Chapter Text
Silverstone was usually electric in a comforting way, a home he stepped into once a year and felt the energy wrap around him like a warm jacket. But this morning the air felt heavy. Too loud. Too bright. Too sharp. Every cheer from behind the barriers ricocheted through his skull like a hammer against bone.
He shouldn’t have come in this state.
But he couldn’t not come.
Home race. Pride. Expectations. Cameras.
And Alex.
Always Alex.
Somewhere in this paddock, someone who made his lungs bloom poison.
George forced his smile into place as he approached the Sky Sports barrier, Harry glued at his side like a silent anchor. Cameras lifted. People cheered his name. Flags waved. Kids shouted. He lifted a hand to wave, the motion light, practiced, clean.
Inside, something twisted beneath his ribs.
A vine curling, tightening, reminding him it never slept.
“So! George, welcome back to the paddock,” the reporter chirped, energetic. “Are you excited? Home race and all!”
His voice rasped when he answered. “Doing well. Had a birthday party with Seb. I got a bit sick, but I’m hopefully on the recovery, so excuse my voice.”
He swallowed, throat burning.
Keep it steady. Keep it short.
“I’m looking forward to the weekend. The goal, of course, would be the podium. I'd love to achieve that- but realistically, it will probably be Lewis,” he joked weakly.
The reporter laughed, matching him. She always matched him. It should’ve been comforting.
It wasn’t.
“I think you have a good chance. How’s the double header treating you? You mentioned you got sick at Seb’s. Must be exhausting. I bet you’re looking forward to that summer break, aye?”
“Indeed I am.”
His tone remained light, but only out of muscle memory.
His chest was tight.
Something pricked at the base of his throat like a thorn ready to draw blood.
“It’s been full-on,” he continued. “More so for the team than me. But yeah, as I said, I’m a bit sick, so I’m trying to contain that and… have a level head for the race.”
Harry, his PR manager, shifted behind the small cluster of cameras, concern clear in his eyes. He’d noticed the changes, how George barely ate, how he coughed more, how quiet he’d been all morning. He hadn’t questioned it aloud yet, but the worry was there. Solid. Looming.
George felt a cough climbing up his throat and took a quick sip of water to drown it down, to force the blooms back into stillness.
“Onto the car,” the reporter said. “Free Practice is tomorrow. Any changes since last weekend?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Lewis has a new… something to his car, but I opted out. I like the current setup. Feels smooth, despite minor porpoising.”
He could hear how thin his voice sounded. How vague his answers were. How not George Russell he sounded, but he couldn’t do anything about it. His body wasn’t cooperating. His lungs weren’t cooperating. His heart was definitely not cooperating.
“Right,” she said kindly. “Well, we wish you the best for the race. And a smooth, steady recovery.”
He nodded politely, the smile faltering when he turned away. Cameras clicked. People called his name. His chest tightened again, harsher this time.
“Thanks,” he managed, voice barely there.
Then he exhaled sharply as soon as he stepped out of frame.
“Any more same-same interviews?” he muttered to Harry. “Feels like I’ve said the same thing three times.”
“That was the last of the press line,” Harry assured him, guiding them toward the Mercedes unit. “But we have a team briefing in an hour, a sponsor shoot just after, then training. Then you’re done.”
“Sounds so simple,” George deadpanned.
Harry snorted lightly, and then froze when George coughed.
Not a polite cough.
Not a normal cough.
A deep, wet, chest-rattling cough he couldn’t swallow back.
He turned his head and covered his mouth, stepping quickly out of public view. His body shook with the force of it.
And when he opened his palm…
Petals.
White baby’s breath.
Soft, delicate, deadly.
Streaked and splattered with red.
He clenched his hand instantly, panic spiking hard in his gut. He curled the petals into his palm, forming a fist, hoping they wouldn’t fall, hoping blood hadn’t seeped through his fingers.
“George?” Harry murmured.
“I’m fine,” he croaked.
“You’re not-”
“I said I’m fine.”
His tone was sharper than intended, but he couldn’t afford sympathy. Sympathy made him weak. Sympathy cracked open spaces where truth lived.
Harry went quiet and walked beside him again, giving him the dignity of silence.
This wasn’t him.
Not the version of him people expected.
Not the polished, sharp, controlled athlete.
This was a boy failing to keep himself stitched together.
He had to look normal.
Even if nothing inside him was.
Harry noticed the unusual silence.
“You sure you’re okay?” Harry asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“No fever?”
