Chapter Text
They had all agreed to use the break.
A rare, almost sacred pause in the calendar between Silverstone and Hungary; no races, no travel mandates, no compulsory smiles for cameras. Just a week carved out of the season where drivers were allowed to remember that they were human before they were athletes.
Daniel, of course, had turned it into a celebration.
His birthday had technically been on the first of July, swallowed by the chaos of back-to-back races, media duties, and Sebastian’s own celebrations earlier in the month. But Daniel never let timing stop him. Every year, without fail, he hosted a yacht party–loud, ridiculous, overflowing with laughter and people who didn’t take life quite as seriously as the rest of the paddock pretended to.
This year, the yacht was Max’s.
Courtesy of Max Verstappen owning the largest one in Monaco.
The date was set for July 11th.
George had known about it for weeks. Had even nodded along when Daniel told him, already imagining the lights reflecting off the water, the music echoing across the harbour, the way everyone would look so alive and unburdened for a few hours.
What he hadn’t planned on was the appointment.
Lewis and Nico had forced it into existence with the kind of quiet determination that meant there was no arguing his way out of it. No excuses. No delays. No pretending he was fine.
July 11th.
Twelve midday.
Daniel’s party didn’t start until nine.
“Plenty of time,” Lewis had said, like that alone made everything easier.
According to Lewis, the original plan had been Japan.
A specialist there–well-known, almost impossible to book–someone who had built his career around treating Hanahaki. Someone who understood it not as folklore or metaphor, but as a real, lived condition. Lewis had tried, Nico had pulled strings, Sebastian had made calls.
They’d been told the same thing every time.
Fully booked. For months.
Apparently, if you were one of the few doctors in the world willing to treat something born out of myth, everyone who needed you found you eventually.
That was how they’d ended up with Hanna.
Dr. Takahashi, though she insisted everyone call her Hanna, had trained alongside her husband. Where he had taken the academic route, publishing papers and accepting international acclaim, Hanna had stayed quieter. She worked with fewer patients, mainly women. Took her time. Preferred privacy.
And, according to Nico, she was just as capable.
After a great deal of consideration, and an even greater amount of money, she had agreed to fly to Monaco.
She would meet George at Lewis and Nico’s apartment.
It was all arranged.
It was all happening.
And George couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed.
The clock on his bedside table read 11:03 a.m.
He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.
His body felt like it had been filled with sand overnight. Every limb heavy, every joint stiff, the simple act of breathing something that required focus instead of instinct. His muscles ached in a way that wasn’t sharp or alarming–just constant, dull, impossible to ignore.
He hadn’t slept properly.
He hadn’t eaten properly.
He hadn’t done anything properly in days.
The thought of standing made his stomach twist. The thought of talking, of explaining himself, of answering questions he wasn’t ready to hear the answers to, felt worse.
His phone buzzed somewhere near his pillow.
He didn’t pick it up.
He didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.
Lewis.
There were missed calls stacked on his lock screen, messages piling up in that increasingly concerned tone Lewis used when jokes stopped working. George squeezed his eyes shut, guilt curling low in his chest.
I’m sorry.
I’m trying.
I just need five more minutes.
Minutes kept turning into hours.
The knock came loud and sudden, echoing through the apartment like a gunshot.
George flinched.
Another knock followed, sharper this time.
“George!” Lewis’s voice rang out, familiar and edged with worry. “Don’t tell me you’ve died.”
The door unlocked.
Footsteps rushed in, too quick to be casual. George barely had time to process it before two figures appeared in his doorway, silhouettes against the brighter light of the hall.
Lewis dropped to a crouch beside the bed instantly.
Nico followed, slower, more deliberate, eyes scanning George from head to toe.
“George,” Nico said gently, his accent softening the edges of the name. “Is all alright?”
George managed to turn his head toward them.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “Tired.”
It felt like the understatement of the century.
“My muscles hurt.”
Lewis’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and pressed the back of his fingers lightly against George’s arm, like he was checking that he was real. That he was warm. That he was still here.
“This doctor can help,” Lewis said quietly. “We have to get you back to mine. She messaged–she’s landed in Nice. Chauffeur’s picked her up. She’ll be here in an hour.”
An hour.
George swallowed.
“Have a burst of energy,” Lewis continued, forcing a smile that didn’t quite stick. “Then you can crash on the couch with Roscoe. And–” he hesitated, then brightened slightly, “–our new puppy.”
George’s eyes flickered open properly at that.
“New puppy?” he croaked.
Nico smiled despite himself.
George took that in, the worry etched into their faces, the way they were both pretending not to be scared. Something twisted painfully in his chest.
“Mmm. I’m fine,” George lied, because it was easier than explaining. “Help me up.”
Lewis and Nico didn’t argue.
They moved together, practiced, like they’d rehearsed this moment without meaning to. Lewis slid an arm behind George’s shoulders, Nico steadied his legs, and slowly, carefully, they helped him sit up.
The room tilted.
George breathed through it.
He let Nico hand him a hoodie, oversized and soft, and pulled it on with clumsy fingers. He didn’t protest when Nico crouched again to put his Converse on for him, tying the laces with the same focus he might have used on an engine problem years ago.
It was humiliating.
It was comforting.
