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The motel they’re in is the kind of place an F1 driver is only supposed to end up in, if something with their travel plans has gone ludicrously, ridiculously, wildly wrong. Every few seconds a car thunders overhead and the scratched plastic window rattles faintly in its frame. It’s a few kilometres out of Barcelona, and there’s a prostitute getting busy on her knees in the carpark below. Alex would judge her, but, well, he’s here for the same thing as her.
The night is humid enough that they’d cracked the window a few inches, a gentle breeze stirring the mouldy net curtains. Outside, the flickering motel sign bleeds red light over George’s shiny hair, catches the sweet smoke from Alex’s vape twisting in the muggy air. From where he stands, Alex can see the long line of George’s back, the broad slope of his shoulders and the faint muscles shifting under sun-tanned skin as he lifts the cigarette to his mouth. The sight - smooth planes of muscle and skin - triggers something sharp and ugly and animal in his chest. His jaw, slightly aching from earlier, tightens, and he feels an inexplicable urge to bite down, to mark, to claim-. To claim fuck knows what, cause George isn’t his and he’s not George’s, and this is nothing more than great fucking sex in an awful fucking motel in the middle of July.
Alex stands near the small kitchen counter and tries not to think too hard about the fact that his jeans are half-buttoned and his mouth still tastes faintly like George. He pulls his zipper up slowly, adjusting the waistband of his boxers and wincing as the damp material sticks to his skin. He didn’t bring a spare pair, he doesn’t- it’s not normally like this. They never stay together anywhere. The room feels dirty, and not just because there’s a dead cockroach in the corner by the used condom. His skin is damp with sweat and his jaw hurts.
George’s back is still turned. He stands with one shoulder angled out the window that’s falling off its hinges, cigarette balanced between two tanned fingers as he exhales smoke out into the night.. That had been a surprise when they’d first started hooking up, alright. Everyone on the grid knows about Fernando and his victory cigars, or Lando and his shitty fruit pastel vapes, but George Russell liking a Marlboro Red after sex had been the biggest fucking shock of Alex’s life.
George’s joggers hang low on his hips, the waistband loose and revealing the tan lines he’d got over summer, and Alex hates how it makes him feel. There’s something deeply wrong about the way lust burns through him so easily, whenever George is concerned, a hot, guilty spark in the centre of his chest that makes him feel vaguely sick when he remembers Lily alongside it.
Sweet, kind, funny, wonderful Lily, who doesn’t deserve a fucking fag with wandering eyes and hands for a boyfriend.
Alex drags a hand across his face. The silence stretches long enough that it starts to feel unbearable, like Alex is about to say something stupidly honest like ‘I love you’ to break the deadlock.
George is already on his third cigarette.
Wordlessly, Alex moves to stand beside him, steals it from his fingers, takes a drag. He doesn’t much like smoking, but he likes to share with George. Likes to take from George. George turns his head slightly and half smiles, something hot flickering in his darkened eyes. He’d always had a bit of a kink for Alex needing something from him, bless him. Good old Georgie, so prim and proper until Alex asks him for one thing and suddenly he’s on his knees, moaning around Alex’s cock. The good-boy Mercedes driver who seemed so composed in front of cameras, begging to be fucked harder as Alex comes inside him.
The smoke settles hot in Alex’s lungs and he revels in the sharp scratch of pain. Penitence, of a sort. He leans his hip against the cracked counter beside George and exhales the smoke slowly out through the open window, watching it disappear into the warm night air while the lights outside paint them in alternating pulses of red and white.
“God, I’m a terrible influence,” George says eventually, his voice scratchy and dry. “Look at you, Albono, you were such a goody two shoes a few years ago.” He’s aiming for joking, but his tone lands three steps to the right of bitter.
“You’re corrupting me, Georgie,” Alex replies, trying and almost succeeding in keeping his tone light. “First you get me into drinking vodka straight, now you’ve got me nicking your cigarettes. Next thing you know, I’ll be snorting dodgy coke with my assistants like Toto does.”
