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To put it in simple words, everything was a total wreck.
This was supposed to finally be his year. He had put in the work at Williams for three years, which was simply trying to drag the car to the line every weekend. He had even managed to pull it to points on three different occasions, which many had said was impossible.
But he dragged that shit around for all those years just to prove himself worthy of a seat in Mercedes. And when he finally made it, and got to drive next to the seven time world champion LH44, the car wasn’t suitable for the new regulations. Still, he made the most of it, winning a few races and scoring a decent amount of points. He even outscored Lewis in both 2022 and 2024.
Then when Lewis was gone to Ferrari, George had stepped up. He won two races, scored countless points, and all while mentoring young Kimi Antoneli. George single handedly led the team to a strong P2 in the constructors by scoring more than double points compared to Kimi.
And with the new regulations, and their mastery of the power unit, this year was meant to be his, and everyone knew that.
But apparently not.
It had been clear since George had learned about the arrival of the young Italian that he was ‘Mercedes golden boy’ and ‘the new Senna’ and ‘the future of Mercedes’ but George had thought that meant he was the present.
Kimi just waltzed right into the team, no shitting around in a midfield team, just straight to the big leagues.
George spent all of 2025 happily helping the kid adjust. But George was still the one leading the team. He was Mr. Consistency, he had dedicated his entire career, fuck career, he had sacrificed his entire life to this team.
Now, out of six sessions of the new season, five of those races he had been screwed over by a mix of extremely poor luck and devastating mechanical and software issues.
George had never had luck on his side, through the past seven seasons the only thing he could rely on was his pure talent and effort.
Usually his team was always there to back and help him by guiding him through issues and supporting him but right now it felt like they didn’t want him to win.
It seems like every time he has something going for him, something fails. Whether that's his car's power unit, set up, or poor strategy, nothing was going his way.
But what really was the nail in the coffin for George was the fact that it was only his side of the garage having issues. Kimi’s car had not had one single issue all season and George found it suspicious that once it started looking like he would be taking victory in Canada, despite issues all weekend, his car completely failed. And he had to watch it be dragged dead off the track.
When he had brought it up during the debrief, Toto had told him that it would be fixed and they would bounce back in Monaco, there was no further discussion.
That had not in fact been the case.
There was poor quali with poor grip, fine. He could accept that maybe that hadn’t been his best.
The race was bad. George had accepted that he got the five second penalty. He was driving that race well. He was set for P3. He had actually driven and fought spectacularly and he knew that.
That pit stop can be described as nothing other than a disaster. He understands that it wasn't his pit crew's fault, they just do what they are told. He was there to take that penalty and come back out to fight.
The second he was signaled to go he had known that it was wrong. Time penalties usually felt like an eternity in the cockpit, but that had felt too short.
When he learned that he would have to serve a stop and go penalty after the race restart, which he knew would drop him to the back of the grid, it took everything for him to keep his emotions in check.
He wanted to scream at his entire team, including Toto, for this absolute disaster that his team had caused him, not even just in this race. But he was also trying to will his eyes from watering.
The drop to P13 was devastating.
But what might have been worse was seeing Toto, Kimi and Lewis celebrating on the Podium like a happy, happy family. The only thing that would have made Toto even happier was if it had been the other Red Bull driver up there as well.
And again, for the fourth weekend of the season, George had to watch the entire team celebrate without him. He sat on top of their hospitality deck and watched everyone jump into the harbor and spray champagne around and party in their P1 shirts.
He now knew that his long term partner’s engine had stalled out before the light had even gone out. George knew Max must be beyond frustrated with his team as well, but he still hadn’t even looked at Max’s texts.
They were meant to see each other tonight but George opened his phone, didn’t even read any of his messages and typed Max a quick message that he didn’t want to see him tonight anymore.
They had never let poor results or on-track fights get in the way of their relationship or time together. But George just could not bring himself to care anymore.
He just could not do it anymore. He had thought, What’s even the point?
He seriously thought the session could not get any worse but boy, had he been wrong. The team seemed to want him to fail this season, despite him carrying a pretty shit car to a great result last year.
It felt like he was being sabotaged and slowly exiled from the team.
By the time the debrief had come along, everyone was in a jolly mood, except George, who looked like his dog had just been run over by a bus. He looked almost emotionless and dead inside, his eyes were void of their usual brightness and light.
No one seemed to have any empathy or care that he had been screwed over today. No one cared that he had done everything in his power to drive a great race, which he had, just to be failed by his own team.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could make it without bursting into tears.
During the debrief, the mistake was addressed as a simple error in communication that, according to Toto, “would not happen again.” But George could no longer hope that things would get better after hearing that everything would be fixed for the next race just to have a new issue emerge.
George was absolutely done.
Once the debrief was finished, he stood quickly and abruptly, causing his chair to screech loudly. He stood with such stiff posture and a face that was cold and stone like.
He left the room first with such haste and without saying goodbye to a single person. He was still fuming at the overall happy atmosphere of Mercedes today, as if his horrid race counts as nothing.
He doesn’t understand how no one else can see the faults in this team.
George had already packed up his stuff while he was waiting a terribly long time for his team to be ready. Someone had briefly mentioned to him about a party tonight to celebrate, but what did they think George had to celebrate? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
George was glad he could just go home today, no hotels, no long flights.