Lewis grabbed George’s keys and phone without asking. George didn’t stop him.
The lift ride down was quiet.
George leaned subtly into the corner, eyes half-lidded, counting breaths the way he’d learned to do recently. The world felt slightly unreal, like he was watching himself through glass.
By the time they reached the car, his legs were trembling.
Lewis opened the door. Nico helped him in.
As the car pulled away from George’s apartment, Monaco glittered outside the window. Sunlight on the water, yachts bobbing lazily in the harbour, life moving forward without hesitation.
George closed his eyes.
For better or worse, there was no turning back now.
The appointment was coming.
And so was the night.
They arrived at 11:37.
Traffic in Monaco in July was unforgiving, narrow streets clogged with tourists, delivery vans double-parked where they shouldn’t be, scooters weaving like they had nothing to lose. By the time the car pulled up outside Lewis and Nico’s building, George’s head was throbbing faintly, not from pain exactly, but from the effort of staying upright, present, awake.
Lewis paid the driver quickly. Nico was already out of the car, moving around to George’s side before George had even thought about opening the door himself.
“Careful,” Nico murmured, steadying him as George stood.
George nodded, more out of habit than coordination.
The apartment door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click. Cool air greeted George immediately, the familiar scent of Lewis’s home–clean, citrusy, warm–wrapping around him like something he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.
He was guided gently to the couch, lowered more than sat. His body sank into the cushions with a tired exhale he didn’t remember making.
Across the room, Roscoe slept in his bed, curled in on himself, chest rising and falling slowly. The sight alone loosened something in George’s chest. Roscoe had always been grounding like that. Solid, steady, uncomplicated.
“George,” Nico said from the kitchen area, voice lighter now, deliberately so. “Would you like to meet the new pup?”
George blinked, refocusing.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Sure.”
Nico disappeared down the hallway.
Lewis crossed the room and placed a glass of water on the coffee table in front of George, then set his own down across from him before sitting. He didn’t say anything, just watched George in that careful way that said I’m here, but I won’t crowd you.
A faint, high-pitched yapping echoed from the hallway.
George and Lewis both looked up instinctively.
“Schatz,” Nico called, amused, “could you get the door to our bedroom?”
Lewis stood immediately and headed down the hall.
A moment later, Nico emerged with a small bundle of white curls in his arms, a tiny, energetic Toy Poodle wriggling like he’d just been unleashed into the best day of his life.
George’s face softened instantly.
“Oh–” he breathed. “Oh my god.”
Nico laughed quietly and crossed the room, passing the puppy carefully into George’s arms.
“This is Otto,” Nico said. “Lewis got him for me for my birthday.”
Otto wasted no time.
He scrambled clumsily against George’s chest, tail wagging violently, licking anywhere he could reach–chin, hands, hoodie strings. George laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of him, the sound rough but unrestrained.
“Oh, you’re– you’re very friendly,” George said, trying to keep Otto from climbing his face.
For a moment, everything else faded.
There was no diagnosis, no appointment, no countdown ticking in his head. Just warmth and tiny paws and the uncomplicated joy of being chosen by a creature that didn’t know how sick you were, only that you were there.
“He’s much different from Roscoe,” Lewis said fondly, glancing toward the corner where Roscoe still slept, blissfully unconcerned. “But Roscoe seems to like having a new play partner.”
Otto wriggled free eventually, hopping down from the couch and trotting around the open-plan apartment, sniffing everything with earnest enthusiasm.
George watched him, chest lighter than it had been in days.
The buzzer shattered the calm.
Lewis was on his feet immediately.
“I’ll get it,” he said, already moving.
The sound of the intercom crackled briefly, confirmation from the doorman. Lewis thanked him and asked to send her up.
As the seconds ticked by, that lightness drained away.
A familiar nausea settled low in George’s stomach, sharp not with sickness but anticipation. The reminder of why he was here crept back in, heavy and unavoidable.
Lewis stayed standing near the door.
“Lew,” Nico said, looking at Otto, “grab Otto so he doesn’t escape again.”
“Again?” George asked faintly, grateful for the distraction.
Nico smiled. “First day we had him, Lewis opened the door for groceries and Otto bolted straight into the corridor. Little guy thinks the world is his playground.”
George huffed a small laugh.
The knock came moments later.
Lewis opened the door, one arm tucked securely around Otto, who immediately strained toward freedom.
“Mrs. Takahashi, welcome,” Lewis said warmly. “Please, come in.”
The woman who stepped inside was calm in a way that immediately felt deliberate. Late thirties, perhaps. Long black hair pulled back neatly, bangs framing her face. Glasses perched low on her nose, a small beauty mark near her lip. She wore practical clothes and carried both a duffel and a backpack.
She removed her shoes and bowed slightly.
“Hello, Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “Thank you for having me.”
“Please, call me Lewis,” he replied, closing the door behind her and gently setting Otto down.
Hanna nodded once. “Then please call me Hanna.”
She followed Lewis into the lounge area, eyes scanning the room, not invasive, just observant.
George straightened unconsciously.
“This is my husband, Nico,” Lewis said, gesturing. “And this is George.”
Hanna inclined her head politely and took the armchair, setting her bags at her feet. She pulled out a notebook, a pen, and her phone.
