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The morning George and everyone were meant to depart for Norway, George woke up with a sore throat.
He rolled over in bed and swallowed, hiding a wince when he did so. That didn’t feel great, he thought. He tested his throat by swallowing again, and then let out a dejected sigh. Of all days to have a sore throat, he grumbled. He reluctantly sat up in bed after checking the time on his phone. Chris and Arthur were already up, George could hear them packing and scurrying around their apartment.
He didn’t consider mentioning it. Not seriously.
By the time George swung his legs out of bed, the flat was already awake. He could hear movement down the hall - cupboards opening, the kettle being filled, Arthur’s unmistakable footsteps crossing the kitchen tiles with his usual unhurried confidence. Chris’s voice followed, low and conversational, words blurred together by distance.
George stood, stretched, and reached for the hoodie draped over the back of his chair. He tugged it on over his t-shirt, grateful for the softness around his neck, and padded toward the bathroom.
The mirror showed him exactly as he expected: sleepy-eyed, hair sticking up at the crown, face a little pale in the early light but otherwise fine. He leaned closer, opened his mouth, frowned at the faint redness at the back of his throat.
Still nothing worth commenting on.
He brushed his teeth carefully, swallowed against the soreness, and rinsed. By the time he emerged, his voice sounded normal again in his own ears. That settled it.
George stepped into the kitchen.
Chris was standing by the counter, already dressed for travel, coffee in hand. Arthur Hill sat at the table scrolling through his phone, passport and boarding passes neatly stacked beside him like he’d laid them out with intention instead of anxiety.
“Morning,” Chris said, glancing up.
“Morning,” George replied easily.
Arthur looked up too, grinning. “You sleep through your alarm?”
George shrugged. “Yeah.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Mm,” George said, already reaching for a mug. “Fine.”
And that was that.
No one tilted their head at him. No one asked him to repeat himself. No one looked concerned. George poured himself tea instead of coffee, more out of habit than caution, and wrapped both hands around the mug while Arthur rattled off the plan for the morning for the third time.
Taxi at half seven.
Meet Isaac and Arthur Frederick at departures.
Security.
Flight.
Try not to lose anyone.
George listened, nodded, swallowed carefully, and said nothing.
By the time they were loading bags into the taxi, the soreness had faded into background noise - present but ignorable, like the low ache you notice only if you focus on it. The taxi driver chatted cheerfully about airport traffic. Arthur Hill sat in the front. Chris and George shared the back seat, knees bumping every time the car took a corner.
George watched the city slide past the window, familiar streets blurring into something distant and unreal. Travel always did that to him - made everything else feel temporarily paused, like he was stepping out of his own life and into a parallel one where the only responsibility was getting from A to B without losing his passport.
At the airport, everything moved faster.
The drop-off zone was loud and bright and full of motion. George hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders, throat tightening just slightly as he swallowed against the cool air. He adjusted the scarf at his neck and followed Chris and Arthur through the sliding doors, into the rush of voices and wheels and announcements echoing overhead.
Isaac was easy to spot.
He stood near the check-in desks with Arthur Frederick, both of them already animated despite the early hour. Isaac waved when he saw them, nearly smacking Arthur F in the shoulder with his glove in the process.
“There they are!”
“Finally,” Arthur Frederick said dramatically. “We were about to assume you’d forgotten your passports and had to turn back.”
George smiled as they converged, exchanging quick greetings and shoulder bumps.
“Morning,” Isaac said to George, peering at him. “You look… awake.”
“That’s generous,” George replied.
Arthur Frederick laughed. “You excited?”
“Yeah,” George said, and meant it.
They checked in together, a loose knot of bags and jackets and shared documents. George moved through it all on autopilot - passport out, passport away, bag on the scale, bag off again. He swallowed a few times without thinking about it, distracted by Isaac’s running commentary on how he was absolutely going to fall on the first day and how Arthur H would definitely film it.
Security was its usual mild chaos.
On the other side, they regrouped, shoes back on, belts rethreaded, liquids repacked. Arthur Hill clapped his hands together once.
“Right. Breakfast?”
“Yes,” Isaac said immediately.
