Chapter Text
Rain moved differently in Monaco nowadays.
George had noticed that during his first year living there.
In England rain arrived with dramatic mood. It carried memory inside it. Wet roads outside school gates, freezing mornings, muddy trainers abandoned near radiators, his mother shouting because he and his siblings had stamped water through the kitchen again. British rain felt alive and homely you know, familiar.
Monaco’s rain only reflected things. The cruel ones mostly. At least for George they did.
Gold lights fractured across wet glass. Expensive cars slid silently along slick roads beneath his balcony. Superyachts swayed gently in the harbour like sleeping monsters wrapped in white and chrome. Even storms here looked wealthy.
George stood beside the windows of his apartment with one hand curled loosely around a mug gone cold nearly an hour ago, staring down at the city glittering beneath the drizzle. Somewhere below, music drifted upward from a yacht party. Faint bass and laughter. Crystal glasses clinking together.
It sounded impossibly far away.
The apartment behind him remained dim except for the kitchen lights and the muted television casting flickering colours across marble floors. His race engineer’s voice still echoed faintly in his head from earlier that evening, buried beneath static and professionalism.
“We just need to reset mentally.”
Reset mentally.
Mentally?
Mentally?
As though his mind were a simulator programme malfunctioning after too many laps. It probably was.
George closed his eyes briefly. His reflection hovered ghostlike in the glass. He was beyound exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes that makeup no longer fully concealed during media appearances. His jaw looked sharper lately. He had lost weight over the past few months without intending to. The stress burned through him constantly now, hollowing him out from the inside with surgical precision.
Nobody truly noticed. Or perhaps they did. Formula One simply did not care.
His phone buzzed somewhere behind him.
George ignored it.
Another vibration followed moments later.
Then another.
The PR group chat most likely. Media requests. Sponsor obligations. Questions about next season wrapped carefully in corporate language that pretended rumours were not already devouring him alive across the paddock.
George remained still beside the window.
Outside, headlights curved along the harbour roads below like streams of molten white.
He remembered when Monaco had once felt magical.
His younger self would have gone mad seeing this place. The tiny boy from King’s Lynn who stared at Formula One magazines beneath bedcovers late at night with a torch clutched in one hand. That version of George would have thought he’d won at life simply by existing here.
Now the apartment often felt less like success and more like altitude sickness.
The television flashed silently behind him again. Kimi Antonelli’s face appeared onscreen. George saw it only through reflection. The broadcasters loved framing him beneath dramatic lighting and triumphant music, speaking about him like he had descended from heaven specifically to rescue Mercedes from mediocrity. The future. The next generation. The prodigy. The what not.
George had heard every version of the narrative already. All versions of it by now. Some journalists tried disguising it behind tact. Others did not bother.
How long before Mercedes commits fully to Antonelli?
Could George Russell lose his seat?
Is George doing enough?
Enough.
The word had become poisonous. He trained enough. Worked enough. Sacrificed enough. Smiled enough. Endured enough. Yet somehow it never reached the invisible threshold required for permanence.
Lewis had occupied every room before George even entered it. Every comparison shadowed him for years. Every mistake became proof he was not quite extraordinary enough to deserve complete loyalty. And now Kimi arrived glowing with youth and possibility while George increasingly felt like furniture people had begun quietly discussing replacing.
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
George turned away from the windows and crossed the apartment slowly. The silence inside the flat had changed over recent months. It no longer felt restful. It felt watchful. Heavy. Like something waiting patiently in corners.
A half-read book rested face-down on the coffee table beside scattered telemetry notes from the previous race weekend. Three mugs sat abandoned across different surfaces because he kept forgetting where he’d placed them. One of his race suits still hung over the dining chair from a sponsor shoot two days earlier because he had not found the energy to move it.
Small things.
Embarrassingly human things.
The sort that accumulated when a person slowly stopped participating in their own life properly.
George sank onto the sofa with a tired exhale and finally reached for his phone. Forty-three unread messages.
He stared blankly at the screen.
A few from his mother. Several from team staff. One from Alex asking if he fancied dinner next week. Oh Alex.
Then there were the articles. Screenshots people had sent him. Predictions and speculation. A former driver on Sky Sports discussing Mercedes’ “long-term strategic future”. George read the sentence twice before locking the phone again.
His chest hurt. The pressure had started weeks ago. A strange tightness beneath his ribs whenever he walked through the paddock lately. His heartbeat sometimes stumbled unexpectedly during interviews. He had begun waking at four in the morning with his jaw aching from grinding his teeth during sleep.
He never told anyone. Drivers were conditioned against weakness from childhood. Karting taught that early. Smile after crashes. Stand after pain. Continue regardless the unbearable pain. George had become excellent at continuing.
That was the problem.
His gaze drifted toward the storage box near the bookshelf. It had arrived from his parents’ house months earlier after his mother decided she wanted “some old clutter cleared out”. George had left it untouched beside the shelves ever since.