“We are here to discuss Hanahaki,” she said evenly. “Yes?”
George swallowed.
“I–I am,” he said.
Her gaze settled on him fully then. Not cold. Not alarmed. Just attentive.
“I will ask a series of questions,” Hanna continued. “Some may feel personal. You may answer, or your support may answer for you. Is that acceptable?”
All three nodded.
“What is your full name, age, and date of birth?”
“George Russell,” he replied. “Fifteenth of February, 1998. I’m twenty-six.”
“When did you first experience symptoms consistent with Hanahaki?”
George hesitated, then answered honestly. “Seb’s party. July first.”
“And the flower?”
“Baby’s breath.”
She paused.
Her pen hovered.
“Baby’s breath,” she repeated quietly. “You are certain?”
“Yes,” George said, tension creeping into his voice. “I’ve seen it.”
“I have as well,” Lewis added.
Hanna exhaled slowly through her nose.
“Baby’s breath is highly toxic when internalised,” she said. “Weight loss, nausea, fatigue, muscle weakness–these are common. Are you experiencing these symptoms?”
George nodded, throat tight.
“This complicates things,” Hanna said gently. “But it does not make them hopeless.”
She looked at him again. “Do you understand how Hanahaki functions?”
“Only… bits,” George admitted. “Google. Stories.”
“We do,” Nico said quietly. “I’ve had it.”
Hanna froze.
“You–?” She stared at them, stunned.
Nico nodded. “Carnations. 2016.”
Hanna sat back slightly, awe flickering across her face. “I have never met a living patient post-resolution who did not require surgical intervention or complete emotional severance.”
Lewis smiled faintly. “We were… lucky.”
“We can talk later,” Hanna said quickly, shaking her head as if to refocus. “I’m sorry. Back to you, George.”
She turned to him again, voice softer now.
“Hanahaki manifests from unreciprocated or unresolved love,” she said. “The flowers grow as long as the heart remains unacknowledged–either by confession, mutual resolution, or surgical removal. The longer it progresses, the more invasive it becomes.”
George’s hands trembled in his lap.
“Baby’s breath,” Hanna continued, “is aggressive. It spreads quickly. But it is not unbeatable.”
George looked up at her.
“There are options,” she said plainly. “None of them are easy. But you are not out of time.”
For the first time since arriving, George felt something unfamiliar settle into his chest.
Not relief.
But possibility.
Hanna adjusted her glasses and glanced down at her notes again, giving George a moment to breathe.
“Before we discuss options,” she said gently, “I need to understand the full scope of your condition. Hanahaki is not just emotional–it is deeply physical. I cannot treat what I do not understand.”
George nodded. His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding himself.
“Have you been coughing blood?” she asked plainly.
George hesitated.
Lewis didn’t interrupt. Nico didn’t move. They both waited, letting the answer be George’s alone.
“Yes,” George said quietly. “Not… not constantly. But it’s there.”
“How often?”
“Every day,” he admitted. “Some days worse than others.”
Hanna’s pen scratched softly against paper.
“And flowers?”
George swallowed. “Yes.”
“Whole blooms, petals, or stems?”
“Buds mostly,” he said. “Sometimes… blooms.”
She nodded once, not reacting outwardly, but her posture shifted, sharper, more alert.
“Weight loss?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly,” George said, voice small. “But my clothes don’t fit the same. My trainer noticed.”
“Muscle fatigue?”
“All the time.”
“Dizziness?”
“Yes.”
“Shortness of breath?”
George paused, then nodded again. “Especially when I push myself.”
Hanna looked up. “You are an athlete.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Lewis answered this time, tone steady. “Formula One. He’s a racing driver.”
Hanna blinked.
“Ah,” she said softly. “Motorsport.”
She thought for a moment. “High physical strain. High stress. Elevated heart rate for extended periods.”
“Yes,” George said. “Two hours in the car. Sometimes more.”
“That complicates things,” Hanna said honestly. “But it also explains why your symptoms escalated quickly.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“Your lifestyle–how many hours do you train per week?”
“Six days,” George replied. “Two to three hours a day. Cardio, strength, simulator.”
“And during race weekends?”
“Constant,” Nico said. “Media, travel, pressure.”
Hanna exhaled slowly.
“Hanahaki thrives in intensity,” she explained. “Strong emotions, adrenaline, suppression. You are in a profession that demands all three.”
George stared at the floor.
“Have you altered your eating habits recently?” she asked.
“Yes,” George admitted. “I don’t mean to. I just… feel full. Or sick.”
“That is consistent with Baby’s Breath toxicity,” Hanna said. “It creates a false sense of fullness and nausea. You are not choosing this.”
That sentence hit harder than George expected.
He hadn’t realised how badly he needed to hear it.
Hanna flipped to a new page.
“Now,” she said gently, “we need to discuss the source.”
George’s shoulders tensed.
“Who do you love?”
The room went quiet.
Lewis shifted slightly but said nothing. Nico rested a hand on his knee.
George closed his eyes for a brief second.
“Alex,” he said. “Alex Albon.”
Hanna nodded, unsurprised.
“And what is your relationship with Mr. Albon?”
George let out a shaky breath. “We were… close. Very close. But not together. Not like that.”
