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Despite popular opinion, Max wasn’t a masochist. He didn’t believe his strict father had made him what he’d become; if anything, it was for lack of choice, back then, he hadn’t known any other way. When he’d started winning, he’d found out that it was praise that motivated him, results, not disappointment, failure, and overt criticism. There were some drivers like that, it was true, the ones who’d let success get to their heads, making them lazy, producing the best results when their seats were on the line. No, Max wasn’t like that.
The win at Monza had felt sweet. It’d been difficult, the last few months, when it seemed that no matter how hard he concentrated, he’d never be able to catch up to the two McLarens. He’d found himself falling behind, slacking.
When he’d awoken this morning, Toto Wolff’s words had gotten his ass to the hotel gym — ‘he made everyone else look silly’. Damn right, he had. His dad’s detached pat on the back, and his fleeting congratulatory whisper had become white noise.
5:57 am. Munching on an over-processed protein bar, he let his head rest against the mirror of the hotel lift, faded RedBull merchandise t-shirt uncomfortably tight against his torso, headphones blasting some random grindset playlist he’d found on Spotify through Danny Ricciardo’s account. The slight shake the cabin made when it reached the floor roused him up, and with a sigh, he started dragging his barely-responsive feet towards the gym.
He’d anticipated (hoped, rather) that he’d be alone. Post-race, with a lot of time until the next one, meant that everyone was going to sleep in, nursing hangovers from the previous night. Max himself still felt the faint, awful taste of vodka in his mouth, one which had been so appetising at the party just a few hours before.
It was an annoying surprise to find the fluorescent lights already on. Removing one headphone, he listened out for a potential ruckus, but the gym was quiet, save for the rhythmic slaps of trainer-clad feet on a treadmill, the machine whirring from somewhere deeper in the room. He made his way there to make sure it wouldn’t be someone who’d recognise him and infringe on his privacy. He really wasn’t in the mood for pictures.
What he found was even worse.
His back was facing him, but it wasn’t difficult to recognise the other man — ridiculously long, thin legs pumping like clockwork pistons, torso taut under the sweat-drenched Mercedes tee, arms swinging almost mechanically.
“Russell,” Max said, and when he remained unacknowledged, music faintly humming through the other man’s earbuds, he repeated louder, “Russell!”
Ignored again, Max walked up to the exercise machine and swiftly pressed the emergency ‘STOP’ button. The other man seemed confused at the slowing speed of the belt, and after a few seconds, he turned to face Max. Russell froze, stride faltering, lifting himself up by the handles so that his feet could rest on either side of the treadmill. Max almost laughed at how expressive Russell’s gaunt face became, his already-big eyes, bulging out comically in recognition. The latter removed his earbuds, which now hung loosely around his neck.
“Max. Didn’t expect to see you there,” the Brit said between pants. “I didn’t have the chance to congratulate you yesterday.”
“Would you have if you did?”
Russell seemed caught off-guard by the bluntness, which he quickly masked with a smile. “Care to explain why you’re in my gym?”
“Your gym? Last I checked it was a public space. Or do you have some GPDA director privileges that I’m not aware of?” Max kept his tone casual. He wanted to preserve as much plausible deniability of hostility in front of someone as political as Russell. He wasn’t in the mood for an off-track misconduct letter from the FIA.
Russell’s smile tightened, and Max noticed the borderline unhealthy greyness of his sweat-slick skin as he swiped a hand across his damp hair, the usual shadows under his eyes even more pronounced, now a pair of dark trenches carved into his face, making his skin look sallow under the overhead lights.
Max remembered him then, back in their karting days: a few months younger than him, and therefore, slightly annoying, yet always holding himself with an almost humorous air of maturity. Pale and bony, too tall for his weight, ridiculously-cut hair always hanging limp across his forehead. He’d looked less like a competitor and more like some Victorian child sent out of the sickroom for a turn in the fresh air, nothing like the picture of perfection he’d cultivated for himself in the last few years. And always that father of his, hand clamped heavy on the boy’s shoulder, hissing stern words that made Russell fold in on himself.
Strict dads weren’t exactly a rarity in their circles, if anything they were the norm. However Max’s own dad had tuned his senses in a certain way; it takes one brand of bastard to know another, and overhearing Kodrić complaining about Russell Sr’s hot temper and overall off-vibe, had confirmed his hunch.
