Sicko Mode

The door opened a scant few centimetres before it got stuck. Lewis leaned his head against it, breathing past the smell of burnt plastic and panic. "George? Can you open the door?"

There was a shuffling and murmuring, followed by the sound of a bony elbow or two hitting the walls of the motorhome. And then Lewis could push the door open. He closed it behind himself real quick, like shaving a few seconds off his entering an omega's nesting space would make up for the minute he'd spent loitering outside it. He prayed that the especially nosy journalists—the ones who hounded the wives, the girlfriends, and the motorhomes full of makeshift nests—were all busy soaking up the winner.

The shutting of the door revealed another square meter of the already cramped motorhome. The team merch clad form of George Russell was curled in to fit just into that, his back pressed against the wall and his head between his knees. He was taking harsh breaths through his nose, and exhaling tremulously soon after, all guided by hopeless evocations from his physio. It was all wrong, that: the way Aleix was hovering over him and half committing to touches, just sweeping his hands over George’s arms without squeezing, and talking in this firm tone, telling George to slow down the breathing. As if it was all an exercise George would be done with if only he could push through a little longer, as if George had a modicum of control left to exert over himself. The physios Mercedes hired always turned out like this, preaching control over instinct, suppressants over scent-patches. It worked, mostly, except for when two sides of the garage got into a pissing match that dismantled all decorum, or the season ramped up enough for a driver to end up with a hoarse voice and bags under his eyes.

George was usually the epitome of control: a straight-back and polite smile, lips covering sharp teeth. Ordinarily, he could manage the maelstrom of a slated championship battle all by himself. But he’d asked for Lewis, hadn’t he, when Lewis should have ranked last among the people George would have wanted to see just then. True mates or not, their crash had ended George’s race—Lewis himself wasn’t exactly in a mood to coddle either, not after spending lap after lap nursing the floor damage George had given him.

But George had called. And he was curled into the floor of his motorhome, almost two hours after he'd DNF'd, sounding like he was about to pass out. He couldn't have possibly kept this up for two hours. Something must have happened, Lewis reckoned, between him giving his interviews in as composed a manner as possible—he'd heard no mentions of tears, after all—and ending up blocking the door of his motorhome with only his ineffectual, beta physio for help.

Lewis waved the man away and knelt beside the omega, wincing slightly at the harshness of the floor. George stirred at last, bruised, red-rimmed eyes peeking out from over his hands. Even his hair looked forlorn, flopping over his eyes instead of curling over them like it was wont to do.

Lewis swallowed the questions budding on his tongue and murmured an encouragement, one palm extended to George as another worked a nail under the patch adhered over his own scent glands. George gave a slight hiccup in response to the comforting scent Lewis breathed out, stirring into motion just enough to tilt sideways and lay his head against the alpha’s shoulder. His hands would envelop Lewis twice over whenever they hugged: now they just clung to his chest, creasing the Ferrari red shirt.

Lewis ran a hand down the insensate omega’s back, where George had sweated through his shirt. He addressed Aleix’s wide-eyed form as he asked, in the mildest of tones, “What happened?”

Aleix shook his head helplessly. “He was fine after the media pen. Just—a bit pissed. And then he was…” —he waved a hand at where George was draped over Lewis— “like this.”

Lewis hummed and shook George gently with one hand on his nape, “Is that right, George?”

The omega gave no response, only ground his forehead against Lewis’ collarbone, the ache marrow-deep. Lewis had taken to calling him after every Kimi-win like clockwork, receiving snappish, one-off responses or softer, sleepy ones. The hoodie Lewis had unceremoniously gifted him had made the occasional appearance, when the weather was right and George sufficiently ticked off. Lewis, having seen Kimi grimace at the offending garment on more than one occasion, didn’t think that the boy would demand a winner’s room from George in this state. It must have been the debrief, then: the suffocating atmosphere that came with near-shouting at a team and having to face them after, or that pit in one’s stomach that came with having given everything only to get a slap in the face, George practically driving backwards on the straight. Lewis knew the feeling well, having felt those claws tugging at his gut whenever he’d sat in meetings and advised against the direction they’d been taking for the W13, only to get talked down to. George was good at that, the inter-team politicking and the subtle bickering of teammates whose driver styles didn’t quite match. But, judging by the way he was weepy and silent in Lewis’ arms, he’d quite exhausted himself today.

Lewis sat down proper on the floor, shuffling around until he could cross his ankles. George took advantage of the seat immediately, knees settling around Lewis’ waist and hammering heart pressing against Lewis’ chest. His breathing was settling down, nose tucked into Lewis’ neck as it was, but his breaths were still damp where they brushed against the alpha’s skin with every beat of his heart, too fast, too shallow. Lewis tutted at him and snuck his fingers under George’s collar, where it sat prim and proper over his scent glands, discouraging any overzealous alphas. Still, it left just enough space for Lewis to dig his fingertips into the soft, spongy parts of George’s neck. The omega gave a shiver when he did, lips parting vulnerable against the thin skin of Lewis’ neck in an almost-kiss.