George was completely still the entire way home, as if one small movement would cause his perfect composure to completely collapse, like it had been threatening to do since the end of the race.
Once George finally closed the door to his apartment, the dams broke.
He was hysterical, still dirty in his race clothing, he sobbed on the floor of his cold kitchen.
He contemplated his worth while mumbling incoherently and shaking on the floor. He was curled up as small as he could make himself.
Why was he even here anymore? What's the point? What’s the final goal here? Just continues being fucked over the rest of his life, like he had been all his life and especially this year?
Why do they hate him? Had he not delivered last year? Had he not filled the shoes of the great and spectacular Lewis Hamilton? He thought he had, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, to be completely honest.
After he had nothing left to cry in his system, he felt worthless and empty.
He couldn’t even feel anything properly in the moment.
He wasn’t worth anything to anyone. His family probably think they’ve wasted their money on his pointless career, his team would be more than happy to replace him with another driver sooner rather than later, and his boyfriend must know he can do so much better. And he didn’t really have anyone else. No one cared what happened to him, he just needed to feel something.
He started out by laying still on the floor and pressing his hands so deep around himself that the stops began to bruise instantly.
It hadn't been enough. He needed to feel more.
He dug his nails so deep into his palms that they began to bleed, but not enough.
He was replaceable. That's what his father had told him. He was always subject to replacement. Toto knew this, he was just waiting for the right moment to cut the string, and if George was performing like shit then there was no reason to question the decision.
And if George didn’t have F1, what was left for him in this world? No one really needed him. He was replaceable.
George opened one of the kitchen drawers and looked inside of it blankly.
He looked at all of the knives, sharp and silver. He reached for one of the smaller ones. One of the ones he used to use to cut strawberries for Max during the summer when Max had bought more than either of them could eat. George had always cut fruit for Max when they were together. Max would find someone better to cut his fruit for him. There was always someone better.
With the knife in his hand, George felt so much power rush though him.
He stared at it for a moment longer before he turned the knife to be parallel to the inside of his wrist.
The first cut made him feel more in control than he had ever felt before. He held the control of what happens next. He liked the control. He liked having his future lying in his own hands. No one else's. Not his father’s, not his team’s, not Toto’s, not Max’s, absolutely no one, except him, controlled what happened next.
He liked watching the deep crimson of his own blood drip onto the pure white tile of his kitchen floor. He liked that the pain and the sting made everything feel so real. But nothing felt real at the same time.
The next cut was deeper. He dragged the blade along his wrist in a slow, slow manner. Every second he dragged out the cut, made the pain last longer. He couldn’t think about anything except the blood that was spreading all over.
He just kept going. He couldn’t stop. If he stopped, he would start thinking again. He did not want to think.
The power gave him such a high. Such an aura and it was completely intoxicating.
Knowing that it must be almost over is a relief. He had moved on from his arms. Now he was dragging the blade along the lines of his ribs. He had lost a lot of weight recently and so his ribs were already very exposed.
He thought he heard something, but his mind was in such a state he thought he was going insane. He kept slicing.
“George,” someone was calling his name.
Why? Its not like anyone cares?
“George?”
“Fucking hell! What the fuck are you doing George?”
George looks up to see a broad figure running towards him in pure shock.
George is lost in his own head and thoughts so he cannot make out what is happening.
“Jesus fuck George!” The man is basically sobbing now, he sits down on the floor in front of George, reaching his hand out like he was trying to approach a wild animal.
Oh.
It was Max. Why was Max here? He shouldn’t care about Gerorge after how shit he is at everything.
“What?” Max looked so confused.
Oh George had said that out loud.
“Max. Y-you should go…” George’s voice is broken and scratchy.
“George,” Max looked so hurt, “we have so so much we will need to talk about, but I’m not leaving you alone. Never again.”
For some reason, George began absolutely sobbing. He reached to Max first, like an invitation, and Max pulled him into his chest while they both sat in a pudel of deep, crimson blood.
Max held George tight as he began gaging and throwing up to the side, due to the violent sobbing.
“Hey, hey. Georgie, I’m here, it's ok. I care about you, George. I care about you more than anyone will ever understand. We will need to uh... address this later, but I’m here for you George, and I’m not leaving,” Max was sobbing now too.
“It hurts so much,” George hiccuped into Max’s shoulder.
“I’m here George,” Max needed him to be ok.
“P-please don’t leave me Maxie,” George practically sobbed while he was actively bleeding out.
“I would never,”
They sat there for a long time. Max had considered bringing George to the hospital.
The entire front of his upper body was covered in slash marks. Some straight, some curved, some jagged.
Eventually, Max carried George to the on suite bathroom connected to the master bed room.
Max drew the bath to a comfortably warm temperature, he undressed the rest of George and helped him into the tub.
He had expected George to wince in pain as he knew the cuts would sting as he entered warm water, but George’s face remained flat.
Max dried him and dressed his wounds, still not a single sound from the Brit. Max carried him to bed and got in next to him.
Max whispered words of love and encouragement until George fell asleep.
Max had never seen George break like that. Then Max realized he had never seen George break at all.