“No.”
“No stomach issues? No dizziness?”
“Harry.” George paused. “I’m fine.”
Harry didn’t believe him. George could see it in the small tension in his jaw, but he nodded anyway, letting the topic drop.
But the heat behind his ribs didn’t leave.
His heart felt bruised.
His lungs, raw.
His throat, scraped.
Every inhalation felt like dragging cold air over open wounds.
Every exhalation felt like releasing petals that didn’t want to stay down.
The walk back to the Mercedes hub felt longer than usual, like each step took twice the strength it should. Harry was pulled away by one of the team assistants, something about a logistics question. “You go on, I’ll catch up,” he’d said.
George nodded and walked off on his own, grateful for the momentary solitude.
Grateful, but also terrified of it.
He took the quieter routes, weaving behind the hospitality buildings and through half-empty service paths. Somewhere distant, cameras clicked and fans shouted, but here… here it was quiet. The hum of generators. The thrum of cars being unpacked. Distant voices. Soft, manageable noise.
And then his body seized.
A tight, sharp twist beneath his ribs. A vine curling too fast, wrapping too tightly.
George stopped immediately, bracing a palm against the back wall of the Ferrari hub. His breath stuttered, throat burning, chest squeezing like invisible fingers clamped around his lungs.
“Not now,” he whispered.
Another wave surged up his throat: hot, thick, rising too quickly to swallow back. He bent forward, choking on the pressure, one hand on his knee, the other gripping the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
And then it hit.
Violently.
Punishingly.
He turned toward the grass and vomited.
It came up with a wet, horrible sound: bile, blood, and the unmistakable eruption of petals. Baby’s breath mixed with red streaks. Soft white blooms splattered against the earth, crushed instantly under the force of the expulsion.
A few stems - full, intact, impossible stems - slid out with the liquid, falling like discarded secrets into the grass.
George squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, throat burning like he’d swallowed fire.
God.
God, this was getting worse.
He spat the metallic taste out, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. He hunched over, catching his breath, making sure, absolutely ensuring, no one saw him before he straightened.
But when he finally lifted his head-
He froze.
A figure stood a few metres away, equally frozen, a dropped Red Bull can at his feet.
Max.
Fucking.
Verstappen.
Wide-eyed. Pale. His mouth slightly open, a kind of stunned horror painted across his face.
George didn’t move.
Max didn’t move.
For a moment the world narrowed to nothing but their locked eyes and the mess on the grass between them.
“Max, I-” George tried, voice ragged.
But Max wasn’t even looking at George.
He was looking at the flowers.
At the proof.
At the petals.
At the blood.
He said nothing for so long that George wondered if time had stopped.
Then, in a whisper so fragile George wouldn’t have believed it came from Max if he hadn’t seen his lips move:
“Not you too.”
George blinked. “What?”
Max snapped his gaze upward, and George saw it, fear. Real fear. Not for himself. For him.
“What do you mean ‘not you too’?” George asked, stepping back, chest still rising too quickly, throat raw.
Max swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath. “Hanahaki. The flower disease. You have it.”
He said it quietly, urgently, like naming it meant something. Like naming it made it more real.
George glared, defensive instinct kicking in, the only shield he had left. “How do you even know about that? It’s not exactly-”
“I have it too.”
George’s whole world stuttered.
The air went thin.
His knees went weak.
His mind blanked.
“You… what?” His voice cracked, disbelief shattering each word. “You what?!”
He felt himself spiraling, thoughts scattering, lungs tightening for all the wrong reasons, nausea rising again even though there was nothing left to throw up.
Max stepped forward, hands up, gentle. “George? Georgie. Hey. Calm down, hey- just breathe.”
George flinched, the old nickname ricocheting painfully inside him. Memories he’d spent a year burying suddenly climbed out of their shallow grave.
Even after the breakup, even after months of cold silence and professionalism and distance, Max still knew every sign of George’s spirals.
And George was definitely spiraling.
“Sit. C’mere,” Max said.
George should’ve refused. Should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him to fuck off.
But his body moved without permission, muscle memory forged in softer, older days.
Max guided him away from the mess in the grass, away from the evidence, to a patch of shade behind the Ferrari hub. George sank down, legs folding beneath him, chest trembling.
He stared blankly at the gravel path, mind miles away.
Max knelt in front of him, leaning close but not touching, not yet. His face was tight with worry. Haunted.
“George,” Max said softly. No response.
