Work Text:
Saturday, 21st June, 6:33 Am
Post Canadian Grand Prix
George opened his eyes, eyelids heavy and eyelashes fluttering against the sun—sunlight spilled through the thin curtains in soft threads, weaving gentle patterns across the floor and walls, sun-kissing the crease of his cheek. The soft sounds of slow simmering and the faint echo of a spoon scraping against the bottom of a saucepan floated into the shared bedroom, an off key hum hidden through the threads of small sounds. George's heart flutters, and thinks: Max is home.
Sleep slips away.
In the stillness of the summer sun, his eyebrow twitches, then furrows, pressing a hand to his stomach as it aches slowly, simmering just enough beneath his ribs to make him shift in-between sheets, his gut twisting and turning in on itself. He rustles between the covers, untangling his legs from the linen and sits upright on the edge of the bed; the mattress dipping—his limbs swinging and heels hitting the side rail. George's feet found the floor, the floorboards slightly squeaking in response as he wobbles his way to the bathroom, palm still placed on his stomach as another wave rolled through his gut, him wincing with short and shallow gasps, barely bracing himself against the wall with a thud.
The clatter of cutlery paused in the background, followed up with the soft thumps of footsteps—the floorboards faintly creaking in response. Max turns the knob of the door, his eyes adjusting to his boyfriend, who's curled up on the floor, continuing to cradle his stomach.
"George?"
He blinks, "I'm okay, Max. Go on." As if.
Another ache punches George in the gut: his breathing becomes ragged with every breath pulled in between clenched teeth, his eyes wet as they begin to swell with tears, threatening to spill. The silence between them was thick, heavy.
"George, you're not okay. I'm not just gonna 'go on'," Max held out his hand. "Slowly, schatje."
"Slowly..." George murmurs, watery.
His hand stretches, their fingers wrapping around each-other's hands, then slowly intertwining as they softly shuffle through the hallway, Max giving George's hand a small squeeze, his heart easing into it.
♡
"Again—slowly, schatje."
George tilted the glass slowly with shaking hands, throat tight as he struggled to swallow the tablet; swallowing the water in small portions. He winces as the tablet slides down, his breath hitching to the sensation. He sighs deeply, slumping into the couch, shifting himself in intricate positions—one of which being draping his left leg over the couch armrest, the other leg limp on the floor. He rests his hands, the simple motion of his stomach gently rising with every slow breath eased something within him. Max stares, smiling.
"Up," Max then sits down, shifting in his seat, finding himself comfortable close to his boyfriend. "Feeling better? Or did you just need me?"
The Brit sits up, his arms wrapped around his legs, slightly pouting, looking at the Dutch with attentive eyes. "Mm, yeah. Missing something. Might soothe me more."
"Yeah, whatever."
Max cradles the crease of George's face, pulling him in closer and placing a gentle kiss to the other's lips—a slow kiss, sweet and full of warmth that'll linger to remind him of every Monaco summer. They are close, the air hung between them still, soft: the space full with unspoken understanding of each-other.
George shuffled closer, shifting to let his head fall onto Max's shoulder—soft and steady beneath him. Their breaths synced, this moment simple; still, yet settling around the silence they shared. No words said besides exchanged "I love you's", because no words needed to be said, for now, at least. Despite everything, all they had was each-other. And they were going to be okay.