There wasn’t much room for pity. Max doubted Russell’s childhood had been a picnic, but his own had been more intense by any measure, and he wasn’t about to waste sympathy on someone who’d spent half their time being irritating anyway. Russell had been the sort of boy to run to an authority figure whenever things didn’t go his way, rather than facing confrontation like a man, and had grown up to be an adult who did the same, only this time, ratting to suited-up billionaires. A tattletale, quick with complaints and quicker with those pinched little expressions that made everyone, especially Max, want to knock his head off. If there’d been something bleak at home, well, Max figured most of them had had their share of that, if not worse. It didn’t cancel out how insufferable Russell had been on the track, and off it.
Now, standing pale and sweat-slicked in front of him, Russell didn’t look much different from that child Max remembered — just stretched out, some muscles to make up for the lankiness, shadows carved deeper into his manufactured, chiselled face. The treadmill was still slowly winding down, belt squeaking as it came to a stop. Russell cleared his throat, forcing a smile again.
He started, “Didn’t think gyms were your thing, especially not after a win. Don’t you usually celebrate somewhere less… fluorescent and grim?”
Max crossed his arms at the perceived accusation of his lack of discipline. “Not everyone’s a high-strung little freak who can’t enjoy themselves for five minutes.”
Russell shrugged, stepping off the machine, trying to untangle the chord of his earbuds absentmindedly. “Some of us just set higher standards for ourselves. Can’t all be content with… doing the bare minimum by way of our golden boy status.”
There was snideness in the remark, but the way his voice trailed off at the end suggested that it was a start of a longer thought, which he didn’t care to share. Max didn’t back down, saying, “Bare minimum won me four titles. Sweating at the gym at ungodly hours has gotten you what? Instagram likes and four race wins?”
Russell shifted his weight, and Max could smell the freshness of his Tea Tree shower gel and what Max assumed was the typical light floral Byredo perfume he’d seen the Brit carry around, mixed with sweat. As the taller man straightened his shoulders, Max noticed the outline of his ribs under his t-shirt, sinewy arms flexing in an attempt to hide a slight tremor.
“How long have you been at it?” Max asked casually.
Russell hesitated, tugging at the earbuds again. “About an hour and a half,” he said, (since four, then, Max thought). “That physique doesn’t just come out of nowhere,” he said with a faint smile, gesturing down to his body, the comment a bit funny considering the lankiness of his frame.
Max noted it without a comment. There was a faint trace of satisfaction in seeing someone who had always been irritatingly polished looking slightly frayed and worse-for-wear, even as he registered the context of it: Russell’s contract negotiations were still dragging on, with Toto talking to Max about replacing the other driver. Where sympathy was difficult to find, sportsmanship wasn’t. It was a cut-throat field, and it wasn’t like Russell would be struggling to pay rent. However, Max hated the political game on principle; he hated the negotiations, the PR, the cold bureaucracy of it all. Nevertheless, he’d be lying if he didn’t say he found it slightly pleasing that Russell, who thrived in the aforementioned factors, had now become a victim to them. No matter how precise he’d been at sucking Ben Suyalem’s dick, sweet talk could only get you so far.
“Anyways,” Russell said, stepping away, “I’ll leave you to it. Gotta move onto weights anyways.”
Max watched him go, arms still crossed, letting the pause stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. “Weights, huh?” he said flatly, before he could stop himself. “Better make sure you don’t break yourself before you finish your contract drama.”
Russell didn’t turn back, but there was the faintest hitch in his stride, the controlled poise faltering just slightly as he disappeared toward the machines. The polished asshole he’d spent years competing with looked a little less untouchable than usual.
As he stepped on Russell’s now-abandoned treadmill, Max couldn’t shake the faint impression of the other man’s presence. It was there in the slight give of the belt underfoot, the residual warmth of exertion clinging to the machine, the faint tang of sweat and effort that lingered in the air. He put his headphones back on, and dug straight into the speed that had been set before.
When he came out of the shower, his phone was buzzing incessantly. A string of messages from Toto lit up the screen:
Toto Wolff: [Morning, Max. Hope the day’s started well. Lunch today? Yesterday was something to celebrate!]
[I’d really value your input—nothing urgent, just a chat. Your perspective is always useful.]
[Let me know if 13:00 works. Wouldn’t want to pressure you.]
Max pocketed the phone, and after drying and dressing himself, made his way to the hotel breakfast buffet, already swarming with drivers in various stages of a hangover. He grabbed a plate, first reaching for the warm, scrumptious-looking pastries, but after remembering the gruelling half hour on the treadmill, he opted instead for a couple of fried eggs and a piece of plain toast, not wanting to undo his effort.
