Work Text:
George had always loved Mexican food. Burritos, tacos, and all the other questionable joys of student life at two in the morning. Or four, even, because for some reason, they always tasted better at that ungodly hour.
Actually, it was Max's fault.
Like a lot of things.
Over the years of studying together, George had subtly picked up plenty of habits from his friends.
The habit of keeping a straight face even when everything was going to hell—from Alex.
A love for endless late-night streams that started with games and ended with existential debates about the meaning of life—from Lando.
The drive to look just a little bit sharper than everyone else, even at an early morning lecture after only three hours of sleep—from Charles, who was widely considered the course's resident heartthrob and felt absolutely no shame about it.
And from Max, he got the late-night food runs, the habit of losing track of time in the workshop until dawn, and the ability to classify an energy drink as a full meal.
George still considered that last one a crime against humanity.
Though, there was one more thing.
He got that from Max too.
The flowers in his throat, it seemed, were also his fault.
---
George frowns when, right in the middle of practice, the air suddenly catches in his lungs. He rolls onto his side on the floor, trying to cough it out. Max, who had been pinning him down just moments ago in a playful wrestling match, rolls off and sprawls beside him, limbs spread out like a starfish. He's breathing heavily too, casting a confused, slightly guilty look at George—after all, he hadn't pressed down *that* hard to make him choke like that.
George doesn't know what's wrong either, because just a second ago, everything was fine—too fine, even. Preparing for the university showcase, a late-night training session, the sweet ache in his tight muscles, and the ridiculous jokes of his best friends.
He asks for water and is surprised when the usual refreshing taste is overtaken by a strange, sudden bitterness.
"Alex spit in the bottle," Lando smirks, effortlessly dodging his friend's loud, indignant protest. George crushes a laugh and gets up from the floor, shaking off any lingering thoughts before the next set.
The bitter aftertaste in his mouth doesn't go away. But later, George will get used to it.
What he can never get used to, however, is Max's unpredictability. One moment George is sound asleep, dreaming of a smile with a mole right above the upper lip and a warmth spreading through his entire body—and the next, he's violently ripped from sleep. The air is knocked clean out of his lungs, piercing his drowsy consciousness with shock and panic. Only when he catches that familiar, raspy laugh does George snap back to reality, his heart finally slowing down.
"Damn it, Max, get off me!"
"Is that how you talk to your elders? 'Get off'..." That stupid, raspy laugh echoes in his ears.
Max had never come over to his place at night before, let alone this unceremoniously. Usually, he was the annoying one, begging George to come over to his dorm while he sat at the simulator and raced like he was a professional driver instead of a student. George would lie on his bed, keeping him company at four in the morning. *"I'm not letting you leave, you hear me, princess? Look, I even stole some food from the kitchen for you."* George would always roll his eyes and complain loudly, but he always stayed. Sometimes disrupting Max from his race, sometimes doing a university assignment, and sometimes just sitting in silence, eyes glued to the tense back of a hyper-focused Max.
But for Max to actually come to George's room—this was a first. And George is pissed, flushing even redder when he realizes Max only barged in because of some stupid bet with Lando. George throws a pillow with full force right at the Dutchman's head and bolts to the bathroom, trying to steady his racing heart. No matter how much he washes his face and rinses his mouth, the bitter taste won't leave.
And somewhere deep inside, taking advantage of the chaos, something kept growing, spreading new roots.
---
Two weeks later, George had engineered a flawless revenge plan. In reality, the entire plan consisted of exactly three steps.
First—secure the key card to Max’s room.
Second—wait for his stream to start.
Third—publicly humiliate him in front of the internet.
That last part was the most critical.
"This sounds like a federal offense," Alex noted when George was briefing the group on the details of the operation.
"No, it's called justice."
"After two weeks of preparation?"
"Especially after two weeks of preparation."
Lando backed the plan immediately.
First, because he loved chaos.
