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lsunstreakerl · 23 days ago

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2.3k of tiny gax verse! alex, george, and charles POV. sickfic.

They're big fans of denial in the flat. It's easy enough, because if you don't address something, it's not real.

So when Max has a coughing fit one morning, shoulders shaking from the force of it, sounding worryingly thick— well. He blames it on choking on a piece of food. George and Alex let him.

It's getting colder outside, pavement wet from the rain, and they've shoved all of the blankets together. Max is starting to be scouted by teams junior teams, and...

In hindsight, it's stupid. Thinking that just because they'd never seen him get sick meant that it wasn't possible. He gets pale, paler than normal, and Alex curls his fingers into his palms. Max is curled in the middle of the futons, face hidden in George's chest. He's not snoring anymore, just a soft wheeze.

George looks up at him nervously.

"Alex, he's really hot."

Alex knows.

The season has been brutal, and Max and George have spent countless hours on sponsor offers and contracts, and they're all thin, struggling to keep muscle on. Max has been working extra at the garage, because George and Alex just keep growing, and they need nicer clothes for nicer sponsor agreements, and—

It's a vicious cycle. Alex chews at the inside of his cheek, mentally doing the math. If he and George do extra gig work, they might be able to afford medicine, but he's not sure what kind Max needs. A fever reducer for sure, and something to handle the wheeze in his lungs.

Naively, he's hoping maybe cough drops will fix it.

------

George is working at the bookstore. Alex is glad, because each cough from Max gives him a full body flinch, cringing quietly.

He hasn't gotten any better.

Alex pets a hand through Max's hair, damp with sweat. He's hot, even with the fever reducer Alex had convinced someone to buy for him in exchange for crumpled cash outside the store.

Max struggles up onto his forearms suddenly, coughing violently. It sounds wet, wheezing and thick, and he makes a wounded noise when he finally catches his breath, dropping back into Alex's lap.

"Max."

He reaches for the bottle of medicine, prepared to measure out another dose. It's probably not time for it yet, but it's the only thing that helps bring his fever down.

Max's fingers curl weakly into his pant leg, wheezing out another breath.

"I am fine, Ale—"

He breaks off in another coughing fit, doubling over, and Alex feels his blood run cold at the small droplets of crimson Max tries to hide in his elbow.

He tugs Max closer to his chest, panic steadily welling inside of him. They're in over their heads here, and there's only so much denial they can do.

Max wheezes harshly against him, forehead boiling hot against his shoulder.

"Meds."

His voice is weak, but he's fighting through it, defiant shine in his eyes even through the fever haze. Alex measures out another dose, fingers shaking. Max's cough is only getting worse, and they can't afford to get another bottle.

There's a race this weekend, and he knows, as sure as he knows the color of the sky, that Max is still going to try and attend. If they allow him to race is an entirely different story, but he'll try.

Insanely, Alex thinks he wouldn't be all that surprised if Max managed to still win. It feels otherworldly sometimes, living with him, watching him race. He's got a feel for the car that Alex and George can't quite reach, a fiery determination that seems to fuel him further than the rest of them.

Max takes the medicine like a shot. He's not even complaining about the taste anymore, like he did on the first day.

Alex tries to pretend the sinking in his heart is anything but cold, nauseous fear.

------

George is on the beanbag in the back. The bookstore knows he's stressed, and they'd mentioned having a potluck soon, to celebrate some arbitrary holiday George has never heard of. He's hoping there will be enough leftovers for him to sneak some home.

Right now, his priorities are elsewhere, anxiety skating up his fingers and arms, trembling as he types at the keyboard. He doesn't know what else to do.

They'll be out of medicine soon, and Max isn't getting any better, and there's a race coming up.

He hugs his knees tight to his chest, nervously shaking. He can't make it go away— the twitchy, nervous moments that have snuck into his everyday life. Every movement has to be worth it, every action justifiable.

He's going to throw up.

He sends the email.

------

Alex drives them to the race. Mostly because Max can barely make it to his feet, eyes glassy and perpetually sweaty, hair damp at the edges. They keep waiting for him to call it off, for him to admit that he can't do it, but somehow...