He saw that Kimi was already at the buffet, leaning casually against the counter, pouring himself an orange juice, hair still carrying the messiness of sleep. He caught Max’s eye and offered a faint, easy smile. “Morning. Early start, huh?”
Max smirked, sliding next to him. “Yeah. Had to get it out of the way before breakfast.”
Kimi chuckled, tilting his head. “Smart. Eggs and toast, then? Not giving yourself a sugar crash?”
“Trying not to,” Max said flatly, looking at the eggs, and then at Kimi’s pastry-filled plate.
The Italian noticed the look, and said, “Don’t tell, Toto, he’ll have a go at me about diet again.” He nodded towards the Austrian, who was carefully cutting up pumpernickel with a serious impression at the other end of the hall.
“That strict, huh?” Max asked with a smile, nudging Kimi towards one of the tables which had a few empty seats.
“He can be,” Kimi said with a smile. “George warned me. Last year he was a few milliseconds slow on laps, and Toto told Marcus to tell him to drop half a kilo.”
As Kimi and Max slid into their seats, the conversation around them abused their ears.
“Seriously,” Charles said, waving a croissant, face a bit swollen from last night’s celebrations, “Kinder Bueno for breakfast? Sacrilege, I tell you!”
Lando’s eyes went wide, clutching the half-eaten chocolate bar. “Don’t talk to me or my son ever again!”
Gasly rolled his eyes. “Yeah, until you crash before the first session.”
Lando huffed. “Crash? Charles eats five croissant every morning! And you defend that?”
“I won’t be refrigerating your insulin when you get diabetes,” Charles shot back.
Max snorted quietly at the Kinder debate, stabbing at his eggs, yolk running freely across his plate.
“Now that’s a proper breakfast,” Pierre said, pointing at Max with his fork. “Take notes, lads.”
“Want some avocado with that, madam?”
“He’s not George.”
Before he could respond, he felt a heavy arm on his shoulder, accompanied by a strong whiff of luxurious-smelling aftershave. Orange peel. Hint of leather.
“How’s our champion doing this morning?” he heard Toto say, noting the surprised expressions of the rest of the table.
Max didn’t look up as he said, “All good,” shoving in a mouthful of cut-up egg whites.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Toto continued, and, leaning closer to his ear, “let me know when you’ve seen my texts, yeah?”
Max nodded as the other man left. The table had gone awkwardly quiet.
“What’s he texting you for?” Lando asked, chocolate staining his teeth.
Max waved him off nonchalantly. “Oh, you know.”
Charles, his biblical saviour, apparently sensing the uncomfortableness of the conversation, suddenly burst back into his rants about healthy breakfast. “Look at you, idiot,” he said, motioning towards Lando. “You’ve got it all over your teeth. Hope that paycheck’s enough for a dentist.”
Max let the conversation fade into the background as he focused on nibbling the dry toast, which was desperately begging for a sliver of butter. He turned to Kimi, hoping that light conversation with the younger man, whom he’d inevitably grown fond of, would provide some distraction from the downright wretched state of his meal, only to find the Italian’s eyes tracking Toto as he returned to his private table.
He felt bad. Fuck, he felt bad. He didn’t feel bad for Rusell, but for Kimi he did. Kid was barely an adult, and Toto had basically grown him in a test tube, promises of a long career at Mercedes whispered into his year as soon as he’d been able to walk. He’d heard Russell talk to Lewis about the nature of their contracts; about the lack of wiggle room, about the inability to speak to other teams. It was downright slavery and exploitation of child labour, and he wished it could’ve been different for Kimi.
For a second, he thought he might have been projecting – lamentations about the nature of his own childhood embodied into another boy he barely knew anything about.
Max felt himself being nudged towards Kimi by someone trying to fit in another chair at the already-full table. “Anyone seen George?” Alex asked, clearing space for his plate and coffee, eyes scanning everyone apart from Max for an answer.
“Not this morning, no,” said Lando, and the others shook their heads in agreement with the statement.
“Weird, he’s usually the first one up,” Alex said.
“I saw him,” blurted out Max, shuffling the remainder of his breakfast around with a fork, trying to moisten the rock-hard toast with the leftover golden yolk.
“Oh,” Alex said, clearly caught off-guard. “Where?”
“Gym,” Max continued, “about two hours ago. Don’t know where he is now.”