“George,” he tried again. Nothing.
Max’s jaw clenched. He hesitated only a second before doing what had always worked back when things weren’t broken, back when everything was simpler:
He reached out and took George’s hand.
And the moment their skin touched-
George snapped back to life.
His eyes lifted sharply, focusing on Max’s face like the world had been underwater until that exact second.
Max swallowed, relieved but careful. “There you are.”
George stared at him, breath shaky, pupils blown wide with shock and leftover panic. He didn’t pull his hand away.
“Max,” George breathed, voice small, wrecked. “You have it? Really?”
Max nodded, thumb brushing once across George’s knuckles before he caught himself and let his hand go still. “Yeah.”
“But you- how-” George shook his head, voice breaking. “How long?”
“Doesn’t matter right now,” Max said quietly. “You just vomited a bouquet behind Ferrari. We’re talking about you.”
George huffed a humorless laugh, rubbing his free hand over his face. “Right. Because that’s normal.”
“It’s normal for people like us,” Max muttered.
George blinked. “Drivers?”
“Idiots in love who don’t know when to stop,” Max said, voice too honest.
George’s breath hitched.
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Raw. Not painful, not yet - but charged. Full of unsaid things and unresolved history.
George swallowed. “Who… who do you have it for?”
Max looked down, picking at the grass with one hand. His voice was extremely soft when he finally answered.
“That doesn’t matter either.”
“It matters to me,” George whispered.
Max’s head lifted. “Why?”
“Because if you have it-” George paused, chest tightening. “If you have the same thing I do… I don’t want you to be alone in it.”
Something flickered in Max’s eyes. Something broken but warm.
“You’re not alone either,” Max said.
George exhaled shakily, leaning his head back against the wall of the hub. The world felt tilted, strange, like the universe had played a joke on him so elaborate that even he couldn’t unravel it.
Max.
Of all people.
His ex.
The boy who’d known him better than anyone.
The boy he’d let go because timing and fear and life had made it impossible.
Max, looking at him with that familiar, old softness he wasn’t allowed to have anymore.
George’s voice trembled when he spoke again. “How long have you known about mine?”
“Since before today? I didn’t.” Max nodded at the pile of petals behind the Ferrari building. “That’s… usually a dead giveaway.”
George let out a humorless sound that almost resembled a laugh. It cracked halfway out. “Shit.”
Max shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”
George scoffed. “It is. It’s literally my body trying to kill me because I’m-” He stopped, shame tightening his throat.
Because I’m in love.
With someone who doesn’t love me back.
Who probably never will.
Max watched him carefully. “Because you care,” he corrected gently. “That’s not a flaw.”
George’s eyes burned. He hated that he felt tears pricking, hated that he felt vulnerable, hated that Max was seeing him like this again after so long.
But Max didn’t look disgusted or judgemental.
He looked heartbroken for him.
“You should’ve told someone,” Max murmured. “Your team. Aleix. Anyone.”
George shook his head quickly. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re throwing up flowers, George.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t,” Max snapped, too loud, too real.
George froze.
Max closed his eyes, grounding himself, then spoke quieter. “Sorry. But you can’t. Neither can I, if we’re being honest.”
George watched him closely. The way Max’s shoulders slumped. The exhaustion in his posture. The tight, subtle way he pressed a hand to his own ribcage, like something inside him hurt too.
“You’re really sick,” George said softly.
“So are you.”
They stared at each other, for a long moment, just breathing in the shared weight of their secret.
Max was the one who broke first. He reached out again, slower this time, fingertips brushing George’s wrist.
“You’re not dying today,” Max said firmly.
George huffed out something between a laugh and a sob. “That’s comforting.”
“I mean it.” Max squeezed his wrist gently. “You’re not doing this alone.”
George met his eyes. “Why? We’re not-”
“Because I still care,” Max said, firm and raw. “A lot more than I should.”
George inhaled sharply, chest aching for a dozen reasons at once.
Before he could speak, before he could decide whether to lean into the comfort or run from it, footsteps echoed down the path.
Both boys stiffened instantly.
Max’s hand dropped. George snapped upright. The fragile moment shattered like glass.
“Later,” Max murmured quickly. “We’re not done talking about this.”
George swallowed, throat raw. “No. We’re not.”
They stood at the same time, side by side, both finding their masks again just as a Ferrari engineer stepped around the corner, oblivious.
But under the noise of the paddock, under the façade, something had shifted.
George wasn’t alone in this anymore.
