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They had spent weeks trying to get Alex’s memories to resurface. Whenever George wasn’t busy with F1 obligations, he would sit by Alex’s side, going through endless photos of them together, playing videos from vacations - some with friends, others more private, just the two of them.
George watched Alex carefully, his eyes tracing every subtle twitch of his expression, hoping, longing for even the smallest flicker of recognition. And sometimes Alex thought about faking it. Pretending to remember just to lift that heartbroken weight off George’s face.
He didn’t, though. Because the truth sat heavy in his chest: he didn’t know if it would hurt George more to live a lie or to keep waiting for something that might never return.
It wasn’t just hard for Alex. He’d caught George crying once.
They were watching an old video - a birthday party at Lando’s. The camera shaky and blurry as Lando cackled behind the lens, sing-songing that old playground rhyme: “George and Alex, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”
On the screen, Alex had laughed, rolling his eyes before tugging George closer and kissing him, deep and unashamed. And the worst part? Alex could see how happy he looked in the video. How natural and easy it seemed. But it wasn’t a memory. It was just something he watched on a screen.
George had excused himself then, mumbling something about the bathroom. But when he didn’t come back after fifteen minutes, Alex went to check on him.
The door wasn’t even fully closed, and when Alex pushed it open, he found George sitting on the edge of the bathtub, blowing his nose into a wad of tissues, eyes red and cheeks streaked with tears.
Alex stood frozen for a beat, guilt clawing up his throat. He knew it wasn’t his fault, not really, but it still felt like it. Like he’d broken something fragile and precious and had no idea how to fix it.
-
The next time Alex tagged along for the races was during the grueling triple-header of Texas, Mexico, and Brazil. When they arrived at the hotel, though, something was off.
Their room only had one bed - a big double, neatly made up with plush pillows and crisp white sheets.
“Sorry,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “The team must’ve just assumed. I can get a different room.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Alex said, surprising himself. He felt… steady, somehow. More willing to try. George had been sleeping on his battered old couch for over two months now. Maybe they could figure out how to share a bed.
“As long as you don’t give me another throat infection,” George joked, his laugh echoing off the hotel room walls like it belonged to a much lighter moment. His eyes crinkled with the force of it, chest shaking as he doubled over slightly, clutching his stomach. But when he straightened up and caught sight of Alex’s face - blank, unmoved, staring at him without even the ghost of recognition - the laughter died in his throat like a fire smothered by cold water.
George swallowed, the remnants of his chuckle fading into the heavy silence that stretched between them. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“It’s, uh… It’s an inside joke,” he explained, voice quieter now. “From when we went to summer camp together.” George’s lips twitched like he wanted to try for another smile, but he gave up before the effort even fully bloomed. “It’s - never mind. It’s stupid.”
The room changed. What had been light, airy, buzzing with the almost-comfortable tension of something unspoken, turned suffocating. The hotel air conditioner hummed weakly, barely cutting through the oppressive Texan heat that seemed to seep in through the cracks. It wrapped around them, made the air feel too thick to breathe.
Alex hated that this happened so often now. That moments of joy turned to ash in an instant, all because he couldn’t reach back far enough in his own mind to grab onto the past. To grab onto the version of himself George so clearly missed.
Neither of them knew how to break the quiet, so Alex did what he always did when the weight of it all threatened to crush him - he escaped.
“I’m gonna… unpack,” Alex mumbled, grabbing his toiletry bag and disappearing into the bathroom before George could try to fill the silence with more words that would only cut Alex deeper.
Inside, he leaned against the cool sink, letting his forehead rest against the mirror. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force something to surface - the feeling of summer grass under his legs, George’s voice ringing through the trees, the distant echo of their shared past. But there was nothing. Just the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the dull throb of loss he didn’t know how to name.
When he finally emerged, his eyes were still rimmed red, and he didn’t miss the way George’s gaze softened when he looked at him, guilt painted all over his face like he was the one who’d done something wrong.
“We’re going out,” George said, voice gentle but resolute, like he was trying to lift the mood through sheer force of will. “Come on. We always go to this place - you’ll love it.”
Alex nodded, grabbing his jacket and slipping it on without a word. He didn’t know if he’d love the restaurant. Didn’t know if he’d been there before or what memories it held for them. But he followed George out the door anyway, desperate to make something - anything - feel normal again.
George took him to a burger place that apparently used to be their go-to spot. And Alex got it the moment he took his first bite - the food was incredible, the kind of meal that felt like a tradition.
For a fleeting second, Alex could imagine it. Them. Coming here like it was a date.
