the thing is that toto isn't even gonna do something about the incompetence of george's team because he's too busy gooning over "youngest ever" records for that italian twat.
I hope one day, after he retires, he'll roll out a documentary exposing Mercedes from the moment that weird ass contract is signed to whatever moment he'll be with them later on
kimi antonelli is like y/n to me like where the fuck did u come from. how do u get lewis hamilton's legendary race engineer. why do u suddenly get better preferential treatment. why does the boss love u. gtfo of here
a vampire's long term fwbb (friend with blood benefits) making an idle remark about how it was a struggle to handle the aphrodisiac in the bite venom for the first while but now they're used to it and know to expect it and the vampire saying "hey um. so I don't have any bite venom. like at all."
rules: post the last sentence "thing" you wrote and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence
this is A lot more than a sentence because i have been living in another reality writing a ******* ******* *** ** sorry i actually feel terrible. but i have like 10k of chapter 4 it's getting there i just have to redacted redacted redacted readacted redacted. no pressure tags for @advantagealcaraz and @ctimenefic <3
/
In George’s dream there’s no sunshine beading through the windows. That’s how he knows he’s in London. The light is muted, dark in the way he only knows England to be. Like a sheet has been pulled over the sun, the rooftops and the trees. The second indication that he’s dreaming is Alex, standing in George’s kitchen with his back turned. When he spins, he’s holding a bottle of wine.
George doesn’t recognise the label. His awareness of the dream, or the situation the dream has placed him in, will only become clear once he’s woken from it.
In his mind, this is as natural as breathing. “D’you think they care about the year?” Alex asks George placidly, not looking up from the bottle.
Alex is disheveled in a way that George has never been privy to; this is an Alex conjured entirely all on his own. Alex’s messiness thus far has been purposeful, or crafted by outside factors. Wind ruffled hair and chapped lips.
His lips are not chapped in the dream, he bites onto the bottom before his eyes flick up toward George.
“Georgie?” Alex asks. He looks frustrated; as if his hair is tousled from running his hands through it irritatedly. White dress shirt with the collar raised, untied tie hanging around his neck. He looks good, unnaturally so.
“Sorry,” George says. “What did you say?”
“I asked,” Alex says, exasperated, mouth thin. “If you think they care about the year. We have a 2004 Barossa and a 2012–” Alex squints at the wine rack on the counter, full of bottles. “I don’t actually know.”
“They won’t,” George says, not because he knows, but because he wants the tension to leave Alex’s posture. “Here,” George steps toward Alex, taking his tie with both hands. Their proximity is not unfamiliar, he knows what Alex looks like up close as if he was an extension of himself.
“I can tie it,” Alex says, almost petulant. He’s upset. George has none of the context, acts only in the realm of instinctive action.
“Let me.” George smiles, waiting for Alex to do the same. When he doesn’t, something lurches within him, uncomfortable. He doesn’t push George away, though, just turns his nose.
“Enough,” Alex says eventually, when George’s fingers wander from his Windsor knot to his smooth shoulders, up to his neck, to cup his face. Alex is so warm. It’s then that Alex moves away.
“Are you upset with me?” George asks, going cold all over. Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with his body at all.
None of this is real.
Alex is saying something, squinting and frowning, he’s saying George’s name but there’s no real noise. All George can hear is the creaking of cupboards and walls as they begin to constrict, the room closing in on both of them. Alex’s mouth is moving and George is trying to grab onto him. His limbs won’t obey, it’s like the pressure of descending too fast, something horrible screaming behind his ears, his arms are so heavy and there’s really nothing he can do, in the end.
George wakes up to Alex’s hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Alex says. “George.” He’s whispering, the room is dark and everything spins in the two moments that George opens his eyes. He closes them almost straight away, unsure what his body is doing. Alex’s hand leaves his shoulder. “You—You have a meeting at lunchtime. Last night, you kept telling me about it.”
“Oh god,” George groans. He runs a hand over his face, over his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, almost instinctively. The lingering dread of the dream mixes with the odd feeling inside of his stomach.
“It’s alright mate,” Alex says. He sounds like he’s smiling. George peers one eye open to take him in. Even in the lowlight, Alex is brilliant, white teeth on display. His grin doesn’t falter, only widens when he and George make eye contact.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, sitting up, putting distance between them. He can smell Alex’s skin from here, the same scent that follows him dutifully, a remora stuck to his skin. “What time is it?”
“Eleven,” Alex steps back, away from George. “You said the meeting was at 12, so.”
“What time did we—” George looks around the room. It must be Alex’s living room. He’s on a pull out sofa, not a bed. The blinds are closed and it smells just like Alex. Lemongrass and ginger. “The last thing I remember is going to the beach,”
“We got back at like 2,” Alex says, looking away from George and yawning, “You kept telling me you had a meeting and that you had to get home,” he laughs to himself.
“Blimey,” George replies. His throat aches. “I don’t even remember drinking that much.” He doesn’t remember much of the night at all, really. He’s wearing all of his clothes and his head hurts. “I’m really sorry,” he says, maybe for the third time.
