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The car's undercarriage scraped against the track, sending sparks flying over the dry tarmac. George and indeed the entire Mercedes team were on a lucky streak: even the weather in Las Vegas seemed to be conspiring for their collective victory. Starting fourth, Russell had held his position for half of race before, with a series of aggressive, sharp moves, overtaking Leclerc and Norris one after another. With the team's restrained but heartfelt support over the radio, he had managed to build a solid lead. Now, all that remained was the simplest part – just reaching the finish line. He could finally exhale and let the feeling of triumph overflow him, erasing all the doubts and regrets from past races.
George relaxed as much as one could in a Formula 1 car rushing at full speed. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm in his chest, his blood warmed with adrenaline. He was damn pleased with his work, proud of himself. He wanted to kiss the car that had gifted him his second Vegas win, to kiss Las Vegas itself, declaring his love for the city over and over. With this single victory, Russell had punched above his weight, and the feeling of being capable of that was akin to the greatest pleasure imaginable.
Gosh, he hadn't felt this happy in ages!
The radio crackled to life, erupting with jubilant congratulations a moment later:
"George, that's incredible! P1. You've left Norris behind, he's P2."
George pumped a fist in triumph:
"Las Vegas! God bless Las Vegas!"
Overtaking McLaren already felt like a victory in itself. Russell was a serious opponent, someone every podium contender would have to reckon with. McLaren should learn their lesson. McLaren...
Something in his chest, suspiciously akin to anxiety, tingled and stung. No, not now!
"Where's Oscar?"
Silence hung on the other end of the radio, as if they didn't understand the question. George bit his lip, waiting.
"Why do you need Piastri? He's not an opponent for you today."
Russell could have replied that Oscar would never be his opponent. Despite his own golden rule: "On track, I see only rivals I must fight." No, Piastri had slowly and surely become someone George couldn't simply forget about during a race. He thought of him almost as much as his own success. He wanted to share the podium with him, two of them up there, and don’t give a shit about the third one.
Russell could have said many things about Oscar and their peculiar bond, but instead he asked again:
"Tell me where he is."
The answer made him sigh heavily and temper the joy of his impending victory.
"Crashed out, lost a ton of time. P10 now, doubt he'll climb back up."
And indeed, there was practically nothing left until the finish line. Oscar was an excellent driver who knew his craft, but he wasn't a magician who could reclaim a rightful spot at the top. If only he'd had the same chances as Norris from the start. Not to take anything away from the latter... No matter how much he would like to.
"Fuck," George hissed through gritted teeth as the radio went silent.
Triumph still overwhelmed him, but now he wanted to cut this sweet feeling of victory right in half and give that half to the one who should be up there with him, the one who truly believed and knew how good Russell was – as a driver, as a person, as a lover, perhaps. The anticipation of Norris's and Leclerc's smug faces made him feel sick, although Charles was at the receiving end by accident.
Images flashed before his eyes, merging into a blurry mess accompanied by unbearable noise. The finish line, the roar of the engine, the screech of tires. George got out of the car, waved to the crowd. Ecstatic screams, applause, deafeningly loud laughter. The team swarmed him, nearly lifting him off his feet. Hugs, handshakes, smiles, and genuine, unadulterated elation. Kimi couldn't contain his joy, jumping on the spot, glorifying George's victory. He'd finished P5 himself. According to the team, he'd had a good race.
"Brilliant job!" Russell almost shouted, whether to Kimi, to the whole of Mercedes, or to himself.
George was pressed for time.
Usually, the post-race frenzy swept him away, but today he couldn't afford that luxury. He had to keep a cool head, even though the rush of thoughts threatened to split his skull. He scanned the crowd for Oscar, but time and again, spotting the orange McLaren uniforms, he came up empty. One more look at Norris's self-satisfied smirk, and Russell felt he might combust on impulse, setting all of Las Vegas ablaze.
Finally, he found his way to the podium. The flashes of dozens, if not hundreds, of cameras made his eyes water, but George posed diligently, dazzling the photographers in return with his trademark grin. It worked without a failure, like a charm. He wasn't faking it: climbing onto the top step, Russell felt anew everything he hadn't had time to savor at the decisive moment. Admiration blossomed in his chest, stealing his breath for a second. He could almost feel wings growing from his back. George was practically flying, which meant Mercedes gives wings too.
Russell stole a glance at Norris: the other was too wrapped up in himself, which was understandable. He'd probably looked the same a moment ago. He turned to Charles and met his joyful eyes. At least one person on the podium should be purely, humanly happy, and Leclerc was coped with the task, radiating light and gratitude. From up here, he looked so small. Maybe it was Russell's height, or his wide-opened wings, lifting the winner even higher above Las Vegas.
Amid loud cheers and applause, Charles and Lando popped the corks on their champagne bottles. The good old tradition. Generally speaking, George enjoyed it, but today he just watched from the sidelines, hiding his unopened Moët behind his back. Leclerc showered him with the cold, sparkling wine, and Russell obediently stepped into the rain of clammy, semi-sweet droplets. He took the bottle and poured champagne over the Prince of Monaco's curly hair; the alcohol ran down his face, under his collar. Charles seemed even happier, and George didn't regret supporting him for a second. That third place was hard-earned too. Maybe Charles could have fought for second, if not for the McLarens' pace.
Ah, yes, McLaren... George slipped by the drenched Norris, avoiding even looking at his face. To hell with Lando. To hell with the journalists shoving microphones at him. Russell merely offered a polite smile, nodded a couple of times, waving them off with a 'talk later.' Even Antonelli, appearing out of nowhere, couldn't stop him. All his thoughts were on one person only.