He's standing, moving like every breath hurts. Alex has to repeat himself two or three times before Max can hear him, and they can both hear each individual breath.

It sounds more like a rattle than a wheeze, and Alex and George have quietly, without ever speaking about it, taken up watching him in shifts. Sometimes the rattle pauses, and Alex feels everything inside of him plummet with fear until Max takes in another painful breath.

He's sure George also wakes up in a cold sweat, lying frozen to listen to the sound of Max's continued breathing. He's not sure George knows about the blood.

He doesn't have the heart to tell him.

------

George doesn't want to open the email. It's sitting in his inbox like a ticking bomb, because if he doesn't open it, it can't hurt him.

Can't let him down, can't shatter him into a million pieces, can't resign him to a fate of watching Max die in front of him.

He's not stupid. Max isn't getting better. Not without help, actual help, help they can't get. They can't go to a hospital, because the hospital will ask for an adult that they don't have.

They live in a precarious house of cards, and George is watching it wobble dangerously in front of him, growing increasingly unsteady with each struggling breath Max manages.

He can't possibly race— but that's not something they've said out loud. Alex is driving them, and George has a plan.

He opens the email.

From: Fernando Alonso

To: George William

Subject: Re: Why you should lie to the government

George. I am not sure how you got my personal email, and I do not want to know. Your PowerPoint was very engaging.

I will not pretend to be your brother's legal guardian. However, I have the location of a clinic that will see him and keep their mouths shut.

I have attached their contact details.

- Fernando Alonso, FIA Formula 1 World Champion [2005, 2006]

He swallows, opening the email attachment. There's an address, and a list of names. If they detour now—

"Alex, Alex pull over."

Max has fallen back asleep in the passenger seat. His breathing is worryingly shallow and wheezing, and he's both pale and flush, chest barely moving.

Alex pulls over.

------

The detour takes them six hours and more gas than they can afford, but they're almost there. Max hasn't woken up once.

George calls Max's team, apologizing profusely about missing the race, that Max would be there if he could. They're far more understanding than he expected them to be, mentioning that they're glad he's getting rest, that they'd also been worried.

They know Max would be dead before he missed a race. It scares George just how close they're getting.

He has one of the bottles of water uncapped, nudging gently at Max's shoulder. His skin is waxy, and he occasionally shakes with small shivers.

"Max."

He never responds on the first try anymore. George shoves at his shoulder a little harder, fingers tight around the water.

"Hey, wake up, we're almost there."

Usually, that would at least get something. A flutter of his lashes, an attempt to try and drag himself to the surface. George blinks back the hot press behind his eyes, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn't want to alarm Alex, who's been driving the entire time.

"Max."

His voice cracks. Alex hears it, because of course he does.

"How is he, Georgie?"

George isn't sure he can answer without falling apart, and the panic is starting to seep in through the corners, crawling up his lungs, strangling his heart.

"Max get up. Don't be— come on, don't be lazy."

He's never called Max lazy a day in his life.

"Georgie, hey, how is it?"

Alex sounds worried from the front seat. George presses two shaking fingers below Max's jaw, resting his head featherlight on his shoulder. He doesn't actually know how to check for a pulse, only that this is what they do on TV, on the medical dramas Alex likes.

Max is still breathing, but there's a low, watery sound to it.

"George."

Alex sounds more insistent now, but George doesn't know what to tell him.

"Drive faster."

------

The clinic is a nice building, until George runs inside out of breath, frantically trying to explain that Fernando Alonso sent them, that his brother is sick in the trailer, that he's not waking up.

Max disappears into the back of the building, and he and Alex aren't allowed to follow.

Alex tugs him tight to his chest, one hand shaking as he tries to pet at the back of George's head, still trying to be strong for them both. He can feel his hot tears drop onto his hair.

------

The clinic gets one good luck at Alex and George thirty minutes later and takes them into the back too. They're both put on fluids, and the clinic was apparently planning to cater lunch, so they'll get some extra for them as well.

