#bts commentary

[tylla]

Sound up, ignore the quality, I promise

[ininininininstayoutstayout]

i feel like ‘for want of a nail’ is 1k laps of jeddah as a fic (rip to jeddah george). so maybe some BTS commentary abt ur fav scene then? :D

Ask game

Wiggles, you're so right! BTS commentary for the very last scene of 1000 laps. It's a bit long. Spoilers below, obv.

When George wakes up, it takes him a minute to realise why everything feels off. His apartment is filled with the soft light of an early spring evening, everything peaceful and golden. [I am not immune to the occasional pathetic fallacy.] It’s so very different from the harshly bright reality of the Jeddah morning which George has adjusted to – adjusted surprisingly rapidly, apparently [This is supposed to be the first hint that George doesn’t remember the time loop; he’s surprised at how quickly he apparently adjusted to Jeddah considering he thinks he was only there for about four days.] – that George has to override his immediate instinct to screw up his eyes against a non-existent glare. He grabs the glass of water from his bedside table, grateful that he took the time to place it there before he fell into bed earlier that afternoon. His throat has been aching a lot, recently. Maybe he’s coming down with something. [A physical manifestation of his ordeal.]

George swallows a few gulps of tepid water, barely refreshing at all, and manages to slop a whole load down his chin at the same time. [He’s shaking.] When he wipes the water away from his mouth, his hand is oddly shaky. There’s a knot in his stomach, which is weird. Choosing to ignore that for a moment, George picks up his phone next, just to see how long he’s been asleep for. The screen tells him that it’s half past six on Monday 20th March. Something intangible unclenches inside George at the sight, a tension that he hasn’t been aware of carrying until it’s gone. Strange. [Another clue; George is relieved that it’s Monday, but he doesn’t know why.]

On the screen sit a whole load of notifications that George really has no interest in reading. Most of them seem to be offering their commiserations, which feels so intrinsically wrong that it takes him a few seconds to remember why commiserations might be considered necessary. [George should be upset about losing the podium, but instead he’s more relieved about escaping the time loop. Again, he no longer remembers the loop – he’s only retained the final iteration – so he doesn’t really understand why. This is my explanation for how well Real Life George dealt with the whole situation; Jeddah George’s overriding feeling is relief, so the podium is completely trivial to him.] There are lots of comments asking when he’s going to take his Instagram post down, but George doesn’t really see why he should; the photo is a nice one, aesthetically speaking, and he thinks he managed to hit the right spot with his words.

Buried somewhere, twenty notifications deep, is a text from Toto. When are you coming to the UK? Need you in the sim to correlate after your great pace this weekend. There’s a strange little flutter of anxiety in George’s chest at that. [George, still a little scared of Toto although he doesn’t remember Toto yelling at him in one of the loops.] Toto knows very well that George will be in Brackley in two days’ time; his boss is just trying to open up a conversation, to see how George is dealing with the loss of a podium that he’s already half-forgotten was ever his. There’s nothing anxiety-inducing about that, George tells himself firmly. Toto messages him all the time. It’s fine. [George, confused about what he’s worried about, trying to reassure himself.]

Chewing on his thumb to try and abate the feeling of unease, George shelves Toto’s text to deal with later. He continues scrolling aimlessly until his eyes land on a message received late on Saturday evening, apparently. Great lap, Georgie! it reads. Totally nailed it. Smash it tomorrow. [From Alex, of course.] As George stares at the final sentence of a message that he doesn’t remembering reading for the first time, a crumpled front wing and broken front suspension flash in front of his eyes, just for a moment. [The ‘smash it tomorrow’ wording was very deliberate.] The image is gone as soon as he blinks, but his heart is beating a little faster. [The first proper indication that there are more of George’s memories left than vague feelings of unease, but it’s like remembering snatches of a dream; he doesn’t think they’re real. And let’s face it; who would?]

What isn’t gone, however, is George’s strange, almost desperate urge to press on Alex’s name at the top of the message and speak to his friend. [The urge to check on Alex, leftover from Jeddah.] There’s something odd going on, more than a flicker of anxiety tremulous inside his chest now. George tried to ring Alex this morning, he remembers suddenly. [George wanted to check that Alex wasn’t somehow stuck in Jeddah.] It was on the way home from the airport as tiredness threatened to overwhelm him; the consequence of, for some unknown reason, not being able to sleep on the plane like he usually does. [It’s called anxiety, George. Stress. The worry of trying to escape a time loop.] George can’t remember why he wanted to speak to Alex, but he knows that Alex didn’t pick up. There was no answer, even though the phone rang through.

George’s heart is pounding now, but he doesn’t know why. [George is still subconsciously frightened that Alex might not have escaped the time loop.] Alex is under no obligation to speak to him at any given time, of course. He was probably checking out of the hotel, going through security at the airport, already on a flight; there are any number of possibilities. There is no reason for George to be worried about him, none at all. [Nice try at talking yourself out of it, George.] George’s finger hovers over the screen for a moment, right above Alex’s name. There’s nothing compelling him to try and get through again, but also no reason not to.

