#btw i loveddd all of your suggestions!! but apparently what I really want to write about tonight was Australia 2024 lmao

[onadarklingplain]

hi! your hairpin turns alex pov fic just reminded me I had the thought recently (possibly while rereading hairpin turns): how would Alex react to an injured/ill George? it’s more commonly canonically Alex w the tough injury history but maybe something to be considered w George’s heatstroke? is George’s appendix still all in order? thought I would kick this thought your way in case it sparks interest

i love this ask, such an important question!! and i thought about this for ages while stuck in traffic, so thank you for that gift. my answer is that he would react like a freak. “Turn bloody six, huh.” It's the first words either of them had said since George opened the door to his hotel room, and before he can stop himself, Alex adds, “Let me see, then.”  

George reaches for the hem of his team shirt immediately, without protest, and for a second, something inside of Alex clenches at the look on George’s face, at the way his mouth twists, lips pressing together until they’re white at the edges. Then, all Alex can see is the bruises — the marks from the seatbelt clear against his chest, already starting to turn dark. He can even see the indent of the buckle, the place where the six straps met. 

“Jesus,” he says before he can stop himself.

George looks trapped in his top, elbows bent and hovering in the air awkwardly, like he can’t extend his arms far enough to untangle himself, body frozen like he’s on the edge of too much hurt. Alex is a moron for asking — he should've known better.

“Here,” he says, hating how his voice sounds, tight and choked, and he lets himself step closer until he can help tug the shirt off the last little bit. It’s a dangerous feeling — he’s close to George, and he didn’t come over to try it on, even if George’s hair is all tousled, his face suddenly flushed. Alex makes himself look back at the bruises instead, the way they reach up over his shoulders, the neat lines clear and stark.

“Alonso’s a prick,” Alex offers. “It was a fucking brake check, I watched your onboard.”

“I know, that’s what I told the stewards,” George says, terse like he’s tired of going over it. “But like, time penalty for him and a DNF for me so — not really a fair trade.”

“At least you had a proper reason to bin it. I’d take that just about now,” Alex says, and he tries to laugh. He realises too late that his hands are on George’s sides, palms warming from the heat of George's skin, his fingers slotting into the notches of George’s ribcage.

“Alex,” George starts, but Alex shushes him; he’s tired of it too. He’s heard it all from James already. He presses his thumbs into George’s skin just a little to accentuate the point, rubbing gentle circles against the ridges of bone.

George takes in a sharp breath immediately, and when Alex checks his face, he looks hurt, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his screwed closed. When Alex presses in a little more firmly, George lets out a groan, low and fractured, like he’s trying to hold it back.

Alex thinks about driving past George’s flipped car on the track, the underside of the chassis exposed and vulnerable. He hadn’t been able to see George, not even when he had checked his mirrors, looking back for the bright blue of his helmet, his race boots. The marshalls were still at the edges of the track, waiting for the cars to clear.

Alex lets himself trace up the bruises until his hands are resting against George’s chest, fingers brushing up against the slope of his neck. He watches carefully as George licks the corner of his lip, watches the slow, content way he blinks. When Alex presses in with the heels of his palms, feeling the slide of George’s muscles under his skin, he watches as George’s face twists again, his body flinching away automatically.

“Sorry,” Alex says, his heart beating too fast. Shit, shit. He’s — he lifts his hands away from George’s skin immediately; they feel cold again — cold and strange, like they’re not even a part of him. Caught awkwardly in the air between their bodies, he clenches them into fists to stop himself from doing anything else. “Sorry, I didn’t —”

He had listened to George’s radio while he was still at the track , they all had. It’s crazy how fast things make it onto Twitter, the sharp panic of George’s voice broadcast for everyone in the world to hear, replay. In the sudden frozen stillness, it’s all he can think about, a horrible echo in his head: red flag.

“No,” George says, and his hands are closing around Alex’s wrists before Alex even registers that George is moving, his grip firm and steady. “You can. It felt — it was good.”

“Good?” Even though he tries to keep the surprise out of his voice, he can hear it there, can feel his eyebrows raising. “You looked — I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just —” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, doesn’t know how to justify it. He hardly knew why he did anything anymore, when it came to George.  

“I know,” George says, sounding naked and honest. He’s closed his eyes, like he doesn’t want to have to see Alex looking at him. “I know, but it felt — I liked it.”

“You liked it?” Alex clarifies, because he has to know. He waits until George nods once, fast and small, before he lets himself touch George again, pressing in against his chest, harder this time, with intent. Alex breathing fast now, out of control, and when George whines, his mouth falling open, Alex swears.

“Georgie,” he says, and he can’t even think about the way his voice breaks around the word. He isn’t ready for it when George kisses him, leaning forward until their bodies are flush, Alex’s hands still trapped between them. There’s a desperation to it that Alex can’t help but feed into — the culmination of a weekend that had seemed to last an eternity, the whole world waiting for him to fuck up again.

“What were you going to say?” Alex asks. “What did it feel like? Tell me.”

“It felt like,” George starts, and when Alex lets his fingers flex against George’s pec in encouragement, he has to swallow before he can get out the rest of the sentence. “It felt like all there was only you. It felt like you were the only thing.”