Second, because the chaos wasn't happening to him.
Oscar looked at them as if he were already mentally writing a report on the root causes of their collective idiocy.
"Am I understanding this right? All of this is because Max woke you up at three in the morning?"
"Three twenty-seven," George corrected coldly.
"Good God."
"I remember every single minute."
"This is getting deeply concerning."
"Good."
In the end, Lando scored the key card, Alex pretended he knew nothing, Charles demanded a video, and Oscar refused to participate on principle. Though, ten minutes before the launch, Oscar showed up to watch anyway.
So when the door to Max's room burst open right in the middle of his stream, and George marched in flanked by a thoroughly delighted Lando holding a phone, the effect was exactly what he had envisioned.
"This is illegal! This is a crime!"
"And waking people up at three in the morning isn't?"
George shakes his head, laughing. The livestream catches the best angles. He’d bet his life he’ll be rewatching this VOD before bed after a rough week. Just the thought that he managed to drag Max into this, and on camera, makes his heart hammer frantically against his ribs.
After a playful wrestling match chasing each other around the room, they finally sit in front of Max's computer, still trading banter and threats of future revenge.
"‘Kiss,’" the Brit reads a comment from one of Max’s fans, cracking up. "‘Who kisses whom? Me kissing Max, him kissing me, or both of us kissing you guys?’"
The words slip off his tongue easily, but a scratching sensation in his throat mingles with the familiar bitter aftertaste. Russell considers what he just said to be a great joke.
"I mean," he casts a sly look, intending to needle Max as much as possible, "maybe I really should kiss you as revenge. Yes! I'll break into your room one night and kiss you. You'll wake up, and boom—it's me!"
Verstappen seems completely speechless. He stares at him with wide, unblinking eyes, and George secretly triumphs.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Max finally finds his voice, but there's a heavy note of seriousness and disgust in it that catches George off guard.
A sharp pain stabs his chest, and the air is instantly forced out of his lungs, like a physical blow to the gut.
"Ah, right, Max doesn't play like that," George tries to diffuse the tension for the ongoing stream with an awkward smile, not understanding why his mood just plummeted past rock bottom, leaving him feeling so sick. No, actually, it was both sick and deeply hurt.
The Brit turns away and coughs. He tries to pull oxygen in with a deep breath, so he doesn't immediately notice the petal fluttering down to the floor. George stares at it as if it's an alien creature. And suddenly, he understands. More than that—he feels it. And the familiar world around him silently shatters into pieces.
"It's revenge!" George suddenly declares. "I pulled it off today, so I might just try it again!" He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. Anything, just to stop thinking. Don't think. Don't think about what's going on inside him or why.
"Oh, here we go," Lando chimes in right on cue.
But George cuts him off.
"Even if you move back to the Netherlands—I don't care!" He points a finger at Max. "Even if you run away to Australia."
"Australia is my territory, actually," Oscar protests from off-camera.
"Even the North Pole!"
"George..."
"I will still find you and get my revenge."
Max shoots him a bewildered look, because he knows George inside out, and he knows George shouldn't be blowing up like this over nothing. And Russell hates it—no, he's terrified that Max will figure out what's happening in his head, realize that for a split second, a stupid, meaningless rejection actually broke his heart. So he mutters something quiet and escapes the suffocating room, running blindly, just needing to go somewhere where he can breathe, even if it's ragged.
---
With each passing day after that night, the sickness progresses rapidly. George wonders if it's because he can't stop thinking about Max, whether in curses or in daydreams. When Charles announces to everyone that the semester is finally over, everyone sighs in relief, and only George chokes back a protest; now he won't have any distractions, and hiding his constant coughing fits will only get harder.
So the Brit immediately calls his mother, telling her he's coming home today instead of waiting for the weekend. He books a ticket and notifies the others with a brief text in their group chat, desperate to avoid running into anyone. Lately, just being near Max makes it impossible to breathe.