They're still not allowed to see Max, but Alex has his fingers locked with George's.

"Georgie."

George sniffs, still trying to pretend like he hasn't been crying.

"What?"

Alex squeezes his fingers.

"Who'd you call? To get this?"

George has been a steel trap about how he'd managed to get Max a doctor. He'd told Alex very solemnly that he had a place for them, but he needed Alex to trust him.

So far, he has. Still, George shakes his head, frowning.

"Doesn't matter."

Alex actually thinks it matters quite a bit— not that it does him any good, because George clams up, refusing to tell him anything. He confirms it wasn't a gang, he's not indebted for life, and that it was a stroke of luck, but he won't tell Alex anything else.

By the time the food shows up, a catered table of salad and fruits, roasted meats and vegetables, Alex has accepted that he's not getting an answer out of him.

------

Max has pneumonia. It's bad, apparently. It wouldn't ever have cleared up on his own, and the knowledge sits like a stone in George's gut.

It would've killed him. Slowly, relentlessly suffocating him. There wasn't any kind of over the counter medicine they could've gotten, no amount of cough drops, no miracle words to fix it.

Max is still asleep when the clinic lets them see him. There's an oxygen mask across his face, stickers on his chest attached to colorful cords that lead up to a monitor. There's another one wrapped around his finger, and he has an IV in, running up to bag of fluids above his head.

George tugs his chair closer and gingerly rests his head on Max's thigh. He's always felt untouchable, above everything else, stronger than anyone else George knows.

He doesn't feel untouchable now. He feels fragile, and George wants to curl around him, wants to protect him from everything the way Max does for him, but he can't. Not against this.

Alex's hand rubs softly against his back as he cries quietly.

------

12 years later:

Charles bumps Max's hip with his own as they walk closer to the cooldown room, grinning. The podium endorphins are starting to hit, and he's ready to chug the entire bottle of blissfully cool water waiting for him.

George is ahead of them, already scrubbing a towel through his hair, cap in one hand. He's grinning too, the special wide one reserved just for Alex and Max.

Max yanks his balaclava off, slamming his fist against his chest as he coughs briefly. Charles winces in sympathy, but George darts over immediately, nudging Max out of view of the cameras. He's gone ashen, eyes wide as he checks over Max frantically.

"Christ, Georgie— it is the fucking humidity here, always, you know it makes my lungs act up. Chill."

"Do you need an inhaler? Aleix keeps one in his bag."

Max levels an impressively unimpressed face at George.

"So does Rupert, because they are my lungs. If I needed it, I would be using it. Seriously, go sit. I'm fine."

Charles quirks his head.

"You have asthma?"

Max wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes as he grabs his own water.

"No. George is just being a worrywart."

George glares, jaw tensed.

"Sorry, I think it's fair that it makes me anxious."

Max sighs, gripping George by the hand and pulling him into a tight hug. Charles doesn't catch what he says, too quiet for anyone but George to hear, but he sees the way his shoulders relax, leaning their heads together briefly.

He didn't know Max had problems with his lungs. Or at least some kind of problem, if it's earned him George's anxiety. Then again, George is anxious about a million things at any given moment— Charles has never met anyone with the ability to juggle as many problem as George and manage to be equally as stressed about every single one of them.

He wonders if Mercedes has designed a ThunderShirt for him yet.

Max manages to appease George, and Charles attempts to put it out of his mind. He'll ask Max about it later, when there aren't hundreds of cameras capturing their every movement.

For now, he has a podium to get to.

#ficlet #tiny gax verse #they're so small and stressed and need hugs #fernando secretly being an mvp here #George's PowerPoint was 'why you should lie to the government'#and was an attempt to convince fernando to pretend to be max's legal guardian at a hospital #reasons included #'you like competition and he is very fast'#and #'he can't race you if he is dead'#as well as #'if he dies I also will not race you'#'imagine how many wheel to wheel battles you would be losing out on'#anyways max being like omg you anxious freak I don't have asthma (he has copd)

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