Charles chuckled. “Where else? Should we be expecting a mirror selfie any time soon?”
He’d curtly agreed to meet with Toto after noon, reacting to his text with a non-ellaborative thumbs up. He’d been given directions to a private conference room in the hotel, and told not to worry about food, that everything would be provided for.
When he got to the destination, the door was slightly ajar. Hearing muffled voices from inside, he slowed his pace, leaning against the door, out of sight, and observing the scene before him.
Russell’s back was to him yet again, only a few centimeters of table space separating him and Toto. There was an untouched trolley with room service food next to them. The Brit’s posture was characteristically rigid and straight, as if the back of the chair would burn him, shoulders tense under his freshly-pressed linen shirt. He couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the quick, clipped words, the stammering attempts at coherence, the way Russell tried too hard to sound measured.
“You reviewed the data analytics report?” Toto asked, voice smooth, measured, casually sipping from an espresso cup after speaking.
“Yes. I—I went over it,” came Russell’s contrastingly animated reply, words spilling out in uneven bursts. “If you let me to talk to the factory people, I think I have some ideas about how to–”
Toto nodded slowly, carefully placing down his cup. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” His smile was small and controlled.
“Look, I’m sorry about the whole media thing,” Russell started, unprompted, “I— I really didn’t mean for it to come off that way.”
“What’s done is done, George,” Toto said, calm tone unchanged, but gaze cast downwards. “I truly don’t care about intention, but about results. You’ve put me in a terrible place right now, and I’m going to have to make some comments to reporters that I really would rather not have resorted to.”
“What sort of comments?”
“You’ve made me…” Toto placed his arms on the table, leaning closer, his face muscles rigid, “and by extension, the brand, look weak, unorganised, and chaotic. You know better than anyone that none of us are bigger than this institution and what it stands for. Therefore, I can’t do anything else but try and preserve the image of the brand. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m… okay if you wanna throw me under the bus.” The hitch stopped the sentence dead before the rush after, and it startled Max — a snag of speech he thought had been trained out of Russell years ago. Speech therapy hadn’t been as effective, then.
“You, Kimi…”
Russell perked up, running a hand through his hair. “Kimi?”
“He hasn’t been performing,” Toto explained carefully, “not like we hoped for. And I don’t want it to seem targeted. Your own seat already looks uncertain in front of the media.”
“Just in front of the media?”
Toto didn’t award him a response, leaning back on his chair. He pinched his nose with two fingers, squeezing his eyes. “I hate doing this,” he started, “I really do.”
The Austrian remained in his drawn position for a few seconds, before leaning forward, grabbing one of Russell’s wrists, and dragging it across the table, twiddling the other man’s fingers between his own. “You should know better that all this isn’t personal, and the second you made it personal, you started forcing my hand.”
Russell made an attempt to pull his hand back, but Toto’s grip was firm. “I’m just–” he started, the shake in his voice almost entirely concealed, “I’m trying, you know? Don’t think I’m stupid, I know what I’m worth. I’ve been dragging this shitbox to podiums all year.”
“Don’t try to deflect blame,” Toto said sternly, knuckles white.
“I’m not, I–”
“I hate when people don’t take responsibility. Take Max, for one,” he started, and Max felt his stomach contract, as if he’d suddenly been noticed. “Keeps his mouth shut, delivers, doesn’t blame the team.” Max knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he enjoyed being perceived that way.
Russell scoffed. “Wow, wonder what sort of rose-tinted glasses our engineers have made you. He’s not signing with you until next year at least, so you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”
Toto’s fingers stilled, letting Russell’s hand drop to the table with a soft thud. The older man leaned back into his chair. Max noticed the way Russell’s now unoccupied fingers reached forward, grabbing at nothing.
“When you were a kid,” he said softly, “I gave you a chance. Not everyone gets that. If it weren’t for me you’d most likely have changed career paths, and you’d still be indebted to your parents.”
Max cringed. He knew that was a low blow. In addition to not being a masochist, he also wasn’t a sadist. There was little satisfaction to be extracted from familial attacks.
Toto looked at his watch. His features were drawn in a way that felt off, sharper and darker than usual, and it gave Max a strange, uneasy impression. That was quickly replaced by a clinical smile. “If that’s all,” the Austrian started, cutting the subject short, “I have other business to attend to.”
As Russell lifted himself up from the chair, Max felt an urgent sense of panic, as if he were being chased, and quickly bolted to the other end of the corridor as quietly as he could manage.