They found a café near their gate, the kind with too-bright lighting and pastries under glass. George ordered toast and tea, sitting back while the others debated the merits of airport bacon.
He ate slowly, swallowing carefully, but it went down fine. No pain. No nausea. No reason at all to mention anything.
He listened to Arthur Frederick describe the cabin they’d be staying in, to Isaac speculating about the snow conditions, to Chris outlining the filming schedule for the first few days. George nodded along, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the tea.
This was good. This was exactly how it was supposed to feel.
When boarding was called, they gathered their things and joined the line. George tucked his passport into the front pocket of his backpack, fingers brushing the fabric absently. His throat felt tight again, but he attributed it to the dry air, the talking, the excitement.
On the plane, he took the window seat, Chris beside him, Arthur Hill across the aisle. As the engines hummed to life, George rested his head against the window and watched the ground pull away beneath them.
The following 3 hours weren’t great. The dry air on the plane was not doing any good for George’s throat. He had been trying to spend the hours sleeping or listening to music to distract himself, but it wasn’t working very well. The others were all chatting, switching seats occasionally, but George did not feel up to it and was beginning to struggle to maintain a happy facade.
The plane touched down with a muted thump that ran through the cabin floor and up into George’s legs, a vibration more than an impact. The engines reversed with a deep, roaring sigh, and the collective tension of the passengers shifted into something lighter - seatbelts clicking open, people stretching, the low murmur of voices returning.
George stayed still for a moment, forehead resting lightly against the cool window.
His throat still hurt.
Not sharply, not in a way that demanded attention, but enough that every swallow carried a quiet sting, like he’d been talking for hours without water. He swallowed anyway, reflexively, and winced just barely before smoothing his expression out again.
It’s fine, he told himself, for the hundredth time. Dry air. Travel. Nothing.
George pushed himself upright as the plane slowed to a crawl. Outside, everything looked unfamiliar in that thrilling way - grey tarmac edged with snow, low clouds hanging heavy over distant trees. The sky felt closer here, lower, like you could almost reach up and touch it.
They waited their turn to disembark, shuffling forward in slow increments. George stood with his backpack slung over one shoulder, jacket zipped up to his chin. The fabric brushed his throat, and he adjusted it absently, tugging the collar a little looser.
Chris glanced at him once, a quick, habitual check-in, but George was already looking ahead, focused on the doorway opening onto the jet bridge.
Cold air hit them immediately.
It wasn’t brutal, not yet, but it was crisp and clean and shockingly fresh after the recycled warmth of the plane. George inhaled deeply through his nose, the cold biting slightly, and felt his throat protest again.
He coughed once, quietly, into his sleeve.
No one noticed.
They followed the stream of passengers through the terminal, footsteps echoing softly against polished floors. Everything felt calmer than most airports George had been in - less frantic, less loud. Signs were clean and minimalist. Conversations stayed low, respectful.
George liked it immediately.
Passport control was efficient. George handed over his documents, answered the brief questions, collected everything again with a murmured thank you. He swallowed as he stepped away, the soreness flaring just enough to be annoying.
Arthur Frederick was already bouncing on his heels near the baggage claim. “This is it,” he said, grinning. “Snow. Mountains. Content.”
Isaac laughed. “You sound like you’re about to cry.”
“I might,” Arthur F admitted.
George stood back slightly as they waited for their bags, watching suitcases roll past on the carousel. The hum of the machinery was oddly soothing. He leaned his weight onto one foot, then the other, stretching subtly.
His throat felt worse when he wasn’t distracted.
He took a sip from his water bottle and swallowed slowly. It helped, a little.
Their bags appeared one by one. George hefted his duffel off the belt, muscles protesting mildly, and slung it over his shoulder. The movement pulled his scarf tighter around his neck again; he loosened it with a small frown.
Outside the terminal, the air was colder still.
George paused automatically, breath catching for half a second as the chill hit the back of his throat. He pressed his lips together and breathed shallowly until it passed.
Chris noticed that.
“You good?” Chris asked casually, already reaching for his own jacket collar.
“Yeah,” George said without hesitation. “Just cold.”