And neither was Max.
( If this next part is confusing, read all normal text first then go back and read italics. If not, read them same-same time just remember the two POV’s! )
George sat through the meeting, posture perfect, face still, voice unused.
The Mercedes room was bright, white, and sterile. Lewis spoke most of the time, confidently, easily, his words filling the silence George couldn’t.
Max sat alone in the Red Bull motorhome. The plate in front of him was full, but the food looked grey, tasteless. He’d poked at it until it went cold.
He nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected. Pretended he was fine.
It wasn’t nausea- not the physical kind. His stomach twisted with nerves, guilt, confusion.
Inside, his chest throbbed where vines curled too tight. He could feel them moving sometimes, if he focused too hard, that soft, unnatural twitch against his ribs.
George’s face wouldn’t leave his head. The pale shock in his eyes. The blood on his hand. The way he’d flinched at the nickname Georgie, like it hurt.
He forced his focus to the screen, to the data, to the chatter.
It didn’t work.
All he could think about was Max.
Max put his fork down, staring at nothing. The hum of the hospitality building faded until all he could hear was the faint echo of his own pulse.
George fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist.
It was nothing special, woven threads and beads, a fan gift he’d worn out of habit. The beads clicked softly when he twisted it around his fingers.
Max leaned back in his chair, staring at his phone where it sat face-down beside the plate.
He shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
But his fingers itched.
George tried to focus on Toto’s words. Tried to ignore the way his throat burned when he swallowed, like a petal was lodged there waiting for a moment of weakness.
Max picked it up. Scrolled without looking. Opened his contacts and stopped when he saw the name he’d promised himself never to touch again.
Lewis was answering another question. Everyone laughed at something he said. George didn’t hear it.
George Russell.
His fingers rubbed over the bracelet again, mechanical, grounding.
He thought of Max’s hand instead. The one that had pulled him down into the grass, that had steadied him when his body threatened to give out.
The last messages were still there, buried under a year of silence. Jokes, affection, goodnight texts. Words they’d both stopped saying when things cracked under pressure
He read one. Then another.
He couldn’t breathe properly.
George reached for his phone under the table, thumb hovering over the screen like it weighed too much to lift.
He shouldn’t text him.
He should pretend the encounter behind Ferrari never happened.
Max’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed a few letters, erased them. Typed something else. Deleted it again.
But his mind wouldn’t quiet. His pulse hadn’t slowed since.
He remembered how George used to tease him for texting in fragments ‘Use full sentences, Max, I can’t read your mind.’
He unlocked the phone, flicked to contacts. The list blurred under his eyes until he stopped on the name that made his stomach twist.
Max.
And yet now, he couldn’t find a single full sentence that made sense.
He didn’t type anything. He just stared at it.
The name, the memory, the ghost of it.
He exhaled through his nose, tension burning behind his ribs, and finally typed what he wanted to say.
What was simple, clear, impossible to misread.
George’s screen lit up immediately, the vibration cutting through Toto’s voice like thunder.
He glanced down.
There it was.
A message that made his heart stutter and his chest ache.
My driver’s room. 9pm.
He sent it before he could change his mind.
He read it again. Again.
Max set the phone face-down again and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
He shouldn’t have done it.
He regretted it instantly, not because he didn’t mean it, but because he did.
The words blurred as his throat tightened. He rubbed his palm over his chest, like he could press the sickness down, but it didn’t help.
Because some part of him, the part that had never stopped loving George, still thought maybe, just maybe, he could help.
Or fix something.
Or just be there again, even if only for a night.
No one noticed his shaking hands.
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing.
He expected no reply.
George didn’t move for several minutes. The meeting ended around him, chairs scraping, chatter resuming, but he didn’t hear any of it.
He just sat, staring at the notification.
He didn’t get one.
He wanted to reply. To say no, or why, or okay, or anything.
Max pushed his uneaten food aside and left the table.
He needed air.
He needed to breathe before his chest filled with flowers again.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t trust himself to choose the right word.
Out in the paddock, the evening light was fading to gold. Reporters shouted across walkways, cameras clicked, teams prepped for the next day.
Everything normal.
Everything loud.
So he locked the phone again and slipped it into his pocket.
Silence, for now, was easier.
Safer.
He moved through it like a ghost, eyes down, until he reached the quiet corridor behind Red Bull’s hospitality building, the same kind of quiet that had betrayed him earlier.