The phone starts to ring, shrill in George’s ear. George is curled up on his side, the phone next to his head on his pillow. He clenches his eyes shut as he waits, his stomach rolling unpleasantly.

‘George!’ Alex’s voice on the other end of the line is warm. [Alex is relieved to hear from George too, has been similarly worried about him but doesn’t understand why.] George, who hadn’t realised he’d frozen, gasps out a huge breath. He is relieved, for reasons he can’t explain. ‘What’s up, mate?’

‘Um,’ says George, the sudden burst of relief giving way to creeping embarrassment already. His voice is scratchy, sounding alien even to his own ears. ‘Just, uh, checking in, mate? How are… things?’

They don’t do this; this isn’t the sort of behaviour that they indulge in. They text a lot, and Alex is always the first person that George rings when he’s had a bad weekend, but they don’t just call each other up out of the blue to chat. Alex is going to think that George is being weird. George thinks that George is being weird. [Alex does not think that George is being weird.]

‘So so. You know how long-haul is.’

‘You’re – are you still in Jeddah?’

The wait for Alex to answer is, inexplicably, awful. George’s hands are sweating. [Tangible manifestation of the fear that Alex is still trapped in the loop.]

‘Nope,’ says Alex, and suddenly George’s eyes are wet. [The relief.] It must be dust. He’ll have to get the cleaner to come in. ‘I’m not home yet, though. Are you?’

There’s a lump in George’s throat and he has to cough a couple of times to clear it. He blinks rapidly, trying to stop his eyelashes from clumping together. [Oh the relief.]

‘Yeah,’ he says, voice still rough. ‘Yeah, I’m home.’

‘You fucker.’

There’s something heavy in George’s throat, the persistent ache. [To be able to say ‘I’m home’ is a massive thing for George, although again he doesn’t know why.] Alex, fortunately, prattles on obliviously.

‘Did you land this morning then? I’m in Istanbul.’

George swallows.

‘Early afternoon,’ he mumbles, hoping that Alex can understand him. This is silly; he rang Alex for a chat and now here he is not wanting to talk properly. He needs to make an effort, before Alex gets fed up with him and hangs up. ‘I – I hear Istanbul is lovely, this time of year.’

‘I wouldn’t know; I’ve been sitting here sulking about the long layover, so I’ll live vicariously through you instead. When did you get home?’

‘About three,’ George says slowly, the number weighty on his tongue for some reason. [The number three again.]

‘Urgh,’ says Alex. George can picture his expression, nose scrunched. ‘Jealous.’

George doesn’t say anything.

‘Is everything okay, Georgie?’ Alex asks. ‘You’re quiet.’

‘Yeah,’ George replies, after a moment. Everything is okay, but he’s not quite sure why it doesn’t feel that way. [A small amount of self-awareness.] ‘Yeah. Sorry, I – ’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Alex interrupts him. ‘I’m so glad you’ve called.’ [Very sincere for Alex; George is confused.]

It’s the sort of comment that passes between them regularly – I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad to see you, I’m so glad to hear from you – with a heavy dose of sarcasm attached, and often an accompanying rude hand gesture. George can’t see Alex’s hands, obviously, but his tone is oddly sincere. [They’ve both been really affected by the whole experience, inability to remember it notwithstanding.]

‘Yeah,’ George says quietly. ‘Yeah, me too.’

Silence stretches between them, not uncomfortably.

‘How long’s your next flight?’

‘Three hours,’ Alex sighs. ‘Not long. But too long.’

George frowns. It feels significant, somehow. [And again. Does it really mean anything? That is up to you to decide.]

‘Well,’ George says, shrugging it off as he rolls over onto his back, talking to the ceiling. He’s holding the phone to his ear now, keeping Alex close. ‘I’m glad that your journey is going okay, even if you are stuck in Istanbul.’

‘And I’m happy for you that you’ve made it back home. Jealous, but happy for you.’

Something springs up behind George’s eyes, another sudden flood of dampness. The lump in his throat is back, worse than ever. [The relief, still speaking for itself.]

‘Yeah,’ he says roughly. ‘Yeah.’

They lapse into another silence, George still eye to eye with his ceiling fan but giving it little of his attention.

‘George,’ says Alex suddenly. ‘Why did you ring me?’

George doesn’t reply immediately, turning his answer over in his mind. He knows what he’s going to say, but he doesn’t know how Alex will take it.

‘I don’t know,’ George finally admits quietly. ‘It just seemed like the right thing to do.’

It had felt as natural as breathing, like something that he’d never end up not doing. Just another item on the checklist; wake up, stretch, drink water, check messages, phone Alex. It might not seem that way to Alex, though.

‘Is that strange?’ George adds, stomach twisting unpleasantly.

‘No no,’ says Alex hastily. ‘No. I feel like I was waiting to speak to you. It’s good to know that you’re okay.’