“Is he aware of your feelings?”
“No.”
“Is he available?”
George shook his head. “No. He’s in a committed relationship. With Lily Muni-He.”
Hanna’s expression softened.
“That is important,” she said. “Unrequited love where the object is unavailable tends to accelerate progression. The heart perceives no possible resolution.”
George laughed once, hollow. “Yeah. That tracks.”
“Do you still see him regularly?”
“Yes,” George said. “We race together. Travel together. Sit next to each other on flights sometimes.”
Hanna winced slightly. “Proximity without possibility is… difficult.”
George’s jaw tightened. “I can’t just avoid him.”
“I understand,” Hanna said. “Your profession does not allow emotional distance.”
She tapped her pen thoughtfully.
“Has he ever shown romantic interest in you?”
George hesitated, then shook his head. “No. He’s kind. He cares. But not like that.”
Hanna looked at him steadily.
“Then we must be realistic.”
George braced himself.
“There are three possible paths,” she said.
“One: confession and reciprocation. That is not probably viable here.”
George nodded. He’d known that already.
“Two: emotional severance through surgery.”
Lewis inhaled sharply but didn’t interrupt.
“And three,” Hanna continued, “prolonged management.”
George looked up. “Management?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is not a cure. But it can buy time.”
She explained carefully.
“Medication to slow floral growth. Oxygen therapy during high-exertion periods. Reduced training load. Emotional counseling to reduce subconscious reinforcement.”
George frowned. “So… I keep living like this?”
“For now,” Hanna said. “It is not ideal. But it is survivable–temporarily.”
“And the surgery?” George asked.
Hanna met his eyes. “The surgery removes the flowers and the capacity to feel romantic love. Not just for Mr. Albon. For anyone.”
George swallowed.
“It does not make you cruel,” she added quickly. “But it makes attachment… muted. Some patients describe it as emptiness. Others as peace.”
George looked away.
“And my chances?” he asked quietly.
“With Baby’s Breath,” Hanna said carefully, “your prognosis without intervention is poor. Weeks to months, not years.”
Lewis’s jaw clenched.
“With management,” she continued, “we may extend that. But it is not guaranteed.”
“And with surgery?”
“A high survival rate,” she said. “Physically.”
George laughed bitterly. “There’s always a catch.”
Hanna softened. “You would still race. Still live. Still succeed. But love would not drive you anymore.”
George sat back, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Alex’s laugh. Of sitting next to him on planes. Of quiet jokes and shared childhood memories.
“I don’t want to die,” he said finally.
No one spoke.
“But I don’t want to become someone who feels nothing either.”
Hanna nodded. “That is the tragedy of Hanahaki.”
She closed her notebook gently.
“You do not need to decide today,” she said. “But you do need to stop pretending this will resolve itself.”
George let out a shaky breath.
“I know.”
Lewis reached over then, resting a hand on George’s forearm, warm, grounding.
“You’re not alone,” he said quietly.
And for the first time since this had begun, George believed it.
Hanna had left hours ago.
She’d packed her things neatly, bowed again, thanked Lewis and Nico, and reminded George, firmly but kindly, that this wasn’t a one-time conversation. She was staying at a nearby hotel. She wanted blood work. She wanted monitoring. She wanted names of anyone else who might be afflicted.
George had nodded through all of it.
Now it was just past eight, and his living room looked like a different universe.
The lights were dimmed low, warm lamps casting gold across the floor. Someone, Lando, probably, had put on a film none of them were actually watching. It played quietly in the background, explosions and dramatic music completely ignored in favour of cheap laughter and clinking glasses.
George sat on the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up loosely. A half-empty bottle sat within reach, its burn still warm in his chest. The alcohol dulled things. Not enough to make him careless, but enough to soften the sharp edges Hanna had left behind.
Around him, sprawled in various states of comfort, were Lando, Charles, and Alex.
It felt… normal.
Which was dangerous, because George could almost pretend nothing was wrong.
Lando was cross-legged on the couch, already buzzing, eyeliner smudged messily around his eyes. Black pencil traced his lower lash line unevenly, giving him the exact look of a teenage dirtbag from a mid-2000s music video. Mascara clumped slightly on his lashes, and he kept blinking dramatically like he was auditioning for something.
Charles sat beside him, makeup more restrained but still obvious if you looked close enough. Mascara darkened his lashes, eyeliner smoothed neatly along his upper lid. He looked unfairly good about it, red tank top clinging to his frame, mesh overshirt doing absolutely nothing to hide anything.
Alex sat on the floor opposite George, back against the coffee table, relaxed in a way that made George’s chest ache if he thought about it too hard. Black t-shirt, pale trousers. Simple. Clean.
Edible, George thought stupidly, and immediately took another sip of his drink to drown the thought.
George himself had dressed with intention. White silk button-up, soft and expensive, the fabric catching light when he moved. Most of the buttons were undone, collar loose, sleeves rolled just enough. Black trousers, tailored, grounding the softness. He looked good. He knew he did.
Tonight, at least, he wanted to feel like himself.
Truth or Dare had spiraled into existence the way it always did, someone joking, someone else already tipsy enough to agree, and Lily’s involvement had been immediate and ruthless via Alex’s phone.
