#montreal26

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George Russell & Alex Albon || Saturday - Montreal 2026 - Photos: Reginald Mathalone

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Alex Albon || Sprint Race - Montreal 2026 - Photo: Peter Fox

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will you ever write the touch au?

(re the tags on this post and with thanks to the brilliant @bighoneyenergy for the og prompt that's been lost in the depths of my inbox)

George could usually keep it at bay. He’d let his shoulder bump into Alex’s during the national anthem, casual and incidental, or he’d slap his hand against Alex’s arm in the media pen, friendly and unremarkable. He could usually get by just passing Alex an umbrella on the parade float and letting their fingers brush. It would be enough for him to keep it together to race at least, even if he felt the distance between their cars every lap, his body locked into the silo of the cockpit and still craving.

It was harder to manage during the off weeks — George would have to ration his padel suggestions carefully, spacing out the matches so he could get enough even if they had to spend days at their respective factories or worse, if George had to chip away at his endless sponsor commitments. It was frankly unbearable when Lily was in Monaco and Alex seemingly forgot that George existed, but George had been hungry most of his life. He could clench his jaw and knuckle his way through anything, uncomplaining. He could lie in his flat with all the curtains drawn, breathing through the nausea, skin cold with sweat, his stomach a pit inside of him, his head throbbing, and be fine. 

He had always known that the solution was — well, from careful scientific enquiry, he had deduced that more was preferable to less. If he let his hands linger on Alex’s waist as he slipped past him in the kitchen, or god, the week they had shared a bed in Portugal, and George had gotten to sleep with Alex pressed up against his side night after night. George had felt good for weeks, for months, a shimmering under his skin that had dissipated only gradually when Covid forced them farther apart.    

He fantasised about it sometimes — having more. It was impossible not to think about it when he was twisted in the sheets, his skin crawling. George knew they didn’t have that kind of friendship — they were British, first of all, and more to the point, Alex didn’t want him like that. The most they were allowed was an affectionate dig, a laddish clap on the back, a cutting laugh. For all that he sometimes let himself think how it would feel to have Alex in bed, his body braced over George on a mattress, filling up George from the inside, driving all the sickness away, in reality, it felt overwhelming to imagine even hugging Alex.  He wouldn’t be selfish like that.

But if there was ever a time —

“Congrats, Albono,” George muttered, his fingers wrapped carefully around Alex’s bicep, letting the warmth seep into his skin, the good feeling he got from Alex pushing down the spike of panic he had gotten when Alex said the word engaged. “Can’t believe she said yes. Did you get her a huge rock, or what?” 

Alex rolled his eyes, but from the way he blushed, he could tell that the answer was yes. George hadn’t pulled his hand away yet, letting himself revel in the goodness of Alex’s body, feeling himself grow stronger, clearer. Then a sudden shifting of Alex’s muscles sent a rush through him, and George thought, fuck it. If this was the way things were going to be going forward, Alex too busy with his wife to want George around, George left alone and wretching — he was going to take his chances while he still could.

When George tugged on Alex’s arm, Alex folded into him easily, his chin tucking over George’s shoulder like they did this all the time instead of never at all. George let himself squeeze once and then twice, hugging tight enough that he could imagine never letting go. He breathed in once, twice, lingering too long, every part of him buzzing with it.

Alex’s eyes had been wide when George finally pulled back, his hands slow to leave George’s back.

That had been the night before Barcelona testing, and while George wouldn’t have gone as far as to say there was a good time to find out the news, the hug had been enough to sustain him through pre-season without top-ups. In fact, it wasn’t until Australia that he realised he hadn’t felt it since, hadn’t needed it in the same way as he had when every part of his body was straining for Alex, yearning.

He was still waiting for it to wear off of course, for the sickening hunger to come back. And when it did, it was probably going to be even worse than it had been before, he cautioned himself. He had had it for long — there was no way he would’ve been able to shake it so easily. The other shoe was going to drop.

Still, by the time Montreal rolled around, the thought of it had faded to an occasional flicker in the back of his mind, the very thing that had once governed his life fading into the background noise of the season. He was grateful, he was. He had something else to be hungry for, something that needed his full attention, and for once, he could give it. His hands didn’t so much as twitch on the wheel when he went to lap Alex during the Sprint, and Alex didn’t move from the racing line. 

Last season, the chance to be so close to Alex during the race, trundling along in his dirty air for even a few corners would’ve gotten him through the rest of the day easily. He would’ve been grateful for it, would’ve lingered for an extra beat before calling in to complain.