They spent the day wandering around town, George pointing out landmarks and favorite spots. And Alex recognized some things from pictures. It was strange - knowing he’d been here but not remembering how or when.
By the time they got back to the hotel, Alex collapsed onto the bed, limbs heavy and aching. His collarbone was technically healed, but he hadn’t returned to training yet, and even just walking around all day had drained him.
-
James had sat him down after yet another physical therapy session back in September, voice gentle but firm, as he explained why stepping back for the rest of the season might be the best option. He’d said things like 'prioritize your well-being' and 'your health is worth more than a few points,' his eyes kind but unwavering. Alex had nodded along, but inside, he couldn’t help the knot that twisted tighter in his chest.
The idea of sitting out felt foreign, almost wrong. He thought about how relentless Red Bull had been during his time there. How mistakes weren’t just mistakes, they were the death for your career. He could still feel the weight of it, that constant pressure to perform or be discarded. By now, they would’ve already replaced him without a second thought. Or, well, technically they had.
Alex swallowed against the bitter sting of that memory, the way he’d been shuffled out of the team like he was disposable. He couldn’t help but feel like stepping back now would be proof that maybe they’d been right about him all along. That he wasn’t tough enough, fast enough, good enough.
He traced his fingers absentmindedly over the scar along his collarbone, a reminder of the accident that stole pieces of him. The recovery had been brutal - hours of physical pain, but the mental toll of waking up every day not knowing his own life was worse. The thought of letting his team down now, after everything, made his stomach churn.
And yet, when James spoke, there was no judgment, no accusation. Just care. Real, honest care. It made Alex feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought. But the guilt lingered anyway, a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.
He wondered if George thought he was a coward for even considering it. Or worse - if George missed the old version of him, the one who would’ve pushed through every ache and raced no matter the cost.
He lay there, watching George undress. Reminding himself it was okay to look. They’d been together for years, apparently. He must’ve seen George like this a hundred times. But right now, it felt like the first time.
“How do we actually fit in the bed?” Alex asked, voice thick with exhaustion - and maybe something else.
George hesitated, toying with the hem of his shirt. “You, uh… you usually cuddle up. Not that I mind, but…” He bit his lip. “I might cuddle back. I usually do. I don’t know if I - I’ll try not to, but…”
“It’s fine,” Alex said, rolling onto his side to face George. “It’s not like I’m some virgin who’s never woken up next to someone.”
George arched an eyebrow, and Alex’s stomach twisted, the realization sinking in too late. He probably had told George he was the only one Alex had ever shared a bed with. Alex flushed, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him.
They settled in to watch a movie, their bodies naturally finding space next to each other like it was muscle memory. Halfway through, Alex blurted it out.
“Technically, I’m not wrong. We have fucked, so I’m not a virgin.”
George went rigid, cheeks flushing red, eyes locked on the screen.
Alex grinned, something wicked bubbling up. “We do fuck, right?”
George nodded, jaw tight, clearly trying to focus on the movie.
“I bet I’m a good fuck,” Alex pressed, turning fully toward George, watching with satisfaction as he squirmed, visibly struggling to stay composed. “Tell me, George. Am I good for you?”
The last part was whispered directly against George’s ear, and that was it - George snapped. He lunged forward, capturing Alex’s mouth in a desperate, aching kiss, their bodies moving together on instinct alone.
Alex’s hands moved like they knew what he had to do before Alex himself even realized it. Instinct guided him, fingers tracing the familiar curve of George’s waist, pulling him closer until the blonde was straddling him, their bodies pressed together as if they were trying to melt into one. Their kiss never broke - a steady rhythm of lips and breath, hearts beating in tandem like they were echoing some old, forgotten melody.
Alex couldn't help but wonder if this was how it had always been. The same gentle touches, the same reverent way George whispered his name like a prayer. It felt both foreign and familiar all at once, like rediscovering a song he used to know by heart but hadn’t heard in years. His fingers skimmed over George’s skin, each touch met with a quiet sigh, and he felt an ache bloom in his chest - an overwhelming mix of longing and love.
At some point, his brain stopped overanalyzing. He wasn’t thinking about what he’d forgotten or what he might never get back. Somehow, he just knew exactly what George needed, and George responded in kind. They moved together in perfect synchronicity, like they’d been doing this their whole lives. George’s hands mapped every inch of Alex’s body with careful precision, as if reminding Alex of a language they used to speak fluently. One of affection, of trust, of unspoken promises.