Instead of laughing and telling Alex that he’s gone soft, George feels something tighten in his chest. Is he okay? His heart is still pattering along faster than normal, like he’s just been out for a run.

‘George?’ Alex is saying. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’

‘I,’ says George. He sniffs a little. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You sound weird,’ replies Alex, who sounds weird himself.

‘I’m fine,’ George insists, not convinced that it’s true. He’s glad he’s lying down, not keen to test out the strength in his legs all of a sudden. ‘Why were you waiting to speak to me?’

There’s a long beat of silence before Alex answers. When he does, he sounds a little baffled.

‘Maybe I was expecting you to turn up last night, you know?’ [Hazy memories of George going to Alex’s room at the end of every new day.]

‘I would have done,’ George says, without hesitation.

‘So where were you? I was waiting.’

George feels a horrible stab of guilt. [Not entirely misplaced; George did seize his opportunity to run without thinking about telling Alex what he was doing.] Why did he forget about Alex, last night? What were they supposed to do? It must have been something important.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘I got bumped up to an earlier flight.’

It feels inadequate. He’s let Alex down.

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Alex says slowly. ‘I was just expecting you for some reason. Maybe you told me that you were flying out today?’

George doesn’t remember the conversation, but he supposes that he must have done. [He knows that he didn’t, but what else makes sense?]

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘Did we make plans?’

Alex takes his time replying, which probably isn’t doing anything beneficial for George’s blood pressure. The hand clutching his phone feels like cast iron.

‘No,’ Alex says. ‘No plans. I guess I just wanted to see you?’

‘Are you okay?’ George asks suddenly, a hazy memory emerging from somewhere. Why he wanted to ring Alex in the first place, probably. ‘Your brakes, what happened?’

‘Oh, it’s fine. I shit myself, but all good. I wasn’t pushing too much at the time, not really sure why. [It’s because George finally warned him about the brake issue during the penultimate loop, but of course Alex doesn’t remember this.] Just lucky, I guess.’

George could swear that his heart does a funny little spasm.

‘That’s good. It could’ve – could have been nasty.’

‘I definitely would not want to slam into those barriers,’ Alex laughs. It’s a little hesitant, Alex probably trying to brush off the previous few minutes of the conversation. ‘I’ll take brake failure just about anywhere else, thanks!’

‘Don’t say that,’ George snaps, surprising himself. The image of Alex’s car crumpled against the barriers in Jeddah is unusually vivid, his imagination working overtime in his exhausted state. [The first hint of George overreacting to something relatively mundane something triggers him, even though he doesn’t understand the trigger; he does this a lot in the little one shots I’ve posted since.]

‘Okay,’ Alex says slowly, after a moment. ‘Everything alright there, Georgie?’

George still isn’t sure.

‘Just don’t,’ he says, his voice a little wobbly. ‘Don’t tempt fate, or whatever.’

‘Tempt fate?’ Alex echoes. ‘What, like I’m putting something out there in the universe, or whatever that rubbish is? You’ve been spending too much time with Lewis!’

‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I’m fine,’ Alex says. ‘Nothing wrong with me, apart from a DNF and this bloody layover.’

‘I’m glad.’ [Understatement.]

‘You should be more than glad; you had a great race yesterday.’

‘Yes,’ says George. ‘Yes, I’m… happy?’

He doesn’t really feel happy, more slightly numb than anything else. Whatever emotion he’s feeling, he’s experiencing it in a strangely distant way that he doesn’t seem able to properly grasp. Everything feels insubstantial, running through his fingers like water that he can’t hold on to but is fully aware of its presence all the same; the liquid might not stay in his palm, but its effects will be felt for some time. [Metaphor alert.] The moisture will rub off on everything that he touches. [Everything from now on is going to be influenced by George’s experience in Jeddah.]

Alex misinterprets his hesitation.

‘I’m sorry you lost your P3,’ he offers, and George’s stomach performs a weird squirm. [Number three yet again.]

‘No,’ George shakes his head, even though Alex can’t see him. ‘Never really was mine, was it? Aston deserve it. Fuckers.’ [A huge step from George’s reaction to the situation in the first loop, when he stropped around Alex’s room and complained that Aston were cheating because the rules are the rules. Character development, hey.]

‘You reckon?’

‘The penalty was bullshit, wasn’t it? It would have been nice to get the first podium of the season out of the way, but it wasn’t on merit.’ [Ditto.]

‘You’ve got to take what you can get.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ sighs George. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.’

‘George,’ says Alex sternly. ‘You are many things – a pillock, for example, and also a twat – but you have never been a beggar. When you want something, you go out and get it.’ [Nothing to say here apart from how please I was with this line. Alex has definitely called George a twat at some point.]

There is condensation on George’s palm – probably from his glass of water but, much less appealingly, it could be sweat as a result of grasping his phone – and it’s glistening in the light from the setting sun, just peeking through a gap in the curtains. He studies it closely, imagining how a more substantial trickle would catch the light as it pooled in his hand. [Repeat metaphor alert; George’s memories are insubstantial, just like the tiny smear of water in his palm.]