Aleix jumped up in that same moment, hands making an aborted motion towards Lewis as if to rip his driver and charge away, “Sir, you can’t just—”

Lewis stifled a smile at that sir, raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think the breathing exercises were cutting it, mate.” It was predictable, that: omegas needed a physical reminder every now and then, needed to let go and sink deep into the fibres of muscles, the marrow of bones. George was especially particular, managing everything from his food intake and exercise to his quotes to the media, his thoughtful feedback and confident posture in front of the team. It wouldn’t do to pressure him even more, to tell him to exert comtrol by breathing in sync and bracing against the storm inside him, when what he needed was someone to bleed that emotion out of him, just the once or twice.

Lewis massaged George’s neck with practiced motions, a pattern of press and release. Each pascal of pressure had George tensing up under Lewis’ hands, knees squeezing around his thighs as he took increasingly deeper breaths. Then he would exhale with the release, sink millimetres deeper onto Lewis and make a small, grateful noise. At the first, Aleix gave a panicked, strangled yelp.

Lewis rolled his eyes. Betas, honestly… They couldn’t see past the sexuality of it all, couldn’t tell a scruffing from a hold, couldn’t smell anything in an omega’s scent past the most basic of emotions at the best of times. The man probably thought Lewis was about to fuck George through the floor, the way they were both stinking up the place.

Lewis spoke before the guy could work himself into a tizzy. “He was the one who called me. Surely you know George,” —he didn’t say, and me— “well enough to know he wouldn’t do anything foolish?”

Aleix’s colour settled some. Lewis smiled at him, only half mocking. It was good, that the man looked out for George this much. He seemed like the type to go running to Toto if Kimi so much as breathed too enthusiastically in George’s direction, which would save Lewis some of the trouble of having to intervene and, likely, getting shit from George for it. Though George would have to speak to him about this, explain that he was in Lewis' hands, now. No matter how proficient Aleix was, he couldn't be trusted to handle an omega the way they ought to be, especially not one who raced for a living.

“Don’t worry, man, his virtue is safe in my hands.” He softened a press into more of a caress, and George made another little noise, all gut and feeling. Lewis faux grimaced. “You might want to give us some space, though.”

Aleix nod-nod-nodded, slipped through what gap the door was willing to offer with the look of a man who wanted a raise. Lewis stifled a chuckle, pressed a kiss to George’s pale cheek and finally managed to coax him somewhat upright. The omega swayed when he did, eyes looking glassy and feverish from exhaustion. His eyelashes fluttered when Lewis kneaded his neck again. Some omegas didn’t like it at all, squired away from a dominating hold like this made it all the more difficult for themselves. But George had an alpha for a father and an especially straight back: Lewis had known he’d be like this, yielding sweet as sugar.

“Feeling better?” he asked, letting up for a moment.

George blinked, blinked again. His face twitched out of its blissful look to something more aware, eyes sharpening and the corners of his lips tightening slightly. Still, he was somewhat slurring when he said, “Yeah.” Nodded, once and then twice, like he'd forgotten whether he'd answered or not.

Lewis smiled at him, charmed. “You’d rather I keep going a little longer?”

George chewed at his lip a little, then sighed out through his nose. “Yeah, just…” His attention drifted away from Lewis for the first time in a long while. “On the bed? And you can…” he tugged at Lewis’ shirt, then, rather than finishing his sentence, his eyes cast down in embarrassment.

Lewis murmured an affirmative. George had to be supported as he got up, long legs wobbling, hands braced against the wall. Lewis’ own legs had fallen asleep; he shook the needling feeling out and unlatched George’s bed from the wall. The thing looked sturdy enough to carry them both, at least.

George didn’t even fuss with the blankets or anything, just listed sideways and into the sheets. He charmingly nuzzled against a pillow, then shot Lewis a sleepy look, rolling onto his back. Lewis ground his teeth together—George had gotten wet from Lewis holding him and messing with his neck, as any omega was wont to do. All the moving around dispersed the scent around, made Lewis’ gums tingle.

George gave a pleased little rumble when Lewis laid on top of him, pressing him down onto the yielding flesh of the mattress. George was taller, of course, but they kept more or less the same weight—and George took to it the same way he seemed to take to all things omegan, melting under Lewis and making himself as soft as possible.

They laid there for some time, Lewis keeping time by the pattern of their breathing. He had half a mind to toss George around some, leave a couple of bruises to really settle him down, but the poor thing had been through enough whiplash already, with the crash and panic attack of it all. He certainly seemed embarrassed enough about it once he blinked his eyes open again, stirred under Lewis in a movement that came as close to rebellion as he’d got in an hour.

“Did Aleix see all that?” George asked, voice hoarse.

Lewis pressed up into his palms, hovering over George. When the omega made no complaint at the decrease in bodily contact, he answered, “He did.”

George groaned, dug two fingers onto his eyes like he was trying to will away a headache. No wonder he was thinking of team dynamics, or what Aleix would think of him after having seen him whining for an alpha, what he would or wouldn’t say to the team. How George would have to manage it all. George was always so careless with his emotions, and after all the work Lewis had done to make him feel better, too…

Lewis raised an eyebrow at the omega under him. “D’you have anything to say to me about it, love?” 

George opened his mouth, no wonder readying a smart comment on his tongue. Then, he met Lewis’ gaze. Blinked, flushed. He lowered his eyes and murmured, all demure, “Thank you for helping, alpha.”