Hence the makeup.
“You look like you listen to My Chemical Romance unironically,” George told Lando, squinting up at him.
Lando gasped. “I do listen to My Chemical Romance unironically.”
Charles snorted into his drink. “This explains so much.”
“Oi,” Lando said, poking Charles’ shoulder. “You’re literally wearing eyeliner too.”
“Yes,” Charles replied serenely, “but I look good.”
Alex laughed quietly, leaning back on his hands. “You both look like you lost a bet.”
“We did lose a bet,” Lando said proudly. “To Lily. Never again.”
George smiled, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with alcohol. This, this stupid, easy closeness, felt like something precious.
“Mmm,” Lando said suddenly, tone drifting, eyes unfocusing slightly. “Y’know Oscar?”
Charles blinked. “No shit, of course we know Oscar.”
Lando waved him off. “No, like–Oscar Oscar.”
“That narrows it down loads,” George muttered.
“He was, like,” Lando continued, words tangling together, “really angry at me at Silverstone. Like properly angry. Shouted and everything.”
Alex’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“I dunno,” Lando said, shrugging. “He’s sick and stuff. Like coughing. And there was blood.”
George stiffened slightly before he could stop himself.
Charles lowered his cup. “Blood?”
“Yeah,” Lando said, frowning now, the memory cutting through the buzz. “Like–not loads, but enough that I noticed. He shoved me out of his room.”
Alex sat up straighter. “Is he okay?”
“I think?” Lando said uncertainly. “He said he was. He always says that.”
“Is he coming tonight?” Alex asked.
Lando squinted, thinking. “Uhh… I think so? I think Zhou and Logan kidnapped him to get ready.”
George let out a short laugh. “Lucky twat.”
That earned a ripple of amusement, easing the tension.
Oscar would look incredible. He always did, whether he tried or not.
“Right,” Charles said, checking his phone. “Shall we get going? What’s the time, Georgie?”
George glanced at his phone. “Eight thirty-ish. Yeah. Let’s go.”
He stood, the room tilting just slightly before settling. He grabbed the empty bottle from the floor with a flourish. “No evidence.”
They all rose in a loose cluster, laughter and movement filling the space. Shoes were pulled on, jackets shrugged into. George grabbed his keys, flicked off the lights, and locked the door behind them.
The Monaco night greeted them with brittle, salt-tinged air. The streets were alive; voices, engines, distant music drifting from balconies and bars.
“I’m taking bets now,” Lando announced, hands shoved into his pockets. “Lewis is gonna be best dressed.”
“He always is,” Charles said, pouting.
“You’re always runner-up, Charles dear,” Alex teased, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Charles’ cheek.
Charles smiled despite himself.
“I reckon Lando or Max will be most drunk,” George said.
“Likely,” Alex replied. “Both have alcohol problems.”
Laughter burst out of them as they walked, footsteps echoing softly against the pavement.
By the time they reached the bay, the yacht was impossible to miss.
Max’s yacht dominated the water, sleek, massive, glowing with lights. Music pulsed faintly from within, bass thrumming through the dock.
A crew member stood at the gangway, clipboard in hand.
“Names, please.”
“Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Alex Albon,” Alex said smoothly.
The man checked, nodded. “Go on through.”
The moment they stepped aboard, the music hit them properly.
“Guyssss!” Daniel’s voice cut through everything. “Welcome!”
“DANIEL!” Charles shouted back. “We brought drinks!”
Daniel laughed, pulling them into the chaos. “Perfect! Checo’s decided he’s bartender tonight. Something about ‘superior Mexican drink-making skills.’”
From the bar, Checo raised his glass in salute. Valtteri stood beside him, already smiling too much.
Yuki and Pierre lounged on a couch nearby, Yuki sprawled across Pierre’s lap like he belonged there, which he very clearly did.
Max stood with Daniel, mid-conversation, already holding a drink.
The yacht filled fast after that. Voices layered. Laughter rose. Music grew louder.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, George felt the night truly begin.
The yacht had filled quickly.
Not all at once, but in waves–voices rising before bodies appeared, laughter echoing down the dock, familiar silhouettes crossing the gangway with arms full of bottles and already-loosened posture.
Someone arrived with a crate of tequila balanced precariously on their shoulder. Someone else had a champagne bottle already open, foam spilling over their fingers. A few carried nothing at all except the confidence that tonight, someone else would pour for them.
Every arrival was met with cheers.
And mockery.
“Oh absolutely not,” Daniel called as Carlos stepped aboard, dressed far too well for a boat. “Mate, did you think this was Cannes?”
Carlos spread his hands. “I dress for the occasion.”
“This is a floating bad decision,” Daniel replied. “You’re overdressed.”
Catcalls erupted, half sincere, half ridiculous. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted something unintelligible and immediately started laughing at their own joke.
Lewis and Nico arrived together, and the reaction was immediate.
The cheering was louder. Longer. Someone actually clapped.
“Best dressed already,” Lando declared loudly, squinting at Lewis’ outfit. “It’s not even a competition.”
“I haven’t even seen everyone yet,” Charles protested.
“You won’t need to,” George said faintly, despite himself.
Oscar arrived not long after.
Lando noticed immediately.