‘Maybe sometimes you just have to see what happens?’ George suggests, moving his hand in the dying beam of sunlight, tilting it this way and that. He can ignore the continual tiny tremors in his fingers, for now anyway. He’ll raise it with his therapist. ‘Good things come to those who wait?’ [Ahem.]

Alex laughs.

‘Any extra cliches you want to try and work in? More motivational speeches for me? Important philosophical points to share?’

The questions are flippant, but George closes his eyes for a moment, gives it real thought. There’s something there, floating just out of reach. A memory; half formed, frustratingly elusive. His heart rate is speeding up again, echoing in his ears. [This is supposed to be a bit of misdirection; is he about to remember something from the time loop?]

‘Don’t think so,’ he lies. ‘When’s the flight?’

‘Alright, I can take a hint!’ Alex chuckles. ‘It is soon, though, thank fuck. Do you wanna meet up tomorrow, assuming I actually make it back?’

‘I’m flying to the UK in the evening.’

There’s that funny little flutter again, the clench of anxiety that George doesn’t understand. He’s been on hundreds of flights. [Trauma response.]

‘Lunch, then?’ Alex suggests. ‘I feel like we have a lot to catch up on, somehow.’

The agitated feeling under George’s ribcage intensifies. His airway feels narrow. [Another trauma response; George doesn’t want to leave the house at all. He’s finally home and safe, and he wants to stay there.]

‘Can you,’ he starts, then gives up.

‘Georgie?’ Alex prompts him. ‘What’s up?’

George has to swallow several times.

‘Can you, like, come to mine? And we’ll order something?’

‘Sure,’ says Alex slowly. ‘Any particular reason?’

George doesn’t know. Something else to examine later.

‘I’d rather stay home.’

‘We can if you want,’ Alex replies. ‘I was going to suggest we go to that restaurant you like, the one down by – ’

‘No,’ George says quickly, something panicky continuing to build in his chest. The fingers of his left hand are clutching at the duvet shakily. ‘No. I don’t want to go out. Please.’

‘Alright,’ Alex sounds surprised. ‘What time shall I come to yours?’

‘Not before midday. I’ve got a – I’m speaking to someone in the morning. My therapist.’ [George debates simply saying that he’s got an appointment, deliberately vague, but something in him wants to tell Alex that it’s a therapy appointment.]

He wasn’t supposed to be, but George made the appointment in the car on the way home from the airport. Right after Alex didn’t pick up. He can’t remember exactly why, but it still seems like a good idea. [George remembered the loop for the whole journey home – he didn’t sleep on the plane – but forgets after falling asleep in his apartment. He made the appointment in full possession of all of his memories.]

‘I thought you saw him last week?’

‘Yes, well,’ says George. ‘I want to see him again.’

‘I’m sure that’s a good thing.’

George frowns at the ceiling, tracks his eyes around the three individual blades of the ceiling fan before he answers. His fingers are still trembling as he wracks his brain; what’s this elusive memory, the thing that he’s trying to picture? [A bit more misdirection, especially with the three blades of the ceiling fan.]

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Err,’ says Alex. He sounds puzzled. ‘Not sure, mate. Feel free to ignore me.’

‘I always listen to you,’ George says defensively, even though it’s not true.

Alex is chuckling again. It sounds a little more genuine than before.

‘Yeah, whatever you say, Georgie. Enjoy the therapistisation, yeah?

‘You know that’s not a word,’ George tells him. ‘But yeah, I will.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind?’ Alex asks. There’s a hint of a grin in his voice. ‘You don’t sound very convinced.’

‘No,’ George denies. ‘Definitely not. It’s good to chat, you know. To get someone else’s perspective. It can be helpful, sometimes.’ [A callback to the penultimate loop, when Alex very much helped George gain some perspective.]

He’d been very insistent about it, he knows that much, even if he can’t remember the exact thought process behind making the appointment in the first place. The first thing he’d done after landing was to try and ring Alex, but the second was to arrange this meeting. There’s a lot that he needs to talk about, he’s sure of it. Maybe his therapist can hypnotise him or something, to help him remember whatever it is that he’s forgotten. [Disclaimer: I don’t think this works.] There were lots of people in the place that he’s picturing, he knows that much.

‘Yeah,’ says Alex slowly. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

George never does that. Why would he? Alex is going to laugh at him again.

Alex doesn’t laugh. He says ‘cheers, mate, I look forward to it’ in a vague sort of way, and then falls silent again. [Alex’s vague ‘look after George’ feelings remain.]

‘Alex?’ George prompts, a little uncertainly. ‘Everything alright?’

‘Yeah,’ Alex says, then he pauses. ‘What time did you fly out last night, Georgie? You didn’t come by my room, did you?’

‘I didn’t have time.’

‘Huh,’ says Alex. ‘I could have sworn… must be imagining things.’

