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Winter break had arrived. With it came the promise to relax and a chance to unwind before testing started up again at the start of next year. With how the current year's race calendar went, it gave George and Alex a little time to themselves, tucked away in Monaco, before travelling back to the UK to split the Christmas holidays between both their families. They had decided to go to Alex's just before and spend the 25th there, driving to George's family for Boxing Day and the next two days after that. Then, going back home to Monico to spend New Year's together.
It was the perfect plan.
Well, it was perfect until George realised, two days into the winter break, he had come down with something. His chest was tight with fluid and a subtle pain had blossomed across his ribcage. Tiredness had gripped him, the type that you got from a cold that made you feel annoyingly lethargic, unwanted aches spreading through joints, and to top it off, a tickle in his throat that threatened to bring a serious cough.
He'd mentioned it absentmindedly to Alex. His boyfriend did a once-over before saying, "Yeah, you look like shit."
"Wow, thank you so much, Alex. What a very kind thing to say," George spat back as he leant against their kitchen island. The kettle was about to boil— George needed a tea as soon as possible. He was sure the healing qualities of a warm, comforting drink would help.
Alex, who was not being helpful, shrugged. "Well, you do look like shit." Then, softer, "take it easy, okay? Let me know if you need me to run out and grab anything."
George had smiled at that. He whispered a thanks into the crook of Alex's neck when his boyfriend pulled him in for a hug. Then he finished pouring his tea, made his way to the sofa, and crashed there in hopes that the rest would help.
The rest, unfortunately, had not helped.
He had woken up the following morning even worse. The other half of the bed was empty and George could hear the pitter-patter of the shower going. The chest pain hadn't subsided, but instead, reared its ugly head up further. The prediction about a cough had been correct, George having to roll onto his side to wetly hack into his elbow. Even then, his airways didn't feel clear. It was the unsettling sense that you knew the cough would return even worse than before. He wheezed, breath short. There was a pulsing behind his eyes.
The shower turned off, footsteps padded down the hall, and Alex slipped into their bedroom. His hair was damp, droplets of water running down his skin, a towel wrapped tight around his torso.
"Not feeling better?" He asked gently as he approached. He lifted a hand and ran it through George's crumpled hair and settled on pressing the back of it against George's forehead. "You have a bit of a temperature," he muttered, "you've caught something nasty, haven't you?"
George groaned, dumping his weight back into bed, fighting off another round of coughs. Alex winced sympathetically before plodding around the room and grabbing his clothes.
"You want anything to eat?" He asked.
"Nope," George croaked out. There was no desire to eat at all. His appetite had vanished; the thought of food made him feel queasy.
"Alright. Let me go get you something to hopefully reduce the fever. And I'll bring you some fresh water," Alex was gone, light filtering in through the hallway as his shadow disappeared round the corner.
The following few days were similar, almost blending into one continuous period of time. Alex looked after George, who rarely left their bed. Though the cough had worsened, so Alex had opted to sleep in the spare room. The extra space would have left George feeling cold, but he was constantly covered in sweat, skin sticky and hot. They had pulled in the bin from the bathroom and placed it next to the bed, the bag now full of tissues George had spat phlegm into. Mucus had settled in his lungs, each cough thick, breathing becoming claggy. Pain still radiated hotly from his chest, and no matter what he did— whether it be a little walk around their apartment to wake him up slightly, washing away the gross sheen with a cold shower, or moving to the sofa to try and watch something on the TV, he couldn't shake the aches, deep-rooted in his soul. He was tired. Not only exhausted beyond what he thought was possible, but he was tired of feeling sick, too.
Alex was a saint. He was patient. He helped George when even standing in the shower felt like a herculean task. He brought water and pills, tried feeding him what little food George could eat before his appetite fell away again. He was there when George had become too frustrated— it had only been four days, not even that long, but he was so done with feeling terrible that he couldn't help the tears that fell. Alex was there, not worrying about catching the illness, wiping away tear tracks. Then, when the crying turned to rough coughs, he rubbed a hand in circles against George's sweaty back.
On day five Alex suggested they see a doctor. George despised the idea of having to get dressed and leave the house, but Alex had looked at him with such love and concern that George knew it wouldn't only be a trip to help himself, but a visit to the doctors would help calm Alex, too.
On the sixth day, Alex managed to help George slip into a hoodie and sweatpants. The hood was pulled up; he donned a face mask and glasses. They were in Monaco, a place where people often kept to themselves, but George couldn't risk getting spotted. Alex had sunglasses and a face mask on as well. He instead used a cap perched atop his head to hide his hair.