He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t looking for him. He’d been halfway through a conversation, something about whether Checo was allowed to cut people off from drinks, when Oscar stepped aboard with Zhou and Logan flanking him.
And suddenly, everything else went quiet.
Oscar was dressed simply. No flash. No effort that looked like effort. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled, chain glinting faintly at his throat. His hair was still damp, wavy hair looser than usual, like he’d rushed. There was colour in his cheeks that Lando didn’t remember seeing earlier in the week.
He looked… good.
Too good.
Lando stared.
“Close your mouth,” Charles murmured beside him.
“What?” Lando snapped, blinking.
Charles followed his gaze, then hummed softly. “Ah.”
Lando felt heat crawl up his neck. “Don’t.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“You look like you’ve forgotten how legs work.”
Oscar laughed at something Logan said, head tipping back just enough to expose his collarbones, shirt having ridden down.
Lando’s stomach flipped.
“Jesus,” Charles said. “It’s like watching a rom-com where only one character knows it’s happening.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lando muttered, grabbing a drink purely to have something to do with his hands.
Charles tilted his head, studying him more carefully now. “You’ve been weird since Silverstone.”
Lando scoffed. “I’m always weird.”
“This is different.”
Oscar glanced over then, just a flicker of attention, brief and accidental, and their eyes met.
Lando looked away instantly.
His chest felt tight.
“Charles,” he said abruptly.
“Yes?”
“I–” He stopped. Swallowed. Took a sip that burned too much going down. “I can’t be gay.”
Charles blinked. “What?”
“I can’t,” Lando repeated, louder now, as if volume might make it make sense. “I just–can’t.”
The words landed wrong. Heavy. Unfinished.
Charles stared at him, confused and suddenly sober. “Mate–”
Lando shook his head, already backing away. “I need air.”
“Lando–”
But he was already gone, weaving through bodies, disappearing toward the lower deck.
Charles stayed where he was, frowning, drink forgotten in his hand.
That wasn’t a joke, he realised.
Something was very wrong.
The yacht pulled away not long after.
Engines hummed low and steady as Monaco drifted farther into the distance, lights blurring into gold smears against the dark water. The city stayed visible, close enough to remind them where they were, far enough to feel untouchable.
Drinks flowed faster once they were moving.
Shots lined up along the bar. Someone started a chant that devolved immediately into laughter. Music grew louder, bass vibrating through the deck.
Daniel climbed onto a table briefly before being pulled down by Esteban, who laughed the whole time.
George found himself dancing without realising when it had started. The silk of his shirt clung slightly at his back. Alcohol warmed his chest, quieted the ache beneath his ribs just enough to make him forget it was there.
For now.
Max leaned against the rail with a drink in hand, eyes half-lidded, listening more than speaking. He laughed when spoken to, smiled when Daniel nudged him, but there was something distant about him.
Oscar stood near the edge of the group, drink untouched, watching the city lights like they might answer something if he stared long enough.
Lando didn’t come back up.
Shots turned into dares.
Dares turned into singing.
Someone put on an old song and suddenly half the grid was shouting lyrics, arms slung over shoulders, words wrong but enthusiasm unmatched.
By the time the anchor dropped, miles out, privacy secured by distance and darkness, the party had shifted.
This wasn’t a gathering anymore.
This was a release.
Music was turned up fully. The kind that rattled your bones. The kind you felt in your teeth.
People danced like no one was watching, because no one was.
Someone lost a shoe. Someone else found it and drank liquor out of it. Someone cried over nothing and then laughed through it.
The 2024 grid, unfiltered.
And somewhere below deck, Lando lay on a bed, staring at the ceiling, Oscar’s face burned into the back of his eyes, the words I can’t be gay echoing louder than the music above.
“Where’s Lando?”
George’s voice cut through the noise with surprising clarity. It wasn’t loud, but it carried, the way his voice always did when something genuinely bothered him. The group he addressed was clustered near the centre of the deck, bodies loose with alcohol and music, drinks sloshing dangerously close to the edge of their cups.
Daniel leaned back against the bar, halfway through retelling a story that had already been interrupted twice. Max stood near him, bottle in hand, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Oscar hovered nearby, close enough to hear but far enough to feel separate. Charles and Fernando were mid-argument about something trivial, music, maybe, when George spoke.
Charles looked up first.
“Dunno,” he said, frowning slightly as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him until just now. “He left a while ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
Daniel shrugged, already smiling. “Probably got drunk and got lost somewhere. Happens every year.”
George’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite land. His eyes flicked around the deck anyway, scanning instinctively, corners, shadows, the stairwell that led below.
Max noticed.
“Oscar,” Max said casually, turning his head. “You wanna go find him?”
Oscar blinked, then shook his head almost immediately. “Nah. You go,” he said, forcing an easy tone. “I’ll make him a nice drink for when he comes back.”
He moved before anyone could argue, slipping toward the bar with purpose. Max watched him go, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then sighed.
“Alright,” Max said, lifting his bottle in a lazy salute. “I’ll hopefully be back with a Lando.”
He downed the rest of the vodka in one go, grimaced only slightly, then turned and disappeared toward the stairs.
Max had always known his yacht like an extension of his own body.