‘You’re probably remembering the night before,’ George suggests doubtfully. ‘After quali?’

‘Did you come and see me after quali?’

‘I must have done,’ George frowns. [He did not, but in George and Alex’s heads there is no other possible explanation.] ‘I had to give you the opportunity to congratulate me on the P3 start, didn’t I?’

An odd little squirm, somewhere low in George’s abdomen. [How many times has the number three come up now?]

‘That must be it.’

There’s another beat of silence. It’s still not awkward.

‘Georgie,’ Alex says slowly, like he’s considering his words carefully. ‘You weren’t, like, upset about something after quali, were you?’

George feels another strange twist of something in his gut, more potent than before.

‘No,’ he replies. It feels like a lie, even though it’s not; he’d been thrilled after quali. ‘I don’t think so. Why would I have been?’

‘I really don’t know,’ says Alex. ‘Forget it. Shall I pick up lunch tomorrow, then?’

They formulate a vague plan that George really hopes Alex is going to text to him, because he’s not really paying attention. He’s still chasing that memory, the one which is hovering just out of reach in his mind; a crowded room, dozens of people, writing on the wall. Something important.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ Alex is saying.

‘See you, Alex.’

George drops his phone onto the bed next to him and presses the heels of both hands into his eyes. His vision blurs slightly, spots visible when he takes his hands away again. Once they clear, he’s sitting in a classroom at his old secondary school. George isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. To his left, a shelf holds a whole parade of bibles. George is amazed that he can picture the room at all; he barely paid any attention in RE. [The redirection; not a memory of the time loop at all.]

On the wall beneath the shelf is a poster, one of those motivational ramblings; the sort of thing that Lewis might post to his Instagram story accompanied by a completely unrelated photo of his abs. [Sorry, Lewis. A confession: I find his ‘be your best self today’ captions completely cringe.] George blinks away that particular image, focusing back in on the classroom. The poster was one of his teacher’s favourites, George remembers suddenly; he used to turn towards that wall in times of particular stress, reading it aloud with an air of deep resignation.

‘One only needs three things in life,’ he’d sigh, eyes cast heavenward. ‘Just three. If you don’t remember anything else from these lessons, remember this.’ [This imagery came to my mind remarkable late in the game; I think there might have only been two or three chapters left to publish and I was editing this section when it suddenly struck me.]

George never felt particularly inspired, not at the time, but he can see the words perfectly now.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference

[Pure dumb luck that this worked so beautifully; the entire character development that George is supposed to go through, plus a clear link to number three theme that has run through the whole story. I will never get this lucky again.]

George has never been religious, couldn’t recount the story of the prodigal son [The boy who messed up but was welcomed back…] if his career depended on it, but there’s a link somewhere. Something is hiding just offstage waiting to coalesce, if only George can grasp the threads. He absentmindedly rubs the pads of his thumb over his fingertips, wiping away the last traces of moisture. There’s definitely something, somewhere; a flash of a smashed in front wing, a cat in a cardboard box, and an intensification of the unease in George’s stomach. He’s chasing the feeling, closer, closer…

Right next to George’s ear, his phone vibrates. If he were standing up, he would have crumpled straight to the floor. As George fumbles for his phone, there’s a panicky feeling in his throat; yet another thing to bring up with his therapist.

Brackley says gearbox is fucked, Toto has written. [George taking a new gearbox at the next race in Australia, even though that was only the third race of the season, was so convenient.] George struggles to focus on the words properly, squinting at his screen. You have put somehow thousands of hours of wear on it over two weekends. PU isn’t looking too clever either, but it may be salvageable. [Yes, I know that George’s PU failed in the next race because it ingested something, but let’s pretend otherwise for the sake of The Narrative.] If this is what it needs to gain 3.5 tenths, forget it!

For some reason, this strikes George as mildly funny. Maybe it’s the jet lag, but if the gearbox is fucked then it’s fucked; there’s no point in worrying about it now, not when he can’t do anything to fix it. [CHARACTER. DEVELOPMENT.]

See you Wednesday, he types back, pushing away the anxious fluttering that resumes in his stomach at the thought. It’s one more thing to add to the list to talk about tomorrow.

Oh good, comes Toto’s immediate reply. Glad to receive proof of life. [Remember that this is a man whose love language is some variation of ‘don’t be shit’; this is him being relieved but trying not to show it.] See you on Wednesday. Great drive yesterday!

George lets his phone slip from his fingers again and rolls over in bed. There’s an echo of tightness in his chest, but he presses his face into the pillow and breathes. [Originally this ended ‘but he presses his face into the pillow and smiles’, but as I planned the fic more and the situation became more serious, that ending became too happy. George isn’t okay, but he might be! One day!]