George stood at the back of the Mercedes hub now, leaning against the wall, head tipped back. The meeting had dissolved into casual conversation inside, and he’d slipped out quietly before anyone could notice.
He thought of George there, pale and shaking, blood on his hands.
The memory made his throat ache.
He drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the tremor in his chest. The air smelled faintly of rain and fuel and grass.
Max sat on the edge of a crate outside the motorhome, phone still in his hand. He kept checking it, not because he expected an answer, but because he couldn’t stop himself.
He closed his eyes.
No read receipt. No reply.
The image came unbidden, Max, kneeling in front of him, eyes soft, saying You’re not doing this alone.
He stared at the last message until the words blurred into nonsense.
He didn’t delete it.
He couldn’t.
He wasn’t supposed to need that.
He wasn’t supposed to want it.
He tilted his head back, looking up at the darkening sky, the faint hum of engines in the distance.
He pressed his palm against his sternum until it hurt.
He didn’t know what he’d even say to George if he came.
George took his phone out again once he was alone. The message still glowed against the screen, a quiet pulse of light in the dim hallway.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
George took his phone out again once he was alone. The message still glowed against the screen, a quiet pulse of light in the dim hallway.
Max finally stood, slipping his phone into his pocket.
The message was sent, the silence loud, the evening colder.
He thought about forgetting it. Thought about pretending he never saw it.
He didn’t know what would happen next, only that, somehow, they were both caught again in the same orbit they’d sworn to escape.
But instead, he pinned it.
Not because he planned to go, but because seeing it there soothed something deep in his mind.
Proof that he wasn’t hallucinating the connection.
Different teams, different uniforms, same ache.
He locked the phone. Slid it back into his pocket. Straightened his posture.
The paddock lights flickered on, flooding everything with artificial brightness.
“George,” Harry called from somewhere inside, “you coming for the promo shoot?”
And somewhere across the grounds, in another motorhome, Max felt it too, that invisible thread tightening just enough to remind them both that neither of them had truly let go.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice barely holding.
Then louder, smoother, “Yeah, coming.”
—‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.—
Max had spent the better part of an hour on his side, curled awkwardly on the narrow motorhome bed, staring at the cheap blinds rattling softly in the breeze from outside. He’d been aware of every second passing, each minute dripping like syrup, heavy and slow. The bedding beneath him was warm from his body, yet he couldn’t bring himself to shift, or sit up, or do anything other than wait.
Wait for George.
Wait for time to pass.
Wait for courage to arrive.
His throat ached: raw and metallic, the taste of blood embedded behind his tongue. He swallowed carefully, wincing. On the floor beside the bed, half on the carpet and half on the laminate, was a small pile of wilted, dark red petals streaked with dried blood. Some were nearly black. He’d given up trying to move to the bathroom every time the flowers came up; he was too tired, too dizzy. Every expulsion left him folded over, panting, sweating, trembling in the aftermath.
He should clean it.
He knew that.
He would.
Eventually.
Three hours until George would come.
Then two.
Then one.
And still Max didn’t move.
He’d thought having time alone to think would settle his nerves, clarify what he wanted to say, but instead it had the opposite effect. His mind spiraled: questions he wanted answers to, confessions he wasn’t sure he could voice, memories of a past he’d tucked away so tightly he’d forgotten how much he missed it. Missed him.
When the fatigue finally dropped onto him like a weight, heavy and inescapable, he let his eyes close. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just long enough to blink.
The rain woke him.
A loud, sudden crack of thunder that shook the thin walls of the motorhome, followed by the relentless drumming of a downpour. The sound echoed through the space, vibrating through the metal and plaster. Max jerked upright, disoriented, hair plastered damply to his forehead from sweat.
The clock on the wall blurred for a moment before the numbers sharpened.
9:38 PM.
Panic snapped through him. Forty minutes late. Forty minutes George had been out in that storm, or worse, forty minutes he might have left.
Max scrambled to his feet too fast. The room tilted, his vision went white for a beat, and he reached for the kitchenette counter to steady himself. His hand slipped on the surface, slick with cold condensation from a forgotten water bottle, but he managed to stay upright.
He forced in a deep breath, then another, swallowing the nausea that pushed up alongside the petals forming in his chest.
When he stepped out into the small lounge area, he froze.
George was already there.
Sitting on the couch like he belonged in that space, like he never left, legs folded neatly beneath him, a steaming cup of tea in hand. His hair was slightly damp, raindrops still clinging to the edges. A warm glow from the single lamp beside him framed him in soft amber light.