“Fuck, George,” Alex breathed, his voice laced with emotion, fingers ghosting up and down the planes of George’s back. He marveled at how well he knew every ridge, every scar, every part of the man he loved. And yet, it still felt brand new, like he was learning him all over again.
George cupped Alex’s face, resting their foreheads together, eyes searching his as if trying to memorize him all over again. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against the corner of Alex’s mouth. “I’ll always have you.”
And in that moment, Alex believed him. It didn’t matter what he remembered or what he didn’t. What mattered was that George was here — holding him, grounding into him, loving him.
-
Later that night, they laid tangled up in each other, skin warm and hearts beating in sync. Alex felt something ease inside him, a sense of wholeness he hadn’t felt since waking up in that hospital bed. This was his experience. No one else’s memory, no video, no picture. His. It was his moment for no one else to take or tell him what has happened.
George pressed closer, an arm draped over Alex’s waist, face buried against his skin.
“I missed you, Alex,” he slurred, voice thick with sleep.
And just like that, the fragile peace Alex had found shattered.
Because George didn’t miss him now. He didn’t miss 2019 Alex. George missed the Alex he used to be. The 2023 Alex. The Alex who remembered their inside jokes, their favorite places, the sound of George’s laugh echoing against the walls of their shared home.
The Alex who didn’t have to ask if they fucked or if he was good for George.
Instead of replying, Alex just laid there, eyes burning, chest tight. George held him like he was something precious. But Alex felt like a ghost of the person George actually wanted. Like he’d never be enough. Never being able to be the thing he truly wanted.
So he stayed quiet, staring at the ceiling, and pretended to fall asleep.
-
George woke up to the gentle warmth of sunlight spilling through the thin hotel curtains, casting streaks of gold across the rumpled bedsheets. His back faced the window, the heat of the morning sun crawling up his spine, but it wasn’t the warmth that stirred him - it was absence. His right hand instinctively reached across the mattress, fingers searching for the familiar shape of Alex, the way they always did.
The sheets were cold.
He patted the bed once, twice - panic blooming in his chest when his hand met nothing but fabric. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and scanned the room. Alex’s dark green duffle bag, the one he always dragged around like a safety blanket, was gone.
“Alex?” George’s voice cracked as he scrambled out of bed, heart hammering against his ribcage. He checked the bathroom, but the porcelain was cold, the mirror fog-free. Alex wasn’t there.
Hadn’t been for a while.
George didn’t bother changing properly. He grabbed the nearest clothes off the floor - yesterday's wrinkled shirt, sweatpants he wasn’t even sure were his - and shoved his phone between his shoulder and ear, dialing Alex’s number with trembling fingers.
Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail.
He pressed the call button again, ignoring the tight sting in his chest. His reflection in the mirror looked wild - hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and panic. He ran a shaky hand through his curls in a half-hearted attempt to tame them, pacing the room like a caged animal.
The fourth call. The fifth. He was already imagining the worst. Had Alex forgotten again? Wandered off, lost in a city he couldn’t place? Or worse - what if something had happened to him?
By the eighth call, George was ready to call the police.
Finally, on the ninth ring, Alex picked up.
“Thank God,” George breathed out like he’d been holding it in for hours. His voice wavered, thick with relief. “Alex, where are you? I’ll come get you.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, the kind that made George's heart feel like it might stop.
“No. I’m with Logan,” Alex finally muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
George froze, confusion knitting his brow. “With Logan? What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I come get you?”
Another long pause, the kind that stretched and strained and cracked something inside George's chest.
“I think I need a few days to think.”
George didn’t know it then, but Alex was only a few blocks away, sitting on the edge of Logan’s hotel bed. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold into himself. Logan paced in front of him, jaw tight, hands fidgeting like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Alex set his phone down carefully on the bed, as though dropping it too hard might shatter the fragile balance of the room.
Logan sat beside him, careful and tentative, like he was afraid Alex might break. And in a way, he already had.
Logan had always looked up to Alex - his calm, steady presence. The way he could take a bad race and still smile, still uplift everyone else. But now, it felt like their roles had reversed. Alex looked smaller somehow, more fragile, like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to lift.
For a long time, Logan didn’t say anything. He just sat there, waiting, breathing through the tension in the room. But eventually, the question that had been eating away at him spilled out, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“He didn’t hurt you, right?”
The words felt sharp on his tongue. Logan couldn’t picture George hurting Alex. The man adored him - worshipped him in every glance, every touch. But Alex had called him in the middle of the night, voice broken and desperate, begging Logan to come get him. And Logan couldn’t help but wonder - maybe, maybe - if something had gone wrong.
Alex shook his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “I wanted to. It just... it didn’t feel right.”