Spending time with his family helps clear his head, but it does nothing to ease his condition.
"You look like a skeleton, George, skin and bones," Alex says disapprovingly, though he poorly conceals his worry when they cross paths again. George doesn't answer, only cautiously touching his own wrist. He's terrified that the thorns have already broken through his thin skin, giving his secret away.
But no. Not yet.
He can still survive.
He lies to Albon, claiming his appearance is due to some healthy new diet. Alex just stares at him in silence, but George doesn't care. He isn't even scared anymore.
George has accepted it, though he still hasn't figured out what to do with the flowers aggressively blooming under his ribs. He loves flowers, but he isn't ready to die because of them. Just like Max—he loved him as a friend, but never intended to go any further. George didn't even need to ask; he knew Verstappen by heart, he could map out every single one of his traits on a single sheet of paper.
Max loves his cats, and he'd probably die for his mom and sister. He knows Max never throws away things given to him by people he cares about. And he knew that on that list, George would always stand right next to Lando, Alex, Charles, and Oscar. Close. But never anything more.
Max is a great guy—a volcano of energy, fiercely unyielding, and obsessed with his cats. An understanding gaze, empty cans of Red Bull scattered around his room, and gummy candies hidden away in his pockets specifically for George.
George, on the other hand, is a hopeless romantic, the younger sparring partner in endless arguments, and a little piece of warmth. They were probably always destined to be best friends. It’s just that, for a long time now, that hadn't been enough for George.
The Brit chokes on his own feelings whenever Max is near, and loses weight rapidly when he tries to stay away, because the yellow petals and thorny leaves still need something to feed on. It was because of Max that George fell in love with Mexican food, so he laughs bitterly when the search engine pulls up "Mexican prickly poppy," and the familiar prickly poppy bud mocks him from the screen.
Prickly poppies are annuals. But George naively hopes his flowers will at least last through the winter.
When winter comes, he loses all desire to go outside. He locks himself in his room with a bottle of wine generously left behind by Lando and Charles after one of their parties.
George tries to ignore their sympathetic, lingering looks and smoothly dodges their probing questions. He’s just "developed a taste for wine and gotten hooked on it." Not at all because it makes things easier. Wine, as they say, goes well with dandelions, but George figures it pairs just fine with poppies too. The wine leaves a sweet, bitter aftertaste of the approaching end.
---
Russell desperately wants to confess. He wants to scream everything he's been hiding right into Max's oblivious face and force him to deal with it, because indirectly, it's his fault too, and it's unclear who actually got revenged on in the end.
George remembers one night, after a party, when they were left alone. Fueled by alcohol and Max's energy drinks, he had blurted out, "I love you." Max had just burst into a booming laugh, joking that George needed to go to bed. He really should have told him back then how much it hurt. He should have realized everything was hopeless when the truth didn't make him feel any lighter. He curses the flowers growing inside him and hesitantly types the location of the nearest hospitals into his phone.
---
The lecture hall falls completely silent as George finishes a section of his presentation. He looks up at the next slide and takes a breath, preparing to continue. The breath catches halfway. A nasty scratching sensation tears at his chest, and his throat feels blocked. He turns away and presses a fist to his mouth, trying to suppress the cough. The first fit hits him violently and without warning. Then a second, and a third.
Alex shoots him a startled look.
"George?"
"I'm fine," he manages between gasps.
It's entirely unconvincing. Charles stares at him for a few seconds, then steps forward without a word.
"I'll take over," he tells the audience calmly. Leclerc sends him a reassuring smile, but his heavy, piercing gaze cuts straight to George's bones. George shudders, knowing a serious talk is waiting for him.
He catches sight of Max sitting in the upper rows of the lecture hall—and chokes on another thorny leaf of Mexican prickly poppy ripping its way out of his lungs. George is forced to sit out the rest of his presentation entirely.