Chris nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to Arthur Hill, who was arguing with Isaac about which car was theirs.
The drive to the Airbnb took longer than George expected, but he didn’t mind.
The road wound its way out of the city and into something quieter, something wilder. Trees thickened on either side, dark green against patches of snow. Mountains rose in the distance, huge and steady and unreal, their peaks lost in low cloud.
George pressed his forehead to the window again, watching it all slide past.
His throat ached steadily now, a dull, persistent discomfort that sat just beneath everything else. Every time he swallowed, he noticed it. Every time he breathed too deeply through his mouth, it stung.
He said nothing.
Arthur Hill drove, focused and calm. Isaac sat in the front passenger seat, narrating the scenery like he was filming already. Arthur Frederick and Chris were in the back with George, legs tangled with bags, conversation drifting from filming plans to food to whether the cabin would actually have decent heating.
George contributed when spoken to, smiled at the right moments, laughed quietly when something was genuinely funny. He drank water. He swallowed. He ignored the ache.
As they climbed higher, snow became more frequent, clinging to the sides of the road, dusting the branches of trees. The air felt thinner somehow, sharper. George rolled his shoulders, suddenly aware of a faint tightness there too, but he chalked it up to travel stiffness.
When they finally pulled into the Airbnb driveway, the light was already starting to fade.
The place was exactly as promised: a wooden cabin-style house tucked into the mountainside, warm lights glowing from the windows, smoke curling faintly from a chimney. Snow crunched under their boots as they climbed out of the car, breath puffing white in the cold.
George stood still for a moment, duffel at his feet, and just looked.
It was beautiful.
Inside, the air was blessedly warm.
George sighed quietly as the door shut behind them, heat wrapping around him. He shrugged out of his jacket, scarf, boots, movements careful and a little slower than usual. His throat still hurt, but the warmth eased it slightly, taking the edge off.
The cabin smelled faintly of wood and something clean, maybe pine. The living area opened up immediately, all exposed beams and soft lighting, a fireplace set into one wall. A staircase led upward, and down a short hall George could see doors that were probably bedrooms.
They dropped bags in a loose pile near the entrance.
They sorted rooms without much fuss. George happily took one of the beds in the shared room, which he would be sharing with Arthur F, and all he could do was crash down onto the nearest bed, face first.
“Who knew sitting for 4 hours could be so exhausting,” Isaac teased, throwing a pillow at George. George grumbled but did eventually get up to change into pyjamasand brush his teeth.
While everyone else was still running on adrenaline and excited to be here, George was too exhausted to keep his eyes open. Once he was back in bed, sleep overtook him within minutes.
George woke up the following morning to Arthur smacking him with a slipper.
“C’mon, Georgie, you’ve gotten the most sleep out of all of us, get out of bed!” he called. George just groaned.
His throat was still sore, and he felt run-down in general. A tiny part of him wanted to tell Chris he wasn’t feeling well so he could go back to sleep. But he knew that if he admitted to feeling ill, someone would want to stay back with him and would miss out on all the fun. George was still determined not to ruin the trip, at least for everyone else’s sake.
So he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed, taking even longer to get through his morning routine than he had the previous day.
By the time they were packing up to leave, he already felt tired.
That worried him, a little.
He ignored that too.
The trailhead wasn’t far from the cabin. They drove a short distance, parked, and stepped out into air that felt sharper than anything George had experienced before. The cold bit at his cheeks immediately, but beneath it there was something invigorating, something that made his lungs feel wide and open.
For a few minutes, he forgot how run down he felt.
The mountains rose around them in steady, imposing silence. Snow clung to shaded patches of ground, crunching under their boots, while other areas were damp and dark with thaw. Pine trees lined the trail, tall and still, their branches dusted white.
George adjusted the straps of his backpack and started walking.
At first, it was easy.
The path was gentle, winding gradually upward, and George fell into step beside Isaac, listening to him talk about filming angles and drone shots. His legs warmed up quickly, muscles loosening as they moved, and his breathing settled into a comfortable rhythm.
He even started to feel a little better.
Then the trail steepened.