Tonight, for reasons he could not fully explain, he found himself staring at it for a long time.
Then eventually standing.
The cardboard edges rasped softly as he pulled the box closer across the floor.
Old papers. School certificates. Tiny trophies from karting competitions.
Photographs.
George picked one up absentmindedly.
The image had faded slightly with age. Two children standing in a garden somewhere beneath summer sunlight. One of the boys grinned directly at the camera while the other looked away as though distracted by something outside the frame.
George stared at it.
Then another photograph.
Another.
The same boy appearing repeatedly beside him through different years. Muddy football pitches. Birthday parties. A blurry Christmas morning photograph near a fireplace.
George’s thumb brushed absentmindedly against one bent corner.
A strange ache spread through him then. The sort of pain that had existed so long it no longer arrived sharply. It simply lived there. George leaned back against the sofa cushions, photograph loose in his hands while rain whispered against the windows. The muted television continued flashing headlines silently across the room. At some point he realised he was remembering things he had not thought about in years.
Long car journeys.
Shared bedrooms.
Arguments over stupid things.
The sound of laughter echoing down narrow hallways.
Promises children made believing distance could never truly exist between people who understood one another completely.
George swallowed hard. His eyes burned suddenly. He rubbed them once, annoyed with himself.
Exhaustion.
Just pure fucking exhaustion.
Yet the feeling remained. A horrible loneliness wrapped in memory.
The apartment seemed larger tonight, colder too. Every room too spacious for a single person. George placed the photographs carefully beside him and rested both hands over his face. For a few seconds he simply sat there breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
But thoughts kept coming anyway. Toto’s stupid diplomacy during meetings. Journalists watching him like vultures with concealed anticipation whenever Kimi’s name appeared. The garage atmosphere shifting subtly around him over recent months. Conversations stopping. Those pathetic pitying looks. Manufactured reassurance. The unbearable sensation that everybody around him already knew something he was only beginning to understand himself.
That he was becoming temporary.
A placeholder.
George lowered his hands slowly.
The television screen reflected dimly across the windows again. Kimi laughing during some interview clip.
The future. The future. The future.
The phrase echoed inside George’s skull until it became unbearable.
Because nobody ever spoke about George like the future anymore.
Only pressure and performance. Expectations and questions.
He wondered suddenly when exactly the sport had stopped feeling like racing. Perhaps after Singapore. Perhaps after the contract rumours began. Perhaps years earlier. Maybe Formula One had always been this brutal and George had simply arrived naïve enough to mistake conditional approval for genuine belonging.
The thought exhausted him beyond measure.
His gaze drifted once more toward the photographs.
The little boy beside him in every image remained frozen permanently in sunlight and grainy colours. Untouched by years. Untouched by absence.
George stared for a long time. Then finally stood. The movement felt oddly calm. Rain continued tapping softly against the glass while he crossed the apartment. Monaco shimmered outside beneath silver clouds and harbour lights. Somewhere distant, people laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry faintly through the storm.
George barely heard it.
The kitchen light illuminated pale marble and spotless counters. His reflection moved across darkened surfaces as though somebody else occupied the apartment with him.
He opened a drawer. Metal glinted quietly beneath warm light. For one brief second his hands trembled. George leaned both palms against the counter and lowered his head. His breathing became uneven suddenly.
He had not wanted things to become this.
Not really.
People always imagined despair arriving dramatically. Maybe by screaming. Or crying until lungs burned. But this felt horrifyingly quiet. Like sinking beneath deep water after struggling too long to stay afloat.
He thought unexpectedly of childhood again. Cold mornings before karting races. His mother making tea while dawn still hid beyond the windows. The sound of footsteps racing through hallways. His sister laughing cheekily nearby.
George squeezed his eyes shut. The memory hurt too much.
The knife felt colder than George expected.
That detail lodged itself strangely in his mind. So cold. The cruel sound of metal meeting his skin and tearing apart under. Crimson dribbling down his pale skin in thin streaks first and then gushing thicker. Warm blood felt strangely cold against his skin while rain painted trembling reflections across the apartment windows behind him like the blood painted his skin.
It hurt.
But there was a strange satisfaction in it.
I'm finally free...
His hand shook once.
Only once, then steadied. George stood motionless for a long time. Breathing quietly. His pulse hammered beneath his throat. He could feel it against the blade.
Some detached part of him thought absurdly that Toto would probably hate the headlines this would create.
The thought almost made him laugh.
Almost.
Instead he closed his eyes. Maybe the last seven minutes of his life had started it's countdown already. And his last seven minutes were not Mercedes. Not Formula One. Not championships or pressure or media speculation.
Him.
Only him.
The person he had spent years unconsciously waiting for despite knowing better. Memory drifted through George’s exhausted mind slowly, dreamlike, fragmented around edges from time.