---
The wine sloshes at the very bottom of the bottle, and George doesn't even have the strength to lift his head from the mattress. His favorite starched pillow vanishes his desperate coughing fits, but the breaks between them aren't even long enough for him to step out of his room. What a shame wine can't drown emotions. What a shame he only has one way out.
A quiet knock sounds at the door, and it swings open. George tenses, bracing himself for Charles's voice demanding answers about his breakdown during the presentation. Instead, he feels the weight of a body pressing down on his back—not crashing into him like before, but settling gently—and he suffocates all over again, either from the weight or from the sheer force of his own feelings.
"What's wrong with you?"
Max can't take it anymore. He plucks the wine bottle from the Brit's hand, drains the last drops, and lies back down on his back, giving his shoulder a gentle pat.
"You bolted right after the presentation, pale as a ghost. Charles sent me. He and Alex are worried sick. You're taking this diet way too far. Alex has practically been force-feeding you lately, hasn't he?"
George stays quiet, eyes squeezed shut, desperately wishing the Dutchman would just leave. Wishing his persistent, awkward questions would go away, along with his warmth, because a little more of this and George is going to lose his grip entirely.
"Come on, princess, what is it? You can tell me. Lando's complaining that you cleared out his entire alcohol stash. I wouldn't be in such a rush to die if I were you; he'll hunt you down in the afterlife for that!"
It's true, and despite himself, George lets out a raspy laugh. Relieved, Max relaxes and buries his nose into the crook of George's neck.
"You smell like caramel," he mutters, a sudden smile in his voice. "Like my favorite stroopwafels."
The words squeeze George's heart so tightly that a violent coughing fit wracks his body. He can't even choke it back into the pillow this time. Because he desperately, agonizingly wants to breathe.
Panic hitting him, Max rolls off and grips George's hair, tilting his head back to clear his airway. The Brit fights him with everything he has, because the flowers are ruthlessly forcing their way up, tearing at his throat and lips, spilling onto the sheets in crushed, messy clumps. There is absolutely nothing romantic about it.
Poppies aren't the flowers of love.
And George stands no chance.
Max gently uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears pooling in the corners of George's eyes. He's afraid to say a word, realizing this is incredibly serious, and he is no expert when it comes to dealing with people.
"You idiot," Max whispers softly, pulling the emaciated boy close and smoothing down his tangled hair. "You're torturing yourself, huh? Why didn't you tell us?"
Max had noticed a long time ago that something was off with the younger boy. But George was the type to always listen to others, and if he kept something to himself, you couldn't pry it out of him with a crowbar. So Verstappen had waited, and here they were. Look how that turned out.
Russell takes a ragged breath, still shuddering from the intensity of the coughing, and shakes his head. Max forces him to take a few sips of water from the bottle on the nightstand, and it seems to bring some relief.
"I'm fine," George replies, hiding his eyes. "I've already decided. I'm seeing a doctor on Monday. I'll have them cut out. And I'm sorry about today, I didn't know... I didn't know I couldn't handle it. I thought I was managing."
Max gives him a light smack on the back of the head, but he can't actually be angry. Not when he's terrified for George.
"Are you serious? Hanahaki? How on earth did you manage to catch an unrequited crush? I thought you were the resident heartbreaker, but you can't even bring yourself to confess to someone," Max tries to joke, attempting to shatter the grim, fatalistic air around the Brit and figure out what's going on.
George scoffs and closes his eyes, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. A few petals slip onto the floor.
"Oh, I can confess," George finally says, his voice laced with a bitter edge. "I just got unlucky with the person. He's an idiot who turns everything into a joke."
Max freezes. The sharp, venomous undertone isn't lost on him.
"Are you saying..."
"I'm not saying anything. Just drop it, alright?"
Their dialogue sounds familiar and natural, but neither of them knows what to do next.
"Forget it, Max. Like I said, I've made up my mind."