It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough that George noticed his breath shortening sooner than it should have. His chest felt tight - not painfully, just… effortful. He slowed slightly without realising it, steps shortening, shoulders hunching forward a fraction.
Chris drifted back beside him without comment.
“You alright?” Chris asked quietly, more an observation than an alarm.
“Yeah,” George said automatically. “Just… altitude, I think.”
Chris nodded. “Yeah, that’ll get you.”
They kept walking.
George focused on placing his feet carefully, on the sound of snow compressing under his boots, on the steady sway of the trees. His throat ached when he breathed through his mouth, so he switched to breathing through his nose even though the air was cold enough to sting.
His head felt heavy again, that same thick, almost cottony feeling behind his eyes.
He didn’t mention it.
They stopped after about an hour to drink water and take photos. George sank down onto a rock, grateful for the chance to rest. He rolled his shoulders and realised they were tense, drawn up tight without him noticing.
When he tilted his head to stretch his neck, there was a strange sensation deep in his left ear - not pain, exactly, just a faint pressure, like being underwater.
He frowned slightly and swallowed.
The pressure didn’t go away.
Probably altitude too, he decided. Everything’s altitude.
He drank some water, took a few steady breaths, and stood up again when everyone else did.
The next stretch of the hike was harder.
The path narrowed, climbing more sharply, and George found himself falling a few steps behind the others without meaning to. His legs felt heavy again, like he was wading through something thick. Sweat dampened the back of his neck despite the cold, and when a gust of wind cut through his layers he shivered hard.
Arthur Hill glanced back. “You good, mate?”
“Yeah,” George said, forcing a smile. “Just pacing myself.”
Arthur accepted that easily and turned back around.
George was glad. He didn’t want fuss. He didn’t want attention. He just wanted to get through the hike and feel normal again.
They reached a viewpoint just after midday.
The view stole the breath from his lungs in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. Mountains stretched out in every direction, ridges layered like waves, snow catching the light in bright, blinding patches. The sky was a pale, endless blue, clouds drifting lazily across it.
George stood very still, hands resting on the straps of his backpack, and let himself just look.
For a moment, everything else faded.
Then his head throbbed faintly, a dull pulse behind his eyes, and the moment passed.
They sat to eat lunch, unpacking sandwiches and snacks. George perched on a log and unwrapped his food, eating slowly again. His throat protested with every swallow, and that pressure in his ear was more noticeable now, like something was gently pressing outward from the inside.
He rubbed at his ear absently, then stopped, realising what he was doing.
Don’t be weird, he told himself.
Chris caught the movement anyway, eyes flicking over. “You cold?”
George shook his head. “Nah. I’m fine.”
Chris studied him for half a second longer, then let it go.
The hike back down was easier on George’s lungs but harder on his legs. His knees ached faintly with every step, and by the time they reached the bottom of the trail his whole body felt tired in a deep, bone-level way that had nothing to do with a good workout.
As they walked back to the car, George lagged again, gaze fixed on the ground. His thoughts felt slow, like they were moving through syrup. He felt detached from the conversation around him, present physically but slightly removed otherwise.
When they finally got back to the cabin, he peeled off his boots and sank onto the sofa with a quiet sigh, shoulders slumping.
“You look wrecked,” Arthur F said lightly.
George smiled weakly. “Guess the mountains won.”
“First day always does that,” Isaac said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
George nodded, clinging to that idea.
He took a long shower, letting the hot water pound against his shoulders and back. It helped his muscles, but when he tilted his head to rinse his hair, that pressure in his ear flared into something sharper - not pain, but close enough that he hissed softly and straightened again.
He stood under the water for a moment, breathing slowly, then finished up quickly.
Back in his room, he dressed in soft clothes and lay down on his bed “just for a minute.”
The minute stretched longer than he intended.
When he finally opened his eyes again, the light outside had dimmed, and his body felt even heavier than before. His throat still hurt. His head still ached. And deep in his ear, that strange pressure lingered, quietly insistent.
George lay there, staring at the ceiling, and told himself - again - that it would pass.
It always did.
He just had to get through tomorrow.