The creak of the floorboards, the way sound travelled differently depending on where you stood, the subtle shift of the hull beneath your feet. He walked without thinking, following instinct more than logic, letting the noise of the party fade as he moved lower.
The music thumped overhead, muted now. Laughter echoed faintly from above. Down here, the air was cooler, saltier. The smell of the sea crept in through open panels, mixing with alcohol and engine oil.
He spotted Lando before Lando noticed him.
Bottom floor. Port side. Leaning against the railing, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers like it might slip at any second. His shoulders were hunched forward, posture closed in on itself in a way Max had rarely seen on him.
Max slowed his steps.
“You alright?” he asked gently, keeping his voice low, careful not to startle him.
Lando didn’t turn.
Didn’t even blink.
He just lifted the bottle, tequila, nearly empty, and took another slow drink, eyes fixed on the black water stretching endlessly beside them.
“What’s it like?” Lando asked.
His voice was rough. Not slurred, just worn down.
Max frowned slightly. “What’s what like?”
Lando finally turned his head then.
His eyes were red. Not just from alcohol, Max could see it immediately. Tear tracks glistened faintly on his cheeks, drying unevenly in the night air. His jaw was clenched like he was holding something back that had been threatening to spill for a long time.
“Being gay,” Lando said.
The word sat heavy between them.
Max’s heart lurched.
“Oh,” he said softly, concern flooding him so fast it was almost dizzying. “Hey–hey, okay. First of all, I’m not… fully gay.”
Lando let out a weak, humourless huff. “Sure.”
“I’ve dated girls,” Max continued quickly. “Remember Kelly?”
“Who doesn’t,” Lando muttered.
Max snorted despite himself. “Hey, I’m still Penelope’s self-acclaimed father since Danill clearly isn’t in the picture. I can revoke her playdates at yours if you keep being like this.”
That earned him something, a flicker of a smile, brief but real.
“It’s fine,” Lando said after a moment, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. “Sorry. I’m just… having a crisis, I think.”
Max leaned back against the railing beside him, mirroring his stance, eyes drifting out toward the sea.
“I won’t pry,” Max said. “Not my place.” He paused, then added more gently, “But it’s… fine. If you are. Or if you’re not. Or if you don’t know.”
Lando’s grip tightened around the bottle.
“Most of us are a bit,” Max went on, tone light but sincere. “Honestly, at this point it’d be easier to list who isn’t.”
Lando sniffed. “Like who?”
Max hummed, pretending to think. “Lewis. Me. Pierre. Yuki. George–”
“George is gay?!” Lando blurted, spinning toward him so fast he nearly lost his balance.
Max froze.
Shit.
He recovered quickly, lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a long drink he didn’t really need. “Uh–yeah. I mean. Obviously. Look at him.”
Lando stared at him, unconvinced.
“Pretty boy like that’s gotta be gay,” Max added lamely.
There was a beat.
Then Max sighed dramatically. “Ugh, fine. We used to date.”
Lando’s mouth fell open.
“Hot and heavy,” Max continued, already resigned. “Lasted longer than expected. Ended faster than it should’ve. Don’t ask.”
He turned back to the water like that explained everything.
Lando was quiet for a long moment.
Then, “Who else?” he asked, softer now. “Just… out of curiosity.”
Max shrugged. “Charles. Nico–does he count? Kevin and the other Nico are married, right? Logan, I think. Oscar might be, y’know.” He glanced sideways. “He gives the vibes.”
Lando’s gaze dropped to the deck.
“I can’t be gay,” he said quietly. “I just–no. I can’t.” His voice cracked. “Can I?”
Max watched him carefully.
“Sure you can,” he said eventually. “Or you can be something else. It’s not an on-off switch. Or maybe it is. Fuck if I know.”
Lando swallowed hard. “How did you realise you were… y’know.”
Max didn’t hesitate. “Slept with George.”
Lando choked on nothing, coughing as his own saliva betrayed him. “Jesus fuck, Max.”
Max laughed, genuine and unguarded, alcohol loosening the edges. “Seventeen,” he added. “First F1 weekend. Got drunk. Things happened. Don’t tell anyone–George finds it embarrassing.”
Lando stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
They fell into silence then.
The sea stretched endlessly beside them, dark and steady. Above them, the music swelled, the party roaring on, laughter, shouting, life moving forward without pause.
Max took another drink.
Lando leaned back against the railing, eyes closed, breathing slowly.
And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel completely alone.
“The others are looking for you,” Max said, forcing lightness into his voice. He reached out and punched Lando’s side gently, the way he always did when things got too serious too fast. “Crisis later. Tonight you drink and enjoy Daniel’s party.”
Lando scoffed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Fine,” he said, pointing at Max’s bottle. “But I’m finishing your vodka.”
Max rolled his eyes but handed it over without protest. “You’re impossible.”
They turned together, starting back toward the stairs that led up to the main deck. The music grew louder with every step, bass vibrating through the metal beneath their shoes. Lando took a generous swig of vodka, grimacing but powering through it anyway.
They’d only gone a few steps when something caught sharply in Max’s throat.
It wasn’t dramatic at first, just a sudden, wrong tightness, like air had been replaced with sandpaper. Max slowed, then stopped entirely. His hand flew up to his mouth on instinct.
He coughed.