Now, he jabbed the radio button immediately, thinking of the precious seconds he was losing to Kimi while he was stuck looking at Alex’s rear wing. “What the hell is he doing? He’s just in the middle of the road.”

It was like Alex had forgotten to drive, George thought angrily, like Alex had forgotten he was in the car. George was going to give him a piece of his mind when they got back to the hotel. Only one of them was in the title fight. Alex had gotten his dream, with Lily. This was what George had left, and even that was starting to slip through his fingers. The cold metal of a second-place trophy didn’t have the same effect. 

Only when Alex had pulled open the door to his room, the words died in George’s throat. Alex was — he didn’t look well. He was trembling, his face sheened with sweat. The room behind him was dark. 

And he was reaching out for George, a desperation for touch that George knew too well.

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can't believe it's only round five and i'm already making a discourse post, but for everyone that's talking about george's "the gods don't want me to fight for this championship" quote, which he repeated to several outlets in montreal, i just wanted to point out that it's almost exactly what he said to toto after japan as well ie "somebody from above was not going to let us [win]" and imo in the context of the full quote, it's very clearly him rationalising the fact that he can perform at his best and still not get the result (something a lot of athletes talk about in general btw, the fact that they can only control the process, not the outcome). it's obviously not him rolling over before the season has even started. like come on

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George Russell & Alex Albon || Saturday - Montreal 2026 - Photo: Marcel van Dorst

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Kimi Antonelli & George Russell || Post-Quali Press Conference - Montreal 2026 - Photo: Mark Sutton

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Alex Albon || Montreal GP 2026 - Photo: James Sutton

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THIGH PAT

1.5k of george/toto, re: the great canada thigh pat and george's little show of emotion George reads his draft back, taps a finger against the side of the screen. He needs to post it before the plane takes off, knows he needs to leave it behind him in Canada instead of dragging it forward into the new week. The plane is already starting to taxi up the runway. 

He breathes in, counts to ten, breathes out, closes his eyes. The post is fine — the comms team already approved it. He just needs to hit publish. He just needs to get over himself. It had been his idea anyway, even if his motivation had been aimed at avoiding a grid drop in Monaco rather than actually wanting to drag himself publicly over the coals. The injustice of it is still curling sourly in his stomach, and he thinks without meaning to of the last embarrassing apology he wrote in Toto’s PJ, years ago now. I should’ve handled the situation better. Emotions run high in the heat of the moment. I expect more from myself. I will come out of this a better person.

George didn’t know if Toto was thinking of Imola too when he insisted George fly back with him instead of taking the commercial flight he had originally been booked on. He feels a lot older now than he did then, his post-race joints aching in a way he couldn’t have imagined in his early twenties, but when he looks back at the desperation he felt fighting for that one point, the time doesn’t feel as significant as he’d like it to.

Before he can think about it any longer, he makes himself publish the post and then turns off his phone, watching the screen until it goes dark.

“Done?” Toto asks, and when George looks up, he discovers that Toto had been watching him the whole time he had been sat stewing.   

George nods once, terse, and tries not to let his face give anything away. He hadn’t cried when Toto had come to console him in the paddock, and he hadn’t cried in the media pen. He wasn’t going to now either.  

“Good,” Toto says, and he leans forward in his seat until his elbows are resting on his knees, closing the space between them. 

The plane feels quiet. On the way to Montreal, it had been full — Kimi and Carmen and Toto’s kids and half the team, everyone still bubbling over with the high of having the best car. George had been too, sure that Canada would be good to him like it had been before, sure that he was about to put all the baseless speculation about his talent to bed. Now, it’s almost empty, save Susie and Carmen sitting together at the front of the plane. George catches a second of their conversation and realises that they’re talking about Carmen’s home reno plans for their new place in Spain, a slice of normality that feels so divorced from his current train of thought that it’s like a physical intruder in the small cabin. 

“How can I help put this behind you?” Toto says, still calm. Over Toto’s shoulder, Carmen is showing Susie the architectural drawings on her iPad, pulling up colour swatches, and George has a sudden, intrusive memory of standing at the side of the track watching the rest of the grid fly down the straight. He had counted them as they had passed, calculating the positions lost, the points he had fought for desperately vanishing in mere seconds.   

“You could find me a battery that doesn’t die,” George says, before he can think better of it. “Kimi’s seems to work just fine so far — maybe we could try that one.”

“George,” Toto says, admonishing like he had been over the radio.   

“Sorry,” George says, a reflex, but he doesn’t know why he’s still apologising for himself. It shouldn’t be up to him to apologise all the time. He can feel the frustration rising in his chest, unstoppable. His eyes flick to Susie and Carmen again, irritation inching further up his neck. He had been so good for so long, locking away the part of him that wanted to snarl. 