Logan frowned, leaning in closer. “What do you mean?”
Alex’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. He couldn’t meet Logan’s gaze. “It’s like... my body remembers, but I don’t. I know how to touch him, how to kiss him, but my mind...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s like I’m watching someone else do it. Like I’m pretending to be someone I don’t know anymore.”
Logan swallowed, throat tight. “Did you tell him that?”
Alex let out a bitter laugh, a wet, broken sound. “How could I? He looks at me like I’m... like I’m everything. But I’m not. I’m just... what’s left of the person he loved.”
Logan placed a careful hand on Alex’s shoulder, grounding him. “You’re still you, Alex. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Alex wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, voice cracking. “Then why does it feel like I’m breaking his heart every time he looks at me?”
And Logan didn’t have an answer for that.
When the blonde didn’t reply, Alex’s chest tightened, panic bubbling up like a pressure he couldn’t contain. The silence was suffocating, so he started to ramble, words spilling out like he was trying to purge the ache from his body.
“I feel like he needs me to be something I’m not,” Alex whispered, voice cracking as he clenched his hands into fists on his lap. “He needs me to be his Alex. The version of me he fell in love with. The one who remembers all the little things that made us... us. But I don’t. I don’t remember. And I try - I try so hard to be what he deserves, but I can see it in his eyes, Logan. Every time he looks at me, it’s like he’s searching for someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
Logan stayed quiet, letting Alex speak, watching the way he unraveled like a thread pulled too tight.
“I thought maybe if I just tried hard enough, it would be enough. That if I went through the motions, if I let him hold me, let him kiss me - maybe I’d start to feel like his Alex again. Maybe I’d get the memories back. But the more I try, the more I feel like I’m failing him.” Alex swallowed hard, blinking against the tears burning his eyes. “It’s like Red Bull all over again, you know? They needed me to be a second Max. To be this perfect version of a driver I couldn’t be, no matter how hard I pushed myself. And George... he needs me to be a version of myself I can’t even remember. I’m not what he wants. I’m not what he needs. I’m just... disappointing him. Over and over.”
His voice broke on the last word, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, shoulders trembling as he tried to steady himself. But the more he tried to hold it in, the more his body betrayed him - chest rising and falling in uneven, jagged breaths, his whole frame convulsing with silent, gasping sobs. The kind that left him feeling hollow, like something inside him had cracked wide open and spilled out.
Alex curled in on himself, knees pulled to his chest like he could somehow make himself smaller, like if he took up less space, maybe the ache inside him would shrink too. He didn’t make a sound, but the way his body shook said enough.
Logan watched him, chest tightening like a fist was clenching around his heart. He didn’t know what to say - maybe there wasn’t anything to say. Because Logan understood, even if Alex didn’t know it. Even if Alex couldn’t remember the nights Logan had felt that same sinking weight pressing him down until he couldn’t breathe.
Because Logan had been there. He knew what it was like to feel like you were never enough. To feel like no matter how hard you tried, you were just a shadow of what people wanted you to be. Like the real you - the broken, messy, imperfect version of yourself - wasn’t worth it all.
But this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about his own struggles or the career that was slowly slipping through his fingers like sand. This was about Alex.
So Logan swallowed the lump in his throat and shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Alex’s shoulders and pulling him in. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer false reassurance or tell Alex it would be okay. Because maybe it wouldn’t. And sometimes, words didn’t fix anything.
Instead, he did what Alex had always let him do - what Alex had done for him more times than he could count. He just stayed. Held him close and let him cry, let him break apart, without judgment or expectation. He stayed until Alex's gasping sobs quieted to shaky breaths, until the violent tremors of his body softened into occasional shivers.
And even when Alex finally stilled, exhausted and fragile in his arms, Logan didn’t let go. He just held on, because sometimes, that was all you could do.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Offer company until he felt better about himself and the whole situation.
-
George hadn’t heard from Alex since that morning.
Five days had passed, but it felt like months. Time moved differently when every second stretched out with the weight of unanswered questions. He spent most of it holed up in his hotel room, sitting on the edge of the bed or pacing in tight circles, his phone always within reach. He stared at the screen for hours, willing it to light up with Alex’s name. Willing him to call and say it was okay.
To tell him he’d panicked. That this was all a misunderstanding. That he just needed space, but now he wanted to come home. Like he did the first time in 2019, after their first real fight. Back then, Alex had called in the middle of the night, voice shaky and tear-soaked, asking if George could come pick him up from a random street corner in London because he hated going to sleep mad at him.
