Chapter Text
He drums the fingers of his left hand on the porcelain of the sink below, his right hand gripping an expensive, ornate whiskey glass- half empty- with the sticky brown liquid sliding steadily into his mouth and trickling nice and cool down his throat. He swallowed the last of it with a heavy gulp and all but slammed the glass back down on the cabinet.
Why anyone had a liquored cabinet next to their bathroom sink was anyone's guess- but then again, the patrons of the Monaco Grand Prix were pompous in nature. Flocking here once a year to witness the spectacle that was racing in Monaco. Though everyone really new they were here to drink, gamble and take party all under the guise of sharing a mutual love for motor racing. Ha. Sure.
Ask half the men in their pressed pants and flowing line their favourite driver and they'd probably just say whoever drives for the ‘red team’. George sighs heavily, looking back into the mirror with what seemed to be an ever-present grimace on his face.
It was somewhere past 3am when he stumbled into this monstrosity of a bathroom and he had no watch, no phone and no idea what time it was now.
Had he been in here long?
He swung his head clumsily to the side and admired the splatter of sick coating the upper region of the toilet bowl, particles of his dinner sitting proudly on the seat in their myriad of beige colours. Well fuck
He could have sworn hed flushed that.
Or rather- He could’ve sworn he hadn't thrown up at all - considering he didn't remember it
Was that his sick?
In his drunken state all logic and coherence seemed to be out the window as he took to his knees and shuffled closer to the toilet bowl, the black fabric if his trousers bunching up as he pushed along the floor, picking up all sort of grime from toilet visitors of the past. He tilted his head regarding it, analysing with as much elegance as someone far too many whiskies, and rums and- was it strawberry daiquiris? - deep to be.
Yes, it looked awfully like his sick usually did.
And- yes
That settles it then
The clump of spinach sitting just left of the rim block was definingly from his dinner.
His cheek smushed against the cold porcelain of the toilet before his brain or muscles could stop him.
The change of temperature making his head jolt straight back up, lolling from side to side, refusing to stay upright. Maybe he was a bit pissed actually.
He erupted into a fit of giggles, his head repeatably whacking onto the toilet as his body jostled him around. He could stop giggling, the alcohol making everything funnier than it should be
BANG
He abruptly stopped laughing after he heard a loud noise behind the golden glow of the bathroom door. Eyes sluggishly moving to gaze at the crack at the bottom, the golden glow of the world outside obstructed by a dark shadow.
Then another
BANG
Then 3 more, as if someone was attempting to kick the door in.
A gruff voice spoke from the other side, muffled by how thick the door was and muffled even more by the amount of alcohol dampening Georges senses.
“- MUCH LONG-”
He could hardly make out what the person was trying to say-
“- UCKING LONGER WILL YOU -”
Hmm
George attempted to rise from his kneeling position but the alcohol in his system remained stubbornly in control. He slumped back down onto the toilet bowl, eyes slipping closed before he could stop them, blinking open with each twitch of his body-
BANG
He jolted upwards. Banging his with much more force than before, the sickening crack of it echoing out into the gold and white marvelled room.
“-- uGHH-owww- ughh”
A groan erupted form his lips before he had time to stop it- not that he could have in this state anyway. A cold sensation started to tingle through his body, then a dull throbbing as blood started to ooze from a large gash in the centre of his forehead.
Fuck-
Ow
He sat back on his heels and looked around the bathroom, the sudden violent hit on the head knocking some sense back into him as he stumbled to his feet.
He glanced sideways at the reflection in the rimmed mirror- his white linen shirt dishevelled and covered in an array of different stains- some looked to be red wine ( Had he been drinking wine?), some just patches of water- or piss- he hoped it wasn't piss. Then a long streak of greenish-brown. That was definitely his vomit then.
And finally- and most concerningly- was the splotched of red, little dots in places, but growing in number as his head injury continued to ooze scarlet down his face.
He looked like something from a horror movie for God sake.
How the hell was he going to explain this to Toto-
No. Focus George.
Where are you. How did you get here. What time is it.