"Don't you dare go to that hospital," Max says, his voice suddenly dropping into a hard, unyielding tone as he locks his fingers around George's wrist. "The hell you are turning yourself into an emotionless zombie. What are we supposed to do without you?"
"We?" George looks at him sideways, trying to wrench his hand free. "You mean *you* will manage just fine, but I'm not allowed to disrupt the group's dynamic?"
Max groans, slapping his own forehead with his fist.
"You know that's not what I meant! I mean... Look—" He gives up, snapping to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at George. "Just don't go. I'll find a way."
With that, he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. George slides back under the covers, viciously brushing the stray petals and leaves onto the floor.
*“You smell like caramel. Just wait. I'll find a way.”*
Why is it just as impossible to choke out a dying spark of hope as it is to rip out these damn poppies?
---
George braces himself for interrogations, lectures, heart-to-hearts—anything but the quiet, normal breakfast in the university cafeteria they end up having, filled with yawns and casual jokes.
He even manages to relax a little, carefully forcing down each forkful of rice and veggies. The walls of his throat, raw from the thorns, still burn painfully, a reminder that his time is running out. Under the table, George keeps a napkin clamped tightly in his fist. He tries his absolute best to act normal, right until Max bursts into the hall and crashes into the seat next to him.
"Right! So, it says here that the easiest way to cure it is if your feelings are returned. Technically, platonic love is still love, right? Maybe if I just try a bit harder, it'll work? What if I just tell you I love you, mate? Wait, scratch the 'mate' part. What do you think?"
George drops his fork, staring at Verstappen in sheer shock as the Dutchman shoves his phone right in his face. A dead silence falls over the table.
"What the actual hell?" Alex's gaze darts between the two of them in utter disbelief.
Lando nudges Charles, who nods back with a smirk. Oscar stares at Max and pointedly taps a finger against his temple.
George flushes a deep crimson, clapping his hands over his burning ears as he tries to shove Max away. He never could have imagined that in his frantic attempt to save him, Max would resort to something like this. Tactless idiot.
"Did you know about this, Charles?" Alex still hasn't broken his gaze, looking like he's trying to decide whether to offer comfort or stage an execution.
"Yeah, I saw the petals yesterday when I brought food to his room," Charles nods. "But I never would have guessed..."
"Me neither..." Max pipes up, and George can't stop himself from landing a heavy smack on the back of his head.
"I absolutely loathe you! Stay away from me, and shove your 'mate' up your ass!"
He lunges out of his chair, scraping it loudly against the floor, and storms off, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself, his ridiculous crush, and Max's erratic behavior.
"Hey, you promised to chase me to the North Pole!" Max yells after him. "Even if I go back to the Netherlands! Where are you running?"
"For God's sake, Max, shut up," Alex hisses, watching George's retreating back with deep anxiety. "I can't believe you just did that."
In the sudden quiet, Lando breaks into a laugh. When everyone shoots him a bewildered look, he just shrugs.
"‘Shove your mate up your ass’... That was incredibly double-edged."
---
George's mood doesn't improve over the next few days. He sits in his room at three in the morning, trying to channel his overwhelming emotions into an essay for his classes. While he still has emotions left to channel.
The doctor's appointment is set for Monday, after which they will schedule the surgery to clear out his lungs. Within a week, George will be rid of his poppies, and along with them, any feelings he ever had for Max.
The Brit takes a deep breath and deletes his last line, intending to rewrite it from scratch. The door behind him opens silently. George pours everything he has into his work, and even the thorny flowers don't dare interrupt him.
Twenty minutes later, he pulls off his headphones and drops them onto the desk. He turns around and flinches, finding Max lying on his bed, head propped up on his hand, staring at him intently. Remarkably, he had snuck in without making a sound, and there wasn't even a can of Red Bull in sight.
"Alright, why are you staring at me like that?" George jokes awkwardly, tapping his fingers against the desk.