But this time, the call never came.
So by Friday, George dragged himself to the paddock, his body running on autopilot, his mind a thousand miles away. His skin was pale, dark shadows bruised beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days - because he hadn’t. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, the ache so persistent it almost felt physical. A tiny voice at the back of his mind whispered something he half-remembered from watching Chicago Med at three in the morning: broken heart syndrome.
He didn’t know if it was a real diagnosis, but if it was, he was sure he had it.
Free practice came and went in a haze. George drove, reacted, hit his marks - but barely. His times weren’t awful, but they weren’t great either. He was lucky he hadn’t crashed. His hands gripped the wheel like a vice, knuckles white, but his brain refused to stay in the cockpit. It kept drifting back to Alex. To the way he’d looked that morning before he disappeared - wide-eyed and shaken, like he was drowning and George didn’t know how to pull him out of the water.
At some point, George ended up standing in the garage, staring into nothingness. The buzz of machinery, the whir of tires being changed, the distant voices of engineers - all of it blurred into meaningless noise. His body was there, but the rest of him wasn’t.
He didn’t even register being pulled along until the door of a driver’s room shut behind him with a soft click. George blinked, snapping back into his body just enough to register Lewis standing in front of him, arms crossed, studying him like he could see straight through the fractured mess beneath George’s skin.
“Okay,” Lewis said, voice low and steady. “Tell me what’s going on.”
George’s throat closed up. The words clung to his ribs, sharp and jagged, but Lewis just waited - patient in a way that made George feel like maybe he didn’t have to carry this alone.
“I think I did something I shouldn’t have done,” George finally confessed, voice cracking. “I slept with Alex.”
Lewis tilted his head, eyes narrowing in quiet consideration, waiting for George to keep going.
“I feel like I forced him into a role,” George admitted, his voice barely a whisper, as if saying it out loud might shatter him.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Lewis didn’t react at first - he just stood there, absorbing George’s words with that same calm intensity. But the lack of immediate judgment only made George’s guilt heavier, like it was growing claws and digging deeper into his chest.
“Can you please just say something?” George pleaded, voice trembling.
Lewis exhaled, shifting his weight. “Did you enjoy sleeping with him?”
The question hit George like a punch to the gut. His mouth opened, then closed, taken aback by how direct it was.
“Of course I enjoyed sleeping with Alex,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It was great - amazing, even. We haven’t slept together since before…”
He trailed off, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat. Since before the accident.
Lewis shook his head, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut through the fog in George’s head. “Jesus, George, I’m not asking if you had a good fuck. I’m asking if you enjoyed doing it with him.”
The emphasis on the last word hit like a sledgehammer, and George’s heart sank.
Because the truth he’d been avoiding - the one he didn’t want to face - slammed into him with full force.
Did he enjoy sleeping with this version of Alex? Or did he just want to feel close to the version he lost? Just taking the next best thing he could get?
Was he reaching for the Alex he had now, or was he desperately clinging to a ghost?
George felt like he couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in, ribs tightening like a vice, the weight of it all threatening to crush him from the inside out.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe he’d broken Alex in a way that couldn’t be fixed.
-
On Saturday Alex decided to come with Logan to the qualifying session.
The buzz of the paddock was louder than usual. The hum of engines, the rapid chatter of team radios, and the constant shuffle of people created a relentless background noise.
Alex felt it vibrating against his chest, each sound settling into his bones. He tugged on the sleeves of Logan’s team jacket - a few sizes too small on him, but the only Williams gear that fit somewhat ok - and followed Logan like a shadow.
Logan had convinced Alex to come to qualifying, hoping it might lift his spirits. “You don’t have to talk to anyone,” he had promised, hand steady on Alex’s shoulder. “Just hang out with me in the garage.”
But they never made it that far.
The moment they stepped out of the team hospitality area, reporters spotted them. The first camera flash caught Alex off guard, a sharp burst of light that seared through his skull like lightning.
“Alex! Alex! Can we get a word?”
“Are you getting sacked?”
“Are you stepping away from racing?”
The questions came fast, overlapping and colliding into one another, like a relentless tide crashing against him. A microphone was shoved too close to his face, and Alex instinctively took a step back, colliding with Logan’s chest.
Logan’s hand immediately found his wrist, grounding him.
“Back up,” Logan snapped, voice sharp. “Give him space.”
But the reporters didn’t stop. The speculation had been growing for weeks - why Alex had been absent, why he hadn’t raced, why he hadn’t posted anything online. The accident and memory loss had been kept tightly under wraps, a decision made to protect Alex while he tried to heal. But now, the press smelled blood in the water.
