already fishing out the memory card, thinking of the most reliable methods of destruction, when George grabs his wrist.  

“Don’t—” George starts. “Do you have to?”

“Do you really want the whole media team to hear your come noises, mate?”

“No, god no,” George says quickly. “But like. You could come around to mine tonight if you wanted. We could do a little last-minute— onboard review, if you will. While you—”

“No, okay, I get it, let’s leave some suspense,” Alex says. He can feel the smile on his face, so wide is almost hurts his cheeks, muscles jutting up against the cushioning of the crash helmet. “I’l —”

He doesn’t know how he’s going to finish the sentence, but he knows, with a sudden and unexpected clarity, that it’s what he wants. He slips the memory card into his shoe and readies the excuse in his head, heat curling low in his stomach.