[kimtaegis]

I just think this look (for @ljinki)

[vminian]

Jimin’s reaction to watching a crying Taehyung on-screen during the Bring the Soul: The Movie commentary…

Taehyung, I love you. 💜💜💜💜💜

[0samjha]

[ininininininstayoutstayout]

You have already done MANY of these for 1000 laps so I’d say a BTS for it please <3

Ask game

This is the first scene of Pack Down, which itself is a deleted scene from 1000 laps. Hopefully that makes sense!

Again, there are obviously spoilers below.

Christian has been ranting for ages, really going for it. Much more malicious than normal. [If there’s a little of the Christian hater in me coming out in this section, I don’t apologise for it.]

‘Completely irresponsible, utterly dangerous, a total disregard for everybody else! You should be ashamed of yourself, employing a driver like that. If you’ve got any sense of decency then you’ll – ’

‘Excuse me,’ Toto fires back. It’s fucking rich for Christian to be talking about anyone else’s sense of decency. ‘Kindly do not tell me how to – ’

‘I mean it, Toto,’ Christian snaps. ‘Get that lunatic off the track, permanently, or I will do it for you. And I don’t care how many people I have to bring down to do so.’ [Does Christian actually think he can kick up enough of a fuss to get George off the grid? Debateable, but he’s angry. And rightly so, to be fair; George did just deliberately ram one of his drivers off the track. Christian isn’t meant to be a sympathetic character here, but let’s remember that George is not exactly a sympathetic character from the outside either.]

‘Stop it,’ Toto snaps, abruptly unable to stand the torrent of abuse a moment longer. His insides have been boiling for a while now, but suddenly the anger is aimed at a different target. ‘How dare you speak about my driver like that? George is – ’ [This is the moment at which something clicks for Toto; it’s only when he automatically comes to George’s defence that he realises. Until this point, his thoughts have been worryingly similar to Christian’s. Remember that – off-screen in this one-shot but on-screen in 1000 laps – Toto has previously been shouting at George, essentially telling him that he deserves a ban. He’s shocked to realise that he’s basically agreeing with Christian, and that brings him back to his senses.]

The scene in front of Toto suddenly coalesces, frightening in its clarity. George, huddled in the corner of the room with his arms wrapped around his bent knees like a child. Ron, midway between himself and George, has one hand stretched out towards each of them as he shifts his concerned gaze between the two. His eyes are fixed on Toto’s face right now, almost pleading. [Ron knew that something wasn’t right immediately.]

In the sudden silence, George lifts his head up from where it has been buried in his knees. His expression is blank.

‘I have to go, Christian,’ Toto says slowly, horror flooding through him as he holds George’s vacant gaze. Maybe if he maintains the eye contact then George will start to look a bit more human. ‘Put it in an email or something.’ [The ghost of team principal to race control radios will never leave us.]

‘You have to go?’ Christian explodes, clearly still apoplectic. Toto actually moves his phone a couple of inches further away from his ear. ‘What the fuck do you mean? I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here, Toto! Your driver is a – ’

The media always portrays them as rivals, a vaguely pantomime act with the role of villain interchangeable, but Toto has never hated Christian. Until now. [Protective Dad Mode has now been activated.]

‘I have something more important to deal with now, Christian,’ he says decisively, not at all caring if Christian even hears him. ‘Goodbye.’

Ron, reaching out wordlessly for Toto’s phone, is on hand to answer the call the moment it erupts straight back into life in his hands. [In this house, we love Ron Meadows.]

‘Not now, Christian,’ he says calmly. ‘Toto is busy. I’m sure he will pick up messages later. Goodbye.’

Christian can leave as many voicemails as his likes, Toto simply doesn’t care. All his attention is instead focused on George, cowering away from him on the floor. Toto has been so stupid, so blinded by rage that he’s neglected to look at what’s happening right in front of him. [Not Toto’s finest hour.]

Ron is backing away, letting Toto past without argument. Ron, who spotted immediately what it’s taken Toto an unforgiveable length of time to see.

‘George,’ Toto says gently, crouching down next to his driver. He wants to touch George, to grab him and pull him into a hug and protect him from all the rage that Christian can muster, but he finds that he doesn’t quite dare. George looks terrified; terrified of Toto, probably, and Toto wouldn’t blame him in the slightest. ‘George? Can you hear me?’ [George is terrified of Toto. He’s expecting to be sacked.]

George is still staring back, eyes open but not much flickering behind them. A huge stab of guilt slices through Toto’s gut, burning hot. How did he miss this? What did he think was going on?

Toto can feel Ron at his shoulder, the phone discarded somewhere that Toto neither knows nor cares about. Christian can rant away to himself.

‘Oh god,’ Toto whispers. He looks away from George just for a moment, suddenly unable to stand it. ‘What was I thinking? Ron, what have I done?’

Ron lowers himself to the floor too. Braver than Toto, a better man by far, he stretches out a careful hand and rests it on George’s shoulder. The tremors that have been shuddering violently through George’s body seem to reduce, just a fraction. George tips his head down towards Ron’s hand, as if seeking comfort. [Totally instinctive on George’s part. This is not mentioned in 1000 laps itself, when we see this scene from George’s perspective, because George isn’t aware he’s doing it.]

