Chapter Text
Episode I - House
Alex remembers the smell before he remembers George.
Apple juice and something sharp and clean — the disinfectant the teachers use every afternoon. The air is warm, a little sticky. The light is flat and grey, falling across the blue carpet printed with yellow suns that are too small to be real suns.
George is sitting at the edge of it, legs folded neatly under him, palms flat against his knees — close enough to be there, far enough to be somewhere else.
He is new. The teacher says so, clapping her hands lightly to quiet everyone down. Chairs scrape. Someone giggles.
"George," he says when it's his turn.
His voice is soft but steady. He doesn't rush it.
Alex notices the way he presses his lips together after, like he's making sure the name stays where he put it.
*********
They decide to play house because it is raining and they are not allowed outside. The rain taps against the windows in irregular patterns. Someone drags the toy kitchen across the floor; the plastic wheels squeal.
Emma declares there must be a wedding first. This is how the game works.
They form a loose circle. The carpet feels rough under Alex's palms when he leans forward. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead.
Tommy snorts. "No one's going to pick George," he says, loud enough to carry. "He's a carrier baby. My mum said. That's weird."
A few kids glance over at George, then away. Someone starts picking at a loose thread in the carpet. The circle doesn't close around him, exactly — it just doesn't quite include him anymore.
George's fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers. His eyes drop to the carpet — to one of the small yellow suns — and stay there. He makes himself very still — someone has learned not to give anyone anything to aim at. His shoulders stay straight. His chin drops just a fraction, just enough.
Alex's hand moves before he decides to move it.
"I want George."
His own voice sounds louder than he expects.
Emma blinks. "But he has to be the bride."
Alex shrugs, the movement small but definite. "That's fine."
The carpet scratches his knees as he stands.
For a moment, George looks up. Their eyes meet. George's are darker than Alex expected. There is caution there. And something like disbelief.
Emma hands Alex the plastic ring box. It is pink, the hinge slightly cracked so it wobbles when he opens it. The fake ruby inside catches the light — a dull red flare that flickers and fades when he tilts it.
Alex takes George's hand. It is warm. Damp from holding a juice cup too long. His fingers are thinner than Alex's, knuckles small and smooth.
Alex hesitates only because he is not sure which finger is correct. He slides the ring on anyway. It sticks for a second against George's knuckle before settling.
Someone claps. Someone else laughs because that is what happens at weddings. The rain keeps tapping at the glass.
George does not pull his hand away.
*********
Later, the game dissolves the way it always does — the baby doll is dropped, the toy stove door slams too hard, someone begins to cry over nothing in particular.
They sit by the cubbies where the air smells faintly of damp coats and rubber boots.
George leans back against the wall. The paint is slightly peeling near his shoulder.
"My dad says I'll be one too," he says quietly.
"One what?"
"A carrier." He says it quietly and doesn't add anything to it. Then, after a beat: "You don't have to be nice about it."
Alex looks up from the loose thread on his sleeve. "I'm not being nice. I just didn't care."
George studies him. Something careful moves across his face, like he's looking for the crack.
"I'm going to be a racing driver," he changes the topic, almost abruptly — like he needs to put something solid between them before the moment gets any softer. "You probably don't know what that is."
Alex wrinkles his nose. "What's that?"
George's mouth does something small and satisfied. "You go really fast. In cars. Faster than anyone."
"Why?"
"If you go fast enough," George says, "nobody cares about anything else."
Alex can hear the rain slowing outside now, softer against the windowpane. He thinks about it — fast enough that nobody cares about anything else.
Alex nods once, decisive. "Then I'll join you."
George frowns slightly. “But only one wins."
Alex considers this seriously.
"That's fine," he says at last. "We can take turns."
George laughs — small and startled. He brings the back of his hand up toward his mouth a half-second too late, as though he'd meant to stop it and hadn't quite managed.
When the teacher calls them back to the carpet, George pushes himself up first. The toy ring glints on his finger under the fluorescent lights.
He twists it once, experimentally. He does not take it off.
Alex notices. He says nothing.
Episode II - Birthday Party
George's home smells like vanilla and warm sugar. There are balloons tied to the staircase railing — blue and silver, floating unevenly, brushing softly against the ceiling whenever someone walks past. Children's voices spill from the living room in uneven waves of laughter and shouting.
George's dad thanks Alex's mum at the door. Alex barely listens. He is already looking for George.
He finds him near the table.
George is wearing a paper crown that sits slightly crooked over his neatly combed hair. There is frosting on the corner of his mouth. He looks pleased, but composed about it — as if six is an achievement he expected.
When he sees Alex, the composed look slips. He smiles — wide enough that the gap where his front tooth used to be shows — and for a moment he looks exactly as six as he is.
*********
The cake is shaped like a car, with chocolate wheels and red icing piped in lines that wobble slightly where the frosting bag must have slipped. Six small candles stand on the roof.