The following morning, George’s sore throat is gone. Unfortunately, it had been replaced by a stuffy nose and a horrible headache. His left ear was now definitely dully aching, too, and all George wanted to do is go back to sleep. Arthur was still asleep in his bed when George woke up. If George didn’t have to sniffle every five seconds to stop his nose from running, he would have easily fallen back asleep.
Then he shifted slightly on the pillow - and his left ear throbbed in protest.
George winced, face scrunching before he could stop himself. The pain wasn’t sharp, but it was deep and insistent, like pressure building somewhere it shouldn’t. It pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat, each thud a reminder that it was there.
He lifted a hand and pressed gently just below his ear, jaw tight.
“Great,” he murmured to himself, voice thick with sleep and congestion.
His head ached too - not a full-blown migraine, but a steady, annoying headache that made the room feel slightly too bright even with the curtains drawn. He closed his eyes again, exhaling slowly.
You’ve just caught a cold, he told himself. That’s all. Travel, mountains, cold air. Normal.
He lay there for another minute, debating whether to get up or stay exactly where he was and pretend none of this existed. Eventually, practicality won out. They were skiing today. Everyone would be up soon. There wasn’t really space to linger.
He pushed himself upright.
The movement made his head throb a little harder, and his ear complained again, but he stayed sitting, waiting for the dizziness that never quite arrived. He rubbed his face with both hands, then stood and reached for his hoodie.
Downstairs, the cabin was already awake.
George could hear voices - Chris and Arthur Hill, by the sound of it - low and conversational, punctuated by the clink of mugs and the hiss of something on the stove. The smell of coffee drifted up the stairs, warm and grounding.
He took a breath and headed down.
Chris looked up first when George entered the kitchen. “Morning.”
“Morning,” George replied.
His voice came out slightly nasal, softer than usual.
Chris tilted his head a fraction. “You alright?”
George paused just long enough to consider how he felt, then shrugged lightly. “Yeah. Think I’ve got a bit of a cold or something.”
Arthur Hill glanced over from where he was buttering toast. “Ah, mountains’ll do that to you.”
George nodded, relieved at how easily it was accepted.
“No sore throat?” Chris asked casually, not hovering, just making conversation.
“It’s actually gone,” George said. “Just… sniffly. And a bit of a headache.”
And your ear? his brain added silently.
But he didn’t say that part.
“Take it easy today,” Arthur said, sliding a plate across the counter.
George smiled faintly. “I will.”
Breakfast was quiet and normal. Isaac and Arthur Frederick joined them a few minutes later, hair still messy with sleep, and conversation drifted easily to plans for the day - runs they wanted to try, snow conditions, how early they should leave.
George ate, though slower than usual, sipping hot tea instead of coffee again. The warmth felt good, soothing in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. His ear still ached, but as long as he didn’t move his head too quickly it stayed manageable.
No one made a thing of it.
They got dressed in ski gear at an unhurried pace, the cabin filled with the rustle of fabric and the thud of boots being set down. George moved a little more carefully than the others, sitting to pull on his socks instead of hopping around. He noticed the faint echo of pressure in his ear when he bent over, a fullness that made him pause until it eased.
Chris handed him his gloves without comment when George realised he’d left them on the table.
“Cheers,” George said.
“You good to ski?” Chris asked, tone easy, genuinely checking but not assuming anything.
George hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s nothing major.”
Chris studied his face briefly, then smiled. “Alright.”
Outside, the air was crisp enough to make George’s nose sting. He sniffed again, more cautiously this time, and adjusted his scarf higher over his face. The cold helped a little with the headache, sharp and clarifying.
The drive up to the slopes was short. George sat quietly in the back, watching the landscape roll past - snow-dusted trees, the sky a pale, endless blue. His ear throbbed gently the whole way, a reminder that he wasn’t at his best, but it didn’t worsen.
He focused on breathing evenly and not overthinking it.
At the resort, the familiar chaos of skis and chatter filled the air. George clipped into his boots, movements a touch slower than usual but steady. He rolled his shoulders, testing how his body felt.
Tired, yes. A bit achey. But functional.
They started on an easy run to warm up.
