Chapter Text
George Russell
Opening Feature "How I Lost My Fake Boyfriend"
THE NEW YORK JOURNAL
2007. Publication 14 Nov.
And that’s when it came to mind that I let go of someone I cared about. But I hadn’t cared about anyone this much, in this way, in a long, long, time.
The toll of church bells is always sweet and light.
It was, yes, the day of the wedding. The best part, the part everyone's actually waiting for, the ceremony itself.
"You look great." George smiles, sugary sweet as he helps Alex to fix up the cufflinks he'd helped him pick out.
"Thanks, Georgie." Alex grins, ruffling his hair slightly. He knows George hates it, because George always styles it for exactly a half-hour every morning. But today, George can't seem to find anger at all.
George helps him fix up his collar a bit. Then, he spots the slight wavering in Alex's eyes.
"Scared?"
"Yeah."
George smiles warmly, for comfort, and then it breaks slightly, because he realises this is the day alot of things are going to change between them. And that, his old roomie may no longer be able to have instant noodles with him when he’s down, or to laugh at romance documentaries at 3AM, or to accompany him to dinner parties. He’ll have to do that all by himself, now.
But the knowledge that Alex is in good hands, that he’s finally settled, brings a sense of pride, as well as reassurance, that George can’t verbalise into words.
So, he says the best thing he can think of to comfort Alex.
"It'd be weird if you weren't."
Alex just laughs.
After all the tears, the 'I do's, and the applause has passed, it all comes down to George sitting alongside his begrudging boyfriend.
Nay, fake boyfriend.
The soft clinking of silverware as everyone digs in is wholesome, the rigidness of George's grip on his steak knife is not.
"Too much salt." George whispers under his breath after Max performs a salt-induced massacre on his plate. Max catches it anyway.
"Always have something to say, honey." He grins placidly, teeth clenched.
Oscar and Lando, who sit across them very happily, are now very confounded, and not that happy at the sight.
Okay, that’s a lie, Lando is still happy.
"What's with them?" Lando asks, hushed.
"Hell if I know." Oscar returns.
George lifts his head to glare at Oscar a bit, then at Lando with ten times that force.
"Georgie, don't be like that." Lando laughs.
"I'm not. I'm enjoying my perfectly pleasant dinner with my perfectly pleasant boyfriend."
"Darling?" Max begins. His teeth is so gritted together now, that he sounds an inch away from ventroliquism.
"Yes, dear?"
"Pass the pepper, honey."
"Get it yourself, sweetheart."
"I can't fucking reach it, baby."
"That's not my fucking problem, love."
Now even Lando looks concerned.
"Fuck. We kissed, okay?" George sighs as Oscar drags him in the level two bathroom for a therapy-session-slash-confrontation-slash-consultation. He suspects Lando's doing the same to Max on level one.
"What?" Oscar gasps.
"Yeah. But the worst part is, it even wasn't on the lips, ‘cause of the clause, and—
—and it was the best bloody kiss of my life."
"Saying bloody kind of ruins that sentiment." Oscar chips in helpfully.
"He kissed my head, then— then we talked about the clause, briefly, then my jaw, then- then I did the same." George rambles, placing a hand on his forehead.
"Okay. A tad TMI. But I get it."
"We're a mess, Oscar. What do I do?"
"Honestly, just confess." Oscar shrugs. It's infuriating how calm he is in all this.
"He doesn't want to be in a relationship with me."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, well- He said that thing was a mistake"
Oscar raises his brows, judgement evident on his face.
"And you, I presume, said it too?"
Maybe his guilty expression gave it away.
"He said it first! And, well, I didn't mean it." George scoffs.
"And what makes you think he does?"
The level one bathroom was too crowded, they decided to stand by the side awkwardly instead.
"He doesn't want anything to do with me."
"So, you guys fixed your relationship, and by fixing it, you ruined it again?"
"Precisely."
"He's still your boyfriend. You know. A day more and you guys will have to get packin', when your shit ends."
"I don't know if a day more is enough."
"You have to make it enough."
George has just come out of the shower, skin almost peeled (he took a longer time inside to avoid Max), while Max lies on the sofa absently. The sofa is still unmade from the night before. Yes, Max went back to that as his bed.
"We need to— we need to talk." Max says when he sees George, sitting up instantly.
"About what?"
"The kiss. What do you think?"
"What more is there to say?"
Max stills.