“Is it true you had a concussion?”
“Were you in the hospital?”
“Did the team bench you?”
Each question scraped at Alex’s brain like sandpaper, and he couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, narrowed, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the Texas anymore - he was back in Austria, the interviewers bombarding him with the same questions after he had just crashed out shortly before a podium.
“Alex?” Logan crouched slightly, trying to make eye contact, but Alex was already spiraling.
Then, through the chaos, another voice broke through.
“Hey! Get away from him!”
George.
He must’ve seen the commotion from Mercedes’ garage. His race suit was half undone, hanging off his waist, and his hair was still damp with sweat. But none of that mattered - George was already pushing through the crowd, face tight with fury.
By the time he reached them, Logan had an arm around Alex, physically shielding him from the press. But Alex was shaking, eyes unfocused, his fingers fisted into Logan’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
George didn’t even hesitate. He stepped between Alex and the reporters, chest heaving. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “He’s not answering questions. Back off.”
The reporters threw more questions at George, but he ignored them, wrapping a hand around Alex’s waist as he and Logan started leading him toward the garage. Alex clung to George like a lifeline, fingers digging into the back of his fireproofs. He didn’t even care who was touching him - just that they were there.
By the time they made it to the back of the Mercedes garage, away from the media, Alex’s breaths were shallow, chest heaving as he tried to suppress the rising panic. George guided him to a chair, kneeling in front of him, hands on Alex’s knees.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay,” George whispered, voice trembling but steady. “You’re safe.”
Logan squatted beside them, rubbing Alex’s back in slow, even circles. “We’ve got you,” he promised. “They can’t get to you here.”
Alex broke. The dam burst, and he collapsed against George, sobbing into his shoulder with a desperation that tore through both of them. George just held him, fingers threading through Alex’s hair, pressing shaky kisses to the side of his head.
“I’m sorry,” Alex choked out, words muffled against George’s skin. “I couldn’t - I couldn’t handle it -”
George tightened his grip, voice cracking. “You don’t have to handle anything alone,” he said. “I’m here. I swear, I’m right here.”
Alex nodded, hands tangled in the fabric of George’s suit, and for the first time all day, he let himself believe it.
-
After moments of silence, Alex suddenly spoke up, his voice fragile, as though each word might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
“I crashed in Austria,” he whispered, his fingers twisting the fabric of Logans Williams jacket until his knuckles turned white.
Both Logan and George froze, their heads snapping toward Alex in unison.
“After the crash... they asked if Red Bull would sack me.”
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath. The words hung in the air like a ghost, echoing around them. Alex's chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths as the memory settled into place, sharp and unforgiving.
George's eyes widened with disbelief, and for a split second, he looked like he might cry. Then, he surged forward, hope bursting out of him like a dam breaking.
“That’s amazing!” George said, unable to contain the rush of excitement. “You remember, Alex! You actually remember!”
Logan turned to George, his face twisting with pure, unfiltered rage.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped, voice razor-sharp and shaking with anger.
George blinked, caught off guard by the venom in Logan's voice.
“What? No, I-”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” Logan's chest heaved as he stepped closer to George, voice rising with each word. “He didn’t just remember some happy vacation, George. He remembered a trauma. A crash. His career dangling by a thread. And you think that’s amazing?”
George opened his mouth to respond, but the words never came. He looked back at Alex, who sat there, eyes unfocused, chest trembling with the weight of the memory. And it hit George like a punch to the gut - Alex had remembered pain.
Logan looked ready to tear into George even more, but Alex's voice, quiet and fragile, cut through the tension.
“It’s okay,” Alex said, lifting his gaze. His eyes, though glassy and haunted, had something else flickering in them. Something small but undeniable.
He looked at George like he was searching for something, and maybe he was.
“I just... I can remember something.”
George's heart twisted painfully, guilt mixing with hope until he could barely breathe. The thing he had been longing for all those weeks ago, when he held Alex's face and searched his eyes for recognition, was finally there. A reflection of the past. A bridge to the person he thought he’d lost.
George took a hesitant step forward, lowering himself onto the couch next to Alex. He reached out carefully, as though afraid that touching Alex might scare him away.
“I don’t care what you remember, or how much of it comes back,” George said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just care that you’re here. That you’re with me.”
Alex swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as fresh tears welled in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just leaned into George, resting his forehead against the Brit's shoulder. George immediately wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, feeling Alex's body shake as he tried to suppress his sobs.