George actually laughs at that. It’s a shit fucking joke, from Alex, very below belt, poking fun at Toto’s string of age inappropriate girlfriends that Suzie chooses to ignore, but George laughs anyway. His crinkled eyes and slightly crooked front teeth make him seem years younger.
Alex watches him carefully. There’s something off about him tonight, a tension to his shoulders that had stayed even while Alex had given him a pretty fucking spectacular winner’s blowjob. Normally, George would be relaxed afterwards, loose-limbed and a bit stroppy, in the best kind of way. But he’s not in the usual bitchy mood that Alex can jolly him out. This slump is something more serious.
“Lex?” George says, muffled by the fresh cig he’s cupping against the wind as the lighter flickers uselessly.
“Mhm.” Alex murmurs, distracted by the hollows of George’s cheeks while he sucks on the cigarette. “Yeah, mate, what?”
George bites his swollen lips hesitantly, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks of what to say. George looks unfairly good like this, flushed from orgasms and winner’s champagne, all hesitant and sex-sleepy, wreathed in cig smoke and motel lights. The pang of want that cuts through Alex almost hurts.
George seems to decide against saying whatever he’s going to say, because he stubs out his fag and stretches his arms above his head in one smooth motion. Alex’s eyes track the motion automatically, his mouth going dry as he watches George’s ribs expand with the deep breath that follows. The movement pulls his tanned skin tight over his washboard abs. For a moment Alex seriously considers getting on his knees and licking a slow line down those abs just to see what noise George would make.
He settles for pressing his face into George’s neck instead, biting lazily at the spot he knows makes George whine. George shudders, one hand coming up to grip at Alex’s back, thumb sliding over the g-force scars on his shoulderblades. A low groan pulls itself from Alex’s throat as their hips slide together, their dicks making a valiant effort to get interested again, too soon after last time. Alex could go ten rounds with George, always so fucking hot, so sweet, the way he shudders and moans when Alex has his way with him. Sliding his mouth over George’s jaw, Alex leans up to lick the smokey taste from George’s mouth, kissing him open-mouthed and dirty. There’s something about George that makes the whole thing absurdly addictive: the way he reacts so openly, the quiet little shudders and gasps that slip out when Alex gets his hands on him properly. It’s starting to feel like it’s gonna go somewhere - it’s already been somewhere, had started with George making some god awful joke about Winner’s Room etiquette (everyone knows that that was just some weird sex thing between Rosberg and Hamilton), and ended with two excellent fucking orgasms, honestly - but then George steps back and brushes non-existent lint from his joggers.
Fussy prick, Alex thinks, far too fondly.
“Not now, Albono.” He murmurs. “Too soon, mate, don’t think I’m going to be able to get it up until Christmas.” He bends down to rummage through the open sports bag on the floor beside the bed, shoulders flexing as he searches through the mess of clothes and travel kits inside.
Alex lets out a theatrical sigh and leans back against the counter again, though the grin that spreads across his face is easy enough.
“Tragic,” he says. “Absolutely devastating news.”
They’re not nineteen anymore, after all. No more fumbling around in dark drivers rooms going for hours, barely stopping long enough to breath between rounds. No, now it’s all much more sordid and illicit, shady hookups in crappy motels like this one, sneaking out from beside sleeping girlfriends to slip away to eachother’s hotel rooms on race weekends. Things used to be a lot simpler, before George’s posh twat accent and stupid smug grin made Alex’s heart beat too-fast, awkward, in his chest.
George makes a squeaky Britishism of excitement and stands up from his bag, something clutched in his hand. A folded square of rolling paper appears in his palm, followed by a tiny plastic bag containing dark green crumbs.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Weed, Georgie? How scandalous.” He teases, like they’ve not done this a hundred times, in a hundred different scummy places, over the years.
“‘lex you did coke off my chest two weeks ago, this is nothing in comparison.” George squints up at Alex, haloed by the headlights of a hundred passing cars, and holds out the joint he’d just rolled. “Come on, ‘lex, smoke with me.”
Alex never needs much encouragement to abuse substances during the off-season, so he takes the proffered joint. “Got a light?” He asks, just to see George’s eyes flare with the pleasure of being wanted once more. George passes it over.