George pushed off and let gravity take him, carving careful turns down the slope. For the first few minutes, he almost forgot about everything else. The cold air rushing past his face cleared his head, the rhythm of movement grounding him in his body.
Then he turned his head slightly to check where Isaac was - and his ear flared sharply enough that he hissed through his teeth.
He corrected quickly, refocusing on the slope, heart thudding a little faster now. The pain settled back into a dull ache, but it left him more aware, more cautious.
Okay, he thought. Note to self: don’t do that.
They stopped at the bottom, waiting for everyone to regroup.
“You look a bit pale,” Arthur Frederick observed, squinting at him through his goggles.
George shrugged. “Just the cold.”
Arthur nodded, satisfied.
They moved on to a slightly longer run next. George kept his head forward, turns controlled and deliberate. He stayed a little closer to the others than he usually did, not because he was worried he’d fall, but because it felt… comforting.
By mid-morning, his headache had steadily worsened. Annoying, but not debilitating. His nose ran intermittently, and he sniffled, hoping no one noticed how often he was doing it.
His ear, unfortunately, was less cooperative.
Every lift ride made the pressure feel worse. As they ascended, the ache deepened, a squeezing sensation that made George’s jaw clench. He swallowed repeatedly, trying to equalise it, but it didn’t help much.
Chris noticed him rubbing at his ear once with a pained expression on his face, and raised an eyebrow. “George, we can all tell you’re not feeling very well,” Chris said softly. “I was talking to everyone and after this run, we’re gonna rest at the Airbnb for the afternoon. We’ve had a busy few days, we all could use a little break.” Chris smiled, but George still felt guilty.
“We’re going to, whether you like it or not,” Isaac said, smirking at George.
“Okay, fine,” he said dejectedly. He was stubborn and hated it when his friends were right, but he was exhausted and knew going back to the Airbnb was the right idea.
By the time they made it back, George’s head was pounding so hard he could hardly see straight and his nose was running like a faucet. It took him all of five minutes before he was under the covers and fast asleep.
By nighttime, George’s headache had finally disappeared and he had some hope that by the next day he would be feeling more like himself.
On the fourth day of their trip to Norway, George woke up to muffled voices. He recognized Chris’s voice, and thought the other two were both Arthurs but it was hard to tell. They sounded like they were speaking underwater, or at the very least off in another room. Georgeslowly opened his eyes and looked around, surprised to find that his friends were not in another room (or underwater) but sitting right across the room from him.
“Ah, there he is. Finally decided to wake up and start the day, huh?” Isaac teased lightly. “How are you feeling?”
George blinked a few times, having to focus incredibly hard to understand what Isaac was saying. His ears, especially his left, felt blocked up and painful and it was making it incredibly difficult for him to hear. “Um,” he started, before clearing his throat a few times. “I feel okay. Still waking up.”
“You think you’ll be up for the skiing and apres later on?” Isaac asked, knowing how much George had been looking forward to it. George nodded.
“Yeah…might just stay in and rest this morning. Save my energy for it,” he said. That was a bit of a lie as he didn’t exactly have any energy to begin with. Curling up on his side, George rested his head on top of his pillow. He let himself zone out for a minute, his face drooping as he thought about how bad his ears hurt, how tired he was, how bad he felt. Due to his poor hearing and dissociated state, George did not hear Chris trying to get his attention until it had been nearly a minute.
“-eorge?”
“What?” George snapped his head up to look at Chris.
“I was just asking if you were alright. You zoned out there,” Chris said, now a tiny bit concerned. George plastered on another smile and assured Chris he was fine, despite feeling anything but.
Four hours, a hot shower, and one dose of paracetamol later, George still wasn’t feeling any better. His earache had increased tenfold and he could hardly think straight. Everyone else was scrambling around the Airbnb, getting dressed and eating lunches and rushing to get ready. George was supposed to be doing the same, but instead, he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands, trying to will up the courage to go and tell Chris he wasn’t feeling well.
George finally made up his mind to go and tell Chris when he heard someone knocking on the door. George swallowed back a grimace and stood, going to open it. Arthur H stood on the other side, doing a little dance in place. “Sorry-” he started. “I really have to pee, I- are you okay?”