When he turned back, he made sure to make his posture and stride relaxed, as if he were just running into Russell accidentally, completely oblivious to the conversation he’d witnessed. The Brit passed him with only a cold look of acknowledgement.
“Come on, mate, spill,” said Charles, spinning the neck of his 330 millilitre Heineken between his fingers, the club music making him shout and overarticulate, accent heavy with alcohol. At the other end of the table, Fernando and Lando had leaned forwards, reading their lips intently to try and make out the conversation which was almost entirely drowned out by the nose. Both of them were pinching the thin stems of their glasses, filled with cocktails a colour so odd and bright, they looked almost toxic, decorative umbrellas making every sip unnecessarily arduous. “What did you talk about?”
“None of your business, Charlie.”
Leclerc sighed dramatically, putting his bottle on the table hard enough to shake it, and for the beer to fizz up dangerously close to spilling out.
“How drunk would you have to be for me to get you to overshare again?” the Monegasque continued. “We’re talking number of shots here, don’t be shy, I’m paying.” He reached for his pockets.
Max laughed. “I don’t know if you can afford it.”
“Between the three of us,” Charles said, looking at the two other men. “Yes, no?”
“I’m personally interested in more pressing matters,” said Fernando, pulling at his hair as if he’d seen it for the first time. “You’re friends with Pierre, right, Charles?” Leclerc nodded curiously. “How much did that transplant cost, do you think?”
The table erupted in laughter, the situation made more comical by Charles’ failed attempts to be a noble, loyal friend to the absent Frenchman in his barely-contained, lazy grin.
“Only your dignity, going bald when the procedure starts,” said Lando when he caught his breath.
“You have to go bald?”
“You seem to have done your research. Smart move, considering…” said Max, gesturing to the mop of curls atop Norris’ head.
The latter made an overdramatically sour face, downed his drink, which pinched his expression even further, and said, “I’m going to the bar. Anyone want anything?”
The three remaining men muttered their orders, and settled for revelling in the sound of the late 90s/early-naughts classics blaring from the club’s speakers as they waited for Lando. When he returned, clumsily balancing everyone’s drinks, sticky liquid running down his fingers, he said, “I think you should be asking Oscar about hair transplant research, not me.” It was as if he’d been thinking about the snarky reply all the way to the bar and back.
The night dragged on. At some point, Max found himself on the dance floor, sandwiched between men he didn’t recognise, or rather, was too drunk to recognise. Finally, he ended up caught amidst a three-way tango with Alex Albon and Carlos Sainz, all three slurring the words to Livin’ La Vida Loca with enough confidence that someone as drunk as them would have thought they knew it by heart.
“Wheeeey!” Alex suddenly exclaimed, pointing towards the crowd. “Decided to join us, Georgie?”
Max made a very deliberate attempt to focus his eyes on the approaching figure, only for it to end up an encroaching blur of long limbs and white fabric, unnervingly luminescent under the club lights. The cologne he smelled at the gym assaulted his nostrils yet again as the taller man wrapped an arm around Max’s shoulders, pushing him lower into the ground and constricting his energetic dance moves. He smelled as if he’d sprayed himself moments before, the scent still stingingly-acidic from lack of familiarity with the Brit’s skin; under it lingered another aroma, equally expensive, and indecently unbefitting somehow. Familiar in a way, though he couldn’t quite place it. Citrusy, slightly heavy. The hand attached to the arm was holding a cold glass that was now pressing against Max, moistening his t-shirt with condensation and overspilling booze.
“What d’ya mean, Albono,” Russell said, the reluctance in his speech from the meeting Max had overheard, now gone, replaced with a drunken melodiousness and bravado. When had he even managed to get drunk? Lightweight. “Party don’t start ‘til I walk in.” The Kesha quotation sounded ridiculous in the Brit’s overenunciated accent. Max liked to imagine him, sometimes, at a supermarket in a rough area of town he wasn’t suited to. Posh pricks had a kind of amusing naivety to them in any sort of situation, unwilling to feel out of place anywhere — he thought of Russell, ever the diplomat, trying to strike up a friendly, weather-related conversation with an aggravated roadman. The picture in his mind was suddenly so pathetically endearing, that he found himself returning the half-lean, half-hug, wrapping his arms around Russell’s insubstantial midriff.
He remembered the first time he’d gotten drunk with George Russell; the first and only time he’d gotten drunk with George Russell, just the two of them.
