Work Text:
February, 2012
George is in Wellington, one week ahead of his last-ditch attempt to qualify for the upcoming Olympics, and he’s sicker than he ever has been. It hit him like a train at some point during the night, and now, as the morning light streams into the hotel room, he’s curled up under the duvet with a headache like an axe wound and a horrible pressure in his sinuses, sweaty and feverish and shivering, when a hand rests gently on his back.
“Wakey wakey, GB,” Sam says quietly.
“Mmmrgh,” is all George can get out.
Sam’s hand runs up to his shoulders, along his neck, and rests on his forehead. The touch is soothing, Sam’s palm cool against the prickly heat of George’s skin.
“You’re burning up, George.” George can hear the concerned frown in Sam’s voice. “Hang on.”
The cool hand leaves his forehead, and George listens to Sam rummaging around in the bathroom and running the tap before he comes back and sets down a glass of water and a blister pack of home-brand paracetamol on the nightstand. The bed dips as Sam sits down, hip tucked into George’s back.
“I need to leave in half an hour,” Sam continues in the same quiet, lilting tone. “I’m gonna get ready and meet the guys for breakfast, then we’ll head straight to the velodrome. I’ll have my phone on me if you need anything, and I’ll text you just before I’m riding so you know when I’m not going to reply. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And make sure you eat something.”
“Yes, Mum.”
There’s a press of dry lips to George’s sweaty hair, and the bed rises again before the spray of the shower starts up.
George is asleep again before Sam leaves, waking up all stuck to the sheets as the midday sun fights with the blackout curtains Sam had shut again before leaving. He showers out of necessity more than anything, the steam unclogging his head slightly and washing off the gross feeling of a terrible night’s sleep. The icepick lobotomy headache still isn’t shifting, so he sips as much water as it takes to get moisture back into his mouth and takes two of the tablets Sam had left.
He orders room service while he waits for the pain relief to kick in, and nibbles at the overpriced toasted ham and cheese sandwich (twenty-two dollars, not including the glass bottle of Sprite accompanying it) while attempting to read an email, and by the time he’s only got one cheese-covered crust left, he’s starting to feel like a normal sick person and not one on the brink of death.
Sam comes back in the late afternoon, when George is upright and sitting on top of his bedsheets instead of cocooned up underneath them.
“You’re back early.” George’s throat feels dry and rough, probably from the lack of use all day and the cough he knows will strike later in the week.
Sam hums, a noise of well-meaning surprise. “It’s not that early.”
“Thought you’d get a cuppa with the guys after.”
Sam looks at George like he’s stupid. “Why would I do that?”
“I dunno, ‘cos you’re mates?”
“George, you were barely conscious this morning and I hardly got a text back from you all day. I wanted to make sure you weren’t decomposing in a hotel room, which I think is a bit more important than getting a coffee and a danish.” Sam puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Shoot me, I guess.”
“Yeah, sure,” George huffs, hoping his voice is nonchalant enough to hide the fact that he feels kind of guilty for putting a damper on Sam’s day - he doesn’t need to be coddled like this, not when something like another shot at an Olympic medal is at stake.
But it sure as shit is nice.
And so it goes.
Sam goes to the velodrome in the morning, and George faffs around the hotel room.
Sam texts George every so often, and George lets himself have the little luxuries of things like marinating himself in hotel soap and staring out of the window at the street below.
Sam brings George back a croissant, slightly squished, and George has to figure out how to tell Sam that there’s really not enough soap left for both of them.
Sam orders room service for both of them instead of eating dinner downstairs, and George eats, chewing through pasta in bed next to Sam with the news turned down to barely audible.
George barely makes it to the starting line three days later - his fever and headache have calmed down, but he’s achy and uncomfortable on his bike and his chest feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton balls.
He’d only just managed to wake up with enough time to shit, shower and shave before hoisting his bike into the elevator. Sam had nabbed one of the squeaky polystyrene cups from the breakfast bar and poured coffee into it before making a break back upstairs, and George now takes big gulps from the cup as the elevator descends.
Sam had even remembered the barest splash of milk that George likes, but even if he hadn’t, George could have kissed him for it.
But now, here on the starting line, the coffee is only making him shift anxiously, hyper-aware of his blocked nose and rattly throat. He’d slammed the last of Sam’s home-brand paracetamol in the car, washing the pills down with electrolytes and hoping for the best. Turns out, the best thing to come from Safeway’s own paracetamol is not a February miracle, but some mild relief from his headache.
He wonders where Sam is, somewhere around the edge of the crit course that is his final shot at going to London. The crowds aren’t massive, and George would bet that if today was a good day he’d have already spotted him.
He barely hears the start gun, just rolls off as everyone in front of him does so, and they’re about half a lap in before George has the realisation that he’s in the worst shape of his life. His legs are already tired, he’s barely got a grip on his handlebars, and there’s so many other wheels around him that he’s barely looking up and just scraping through the corners.
George DNFs on the second lap.
He stands at the side of the road beside a commissaire, feeling snot running dangerously close to his upper lip and wondering if a farmer’s blow is going to get him fined, when a warm hand rests on his shoulder and a pocket pack of tissues is held in front of his face.
“You look like your brain’s going to leak out your fucking nose,” Sam says kindly. “Let’s get you home.”
George is too busy honking away into a tissue to reply wittily, and lets himself be led back to the car.