They sat in a quiet corner in the waiting room. It was half empty, chairs sparse. Alex held George's hand tightly, George leant against him, head resting on his shoulder as he tried to stifle as much of the coughing as he could.
His name was called and they both stood up. They followed the doctor to their consultation room.
Half an hour later, after the doctor had poked and prodded his body and listened to his lungs, they were in the car heading back home with a round of prescribed antibiotics and an order for even more bed rest.
"Can't believe they think you've managed to contract pneumonia," Alex spoke to fill the silence of the car. "Pneumonia," he repeated in disbelief. "I didn't think it was that common, but hey, here we are."
George tried to laugh— it was stupid and humorous and ridiculous, and yet, it was not funny at all. The chuckle came out as a grunt. It was so absurd to think that he had pneumonia. Yet the doctor had listened, deduced it was something worse than your average flu and had opted to prescribe some antibiotics to combat bacterial pneumonia. It would hopefully start to take effect within the week and eventually clear up between two to four. The doctor hadn't been concerned. Apparently, it hadn't gotten too bad, and Alex's insistence that they visit the doctors had meant they got to it in its early stages, so no x-rays to assess severity were needed. The doctor was comfortable enough sending George back home with pills and an order to rest. According to them, it would be enough to make him feel better again.
"We might not go home for Christmas," George pointed out, guilt laced his words.
"Don't worry about that, both our families will understand. Your health is more important than Christmas."
"You're amazing," he mumbled, "you know that, right?"
They pulled into their parking spot outside the apartment block. Alex turned and blew a kiss to George. The doctor had suggested as little contact between the two of them as possible. Whilst George recovered, he still had the potential to be contagious. They were recommended to wear face masks when spending time in the same room to reduce the chance of it spreading to Alex. The last thing George wanted was to pass the horrible aches and pains to his boyfriend.
"Love you, dear." Alex said as he opened the car door, "Let's get you to bed, shall we? And maybe if you feel up for it, some plain toast later."
George thought the only good thing about being sick was that Alex was taking care of him. Silver lining, right? He didn't like the cough that forced phlegm out of his mouth or the tiredness that had swallowed him whole. But Alex, constant and reassuring, was there. He'd come in, face mask on, with some food for George to pick at. He'd bring him tea, made just the way he liked it. He was there when George woke up in the middle of the night, doubling over as coughs wracked his frame and he felt a few tears slip. He brought water packed with electrolytes to keep him hydrated. He talked his ear off with stories of his family, news from their friends, even updates from the stupid reality TV Alex seemed to love but George could not stand. He would sit and ramble, and the murmur of his deep, soothing voice would help lull George back to sleep, where the pains would leave momentarily, and he would briefly forget about it all as he lay there dreaming.
Just past a week after the initial doctor's appointment, stocked up on Lucozade and halfway through the antibiotics, George had started to feel marginally better. He could go sit in the lounge and not have a coughing fit every ten minutes. The spindly pain in his chest was now a simple ache. Alex had brought homemade soup to the sofa and George had been happy to have a little. Even if it wasn't much, the joy that sparked in Alex's eyes was enough to have George finish the small portion. It soothed his throat and gave him a different type of warmth— not the uncomfortable heat he had been sweating through, but rather one that felt like home and a familiar hug, wrapped in the softest blanket from your childhood.
Christmas came. Alex had insisted that George didn't feel guilty, but they were stuck in Monaco, George still with the remnants of a cough, his body still achingly tired. He hadn't left the apartment since the appointment, and his body was itching to go out for a walk, but his mind told him it would drain him too much. He knew, unfortunately, that his mind was right.
"You can go home, you know?" George had said quietly from where he sat tucked into the corner of the sofa. He missed the closeness. He knew it was to make sure Alex didn't get sick too— he would hate himself if he passed it on to his boyfriend. But George thought maybe he could manage the loneliness over Christmas if he knew Alex was spending valuable time with his family instead of taking care of him.
Though Alex had been quick to shut the idea down. "Don't be ridiculous," he had said, eyes not moving from the TV screen, but the show they had been watching was now paused, Alex's finger tapping away at the button on the remote. "I could never leave you, George. Never. So don't suggest that. I love you too much to abandon you. Christmas is so insignificant to me right now. You will always be my priority."
And that was the end of the conversation.
So instead Christmas was spent in their Monaco apartment. He was woken up by Alex mumbling, "Merry Christmas, dear."