It had been in early September of 2012, Max inching towards fifteen, with Russell’s age difference of a few months seeming deeply consequential and relevant at the time. Steve Russell had invited some of the karting kids’ families for a barbecue get-together after a practice run at Shenington Circuit. Max’s dad had insisted they go for some reason, despite the fact that most of the invitees were irrelevant at best. Back then, Jos had developed an eye for the younger Russell, who wasn’t a competitor to Max, neither in age group, nor in skill, though he had to admit he’d been uncomfortably close on both fronts. He had been feeling frustratedly confused during the nearly two-hour drive to Norfolk. As he’d opened the window to alleviate his persistent, albeit ironic, motion sickness, he’d enjoyed the crisp atmosphere of the English countryside, untainted by the stench of gasoline and the overly-abused asphalt inherent to race tracks. Sometimes, he felt as if this stench had sunk, unwashable, into every single pore of his skin. Being away from it had felt like a cleansing ritual.
Max remembered the names of the nobody-attendees clearly — Callum Illott, Ben Barnicoat, and Jack Aitken, none of whom he’d spoken to since. Their faces had converged in a sort of amalgamated mush in his memory, a mixture of all three of the boys’ painfully unremarkable features blending into one incomprehensible, bland expression. Whether that had been by virtue of their lack of personality or acute physical averageness, he didn’t know.
He also remembered the dry, bleach-blonde hair of Alison Russell as she’d greeted them at the door with a reverent smile. He’d known, then, that they had been the guests of honour.
He’d also known that none of the other kids had been worth speaking to. The second he’d arrived to the ungainly occasion, he’d been awkwardly ushered by his father to go and socialise, as himself and Russell Sr had begun nursing beers over the grill, talking numbers and statistics. After a few fruitless attempts at making conversation with his ‘peers’, he’d made his way into the mostly-deserted kitchen, sentimentally decorated with mass-produced artwork knock-offs (fairly obscure and niche ones, to the Russells’ credit, not a Klimt or Van Gogh in sight) on the walls and tacky magnets from various vacation spots on the fridge. It had felt aggravatingly homey. Max’s own house had been disconcertingly sterile. To this day, he was reluctant to festoon. He felt almost ascetic at times, compressing his entire existence into the nooks of his RedBull-branded merchandise, folded hastily into a small, unnecessarily pricey Rimowa suitcase.
He’d found George rummaging around a cabinet. When Max had said his name, the other boy had startled like a road-crossing deer, suddenly pretending to wipe nothing from the floor, until he’d recognised the intruder.
“What are you doing?” Max had asked, crouching next to Russell. The latter had turned to him with an uncharacteristic glimmer in his eye, fishing out a half-full bottle of amber-coloured liquid from the very back of the cabinet, bony fingers trembling slightly under its weight.
Half an hour later, the bottle had been almost empty, the two boys passing it around in Russell’s bedroom, perking up at every sound that came from the rest of the house.
“Timing thing sucks, mate,” Max had said, infusing unearned maturity into his timbre, trying desperately to conceal the crack of his puberty-ridden voice, “but at least he scream at you every day, or slap you around. The only reason my dad still has a voice is because his vocal chords are held together with spite.”
With that, he’d passed the bottle back to Russell, who’d been sitting cross-legged across from him. The Brit’s room had been unnervingly neat, bed made with near-military precision. The only object betraying the other boy’s age had been a stuffed animal: an orange cat, though faded and worn, still stark against the steel-grey bedding, is large, plastic eyes mimicking those of Russell.
What odd eyes, that boy had, Max had thought, even then. Not a particularly striking colour, and they didn’t have any mystical, intangible depth to them, like Charles’ did, with his incomprehensible, beautiful yearning. No, Russell’s were just big, bulging, and sad. Nothing particularly remarkable about them at first glance, though the way they took up most of his face, then especially, but even now, meant that the rest of his face was at the mercy of their whims. They always looked a bit dead, like those of an overworked salary man who’d gotten three hours of sleep in total in a week, dark circles like ageing tattoos. At the same time, he had a gaze that was simultaneously focused and utterly far away, as if he was constantly recalling visions of incomprehensible horrors of war. The eyes really embodied their owner’s weirdness.
“Trust me, I’d rather get a bollocking,” Russell had said, accepting the drink.
Max remembered feeling impossibly old at that moment, as if he had struck a conversation with a similarly disillusioned man at a grimy English pub, him and his companion waxing poetic about failed marriages, mortgages, and whatever it was that adults liked to discuss. He remembered not knowing the exact definition of ‘bollocking’, and also acting as if he did.