It came out harsh and uncontrolled, ripping through his chest. He bent forward slightly, another cough following, deeper this time, burning all the way up.
“Max?” Lando turned back immediately, concern cutting through the alcohol haze.
Max shook his head quickly. “Go–” he managed, voice rough and uneven. “I’ll–I’ll be there in a bit.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Max turned sharply and staggered toward the nearest bathroom, one hand braced against the wall, the other clamped over his mouth. He could feel warmth against his palm, something slick that shouldn’t be there. Panic flared, hot and immediate.
Lando stood frozen for half a second, watching him disappear down the corridor.
“…Okay,” he muttered, confused, then took another sip of vodka like that might steady him. With the music calling him back and the crowd waiting, he turned and headed up the stairs, unease buzzing quietly under his skin.
The bathroom door shut behind Max with a dull click.
The silence hit him all at once.
He barely made it to the sink before coughing again, harder this time. His body folded forward, shaking as his lungs fought him, each breath shallow and uneven. His throat felt shredded, raw beyond anything he’d felt before, like something inside him was lodged where it didn’t belong.
He gagged, gripping the edge of the sink.
“No, no, no,” he rasped under his breath.
He tried to swallow. It didn’t work.
Panic surged violently now, blotting out logic. His vision blurred at the edges, lights above him smearing into halos. He coughed again, the force of it making his knees buckle. He slid down against the cabinet, landing hard on the tiled floor.
Air wouldn’t come.
His chest felt locked, tight and wrong, like it was refusing to cooperate. Each attempt to breathe became more desperate than the last. His hands clawed uselessly at his throat, fingers trembling.
Black crept in from the corners of his vision.
The last thing Max registered was the cold tile against his cheek as his body finally gave up fighting.
The party above raged on, blissfully unaware.
Lando had already been intercepted, a martini pressed into his hand and a shot shoved toward him immediately after.
“There he is!” someone shouted.
Lando laughed automatically, downing the shot without thinking. The burn barely registered. His mind flicked briefly back to Max, coughing, pale, brushing him off, but the moment was swallowed by noise and movement.
“Right,” Pierre said a little later, leaning closer to be heard over the music. “Where’s Max?”
Lando shrugged. “Dunno. He started coughing or something. Told me to go on ahead.”
Pierre frowned slightly but didn’t press. “He’ll turn up.”
Lando nodded, then let himself be pulled toward the dance floor, lights flashing, bodies moving, the moment carrying him away.
George felt it before he understood it.
It was subtle at first, a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with his own condition. A wrongness in the air. He lifted his head slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.
His gaze met Lewis’s from across the deck.
Lewis stilled.
They held eye contact for a fraction too long. Something unspoken passed between them, a silent question, a shared unease. George swallowed hard.
He moved first.
Slipping away from the crowd, George headed for the stairs without a word. Lewis noticed immediately, straightening, but Nico’s arm was already around him, keeping him anchored.
George didn’t run at first. He didn’t want to draw attention. But the farther down he went, the faster his heart hammered, the louder his thoughts became.
Please be fine. Please be fine.
He took the steps two at a time now, breath coming short, dizziness nipping at the edges of his awareness. The yacht felt unfamiliar suddenly, corridors stretching too long, doors blurring past.
“Max?” he called softly, then louder. “Max!”
No answer.
George tried another corridor, then another, panic rising with every empty space. His hands shook as he reached for door handles, opening rooms at random.
“Max!”
Finally, he saw it.
A bathroom door, ajar.
George shoved it open.
The world tilted.
Max lay on the floor, unmoving.
For a second, just one, George’s brain refused to process what he was seeing. His body locked up entirely, feet rooted to the floor, breath caught painfully in his chest.
“…Max?” he whispered.
No response.
George crossed the room in two unsteady steps and dropped to his knees beside him. Max’s skin looked wrong, too pale, lips tinged faintly blue. There was blood on the floor, smeared and dark.
George’s hands hovered uselessly over Max’s shoulders, afraid to touch him, afraid of what he’d feel.
“Hey,” George said, voice cracking. “Hey, Max–wake up. Come on.”
Nothing.
His heart slammed painfully against his ribs. His ears rang.
George pressed trembling fingers against Max’s neck, desperately searching for any sign of life. He couldn’t tell. Everything felt too quiet, too still.
“Oh god,” George breathed.
His hands fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to unlock it. His vision blurred as tears welled, spilling over despite his efforts to hold them back.
He dialed Lewis.
The call connected almost immediately.
“Is all alright?” Lewis’s voice came through, music loud in the background.
George couldn’t stop shaking.
“Lewis,” he choked. “It’s Max. He–he’s not breathing. He’s passed out. Lewis, I think–I think Max might be dead.”
Saying it out loud shattered something inside him.
The call disconnected.
George didn’t notice.
He dropped the phone, both hands moving to Max instinctively now, gripping his shoulders, gently shaking him like that might be enough to pull him back.
“Max,” George whispered, tears spilling freely. “Please. Please wake up.”
The bathroom felt impossibly small, air thick and unmoving. The sounds of the party were gone, replaced by the thunder of George’s own heartbeat in his ears.
He knelt there in the silence, surrounded by blood and fear, waiting, terrified of what would be the outcome.