‘It’s alright, George,’ Ron is saying, talking in a low voice. George’s eyes are closed again and he gives no sign that he’s heard. ‘It’s okay.’ [Another thing not mentioned from George’s POV; he doesn’t even hear it.]

‘Ron,’ Toto says, guilt burning so strongly in his throat that he feels he might choke on it. ‘What do I do? How do I fix it?’

‘We’ll get him a doctor.’

Toto’s mind is still catching up.

‘The scan was – ’

‘Toto,’ says Ron. ‘Look at him. Is this something that’s going to show up on a scan?’ [Ron gets it. Toto is trying to get it, but he’s still in a bit of denial.]

Toto closes his eyes, just for a minute. He’s a coward; he doesn’t want to look. Ron, sensible Ron, is still talking.

‘We’ll get him back to the medical centre and see what they can do for him. We’ll sort it.’

Toto still can’t process it properly, his brain unwilling to entertain the possibility that he’s missed something so enormous. [Toto is missing James V here. James would have known, like Ron, but James would have also taken Toto aside as soon as he started getting worked up, told him he was being a prat and that needed to open his eyes.]

‘But,’ he says, feeling more like a child than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t want to be responsible for this. ‘When did this happen? You saw him yesterday after quali; he was fine. Happy, even.’ [This is a huge problem for them to try and understand, and one of the reasons why Toto simply didn’t see what is going on right in front of him for so long; the difference between the George of ‘yesterday’ (what they think is yesterday) and the George of right now (only 24 hours later in their perspective) is an impossible thing for them to try and reconcile.]

Ron’s calm surety seems to waver, just for a minute. A crease appears between his eyebrows.

‘That’s not for us to figure out,’ he replies eventually. ‘We just need to get him to someone who can.’

Toto nods. Ron’s right, of course he is. Ron is holding it together while Toto is letting George down. He needs to get a grip.

‘George,’ Ron is saying softly. The hand still resting on George’s shoulder is squeezing, just gently. Trying to get George’s attention. ‘Can you hear me?’

George’s hands fall away from his ears slightly – when did he cover them in the first place? – and he peers up blearily, his eyes peeping out just above his knees.

‘Let me help you up,’ Ron continues. ‘We should get you back to the medical centre.’

‘No,’ George gasps out, the first word he’s spoken in a while. ‘No, I don’t want – I can’t – no.’ [George is terrified that he’s gone insane, and also terrified of someone else figuring that out and taking him away.]

Ron opens his mouth but George is still pressing on.

‘The stewards,’ he says, eyes slightly manic. ‘The – the stewards. Stewards. We’ll go to – the stewards. Stewards.’

Ron eyes George sceptically, then catches Toto’s eye.

‘I don’t think it’s going to be an enjoyable visit,’ he says. ‘I’ll do my best, but this is serious.’ [In real life, George would probably have got a ban for this, for sure. A probably not just for one race.]

Toto closes his eyes briefly again, possibilities flickering relentlessly against the backdrop of his eyelids. No matter what the stewards say, Toto is likely to be a driver down for Australia and probably beyond. [And Toto knows this.] If he’s in this bad a state right now, there is simply no way that George is going to be ready to board a flight to the other side of the world in a week’s time. [In the end, George of course does drive in Australia. But only because he doesn’t retain these memories.] Toto will have to find Mick, once he’s got George somewhere safe. George.

‘George,’ Toto says, refocusing on his immediate problem as another spasm of guilt grips his gut. Everything else can wait. ‘I really think we should get you back to the medical centre. Ron is right.’

‘No no no,’ George shakes his head desperately. Toto doesn’t know what’s so frightened of [Psychiatrists, basically.], but he’s not keen to push it with George like this. ‘Please. No. Fine – I’m fine. The – the scan. Fine. Stewards. We – we should. It’s the – the rules.’ [George doesn’t know what he’s saying.]

Toto drags his gaze away from his driver’s pleading face to look at Ron, who shrugs.

‘We’re due in ten minutes,’ he says, checking his watch.

Toto frowns. He doesn’t want to cause George any more unnecessary distress. For the first time in fifteen months [Abu Dhabi 2021 reference, sorry everyone.], he finds himself wishing that someone else was in charge, could make the difficult decisions instead. [It’s lonely at the top.]

‘Afterwards then,’ Toto says eventually, watching George’s face carefully. ‘No buts, George. We are not arguing about this.’

George, who won’t hold Toto’s gaze, drops his forehead down onto his knees again. The tension in his body is apparent in the set of his shoulders, the firm grip of his forearms around his shins. Tremors are rippling down his biceps, obvious under his fireproofs.

‘Come on,’ Ron encourages him gently. ‘You’ll need to get up.’

George might as well be carved from stone, showing no inclination to move at all. Toto watches as Ron makes to grasp George under his armpits firmly, ready to hoist him to his feet like a child.