Alex holds the lighter cupped in both hands against the weak push of stale air drifting in through the half-broken window, and it takes three flicks of the wheel before it finally flares into life. He hands it back to George, who’s pulling another cigarette out from his pack - Treasurer London, really, could he be anymore of a Tory - and the orange glow lights George’s cheekbones from underneath, the shadows of his face harsh against the dim motel light. Alex watches him longer than he means to. George steals the joint back, draws in a slow inhale. The single-minded focus he only gets at lights out on the grid, is directed right at Alex through those dangerous lowered lashes.
“Go on then,” George murmured, passing over between two fingers. “You’re the one that wanted it.”
Alex snorts softly and takes it from him. “Not how I remember it.” He murmurs. “I told you, you’re corrupting me, Georgie.”
George laughs and flushes a brilliant pink at the nickname. He’s ready to go again, Alex can tell, already all squirmy and half-shy in that quiet, wanting way of his. Outside, a car roars overhead and the plastic panel rattles in its frame. Somewhere in the car park down below, a man’s quiet grunts mix with the prostitute’s exaggerated moans.
For a while neither of them say anything. They’re good at that - the silence. Been good at it since F3, when they’d fooled around in the backs of caravans and tried to dress older to get served at pubs.
George clears his throat. Shifts his weight on both feet. He opens his mouth - an aborted, half-made attempt at speech - before deciding better of it. Alex takes pity on him, the poor man. He smirks in what would make him shudder and cringe if it were directed at anyone else, and steps closer to George.
“You want something, Georgie?” He asks, and his voice is low. “Gonna ask for it?”
George’s ears have gone fully pink by now, offsetting the glorious summer tan he’s got going on. He nods, and jerks forward - bolder than usual - to lean right into Alex’s space. His voice is soft when he speaks, when he asks-
They end up in bed. Of course they do, they do their best not-talking in the bedroom. The way George moans when he comes says more than a thousand words could. The way Alex talks him through it means more than a hundred conversations would.
Alex wakes up because his neck hurts. The sun shines in through the window, cars screaming overhead, and that one prostitute’s long gone, replaced by an endless stream of pimps and dealers and cheaters strolling out of motel doors, all looking more than a little worse for the wear.
For a few seconds, Alex doesn’t know where he is. He blinks up at the nicotine-yellow ceiling above him, notes his splitting headache and the earthy tang of weed in the air, and has a brief moment where he’s entirely convinced he’s back in some horrible junior formula caravan fourteen years ago, before the memories catch up and land squarely on his chest. George. The motel. Barcelona. George.
This is… unusual. They don’t do this, normally - they’re a fuck and flee kind of thing. One of them leaves in the middle of night, making some half-arsed excuse about PR meetings and simulator sessions and girlfriends that only somewhat make sense.
The room looks worse in daylight.
The red motel sign that had made everything look almost cinematic in the dark had become a cheap slab of cracked plastic outside the window, and the soft blur of last night had turned back into peeling laminate counters, clothes discarded on the floor, and somebody’s abandoned trainer under the little table by the door that Alex is almost certain belongs to neither of them. It’s Primark, far too low-class for either of them.There was an empty sachet of boujee flavoured lube on its side near the bed and a crushed cigarette packet on the windowsill beside two dead flies.
George grumbles - grumpy prick, Alex thinks fondly - and rolls over beside him, blearily raising his head to grin at Alex. Alex ignores the brief sting of hurt on George’s face as he leans over to grab his almost-dead phone from the nightstand and pull his vape free from the charger. He expects maybe one message from his trainer, a couple from James or Carlos about whatever meeting he’s almost certainly slept through, judging by the height of the sun in the clear blue sky. Instead, the screen flares white with fifteen unread messages from Lily, half the world away on some golf tour.
You okay?
Alex?
Did you get back to the hotel alright?
I woke up and you hadn’t messaged.
Are you with someone?
Ignore that sorry.
Can you just let me know you’re alright? James says he hasn't heard from you in two days.
Carlos doesn’t know where you are either.
And then a string of a few more, before Lily had clearly given up.
Call me when you get this.
Please.
X.