“What do you get instead?” Max had asked seriously, prompting Russell to start finding the pattern of his carpet incredibly interesting. The Brit made a stilted sound with his throat, lips pressed firmly, and cheeks expanding with air, as if all the words had found themselves in his mouth, but had been unable to escape. Max had noticed that before, it had seemed to be a thing. He hadn't know if it had been a speech quirk or a speech problem, but it had been endlessly amusing to witness him struggle like his lips had been glued shut, before blurting out a jumble of words like vomit.
It had been in that lack of verbal response and the presence of a barely-perceptible physical one that Max had finally felt a strange, quiet camaraderie. The feeling had been quickly replaced by an anger at being seemingly outdone in that awful, sacred regard.
Before he’d been able to ask Russell to elaborate, the latter’s mother had knocked softly on the door, announcing her presence. The two boys had shuffled in a panic, George hiding the near-empty bottle under his bed.
He reckoned they’d been found out. Max had known he hadn’t exactly been entirely coherent on the way home, though his father had seemed to choose not to make a fuss out of it. What had solidified it, had been the hesitant, almost fearful way in which Russell had interacted with him the next time they’d seen each other, Russell Sr throwing Max a barely-concealed dirty look as the pair had passed him.
Back then, he’d convinced himself it had been because of their underage drinking antics. To think it had been because of the reluctantly confessional nature of their conversation had been beyond his grasp at the time. It had remained beyond what he was willing to entertain and analyse now.
Russell’s weight against him was heavy and offensive, but having his face squished in the nook of the other man’s suspiciously fresh-smelling armpit dissipated the annoyance.
“Where have you been, I texted you like a billion times!” Alex shouted.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, big man?”
“I would, actually.”
“Toto’s,” Russell said nonchalantly. “Dinner at his place.” Max suddenly placed the underlying, hastily-covered up smell that clung to the Brit’s clothes superficially, and to his skin profoundly so, embedded deeper than in the fabrics, as if mixed with sweat, his own and foreign, obscenely lodged into him.
“What did you talk about?” he asked, leaning close to Russell’s ear. He felt slightly pathetic for probing. He was too drunk to care.
“What did you talk about?” Russell replied, stare digging into Max, outlandishly bulging eyes punctuating the statement.
“Let’s take this outside,” Max said, fingers lingering in the crevices of the other man’s ribs, eyes matching the intensity. “I need a smoke.”
“Alex,” the Brit started, “I’m going out. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call the police.”
Max visited the loos first, and after smiling at himself drunkenly at the mirror, he slapped his own face, and made his way to the terrace, trying to seem more sober than he was, holding two drinks.
Russell was leaning on the railing, which only came up to his hips; as he approached, Max tried to calculate if that was enough to have him toppling over the edge if he slouched just far enough. The thought disturbed him, not because of the potential tragedy and gore of having to witness Russell’s mangled body on the pavement below, but because of how much of a field day that would be with the press. He jogged (zigzagged) towards the other man, looping a finger in one of the belt loops of his jeans, hauling him back roughly to the safety of the balcony.
Russell recovered quickly, accepting the Gin & Tonic unprompted.
“So…” he started
“So.” Max replied.
“Should I be looking out for you in the garage next race? Gathering intel for next season’s car?”
“Straight to business, I see.”
“Was there something else you wanted to discuss?”
Max patted the small, almost decorative pocket of his polo, and satisfied that he’d found the rectangular pack of smokes, he pulled it out, took a few seconds to make his fingers zero-in on a cigarette, and lit it up with an old, barely-used, silver Zippo. He offered one to the other man out of courtesy, surprised that he accepted. He lit it for him.
The nicotine made his head swim, and, judging by Russell’s continuous, uncontrolled swaying, it had had a similar effect.
“Look, mate,” Russell started, “I’m not some idiot. I have lawyers, I’m negotiating… things.” The stammer in his speech from earlier had come back. “Just… don’t do this to Kimi.”
Max felt incredibly offended at the thought, finding it hard to not throw his cigarette overboard and head back inside. “I’m not some psycho,” he said instead.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know if you’re projecting or not,” Max started, “but my meeting with Toto today was just hypothetical negotiations.”
“Oh, yeah? I know what negotiations with Toto are like.”