But most importantly, where the fuck are you -
BANG
Just as his inner monologue was finishing- and his hand had stopped frantically dabbing at the wound on his head, fruitlessly, as it still bled just as hard as before - the door shook on its hinges as the man outside kicked at it again.
This time standing up and more lucid, George could make out the angry drunk cacophony of insults being hurled through the thick wood.
“ FUCKIN PRICK- GET OUT-”
“HOW LONG YOU GONNA SPEND IN THE BATHROOM YOU ABSOLUTE PISSHEAD”
A brit like himself then? Brilliant.
George stumbled the remaining few steps before hitting the door with far too much of his body then he was aiming for, reaching a wobbly hand for the lock, then the firm round lionhead shaped doorknob.
How very pretentious.
But expensive, and cool, and nice beneath his clammy hand.
With a burst of unconsidered bravery George swung the door open to face the waiting patron whom had been begging to use the bathroom, and came face to face with-
“Russell?”
“MAX?!” George half squeaked, half slurred, eye bulging wide as he took in the figure he very much recognised.
Lionhead. Pretentious gold bathroom, liquor cabinet IN the bathroom-
Fuck.
He was on Max Verstappens yacht.
He was on Max ver-fucking-stappens yacht.
And worse- he was off his face drunk, covered in sick and blood and god only knows what else- on Max Vertsppens fucking yacht.
“-USSELL, mate- are- are you ok? Your head is-”
Max was talking to him. Right. Of course he was, because this was his boat, and his bathroom, that George had taken residence in for lord only know how long.
His head bumped something soft.
Something musky, kind of woody with notes of – he inhaled deeper- was that orange?
Two firm hands pushed at his chest as his back hit the wall behind. Max's concerned eyes met his as his mouth began to move again.
George zeroed in on it, trying as hard as he could to decipher what the other man was saying to him.
“- I think you're concussed mate. And pissed. How much have you had to drink George?”
Hehe. Max called him George. He doesn't normally call him that.
“No i don't, but looking at the state you’re in i thought being friendly was the best approach-”
Oh.
Max had heard him.
“Yes, mate, you're speaking out loud”
He looked over George again, taking in just how much of a state he looked. Noting the way the man was swaying from side to side, barely able to hold himself up.
“Jesus Russell how hard did you hit your head?”
“Uhhhh. Like 5 ?” George mumbled back, eyes staring at a point past Maxs right shoulder - wide and innocent with childlike wonder. Fucking hell, he was so out of it.
“What? 5 what?” Max pressed, trying desperately to ignore the annoyance bubbling up inside him. Fucking Russell pulling shit like this after the shit day Max had already had. His head was thumping from the hours of day drinking hed been doing since his premature exist from the race. He did not need to play babysitter for his coworker.
Before Max had time to stop him George crumbled to the floor like a used napkin, body folding in on itself until he turned into a puddle of gangly limbs. His big eyes trailed up Maxs body until they met his, wide and- frightened? -
For fuck sake.
His lip wobbled as he spoke, voice soft, barley above a whisper but still tainted with a slur from the alcohol
“Maxxx... my head it hurt. Bumped. In the- in the bathroom- I-i got no points. again”
He cut himself off with a wet sob, his lip quivering into a sad exaggerated pout that was not the least bit endearing and yet-
“Cheer up mate, I didn't get any point either” Max attempted humour, trying to sympathise.
He was not entirely sure what he was meant to do in this situation.
And also, all he fucking wanted was a piss. In his own bathroom, on his fucking yacht.
The tears in Georges eyes were building, threatening Max with spilling over the edge. If hed had the chance, hed have placed a heavy bet that Russell was a drunk crier.
Fucking predictable dickhead.
“ Look Russell, i'll uh- help you-” he paused at his own words “WITH - your head injury. But after I take a piss- Ok mate?”
He didn't wait for an answer pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose as he extended a leg to step over the pile of limbs that was the Mercedes driver. He shook his head and closed the door behind it.
“What the fuck...” He mouthed out silently to the empty room.