"Later, Kimi. I'll praise you properly later."
"Actually, I was going to praise you!.."
Kimi's voice was drowned out in a hundred others. Not a step back until George found the one he desperately needed. Until he could touch Oscar, fill him with the admiration bubbling inside.
The driver's room turned out to be empty, save for Piastri's modest figure in the middle. At first glance, he looked strangely puzzled. George wouldn't have been surprised to find Oscar in despair, rage, or hysterics, but his calmness was almost frightening. He was tense, but overly restrained. George wanted to shake him by the shoulders, bring him round. Seeing Russell, Piastri changed expression abruptly, melting into a smile. Crossing the room in one snappy stride, Oscar threw his arms around George's neck, and Russell finally allowed himself to exhale. This felt more like the truth.
"You got away so fast. I was prepared to wait for you till evening."
Russell held him tight in a cuddle, burying his face in sweaty, tousled hair. Piastri loved like a puppy, devotedly, completely, and George never ceased to be amazed by it. How could one give so much without asking for anything in return?
Though, one didn't need to ask Russell for anything. He would put the whole world at his beloved's feet. McLaren could choke on their idiotic rules. If need be, George would carve the way to success Oscar deserved. To hell with rivalry; they could work together.
"I thought about you the whole race, and it gave me strength. I wanted to win, to dedicate this victory to you."
Piastri pulled back slightly to look at his champion. The pride in his gaze made George feel his heart in his mouth. The illusory wings on his back were caressed by an imaginary wind.
"And you did it, George. You were absolutely brilliant! Words fail me."
Oscar kissed him, briefly yet sensually, not letting go. George felt the blush rise to his cheeks, wanted to scream from the overflow of emotions breaking free. He laid a hand on the other's shoulder, gently pushing Piastri back a couple of steps.
"Why don't we celebrate my win, Oscar?"
The cork slid from the bottle's neck with ease, as if it too had been waiting for the moment the winner would let his feelings loose. Oscar barely opened his mouth to ask a meaningless, silly, utterly foolish question before being drenched from head to toe.
"What are you... Hey, Russell! What the hell?!"
They both laughed, spraying each other with champagne, passing the bottle back and forth until it was empty. George dropped it on the floor with a clatter, and it rolled away. Oscar watched him hungrily: he couldn't get enough just by looking, but he wasn't rushing to pounce either. Drops of sparkling wine fell from his hair, his skin glistened with champagne and sweat. A sigh escaped his parted lips. Russell captured them desperately, as if kissing for the last time. Piastri matched his fervor with equal, frantic zeal.
Hands found a heated body. At least, it seemed to George he could feel his heat through the clothes. They pressed against each other, Oscar's palms sliding over his winner's back. Russell tangled his fingers in Piastri's hair, applying slight pressure, making him tilt his head. The kiss grew deeper, faster. They wanted more. They wanted to stay here forever, in this lone driver's room, not even thinking they might be seen.
Oscar's tongue brushed against George's teeth, he bit and pulled at his lower lip. If they continued, their lips would swell and throb with a pleasant, lingering ache. If they stopped, they'd probably suffocate from the lack of each other. Even the brief interruptions to snatch a breath felt like torture, an unbearably agonizing separation.
A quiet squeak of the door sounded behind them. Piastri flinched, pulling away from Russell so abruptly that George instinctively followed to resume the kiss. Someone blatantly cleared their throat, and that voice sent a lightning bolt through his whole body. George already knew who dared to interrupt their idyll.
"Lando," Oscar exhaled in a hoarse whisper, confirming his guess.
Russell turned his head. Quickly, just to look at his face. The smile slowly faded from Lando's features, dissolving in the air along with all his confidence. His arms dropped awkwardly, as if he'd suddenly forgot what he was about to do. A very thick, heavy shadow seemed to fall over him. An incredible sight: another victory.
Even if Lando were a four-time world champion, George knew: he wouldn't concede to him, or to anyone else. Oscar melted like an ice cube in his hands, softened like hot wax, and that was all that made sense. He was the only one who was important. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar – only he was worthy of all of George Russell's attention.
He pressed his lips to Oscar’s again. Piastri hummed in confusion, tried to struggle, but Russell was so insistent that resistance quickly became pointless. They both knew Lando was watching. Maybe Oscar didn't like it, but George felt as if he'd slapped Norris right across the face with a shattering, humiliating blow. On the track and off it, Russell was the true victor. And he didn't need anyone else's recognition to know it. He took both the world champion's trophy and Oscar Piastri's heart. Lando became the last in line twice.
"You, absolute bastards..." Norris threw over his shoulder before slamming the door loudly. "Why don't you both go to hell?"
Oscar exhaled heavily, gulping air, still glancing at the door. Lando wouldn't return; he had nothing left to find here. George carefully traced his fingers over Piastri's flustered face, brushing away a strand of hair stuck to his cheek.
Russell's gentle touches slowly brought him back to reality, and the shock on his infinitely handsome, covered by kisses face was replaced by cunning. Modest, but sincere.
"You know that was terribly cruel, right?"
George pulled him closer, kissed corner of his mouth, his cheek, and then his forehead. He looked at his own reflection in the eyes sparkling with naughtiness.
"If you're trying to guilt-trip me, don't bother. I'm not sorry."
Oscar arched a brow in a silent question: Wait, really?
"Do you even have a conscience, Russell?"