Logan sat on the other side of Alex, his anger softening into quiet protectiveness. He reached out, resting a steadying hand on Alex’s back, grounding him between the two people who loved him the most.
And they stayed like that for a long time - a tangled knot of limbs and emotions, holding Alex as he slowly, painfully, began to reclaim himself.
-
From that moment on, Alex went back to traveling with George, though he still made a conscious effort to spend time with Logan in the paddock. It was easier that way - to split his life into compartments. George represented the past he couldn’t remember, while Logan anchored him to the present. But it all blurred together, and Alex often found himself drifting somewhere in between, lost in a version of himself he didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t until they were in Mexico that things unraveled again.
The hotel room was dark, the faint glow of city lights bleeding in through the curtains. George woke up to the bed shifting, instinctively reaching out for Alex, only to find the space next to him cold and empty. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, heart hammering with a familiar, unwelcome panic.
“Alex?”
A small sound came from the corner of the room. George turned on the lamp, the dim light illuminating Alex sitting on the floor, legs crossed, hands gripping his shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, eyes glassy and distant.
“What happened?” George slid out of bed, crawling onto the floor beside him, careful not to touch him too suddenly. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Alex shook his head, barely blinking. “I wasn’t asleep.” His voice was hollow, and he pressed his palms against his ears, like he was trying to block out a sound only he could hear. “I went to the bathroom... and on my way back, I heard tires screeching outside.”
George’s stomach twisted. “And it triggered a memory?”
Alex nodded, tears slipping down his face in silence. He trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, and George hated how helpless he felt just watching him unravel.
“I remember crashing in Bahrain,” Alex whispered, voice cracking. “The sound. The impact. The smell of burned rubber. I can still feel the way the car twisted - how I couldn’t breathe because everything hurt so much.” He clutched his chest like the memory itself was physically suffocating him. “I remember thinking I was going to die.”
George’s heart shattered, but he swallowed his own emotions down like glass, crawling closer until their knees touched. “That’s... that’s good, though, right? You’re remembering.”
Alex shook his head violently, pulling his knees to his chest. “Why do I only remember the bad parts?” His voice broke as he looked up at George, devastation spilling from his eyes like a flood. “Why can’t I remember anything good? What if... what if that’s all there is?”
George reached for Alex’s hand, hesitant but firm, threading their fingers together and squeezing tight. “There’s so much more,” he said, voice steady but laced with pain. “I promise, Alex. There’s so much good. You just haven’t found it yet.”
Alex bit his lip, gaze falling to the floor. He wanted to believe George - wanted to trust that the love and happiness they’d shared still lingered somewhere, waiting for him to reach out and grab it. But every memory that returned felt like another cut, another wound reopening without warning.
“I don’t think I like remembering,” Alex confessed, voice so quiet George almost missed it. “I was happier without memories.”
The words hit George like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. The confession lingered between them like a noose, tightening around their throats, robbing them of air and hope. George's vision blurred, but he refused to break in front of Alex. Not when Alex needed him to be the stronger one.
He lifted Alex’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together,” he whispered. “You don’t have to face any of this alone.”
But Alex just kept staring at the floor, shoulders curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear - like he wasn’t sure he deserved the kind of love George was so willing to give.
-
The memory fragments hit Alex like crashing waves and then, they receded just as violently taking part back away. He woke up from a restless nap, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, chest rising and falling in panicked bursts. The room was painted in an unknowing grey, sterile and distant. A man he didn’t recognize sat at a table with George Lewis, their voices low and muted as if trying not to wake him.
“I don’t...” Alex clutched his head, fingers tangling in his hair, nails biting into his scalp. His breaths turned shallow, jagged. “I don’t know where I am.”
George shot up from his chair so fast it scraped against the floor with a shriek. His heart pounded against his ribs, panic rushing through his veins. “Alex, hey, it’s okay - it’s me. It’s George. You’re safe. You’re at the Mercedes driver room. Do you remember us? Do you remember Logan and Williams? Do you remember your accident?”
Alex’s eyes widened, flitting around the room in frantic confusion. His chest heaved, and his gaze landed on the Mercedes logos scattered across the room. His hands trembled as he gripped the sides of the couch, knuckles white with strain.
“This isn’t right,” he gasped, shaking his head violently. “I’m supposed to be at Red Bull. Qualifying starts soon - I need to get ready, I-”
Lewis moved without hesitation, stepping between them, his voice low but firm. “Back off, George.”
“I’m just trying to help!” George snapped, voice laced with desperation. His hands hovered, twitching like he wanted to grab Alex, to ground him somehow, but the fear of making it worse rooted him in place.