They’re still taxing, but Toto gets up anyway. There’s a second where George thinks Toto is just so sick of him that he’s going to go sit with Susie and Carmen, but instead of moving towards the front of the plane, he moves towards the back, reaching for the door to the bedroom. George doesn’t move until Toto says come, and then he goes, like a trained dog, unbuckling his seat belt and stumbling when the plane makes an unexpected turn on the tarmac. 

“Sorry,” George says again when the door is closed behind them, but now that they’re in private, George is forced to consider why Toto asked him to come. If it was to admonish him in private for taking things too far, for acting childishly, or if it was. Or if it was because — He feels the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and sits without meaning to.  

Toto is looming over him now, arms crossed over his chest, but when he speaks again, his voice is gentle. “I asked, how can I help put this behind you? A real answer, please.”  

George swallows and his eyes flick down before he can stop himself, resting on the buckle of Toto’s belt. He thought he had outgrown this. He had thought he had learned better. He makes himself breathe in, counts to ten again, and then looks back at Toto’s face.

“I know,” Toto says, and when the corner of his mouth twitches up into a small smile, George feels something inside of him unknot. When he had looked out from the podium in China, seeking reassurance, and Toto hadn’t been there, he had thought — he had thought— 

Suddenly, Toto’s fingers are threading through his hair, his hand cupping the back of George’s head, slipping down until it’s resting at his nape. He swallows, feeling Toto’s fingers at the sides of his throat. God, he — he wants it. He wants something, and he can get it. It’s there in front of him now, he can have it. His mouth is watering, and when Toto brings his other hand up to cup George’s cheek, it falls open, and Toto’s thumb slips inside, pressing down on George’s incisor. 

He’s panting now, all the unspent adrenaline in his body suddenly fixed at one target. His hands curl uselessly on the bedspread for a minute, but why, when he can have it? Why wait, when Toto has all but said? He reaches up and finds Toto’s thigh, the fabric of his trousers soft over solid muscle. 

For how long they’ve gone in between, the routines are easy to fall back into, his fingers inching towards Toto’s zipper by memory. It’s a jolt, then, when he doesn’t get far, a jolt when he finds himself suddenly thrown back against the bed, his head hitting the mattress.

“What are you —“ George starts to ask, looking down to see Toto getting on his knees. He’s so tall that it looks almost ridiculous, all of his too-long limbs trying to fold up smaller than they ought to go. 

Toto doesn’t answer. He just gathers George’s wrists easily in one hand and keeps them locked against George’s chest, effectively pinning him to the bed. He must be able to feel the trapped-bird flutter of George’s heart, and George feels himself flush. He’s still hard, the line of his dick against his trousers unmistakable with the way Toto has him splayed, but a cold wash of reality has come back to him. Carmen and Susie are just outside. The plane is going to take off any minute. If someone were to come looking for them — 

He squirms, tries to fight a sob as it leaves his throat, but Toto doesn’t seem to notice. He’s efficient with George’s flies, and a second later, he’s taking the head of George’s cock into his mouth, and then there’s nothing George can do but lie there and take it.  

Reluctantly, George has to admit that Toto is better at giving head than he would’ve expected. He takes George easily, his tongue working steadily as he works up and down the length of him, and George thinks of all the times it had been the other way around, all the time he had spent at the foot of Toto’s bed, silk sheets pooled around his feet. Thinks about how Toto had never offered.

George is still making noises he doesn’t want to be making, and it’s mortifying when he feels tears start to leak down the sides of his face, running down his skin until they get lost between his hair and the bedding. He twists his wrists, but Toto’s grip is still strong. He’s too tired all of a sudden to stop his thighs from twitching, the weight of the weekend suddenly settling around him. 

He cries out again when he comes, a noise that comes from somewhere dark inside him, somewhere suddenly unleashed, and he’s still panting when Toto pulls back, letting George’s softening cock fall back against his thigh. 

George closes his eyes and listens as Toto moves around the small room, hears him spit, hears the water run. It seems impossible that he’s going to wake up in Monaco, the cycle of the race weekend starting again. 

He breathes in, counts to ten, breathes out, and feels the surface beneath him lurch as the plane finally starts down the runway. The landing gear whirs as it tucks the wheels up into the body of the plane, the tarmac already growing distant. There’s a silence then, the weightless feeling things only get when they’re looking up, and he grits his teeth through it, starting to gather up the edges of himself. with my thanks to @officialmood for helping me brainstorm the important question: does toto wolff suck dick. we decided yes.