“Enough,” Alex says, standing up, wandering down to the doorway on George’s left. “Tea? Think I’ve got some earl gray lying around.”
“Please,” George says, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”
He scrolls through his memories like a rotodex. Pieces of things and sensations flash through him, the familiar guilt and shame of being so intoxicated he’d forgotten the night licks up and down his sides. He’s hot, all of a sudden, even though Alex’s house is cool. The noises from the kitchenette break his daze, the kettle boiling and Alex meandering around his kitchen, spoons making contact with porcelain.
“Sugar?” Alex calls. “Milk?”
“One is fine,” George replies. “And yes. Thanks.” He yawns again, stifling the sound. When he closes his eyes his head doesn’t hurt as much, so he keeps them shut until the Alex noises change and his footsteps shuffle back into the living room.
“You look like shit,” Alex says, and he’s laughing, but he’s holding a mug of tea, just for George. It smells like London, just for a moment. He tries not to think about the dream, about the way his fingers had felt, cupping the freshly shaved cheek of an Alexander Albon with no chapped lips and a dress shirt.
“Thanks,” George replies dryly, at both the comment and the tea. After the first mouthful he sits up and holds it with both hands. “And for letting me crash here. I appreciate it.”
Alex smiles curiously. He stands, like he’s not sure what to do with himself, looking out at the gap in the blinds.
“Couldn’t in good conscience let you get home like that. You’d probably tell the Grab driver all about your meeting and he’d leave you behind.”
George barks out an odd, stiled laugh. Being cared about is a hollow feeling in George’s chest. Undeserving. It feels like thievery, when he takes another gulp of tea. It’s hot, scalds his throat. The pain feels correct.
“I’ll just have this then get out of your hair,” George says, looking down. The blanket draped over him is heavy, dark blue. It looks like the ocean, spooling around his thighs.
“No rush,” Alex says, like he doesn’t mind at all. They spend time together on the boat all the time, it really shouldn’t be any different. Seeing inside Alex’s home shouldn’t be some new fascinating thing, to George. They might even be properly friends, by now. He’s seen Lando’s house. He certainly wasn’t running his fingers through the throw blanket on Lando’s big sofa to study the pressure and texture. George has no parameters to base this experience of, he’s not sure what’s appropriate and what isn’t. Alex doesn’t seem perturbed that George is here, or that he’d been responsible for finding George a place to sleep. He seems amused, if anything, to have something to tease George about.
Dating Carmen had been nuanced and proper. He’d picked her up in his car, or she’d been dropped off by somebody from her father’s company and they’d spend time together in nice restaurants and bars. They’d walk through the park and George would surprise her at riding lessons with flowers and gifts. Typical behaviors, social rituals he’d studied in passing and observed to be effective. Following clean, clear instructions. This is what you do when you like someone. He did like Carmen. He liked being around her and she made him laugh sometimes.
It’s nothing like being around Alex. They’re not even comparable, it almost feels dishonest to himself that his thoughts drift toward her when he and Alex are alone together. Neither of them say anything while they finish their tea. The smell of bergamot is lovely. Alex opens the blinds after a while, revealing a clear, beautiful sky, and the rolling waves of the ocean in the distance. It hurts George’s eyes to look, everything hurts, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from the color of blue until he’s ready to go.
“I’ll text you,” Alex says at the door. George nods, head feeling like liquid. “Eat something spicy,” Alex instructs. “It’ll fix your hangover.”
“Okay.” George says. “Sorry. For—” he waves his hand. It actually physically hurts to keep speaking. He’s worried about the tea in his stomach on the drive home.
“Shut up,” Alex says. “Get home safe.”
George’s phone is nearly dead. He stares at the blank home screen, the same default wallpaper that had come with the phone. He types some overly apologetic email to Toto about unprofessionalism and being late, asking to reschedule their catch up to the late afternoon. The last thing he wants to do is stare at his reflection in a Teams call. George wants to eat something mildly spicy and complain about it to Alex, knowing he’ll be laughed at. Wants to dip his head in the fresh surf at Kamala and sleep on a towel in the sand.
Are you all good? Lewis texts him, a few minutes after Toto replies with curt agreement. George’s stomach is already surging with anxiety. A little more won’t hurt.
Fine, George texts back, a little too fast. The words on the screen make his headache worse, hitting him harder than the fast corners the taxi driver took through the hills. I’m just hungover, he replies, before it’s too late to regret it.
LOL, Lewis says. The little grey bubbles bounce along the screen for a long time. That’s so funny. Secrets safe w me. Drink water.
He sends back a thumbs up. Somehow, the whole exchange makes him feel a little better. Not even a week ago, he would have been mortified to admit such a thing, especially to somebody like Lewis, who he likes so much.
It’s odd, how it doesn’t matter that much, when he thinks about everything else. About the silhouette of Alex’s face in his living room, about the glimpses of their evening together. Laughter and nonsense. Real fun, the sort of thing George hasn’t experienced since university.