“Help him calm down. Not push him to remember.” Lewis shot back, kneeling next to Alex. His hand rested carefully on Alex’s shoulder, grounding but not constricting, like he understood how fragile the moment was.
Alex rocked forward, body curling in on itself as tears ran down his face. His words came out broken, barely coherent between sobs. “Why am I here? I don’t... I don’t remember coming here. I don’t remember anything.” His voice fractured, the sheer fear lacing every word like a blade to the chest.
Lewis shifted closer, keeping his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “It’s okay, Alex. You’re safe. You don’t have to figure it out right now. Just breathe.” Lewis has been around the paddock long enough to recognize a panic attack when he saw one.
“I can’t,” Alex choked, his body trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t, I can’t, I-”
“Yes, you can,” The older Mercedes driver said, inhaling slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so Alex could see it. “Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth.”
George and Logan watched, helpless, as Alex tried to copy Lewis, chest hitching on every inhale, but slowly - painfully slowly - the air stopped tearing through his lungs like knives. His body sagged with exhaustion, each breath steadier than the last.
George dropped to his knees beside them, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re doing so well, Alex.” He reached out, hesitant, before carefully taking Alex’s hand. He rubbed slow, reassuring circles against his skin, desperate to offer some piece of comfort.
Alex blinked, eyes glassy and lost, but the panic started to ebb. His breathing evened out, the sharp edges of fear dulling. And then, like the tide retreating, recognition flooded his face.
His gaze landed on George, and the way he whispered his name cracked something deep within George’s chest.
“George?”
George let out a shaky breath, tears pooling in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Alex turned to Logan, the panic finally dissipating like a storm that had passed, leaving only wreckage behind.
“Logan?”
“I’m here too,” Logan reassured him. “You scared us for a second, man.”
Alex slumped forward, body pressing against George’s chest as he clung to him like a lifeline. George wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, holding him close, holding him tight, like he could somehow shield Alex from his own mind.
“It’s okay,” George whispered, pressing his cheek to the top of Alex’s head. “Even if you forget again, we’ll remind you. Every time.”
The times where Alex woke up like this were rare, but that didn’t make them any less scary. And George feared that one day they wouldn't be able to pull him back.
Alex’s fingers twisted into George’s shirt, and he nodded against his chest, body shaking with silent tears. And in that small drivers room, with Logan and Lewis quietly keeping watch, they held Alex together like he was something precious, something worth protecting.
Because he was.
-
They had a rather long break between the Brazilian Grand Prix and the Las Vegas GP - long enough that it made sense to fly home, to catch their breath. George decided to use the time to try something different, something gentle. He couldn’t shake Alex’s words from that night in Mexico, the quiet devastation in his voice when he said he only remembered the bad things. It haunted George, lingered in his chest like an ache he couldn’t soothe.
He wanted Alex to want to remember. He needed him to.
So they sat on the floor, backs pressed against the side of George’s bed, a shoebox of photos spilled out between them like scattered pieces of a life Alex couldn’t quite hold onto. The room smelled like George’s laundry detergent and the faint remnants of coffee, the only sound being their steady breathing.
Alex picked up a picture of the two of them - faces pressed together in a sweaty, post-race hug, their grins wide and unrestrained. They looked weightless, drunk on adrenaline and the pure high of racing.
"Did we win?" Alex asked, voice small, almost like he was afraid of the answer.
George smiled, eyes glassy as he rubbed his thumb over the corner of the photo. "No. But we fought like hell. And we celebrated like we won."
Alex traced a finger over the image, his brow furrowing as he searched his brain for a spark of recognition that wouldn’t come. His chest tightened, fingers trembling as he set the photo back down. "I want to remember that," he whispered, voice breaking.
George shifted closer, resting his head against Alex's shoulder, careful and slow like Alex might shatter. "It’s okay if you don’t. I can remember for both of us."
Alex swallowed hard, leaning into George’s warmth. They sat like that for a while, bodies pressed together, the shoebox forgotten between them.
“I still wish I did,” Alex finally admitted, his voice barely more than a breath. “I wish I could remember being happy like that."
A beat of silence. “Being happy with you.”
George closed his eyes, fighting the lump in his throat. "You don’t need to remember them," he said, voice soft but certain. "We can make our own happy memories."
And maybe, for the first time, George truly understood. He didn’t need Alex to be who he was before the accident. He didn’t need him to claw his way back to the person he used to be.
Because this version of Alex - the one sitting beside him, fragile but trying, bruised but still reaching for something brighter - was the love of his life.
With or without memories, he always would be.