Someone starts the song first — a little ragged, the way birthday songs always are when no one wants to be the one to begin. Then everyone joins in, voices overlapping and slightly out of tune. Alex sings the loudest, loud enough that the boy next to him glances over. He doesn't notice. When George leans forward to blow them out, everyone shouts at once. The candles go dark in a thin curl of smoke that smells faintly of burnt sugar.
Later, plates are sticky with icing. Someone spills juice. A balloon pops and makes two smaller children cry. Then someone's father opens the back door and the children pour out into the garden, shrieking, the way children do when they're given space and afternoon light.
Alex goes with them for a while. Then he notices George isn't there. He comes back and finds him in the living room, already kneeling on the carpet in front of the television, the remote in both hands. The garden noise filters through faintly from outside — distant shouts, someone laughing. In here it is dim and quiet, the curtains half-drawn against the afternoon glare.
“Sit down and watch this," George says, patting the space beside him.
Alex drops down cross-legged. Their shoulders brush briefly.
George holds the remote and hits the play button with the deliberateness of someone doing something important.
On the screen, cars flash into view — low, bright, impossibly fast. The sound fills the room, a sharp mechanical scream that vibrates faintly through the floorboards.
Alex startles at first.
"That's loud."
George grins. "That's the best part."
The cars weave through corners, inches apart. The camera cuts to a driver inside the cockpit — helmet glossy, visor reflecting the sky.
"They go over three hundred," George says, almost reverently.
"Three hundred what?"
"Kilometres per hour."
Alex does not know how fast that is. He knows it looks like flying.
The cars blur past the stands, red and silver and blue streaks against the grey of the track. The commentary crackles through the speakers, urgent and breathless.
George leans forward, hands pressing flat to the carpet, body tilting into the corner as if he can help the car through it.
Alex watches George more than the cars. He finds himself leaning forward too, a beat behind.
“Check this out," George whispers.
One car dives inside another at the corner. It is so quick Alex almost misses it — a clean, impossible overtake.
George gasps softly, delighted.
Alex looks at George's face — lit blue by the television, eyes wide, completely unguarded — and something in him settles into a decision.
"Who's that?" Alex asks, pointing at the screen.
George says the name carefully.
"He's the best."
Alex nods.
“One day that'll be you," Alex says suddenly.
George glances sideways at him. "What?"
"You'll be the best."
The television roars as the cars cross the finish line. George turns back to the screen, but his ears are red. "You can't just decide that," he mutters.
Alex imagines it — George in a helmet, going faster than anyone, the whole world watching. He shrugs. "Why not?"
George studies him for a long second, as if trying to understand something that doesn't quite fit into words. Then he nods.
Episode III - The Autograph
The autograph is kept in a plastic sleeve. George carries it to school inside his backpack like something fragile, something that might evaporate if exposed to too much air.
Alex knows something is different the moment he sees him that morning.
George walks faster than usual. Not quite running, but close. His hair is slightly wind-tousled, the way it gets when he's forgotten to check a mirror. His smile is too contained to be accidental.
"What?" Alex asks, narrowing his eyes.
George tries — and fails — to look casual.
"I met him."
"Met who?"
George stops in the middle of the pavement, forcing Alex to stop too. A woman with a pushchair has to step around them.
"Lewis."
He doesn't say the surname. He doesn't need to.
Lewis is already a constant in their conversations — Lewis did this, Lewis overtook like that, Lewis said something in an interview that George had memorised word for word and repeated back to Alex so many times that Alex could probably recite it himself by now. Alex has heard all of it. He knows Lewis's helmet design and his preferred tyres in the wet and the year he first won a championship.
He doesn't know why the name feels sharper today.
George pulls the plastic sleeve from his bag with both hands.
Inside, the glossy photo catches the morning light — Lewis in a white racing suit, smiling at something off-camera. The signature slants across the corner in thick black ink, looping and self-assured.
George holds it out like proof of something sacred.
"He asked what I race,” George says. His voice is steady, but his fingers are gripping the edges too tightly. “Then he shook my hand and said good luck."
Alex looks at the photo. The plastic sleeve catches the light, bright and untouchable. He presses his thumb into the strap of his backpack without meaning to. The signature is bold. Confident.
"He's not that tall," he says.
George blinks. "What?"
"On TV he looks taller."
George frowns faintly. "It's the camera angle."
Alex makes a noncommittal sound. They start walking again, and George falls back into step beside him, close enough that their jacket sleeves brush every few strides. George is still talking — about the event, the crowd, how fast everything felt, how the whole place smelled of fuel and something chemical that George hadn't expected to like as much as he did. Alex listens to the shape of it, the way George's voice lifts when he gets to the good parts.
*********
That night, Alex lies in bed staring at the ceiling. George probably slides the autograph back into its sleeve, smooths it flat, places it somewhere safe on his desk.
He tells himself it doesn't matter. He isn't entirely sure what “it” is.