"Merry Christmas, darling," George, voice heavy with sleep, said back. "I'm sorry we couldn't go home—"
"George, we talked about this," Alex cut him off lazily. "It's okay. My family want you to get better, first and foremost. And your family have said the same thing. Christmas isn't ruined because of this. You haven't ruined anything. Besides, it'll be nice for the two of us to spend it together. And we can give presents to both our families in the new year. It'll be a mini Christmas in January."
"Okay," George found himself smiling. He wished he could cup Alex's cheeks and bring him down for a kiss but he was still too warm, the last residues of a fever running through his veins, so instead he just opted for: "love you loads, Lex."
"I love you too, Georgie."
When George built up enough energy to drag himself to the living room, they exchanged their presents for each other. George had gotten Alex a cat plushie that he spotted in one of the many thrift stores back home. He had been spending time with his family after Silverstone when he saw it. A scragly cat plushie with fur that wasn't quite grey or brown or white, a mix in between all three. With glassy eyes and a grumpy face that looked exactly like one of Alex's cats. Frooky, if George recalled correctly, but there were so many that he struggled to keep up with all the names. Still, he knew he had to get the plushie.
Alex was delighted, "It's going to every race. Every single one. It can be another good luck charm."
He has also bought him a watch, engraved with the date they had finally made it official. It was a replica of the watch Alex had been wearing at the time, but in their excited states of finally confessing their feelings for one another, George had tackled Alex to the ground and the watch had smashed. He'd felt so guilty at the time, but it was washed away when his boyfriend had kissed him, his focus channelled on Alex in that moment and Alex alone.
"It's the watch you broke," Alex breathed, airy, as his lips split into a smile. "It's amazing— the date on the back, too! It's perfect."
George was handed a small wrapped box and he slowly tore off the paper. It was a sleek leather container that opened up to reveal a bracelet.
"It's beautiful," George gasped softly. The thin chain was cool in his palm, with an elegant 63 pressed next to a 23, both their drivers' numbers in swirling, glittering silver.
"I didn't know how you'd feel about it being our drivers' numbers, so if you think it's stupid, then let—"
"It's perfect," he said and Alex quickly shut up, smiling tenderly. "It will be my good luck charm, I'll wear to to every race."
Alex cooked lunch, though George ate half of what he usually would. Though it was enough. They then called both of their families, checking in and letting their siblings and parents show off what they had been gifted, with the promise of meeting up once New Year's had passed.
Later that evening, when George fell quiet, Alex wordlessly turned the TV off and ushered his boyfriend to bed.
"Again, I am sorry we couldn't go home," George whispered from where he lay, half tucked under the covers.
"This is home too, don't forget." Alex reminded, "Merry Christmas."
He was already dozing off. "Merry Christmas."
By the time New Year's had rolled around, George was feeling almost a hundred percent better. The fever had gone, the cough had left, and he was only a little tired during the day. It would soon wear off— the doctor had been happy when George returned for a check-up, satisfied that the worst had passed and George's recovery was smooth. Even if the ups and downs of pneumonia had not been pleasant, George was just happy to have it done and dealt with.
Outside, the night sky was a waiting canvas. People were out on the streets, music was blasting from several directions. Though Alex and George were away from the sea of strangers. Stood in the middle of their apartment, Alex with his hands on George's hips as George had his arms draped over Alex's shoulders, wrapped around the back of his neck.
"How are you feeling?" Alex asked.
"A little tired but good. This has not been an easy past few weeks," he admitted.
"But you survived. You did it."
"Not without your help, though. You've been amazing, Lex."
Alex smiled, sincere, cheeks flushed with alcohol and admiration. Outside, people had started chanting a countdown.
"I'm glad you're better because I've been waiting to get my hands all over you," he purred, leaning in closer.
George raised a brow teasingly, "Desperate, are we?"
"Don't act like you haven't missed this. Can't believe we were given doctors' orders not to make out. Unbelievable."
"I wouldn't want you to have caught it too, Alex."
The countdown hit 10. Then 9…
"But you're not ill anymore, are you?"
…6, 5…
"No," George smirked. "No, I am not."
…2, 1 …
The space between them closed, Alex's lips soft on his, the moment deep and tender. Shared between just the two of them. Outside, there was cheering, fireworks shooting off into the sky and coating their apartment in a smattering of neon glow.
They parted, just briefly. Enough for George to mumble Love you and for Alex to say it back, both their eyes shining with deep affection, before the space was closed and George was melting into Alex's warmth once more.