"It was a mistake, heat of the moment. Let's just move on." George theorises coolly, as if he's already thought about it in his head a million times and derived this conclusion.
Max can feel his heart drop.
I don't want to be a mistake. "Yeah. What I was gonna say."
"It's settled, then."
"Done and dusted."
George had thought about the way this would pan out a million times, and somehow, he's received the calmest, best scenario ever.
And yet, something's weighing him down, something that edges too close to guilt.
That night, Max goes to sleeps on the sofa. Again. They don't talk about it. When do they ever?
It's the second time George realises how cold a bed can be.
"It was lovely having you guys here." Alex smiles, hugging both of them. Max and George smiles arise from sincerity for the first time that day.
"Thank you."
"It was the best."
"Well, you guys oughta get home. Have a safe flight."
They send Alex and Lily more well wishes before departing, still holding hands.
It's only when they're out of sight, that they pull away fast and quick.
George secretly seeks that sentiment of touch again, but he'd never tell Max that.
On the plane back, he sleeps on Max's shoulder on accident. Yes, it was mortifying.
He woke up to his head rested neatly on a shoulder that wasn't his own, only to glance up and find Max also fast asleep, head resting on his.
So, naturally, he pulled away quietly and quickly.
He'd thought that, maybe by the end of the trip, they would've been good friends, but now they're anything but, and it's all his fault.
Then again, he doesn't think he can settle for friends. That word, in his thoughts, is bitter enough already. He thinks if he tried to propose it, if he said, "Max, let's stay friends", it would come out as vomit.
At the airport, all they exchange is a simple "bye". They don't really interact much. Max helps George get his luggage off the conveyor belt, maybe that's it.
Some part of George really wants to say "go home with me" but he doesn't think he'd make it.
And he knows that, because it's New York, he's going to run into Max anytime. And when they do, they'll have to act like strangers again. To protect something that never was.
It's only a while later until Toto, his editor, calls, asking for a piece.
And he has it ready. He's had one ready for the whole week since he got back.
He's just not sure if he has the gall to share it with the rest of the world.
But, a deadline is a deadline, and maybe it's time he starts making use of how popular his magazine is, and the fact he finally has a shot on the feature page this time.
It only took him a beat to think, is this worth it, to publish on features, but then he thinks, Max is worth anything.
And even though he hates that thought, it proves itself true when he presses submit with little to no hesitation, for the first time in his career.
George Russell
Opening Feature "How I Lost My Fake Boyfriend"
THE NEW YORK JOURNAL
2007. Publication 14 Nov.
And I think that, by not admitting anything, I've only admitted to the fact that relationships scare me and I had just let go the first one that brought me real clarity and authenticity. When, ironically, it was fake.
And while it being fake was my rationale, a deeper part of me that I didn’t like to embrace kept chanting: then why do I care so much?
It's raining down in torrents when George opens the door to five rapid knocks, and sees Max Verstappen by the door holding the latest edition of The New York Journal, drenched.
"Is this true?" Max holds it up. He's soaked, and half the paper is, too.
"Max— you're— oh my gosh, I'll get a towel."
"Is it true? What you wrote." Max shouts over the rain, pouring hard enough it is deafening.
George pauses, slightly.
"I don't write lies."
Max nods.
"It’s not, not real."
"What are you saying, Max?"
"I don't think any of it was fake. George, I need to be your boyfriend."
"None of it was fake, from my side." George mutters. He doesn’t address the second point at first, but he looks up and finds Max’s waiting gaze, and so he doesn’t think it’s worth it to keep him waiting like this any longer.
"Do you really want to be my boyfriend?"
"It’s the only thing I want."
Beat.
"Can I kiss you?" Max manages. He's looking straight at George and it's the most scared George has ever seen Max. Not when he's analysing his own articles on a stage, not when he's receiving awards for them, but now. When he's facing George.
Another pause.
Then, finally.
"Get over here, Verstappen."
And, oh, his voice is shaking, too.
George Russell
Opening Feature "How I Got My Fake Boyfriend"
THE NEW YORK JOURNAL
2007. Publication 1 Dec.
So maybe I got a real boyfriend out of my fake relationship. But clauses are barriers. And maybe, just maybe, a relationship doesn't have to rely on construct. Because that's what makes it real.
Following an article I wrote sometime this year, with some tweaking:
Falling in love is the absolute equivalent of hitting your head on the pavement.
It's grueling, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, and, most importantly, it gets you dizzy.