Max paused. He remembered that evening in Russell’s room so many years ago. Suddenly, he felt proud for being outdone. With Toto, and with his father.
“I don’t have to resort to your style of negotiating,” Max said, staring into the yellow-lit city. “We all know that he fucks you.”
Russell’s breath hitched. Max looked at him, and it was as if the stare alone made his shoulders drop down with a manufactured relaxation. The Brit stubbed the half-smoked cigarette on the railing and didn’t wait to watch it hit the pavement below as he started walking back to the club.
“Or you fuck him,” Max said hurriedly, unwilling to let the conversation go. “I don’t really care.”
Russell paused for a moment, shoulderblades flexing and unflexing under the rough linen of his shirt. The only light on the terrace was emanating from the club, illuminating the Brit’s form in an eerie sort of contre jour – the edges of his frame, usually so prominent and sharp, as if blurred over, smudged with a brush. He spun around to face Max, not walking back, jaw tight in anger, but his eyes betraying a very honest sort of hurt. Almost childlike. Almost like the one Max had remembered him by all those years back, at the bedroom in King’s Lynn.
“Do you get off on being an asshole or something?” Russell said, and his bluntness might have been provocative if it didn’t sound so utterly earnest. “Why do you have to be so horrible to everyone?”
“I’m not horrible to everyone,” Max replied. It was true.
“Not everyone, no. You’ve always been awful to me, though. What did I ever do to you?”
Ratting me out at every possibility; breathing in my neck; being the embodiment of everything I hate in a person, sly, political, two-faced; having the audacity to put yourself on my level; being so perfect all the time; sucking up to the FIA; being a self-righteous moron; locking gazes with me with your big, sad, dead eyes all those years ago in a way that made me feel naked; antagonising me; etc; etc; etc.
He couldn’t think of an appropriate reply. The thoughts weren’t words, they were feelings and images, and it was very hard to articulate them, let alone let them out. Suddenly George’s strange, block-type stammer from when they were young felt incredibly relatable.
He hated not having the last word. He’d have to settle for some metaphorical iteration of this now.
Max closed the distance between them in two long strides, close enough to get a whiff of Toto’s leftover aftershave. Grabbing Russell by the collar of the expensive linen shirt (making sure he got the grime and stickiness from the club all over it), he pulled him close, locking their lips together.
It wasn’t a kiss, not really. Max wasn’t necessarily a good kisser, always letting others do it for him. This time, however, he was being proactive. After a few seconds of licking the leftover gin from the other man’s lips, he clamped his teeth on Russell’s annoyingly unchapped lips. The shocked whine that the other man produced, mixed with his attempt to pull back only encouraged Max, this time biting down until he felt a metallic taste on his tongue.
George managed to finally pull back. There was a red smear on his chin. His eyes were big, and sad, and bulging, and alive. This time, he was the one diving in.
They gnawed at each other for a stretch of forever, rhythm and insistence fuelled by what seemed like only need and spite. Max was fixated on the tiny wound he'd created on the other man's lips, nibbling at it like a small animal, sucking at the blood as if he were sucking out venom.
Then, something vibrated, and, after a few seconds, started ringing.
Max didn’t care enough to reach for his pocket and check, however Russell, as if the particular ringtone itself had prompted his urgency, quickly pushed the other man back, fumbling with his phone.
“Hey,” he said, barely glancing at the screen before picking up, wiping at his mouth and consistently missing the stain his own blood had left. “No, no, it’s not a bad time.”
Max stood on the side completely frozen. He was bewildered at the way someone could so easily switch between states. That was another thing he disliked about Russell.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Thanks for tonight, also…” the Brit continued. Max strained his ears to try and hear what the other person was saying, but it was all a very strange puzzle. He felt like he was filling out a page of Mad Libs. “I’m fine, seriously… I’m not drunk, I’ll meet you for breakfast tomorrow… I know, I know. Don’t worry, Kimi’s not with me… okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night!”
As Russell hung up, Max braced himself for another round of the mutual mauling they did in place of kissing. He was getting more and more sober by the minute, and soon it would all feel like a very, very big mistake. Russell, apparently unburdened by the same turmoils, put his phone back in his jeans pocket, and said, “See you around, Max!”
He flashed a quick grin and turned around without hitch or hesitation, yet again enveloped by the vivid, kaleidoscopic atmosphere of the club.
For the first time in his life, Max had truly understood the meaning of being left with your dick in your hand, except he didn’t even have that. All he had was another man’s blood smeared across his own stupid face.