In the lab with Oscar, George had fixed pieces of sea sponge to petri dishes, then stared at them through the lens of a dissection microscope. At that level, you are able to see some of the cells that make up a sea sponge. There, the basic information about the animal is observed. Sea sponges have pores that allow them to intake water, and as water passes through them, other cells can filter microscopic particles they consume as food.
To differentiate sponges with accuracy, Oscar and George had aggregated sponge cells and viewed them through a compound microscope. At this level, the spicules that make up individual cells can be observed. Spicules can be many different shapes, these determine the behavior of the sponge. How it grows, what it might look like.
George wonders about the spicules that he would be composed of. Obviously, if a piece of George was viewed through a microscope, he would be observing human nucleuses. Regardless, he likes to imagine viewing all the parts of himself, the different shapes that determine his choices, his personality and behavior, as if this is something predetermined.
He would like to think that if there were any spicules of himself that existed that he liked the shape of, then maybe they would be shapes that Alex would like too. If he could break himself into pieces and look at every different facet of him that existed and pick out the ones that made Alex smile at him, or drive Alex to seek out his company, perhaps George would grow to like those as well.
At the end of the day it’s futile, though, because George’s insides are the same as everybody else’s insides, and the reason he doesn’t like himself might not have anything to do with it at all.
Still, it gets a little easier, when he sits at a stall in the market in Kamala, directed toward a specific restaurant by Alex, is told exactly what to say in Thai. When he orders this particular dish and sends Alex a picture of it before he starts to eat. that looks so good im jealous, Alex tells him. tell me if u like it.
It’s really gross, George replies, before he’s even had a bite.
Alex sends three red faced angry emojis and George laughs out loud. In London, he might have felt embarrassed about the outburst. Nobody is looking at George though, everybody in the market is moving busily with purpose, and the background noise of vendors and customers chattering loudly in Thai runs over like him a wave. He can’t remember the last time it was so easy to be happy, soothed by something simple like the sound of a language. The newfound smell of lime leaves with rice, billowing steam, only just thicker than the air George sucks into his lungs.
trembling hands + galex 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 (my hands are trembling while i send this Because i cant wait to see what you write)
from this ask game
“You know I’m no good at saying these things, but every movie we’ve ever watched together has given me enough examples to hopefully do this on my own, so here goes. I love that you laugh at your own jokes and that your eyes crinkle…”
“…when you smile,” Alex recited, frowning down at the paper in his hands. “No, this is shit. No. I can’t say this in front of—everyone, my family. I’ll just have the officiant come up with the vows.”
“You can’t do that,” George said, sitting on the edge of Alex’s bed. They were at a hotel in Austin sometime ahead of the grand prix. George remembered this hotel, the same one from his Williams days, and of course the room number was a given. He hadn’t even needed to ask. “They’ll make it so…formal. Besides, Lily requested.”
“I love how competitive you are, how you always beat me in golf and refuse to race me in karting.” At that, the guests laugh. “I love…”
“Should I mention the thing with spicy food? Where she thinks she can eat more spice than I can and always ends up with a stomachache an hour later? Or is that bad to bring up at a wedding, do you think,” Alex asked.
George could never keep up with Alex when eating spicy food; he could never even pretend. “Don’t know, mate. Depends how mad you want her to be after the wedding.”
“I love your sweet tooth and the way you always convince me to try new things, like duck blood, which is surprisingly delicious,” Alex continues. “But it’s not surprising, because it’s you. And most of all, I love how well you know me. How you always have my back…”
“…and encourage me to grow,” Alex read. “The best version of myself is when I am with you… No, that’s wrong. That implies that there are other versions of myself.”
George observed Alex silently for a moment. He recalled Alex’s listless tone of voice after getting fired from Red Bull, the caustic humor he used as armor, the pretense he put on when he was hurting and wanted to act like nothing in the world was sacred to him. And George himself, his frustrated hour-long rants on the phone, his anxious over-planning for events long into the future, his judgment and his temper. No, they had never been their best selves around each other.
“I think,” George began, slowly, “I think it makes sense. That’s what marriage is for, isn’t it? Choosing the best version of yourself and your life. With someone else who brings it out of you.”
“I love how you bring out the best in me,” Alex says, adjusting his black bow tie as he speaks, his eyes never leaving Lily’s. “And I cannot wait to get married and continue living the best version of our lives, together.”
The guests, all thirty or so of them, clap loudly. The rest of the wedding unfolds in a beautiful scene. Bride and groom, radiant against a blue Mediterranean backdrop, share a kiss on the balcony. Only George, there in the second row, sees Alex’s hands tremble as he returns the vows to his pocket.
is it a "dead fandom" or is your desire for engagement farming and numbers overgrown the simple joy of creating something? because sometimes fandom is you and three other lovely freaks in your mentions and that's okay
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
dededos
janainaart
titsay
vaporwave
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