‘I will join you,’ Toto says. He runs a quick mental inventory of himself, registering the crumpled shirt and his hair completely askew where his hands have run a thousand new routes through it over the past hour or two. He doesn’t feel like a team principal at all. ‘If you will you give me a minute?’

That gets George’s attention, and Ron’s too. George lifts his head again, brow furrowed. There’s something like panic in his eyes, which Toto doesn’t want to think about. [Toto: I will go to the stewards with my driver because he needs the support. George: Toto is coming to stewards with me because he wants to make sure they punish me properly.]

‘Are you sure?’ Ron asks, after a beat of silence.

‘I am sure,’ Toto says firmly. Of course he is. ‘I need to be there. As you say, this is serious.’

George’s head slumps forwards again at these words. [George: he hates me, he wants me gone but he doesn’t want to do the dirty work for himself, so he’s going to ask the stewards to do it for him.] Ron looks at Toto. For the first time this evening, his face is showing a little of the strain that Toto is feeling.

‘Toto,’ he says quietly. ‘A hand, please.’

Between them, they manage to grasp various parts of George’s upper body and haul him to his feet. The three of them stand there for a moment, a perverse statue. The only visible movement comes from the rapid rise and fall of George’s chest as he balances millimetres away from the ledge, poised to tip into hyperventilation at a moment’s notice. Toto can feel his own breathing speeding up in sympathy, connected as they are with his left arm wedged in under George’s right armpit to bear much of his weight. The insides of their arms are pressed together from elbow to wrist, such that Toto had briefly considered taking hold of George’s hand as they helped him to stand. Having briefly frozen with indecision over whether George would welcome or reject the gesture, Toto’s hand is instead wrapped around George’s wrist, his fingertips steady against the knobbly bump of bone the protrudes just below the end of his sleeve. Against his palm, the rabbity quick thud of George’s pulse reverberates. [I hope I managed to describe this arrangement of limbs sufficiently well, because the image was so clear in my mind.]

‘A minute?’ Toto asks Ron quietly. ‘You will be okay?’

Ron nods, wrapping an arm around George’s shoulders so that Toto can edge away. [As I said, we love Ron Meadows in this house.]

‘Just sit down here for me, George,’ Ron is saying, guiding George into a chair while Toto slips from the room.

Toto manages to bypass all of his colleagues as he makes the short journey down the corridor to his office. He doesn’t turn the light on as he locks the door behind him, desperately hoping not to be disturbed. It’s a lonely place, the top of the tree; ultimately responsible for everything and nothing at the same time. There’s no one part of the car, no singular aspect of the team that Toto can point to and feel pride in as his own achievement; it’s his job to take all of the blame and none of the credit. The one thing that Toto has to do, the one thing that is solely down to him, is to culture a positive working environment, to ensure that his team is a place where every last employee from driver to cleaner feels safe and valued and looked after. And if this isn’t the most spectacular example of fucking it up, then Toto doesn’t know what is. [Toto is right; this is the most spectacular example of fucking it up. He didn’t cause the problem, but he’s made it worse with his reaction.]

The temptation to smash his fist on the desk is strong, a desire to slam the door a few times and scream, but Toto can’t add his own breakdown to the mess that’s made been already. He’s let George down, badly, and now he needs to make things right. [Toto can break down later, in private.]

Toto takes a few deep breaths. He uses his reflection in the window, stark against the inky blackness outside, to straighten his shirt and flatten his hair. He’s got to be Toto Wolff for now; he’ll have to save the rest for when he’s back at the hotel and able to phone Susie, to run her through the whole sorry tale and ask if she can pinpoint the moment when he went wrong so he knows what to avoid in the future. [In this house, we also love Susie Wolff. Toto and Susie both call each other ‘the boss’; I think this speaks for itself.]

George and Ron are waiting, when Toto makes it back. He’s splashed some cold water on his face to make him feel a bit more human, but that feeling fizzles away as he registers that the two of them have hardly moved since he left them. George is slumped forwards in the chair, his forehead practically on his knees again, and Ron is standing over him protectively with one hand resting lightly on the back of George’s head. [Ron is quite literally guarding him.]

Without a word, Toto and Ron each grasp one of George’s upper arms and help him to his feet. He stands there, motionless apart from a slight sway from side to side.

‘Come on, George,’ Toto says. It comes out gruffly, like there’s a lump in his throat. As he swallows hard, he feels Ron’s hand momentarily grip his elbow. [George needs support, but so does Toto.]

[littlemeowmeowschimmy]

So as many of you know @btsqualityy​ is my roomie. We were just in the caf eating dinner and she said something funny to me. I laughed which caused the juice I had tried to drink come out of my mouth AND my nose. Literally reminded us of this 

Am I okay? Yes however this’ll be a night that I probably won’t push away and forget

[littlemeowmeowschimmy]

Am I the only one that figured out that AGUST D backwards is SUGA and DT is Yoongi's hometown?

He really is a damn fucking genius