A dark hallway lit by Christmas lights.
Two boys whispering beneath blankets long after midnight while rain battered windows outside. The boy stealing chips from George’s plate and grinning when caught.
Bruised knuckles after school fights.
Arguments that lasted mornings and nights but ended in laughter.
A hand grabbing the back of George’s hoodie while crossing roads because he never bloody looked where he was walking.
Then newer memories.
Harder memories.
Phone calls growing shorter. Distance widening quietly year after year.
Missed birthdays.
Unread messages.
Silences stretching longer each time. George had stopped asking questions eventually because every answer felt incomplete. Aaron always sounded elsewhere. Half present. Existing in corners of the world George could never reach.
Still, George waited.
That was the humiliating truth of it. He waited through every year anyway.
Every birthday carried that stupid flicker of hope.
Every Christmas.
Every difficult race weekend.
Every lonely apartment.
Some part of George always believed the front door might suddenly open and Aaron would walk through it again like nothing had changed at all. George swallowed hard as his vision blurred. Rainwater crawled down the windows behind him in silver veins mirroring the blood on him. His own blood.
“You could’ve come home once...” he whispered hoarsely into the empty apartment.
The silence answered him. His chest hurt so badly now, like grief rotting quietly for years beneath everything else.
The knife remained loose in his hand.
The photographs still rested abandoned near the sofa across the darkened room. One picture sat slightly apart from the others. The boy beside him stared forever beyond the camera frame.
George looked at it for a very long time.
Then finally breathed out what probably was his final breathe.
The sound trembled apart halfway through. “I waited,” he admitted softly.
It wasn't the George Russell that was notorious for his PR perfect smile and persona.
It... was just George.
Just a tired man alone in his flat admitting something pathetic and painfully human to the silence.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly.
His eyes closed. Then he felt a sudden unbearable heat. George gasped violently as agony tore across his throat. The knife clattered somewhere across marble. Instinct immediately betrayed him. His hands flew upward against the wound automatically while blood spilled hot between his fingers.
Pain exploded through him.
George collapsed sideways hard against the floor, choking as crimson spread rapidly beneath him across white marble in horrifying ribbons. His body convulsed and breathing became impossible. The world tilted violently around him while blood pulsed through his shaking fingers faster than he could comprehend.
Oh God.
Oh God.
His vision blurred almost instantly.
The ceiling lights smeared into pale gold streaks. George coughed helplessly. Warmth kept flooding down his neck. Across his chest his lungs burned.
He tried dragging himself forward without knowing why. Survival clawed viciously through him despite everything. His trembling hand smeared bloody streaks across the floor as he reached nowhere.
The photographs near the sofa blurred in and out of view.
The boy beside him.
Always beside him. And then never.
George made a broken sound in the back of his throat. Then suddenly exhaustion swallowed everything. The pain dulled strangely. His body grew heavy.
That is it then.
⛓️💥
The apartment door unlocked quietly sometime later.
Metal clicked.
A pause followed.
Then footsteps entered the flat. Heavy boots against marble.
Click clack.
Click clack.
Rainwater dripped steadily onto the floor.
A dark coat hung drenched from broad shoulders while the figure moved deeper into the apartment without turning on additional lights. The city glow spilling through the windows painted fractured silver across sharp features and wet dark hair.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The footsteps slowed then stopped.
Silence.
Then sudden movement.
Fast.
The figure crossed the apartment in seconds after seeing the blood.
“Jesus—”
The voice came rough and low, shredded instantly by disbelief.
George lay collapsed near the kitchen, unmoving beneath dim light while blood spread across marble in dark glistening pools.
The man dropped to his knees beside him so hard the impact echoed through the flat.
“George.”
His hands immediately found George’s neck, pressing desperately against the wound while dragging him upright into his lap.
Blood soaked through black sleeves instantly. The stranger’s breathing had become uneven now. For the first time, fear cracked visibly through him. And under the apartment lights his face finally became clear.
The same eyes as George, only colder somehow. Grey threaded through the blue, creating something hauntingly sharp beneath dark lashes. The same mouth. Same nose. Same dark hair falling messily over his forehead from the rain.
The resemblance was monstrous.
Not similarity. Not brothers.
Copies.
Twins.
One softened by years of trying to be loved.
The other carved hollow by places the world was never meant to see.
The man held George tighter against his chest, one trembling hand cradling the back of his head while blood ran between his fingers.
“No no no no…” he muttered under his breath, voice fraying apart.
George stirred weakly, barely. His eyelids fluttered open for one fractured second. Blurred vision struggled to focus. Rainwater dripped quietly from the man’s hair onto George’s face.
Grey-blue eyes stared down at him filled with something George had not seen in years.
George’s lips parted weakly.
The name escaped like the ghost of a breath.
“Aaron…?”