George hadn’t even noticed that he’d started crying until he reached up to rub at his eyes and his hand came away wet. Arthur seemed caught off guard by the sudden tears, but quickly composed himself.
“George, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, reaching out to place a hand on George’s shoulder. George choke back a sob, his voice wavering,
“I- I don’t feel well-” he whimpered quietly, the pain in his ear overwhelming. Arthur gave him a sympathetic look and guided him down the hall and into the living room. “Chri-is,” he called out, pulling George along by his hand. “George is ill- fix him.”
Chris looked up from where he was seated on the sofa, eyes widening when he realised George was crying. He quickly got up and made his way over. “George, hey- I thought you were feeling better?” he said, wiping away some of the tears on George’s cheek with his thumb.
“My-my- my ears hurt,” George managed to get out, struggling to speak due to feeling so horrible. He was dizzy still as well, and it was clear to everyone in the room that he felt horrible.
Chris had him sitting on the sofa within seconds, guiding him down carefully like George might tip over if he moved too fast - which, honestly, didn’t feel far off from the truth. George let himself be guided, legs weak, hands shaking as he tried to press his palms into his eyes hard enough to make the pain stop.
It didn’t.
The living room felt too bright, too loud, even though no one was actually being loud at all. Someone muted the music that had been playing in the background without comment. The sudden quiet made the ache in George’s ear throb harder, like it had been waiting for the attention.
“Okay,” Chris said gently, crouching in front of him so they were eye level. His voice was calm, grounding. “Hey. You’re alright. Just breathe for a second, yeah?”
George nodded, though it felt more like a twitch than a proper movement. His breathing was shallow, uneven, his chest hitching every few seconds as he tried not to cry harder. He hated crying like this - hated how it made everything feel worse, how it made him feel small and exposed - but the pain was overwhelming, and he was so tired of pretending it was fine.
Arthur H hovered awkwardly for half a second, then backed away. “I’ll - uh - I’ll let you deal,” he said softly, already retreating toward the bathroom. “Shout if you need anything.”
Chris nodded his thanks without looking away from George.
“Alright,” Chris said again, softer now. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
George swallowed, jaw trembling. “My-my ear,” he said, voice breaking immediately. “It hurts so bad. Like-like really bad. And my head hurts, and I feel weird, and-” He squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of dizziness rolled through him. “I thought it would go away.”
Chris’s expression softened even further, concern etching itself plainly across his face. “Okay. That’s okay. You did the right thing telling us.”
George shook his head weakly. “I didn’t- I didn’t tell anyone. I just-” He broke off with a small, helpless sob.
“That’s alright too,” Chris said firmly but kindly. “You’re telling us now.”
He glanced up as Isaac and Arthur Frederick approached, both half-dressed in ski gear, expressions instantly sobering when they saw George’s state.
“Oh,” Isaac said quietly. “Mate…”
Arthur Frederick frowned, concern replacing his usual easy grin. “That looks rough.”
Chris straightened slightly. “He’s not going out today.”
There was no debate in his tone.
“Yeah,” Arthur said immediately. “Of course not.”
“We’ll go,” Isaac added quickly. “No stress. You stay here.”
George’s head snapped up slightly at that, panic flashing through the haze. “You don’t- you don’t have to-“
Chris shook his head. “We do. It’s fine. You’re more important than skiing.”
George’s eyes welled up again at that, tears spilling over despite his best efforts to stop them. He pressed his sleeve against his face, trying to scrub them away.
“Hey,” Chris murmured, reaching out to gently pull George’s sleeve down before it could irritate his skin further. “You don’t have to be brave about this.”
George let out a small, broken sound at that and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, head dropping. The movement made his ear flare with pain and he gasped, hands flying up to clutch at the side of his head.
Chris was immediately there, one hand hovering uncertainly before settling lightly at George’s upper arm. “Okay-okay. Don’t move too much. That’s it.”
Arthur Frederick cleared his throat. “We’ll grab extra food on the way back,” he said, already backing toward the door. “Text if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Chris said.
Within minutes, the others were gone, the door clicking shut behind them. The cabin fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that pressed in around them.