He wasn’t tense. He wasn’t upset. He didn’t even look surprised to see Max awake.
He looked… calm. Quiet. Present.
Max swallowed hard.
“George?” he rasped. His voice cracked painfully around the name.
George lifted his head, eyes softening, thumb tapping the side of his phone before switching it off and setting it aside.
“I let myself in,” he said, tone casual, almost teasing. “I still have the spare key. You gave it to me ages ago, remember? When we- well. When we were us.”
Max felt his chest tighten at that.
He remembered.
God, he remembered everything.
“It was raining too hard to wait outside,” George continued. “And you didn’t answer when I knocked, so… I figured you were asleep. I was right.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth, fleeting, gentle.
Max exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he crossed the small space and sat beside him. They both shifted on instinct, angling toward each other, knees nearly touching.
It was painfully familiar.
The silence pressed between them: not uncomfortable, but heavy, meaningful. The kind that always existed when too many emotions sat unspoken yet understood.
George cradled his tea again, his thumb tracing the rim.
George spoke first.
“Why did you invite me?” George asked, purely wanting to start the conversation. “I-” Max paused, lifting his eyes to meet George’s. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
George’s lips quirked again, barely there, then gone. Not quite a smile. Not quite disbelief. Something in between.
“I’m… managing,” he said. “Getting through the day. Lewis keeps hovering, trying to get me to talk to Nico, or a doctor, but-” He shrugged. “I’ve been avoiding it.”
Max nodded slowly.
“I know,” he said. “About Nico. The drivers all did, back then. And Seb knows about me.”
“Just Seb?” George asked quietly.
Max gave a small nod.
George swallowed, looking down into his mug. Then-
“Do you know who it is?” Max asked.
Max didn’t push. He didn’t prod. He waited.
George inhaled sharply, then exhaled.
“Alex,” he murmured.
Max nodded again, almost absentmindedly.
“It makes sense.”
George’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t look embarrassed, just exposed.
Then George whispered, “And yours?”
The room stilled.
Max felt his pulse spike. His breath shorten. The words stuck like thorns in his throat, refusing to climb out. He lifted a hand to his chest unconsciously, thumb pressed to the spot where the ache always lingered.
He couldn’t look away from George, even as fear flickered across his ribs.
Finally-
“Charles,” he said.
A confession.
A wound.
A truth he’d kept buried so deeply he almost choked on it.
George didn’t speak. His eyes softened, a deep pull of empathy settling into them. Understanding. Acceptance. No judgment, no teasing. Just real, raw care.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with shared weight, shared pain, shared relief at not being alone in something so terrifying.
The rain played rhythm on the roof. A soft hum. A steady backdrop to everything they didn’t say.
Finally, George broke the quiet.
“I think I’m going to have the surgery.”
Max’s body went cold.
His head snapped toward him, heart thundering in his throat.
“…What?” he whispered, barely audible.
But George was looking straight at him, eyes steady even as his fingers trembled around the mug.
“I just want it gone,” he said calmly. “I can’t keep doing this. It doesn’t matter what the side effects are- I just want to breathe again. I want… I want my life back.”
Max’s lungs felt too tight.
Too small.
“Georgie…” he breathed, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it.
George winced, not in pain, but in nostalgia.
“Don’t pity me,” he said softly. “And don’t try to talk me out of it. I’ve made up my mind.”
Max forced himself to swallow the protest threatening to climb up his throat. He couldn’t lose control, not now, not in front of George.
Not when George looked so sure.
So resolved.
So heartbreakingly tired.
“It’s your choice,” Max finally said, voice hoarse, barely holding steady.
George nodded once.
Firm.
But his eyes were gentle.
The rain softened against the roof, turning into a soothing patter. The motorhome felt warmer now, the air a little easier to breathe.
Neither of them coughed.
Not even once.
As if the flowers recognized something in the room, a lack of longing, or an equilibrium found only in the presence of someone who understood. Someone who shared the same illness. Someone who had once been home.
George set his tea aside and leaned back into the couch, his shoulders relaxing. Max mirrored him without thinking.
They simply sat there.
Side by side.
Breathing.
Not lovers.
Not strangers.
Something quietly fragile in between.
George closed his eyes.
Max watched him, letting the sight ground him.
Neither of them had asked for comfort.
Neither had explained the depths of their pain.
Neither needed to.
Being together, just this, was enough.
For tonight, at least… neither of them was alone.