"I'm looking," Max says honestly. "At you. For real this time."
Seeing George tilt his head in confusion, Max offers a soft smile and explains:
"You're kind. You care, even when you're constantly arguing with me. You're romantic, and you're ridiculously funny. You always smell like something sweet. And you have beautiful eyes. I'm looking at you like I've never actually seen you before. Like I missed something over all these years. Turns out, there's a lot of things about you that make it easy to fall."
Seeing George go quiet, Max sighs softly and slides off the bed, coming to sit on the edge of the desk, closer to him.
"I figured it out while you were visiting your parents. I went to the workshop at four in the morning, sat down at the simulator—and the bed was empty. No one rolling their eyes, no one complaining about the engine noise. It felt so hollow and grey, George. I sat there staring at the screen for three hours and couldn't even put a decent lap together. That's when it finally clicked what an idiot I've been, and how much I actually miss you. The real you, not just you as part of the background."
George feels his cheeks and ears burning all over again. He nervously tugs at the hem of his shirt right over his heart, feeling the argemone petals tremor inside him.
"Stop it, you... I told you, you don't have to."
"Why not?" Max moves in closer the moment George looks away, hovering over him, radiating warmth and the crisp scent of his shampoo. George swallows hard, pressing his wrists against his closed eyes, trying not to focus on how close they are.
"Because I can't force you to feel the same way," he whispers hollowly, though against his own will, he leans a fraction closer. "I know it's impossible."
"Hey," Max sighs, gently running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about the scene in the cafeteria. I didn't realize what you were going through. But I wasn't joking when I said I wanted to try. I've been thinking about it, watching you... and I don't think it'll be hard at all."
"What, you think it's as simple as just calling me your 'great platonic love' or whatever it was you said?" George jabs back, finally opening his eyes to look at him.
"Okay, I'm sorry! I admit it, I'm a massive idiot." Max clasps his hands together, giving George a pleading look. "Let's reset. I'll buy you a burrito to apologize."
"Two burritos," the Brit bargains after a moment's hesitation. "One to apologize, and one for the actual courtship."
"Look at you, what a princess," Max snorts in relief, his smile breaking wide. With an unfamiliar, careful tenderness, he rubs George's shoulder, and George feels the suffocating terror of the future finally begin to recede.
---
They spend the rest of the weekend together, slipping back into their usual routines but with a newfound, electric awkwardness between them, which slowly began to morph into something deeper. On Monday, George goes to his appointment anyway, and after the X-ray, the doctor looks at the charts in confusion, informing him that the massive flower growth in his lungs is showing clear signs of withering away.
That same night, George realizes he can't—and doesn't want to—hold back anymore. At three in the morning, he bursts into Max's room, drops right on top of his sleeping form, yanks the blanket down, and kisses him—at first hesitantly, testing the waters, but quickly growing bolder. A thoroughly dazed Max can only open and close his mouth in the dark, staring up at a smirking George.
"What are you doing?!" he finally sputters, trying to untangle himself from the sheets, while George crushes a laugh and rolls over to his side.
"I just thought it would be a shame to waste such a brilliant opportunity for revenge. Now we're even."
"You piece of work..." Max mutters affectionately, grinning as he loops an arm around him and pulls him close. He nods toward the phone in George's hand. "Is that part of the revenge too?"
Russell shakes his head.
"No. This is just for me. For the memories."
"Ah." Without letting him finish, Max shifts closer and cuts him off with a kiss—this time, deliberate, slow, and deep.
Ironically, with every passing second, George finds that it gets easier and easier to breathe.
A moment later, Max reaches around the mattress as if searching for something. George pulls back, confused, but laughs when Max simply pulls the comforter over both of them, tucking George securely against his chest.
"Perfect. Goodnight."
George smiles, burying his face into Max's shoulder. They certainly make a ridiculous couple, but that's fine.
Turns out, there's a certain romance to poppies after all.