George was still crying.
Not loudly - just these quiet, shaky sobs that seemed to wrack his whole body. Chris waited a moment, letting him get it out, then spoke again, voice low and steady.
“Alright. Let’s figure this out together.”
He stood and fetched a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it carefully around George’s shoulders. The added warmth made George sag slightly, like his body had been waiting for permission to relax.
“Can you tell me exactly what’s hurting?” Chris asked.
George sniffed, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “My left ear,” he said. “It’s- it’s like… pressure. And it’s throbbing. And my head hurts like… everywhere. And I feel dizzy. And I feel sick.”
Chris nodded, absorbing it. “Okay. Any fever?”
“I don’t know,” George whispered. “I feel hot. And cold. Both.”
“Alright.” Chris stood again. “I’m going to get the thermometer. Don’t move.”
George nodded weakly.
While Chris was gone, George stared at the floor, trying to focus on something other than the pain. The wooden boards blurred slightly as his vision swam. He pressed his lips together, breathing shallowly through his nose, which was still stuffy and unhelpful.
He felt stupid for not saying anything sooner.
Chris returned and gently pressed the thermometer against George’s forehead. They waited in silence for the beep.
“39.4,” Chris said quietly.
George winced. “Is that bad?”
“It’s a fever,” Chris said. “Explains why you feel awful.”
He set the thermometer aside and crouched again. “Have you taken anything? Painkillers?”
George shook his head. “Didn’t want to- I thought-”
Chris held up a hand. “Hey. No ‘should haves’. We’re here now.”
He stood and went to the kitchen, returning with water and paracetamol. He held the glass steady as George took the tablets with shaky fingers, swallowing with difficulty.
“Good,” Chris said. “That’ll help a bit.”
George leaned back into the sofa cushions, eyes fluttering closed despite the pain. The effort of crying and explaining had drained what little energy he’d had left.
Chris watched him closely. George looked miserable - flushed cheeks, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his whole posture curled inward like he was trying to protect himself from his own body. It tugged something sharp and protective in Chris’s chest.
“This looks like an ear infection,” Chris said gently. “Especially with the cold symptoms and the pressure. They can really hurt.”
George made a small sound of acknowledgment, too tired to respond properly.
“I’m going to keep an eye on you today,” Chris continued. “We’ll see how you feel after the meds kick in. If it gets worse, or if you feel really unwell, we’ll figure out next steps, alright?”
George nodded faintly. “Okay.”
“Do you want to lie down?” Chris asked. “Or stay here?”
George considered for a moment, then murmured, “Bed. I think.”
“Alright.”
Chris helped him stand slowly, keeping a hand near his elbow in case he wobbled. George did wobble, leaning into Chris without really meaning to. Chris steadied him without comment, guiding him down the hallway and into his room.
The bed looked impossibly inviting.
Chris pulled back the covers and helped George sit, then lie down carefully on his right side, away from the aching ear. He adjusted the pillow until George sighed softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
“Better?” Chris asked.
“A bit,” George whispered.
Chris tucked the blanket up around him, then hesitated. “I’ll be right here,” he said. “I’ve got my phone. I’m not going anywhere.”
George’s eyes opened again, watery but grateful. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Chris smiled gently. “Try and rest.”
As George drifted in and out of a light, uncomfortable sleep, Chris sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling idly but mostly watching George breathe. Every so often, George would stir, face pinching with pain, and Chris would murmur reassurance or adjust the pillow slightly until he settled again.
Hours passed like that.
Outside, the light shifted, the mountains doing what they always did, indifferent to the small, painful dramas unfolding inside the cabin. Chris stayed put, ready with water, painkillers when it was time, and quiet reassurance whenever George woke and remembered how bad he felt.
When George woke properly again, the pain was still there - but dulled slightly, no longer quite so all-consuming.
Chris noticed immediately. “Hey. How’s it feeling now?”
George swallowed carefully, then said, “Still hurts. But… less.”
“That’s good,” Chris said. “That’s progress.”
George nodded, exhausted but calmer now that the panic had eased. He still felt awful - but he wasn’t alone with it anymore.
And that made all the difference.