He stares at them for a long time, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen while something unpleasant and familiar settles low in his stomach. None of the messages were accusing. That was the worst part. If she had been angry it would have been easier. If she had been suspicious it would have been easier. Instead she sounded worried. God, he’s a piece of shit.
George makes a rough sound in the back of his throat and rolls onto his back, one arm flung above his head as the sheet slips down to his waist. His hair’s flattened on one side, face still creased faintly from the pillow, mouth slightly open in sleep in a way that would have been ridiculous if Alex had not already spent years knowing that George looked unfairly good doing absolutely everything. The morning lights catches old tan lines over his shoulders and the fading silver stretch marks near his ribs Alex knows better than he probably should.
“How many?” George asks, voice still rough with sleep and smoke.
Alex looks back at the screen. “Fifteen.”
George shuts his eyes briefly and lets his arm fall over his face. “Christ.”
“You?”
George reaches lazily across the mattress for his own phone from the bedside table, thumbs the screen on, and stares at it for half a second before tossing it back down face-up on the sheet. “None.” His tone sounds almost guilty, in a way Alex doesn’t quite get.
“None?” He repeats, incredulous, frowning before he can stop himself. George shrugs under the sheet without moving his arm. “S’quiet, innit.”
Outside, someone shouts in accented Spanish across the car park and a door slams hard enough to make the wall buzz. Plumbing groans in another room. George finally pushes himself upright, sheet pooling at his waist while he reaches for the crumpled packet on the windowsill, shakes it, finds one bent cigarette left, and glances toward Alex.
“You mind?” He asks. Stupid question, and Alex says as much. He feels vaguely crusty and inherently disgusted with himself.
George leans over for the lighter and cracks the window another inch, enough for hot morning air and the smell of petrol to creep inside. Alex watches him in silence while he lights the cigarette, watching the familiar shape of his shoulders moving under skin, the way he always seemed slightly less composed in the mornings before he put the rest of his persona back on. George inhales the first deep drag with his eyes closed, then exhales slowly out toward the open window.
Alex picks up his phone again and hits call before he can think himself out of it. Lily answers on the second ring, voice instantly bright with relief and sleep.
“Alex? Oh my god. Are you alright?”
He looks at the fresh hickey on George’s neck before he answers. “Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. My phone died.”
The lie comes out so easily, it makes him feel worse.
“Okay,” Lily says, exhaling. “You just never do that and I woke up and you hadn’t answered and I thought maybe something had happened on the road or - I don’t know. I was being ridiculous.”
“No,” Alex says quietly, staring at the floor. “You weren’t.”
George glances back over his shoulder at that, smoke curling past his cheek, but says nothing.
Lily laughs softly down the line, already trying to make it easier for him. “Did you find George, in the end? I ran into Carmen yesterday, she mentioned he was in Barcelona as well. Said the two of you had probably gone out on a lads bender and were holed up nursing your hangovers somewhere.”
It’s so fucking close and far from the truth that it makes Alex nauseous. Fuck, how can he do this to her? He coughs, and clears his throat twice. “Yeah, but we didn’t stay together long. He had some sponsorship thing to get back to, you know how Merc are - they work him like a dog with all that PR stuff.”
George lights up another cigarette, silently, as Lily’s mechanised, distorted voice laughs out into the room. It feels sordid, and dirty, bringing her into this space. “Yeah, poor guy. I worry about him a bit, think he and Carmen are going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment.” She pauses, and Alex hears the familiar sounds of the crowds in the background, all cheering her name, clambouring for an autograph. She’d called him from her fucking tournament, Jesus Christ he’s fucking awful. “Well, I’d best get going.” She says into the silence, just slightly unsure, now. “If you see him again, give him my love! Tell him to come round for dinner when we’re all back home in Monaco again.”
Alex swallows, dry. His breath catches in his throat as George slips out of his sleep-creased boxers and into a fresh pair, and then the Mercedes team kit he’s practically mandated to wear. His dick jolts when George bends over to pull on his socks. “Yeah.” He says. “Will do.”
George slips quietly out the door with a painfully strained wave.
He leaves Alex with the bill.