#montreal26

He had always known that the solution was — well, from careful scientific enquiry, he had deduced that more was preferable to less. If he let his hands linger on Alex’s waist as he slipped past him in the kitchen, or god, the week they had shared a bed in Portugal, and George had gotten to sleep with Alex pressed up against his side night after night. George had felt good for weeks, for months, a shimmering under his skin that had dissipated only gradually when Covid forced them farther apart.    

He fantasised about it sometimes — having more. It was impossible not to think about it when he was twisted in the sheets, his skin crawling. George knew they didn’t have that kind of friendship — they were British, first of all, and more to the point, Alex didn’t want him like that. The most they were allowed was an affectionate dig, a laddish clap on the back, a cutting laugh. For all that he sometimes let himself think how it would feel to have Alex in bed, his body braced over George on a mattress, filling up George from the inside, driving all the sickness away, in reality, it felt overwhelming to imagine even hugging Alex.  He wouldn’t be selfish like that.

But if there was ever a time —

“Congrats, Albono,” George muttered, his fingers wrapped carefully around Alex’s bicep, letting the warmth seep into his skin, the good feeling he got from Alex pushing down the spike of panic he had gotten when Alex said the word engaged. “Can’t believe she said yes. Did you get her a huge rock, or what?” 

Alex rolled his eyes, but from the way he blushed, he could tell that the answer was yes. George hadn’t pulled his hand away yet, letting himself revel in the goodness of Alex’s body, feeling himself grow stronger, clearer. Then a sudden shifting of Alex’s muscles sent a rush through him, and George thought, fuck it. If this was the way things were going to be going forward, Alex too busy with his wife to want George around, George left alone and wretching — he was going to take his chances while he still could.

When George tugged on Alex’s arm, Alex folded into him easily, his chin tucking over George’s shoulder like they did this all the time instead of never at all. George let himself squeeze once and then twice, hugging tight enough that he could imagine never letting go. He breathed in once, twice, lingering too long, every part of him buzzing with it.

Alex’s eyes had been wide when George finally pulled back, his hands slow to leave George’s back.

That had been the night before Barcelona testing, and while George wouldn’t have gone as far as to say there was a good time to find out the news, the hug had been enough to sustain him through pre-season without top-ups. In fact, it wasn’t until Australia that he realised he hadn’t felt it since, hadn’t needed it in the same way as he had when every part of his body was straining for Alex, yearning.

He was still waiting for it to wear off of course, for the sickening hunger to come back. And when it did, it was probably going to be even worse than it had been before, he cautioned himself. He had had it for long — there was no way he would’ve been able to shake it so easily. The other shoe was going to drop.

Still, by the time Montreal rolled around, the thought of it had faded to an occasional flicker in the back of his mind, the very thing that had once governed his life fading into the background noise of the season. He was grateful, he was. He had something else to be hungry for, something that needed his full attention, and for once, he could give it. His hands didn’t so much as twitch on the wheel when he went to lap Alex during the Sprint, and Alex didn’t move from the racing line. 

Last season, the chance to be so close to Alex during the race, trundling along in his dirty air for even a few corners would’ve gotten him through the rest of the day easily. He would’ve been grateful for it, would’ve lingered for an extra beat before calling in to complain.

Now, he jabbed the radio button immediately, thinking of the precious seconds he was losing to Kimi while he was stuck looking at Alex’s rear wing. “What the hell is he doing? He’s just in the middle of the road.”

It was like Alex had forgotten to drive, George thought angrily, like Alex had forgotten he was in the car. George was going to give him a piece of his mind when they got back to the hotel. Only one of them was in the title fight. Alex had gotten his dream, with Lily. This was what George had left, and even that was starting to slip through his fingers. The cold metal of a second-place trophy didn’t have the same effect. 

Only when Alex had pulled open the door to his room, the words died in George’s throat. Alex was — he didn’t look well. He was trembling, his face sheened with sweat. The room behind him was dark.