Chapter Text
The Wolffs are a weird fucking family.
The only reason Max got the gig tutoring their rich son is because he got personally recommended by Christian. Retrospectively, it’s either the nicest or the worst thing Christian has ever done for him. One last favour for all those years working together.
But Max doesn’t want to go back to teaching, and Dr Torger Wolff is stupidly rich, and his son is cheerful enough, if plagued with undiagnosed ADHD. It’s decent. Max pulled up with a steep hourly rate, but Dr Wolff didn’t even bat an eye.
So there Max sits, in the absurdly nice living-room of this renovated cottage in the middle of nowhere, feeling awfully underdressed, like his dark washed jeans might bleed onto the perfectly clean cream sofas. Across from him, Torger — or, Toto, as he’d introduced himself — pages through Max’s resume and asks the occasional question.
Yes, he got his teaching qualification, moved to the UK after spending a year here on the Erasmus scheme. Yes, he worked in a school for six years. No, he decided to step back from teaching so he could spend more time with his family. His brother, Liam, is moving to the UK and Max wants to support the move.
His resume is clean and flawless. Max knows that, Toto knows that, so he tries not to feel bad about dirtying the nice thick carpet under his threadbare sneakers. He seems to pass Toto’s first round of testing, because he then moves onto talking a little bit about himself.
Dr Wolff, it seems, has a finger in every affluent area of business in the UK. His son, Kimi, is only twelve, and is struggling a little with secondary school and concentrating for long periods of time. Well, Toto doesn’t say struggling, he says, may require an additional helping hand, which Max knows is corporate-speak for struggling.
He’s just explaining to Max how his son is very successful in junior karting, meaning sometimes he misses weeks of school at a time to travel across Europe for competitions. Max is here (if he gets hired) to help him catch up.
“He’s very talented,” Toto tells Max proudly, like he doesn’t want Max to think his son is behind. Not that there’s anything wrong with being “behind”. “We want to put serious time and effort into Kimi’s karting career. I can really see him going places.”
Max opens his mouth to ask who the other person in this we is, but his question gets answered before he even has a chance to utter it, because a moment later there’s a hesitant knock at the living room door.
Toto and Max turn in sync. There, in the doorway, stands a pale, waifish man. Lean and tall, he hovers at the threshold, having drummed his knuckles gently against the doorframe to get their attention, and blinks his big blue eyes over at them.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he murmurs, “can I get either of you anything to drink? Coffee, maybe?”
“Not now, George,” Toto says dismissively, at the same time that Max says, “some water would be great, thanks.”
George blinks between them, going slightly pink at Toto’s huff. “Sorry. Um. Water, was it?”
“Please.”
George’s eyes dart over to Toto. Max steals a glance at him too, and finds his face stoney, his thin lips pinched into a bloodless line. George dips his head. “I’ll get that for you,” he mumbles, and flees.
As soon as he leaves the room, Toto sighs like he’s got an incoming headache. “Sorry about my husband,” he says.
Max nods, because what else is he supposed to do? He hates to witness other people’s domestic situations. It make s him uncomfortable.
“He’s been unwell,” Toto continues, and the words sound rehearsed, like he’s had to excuse his husband’s behaviour a thousand times before — not that there’s anything to excuse. “Chronically ill. Means he doesn’t really go out much.”
Maybe that explains the strange way George was hovering, like he was waiting for permission to enter the room, to exist in his own home. He’s much younger than Toto, Max observes cooly. Couldn’t be older than thirty, where Toto could well be pushing into his fifties. He’s not one to judge, but…
There’s a shuffling sound from the corridor, and then George reenters. He holds it out to Max with both hands, like an offering, and Max notices the way his fingers tremble slightly. His nails are bitten down.
"Thank you," Max says, and tries to smile. When he takes the glass, his fingers graze George’s and he feels how cold George’s hands are. George smiles back, a small, nervous thing that doesn't reach his eyes, and then flinches when Toto clears his throat.
"George," Toto says, not looking at him. "You look tired. Why don't you go lie down?"
George's shoulders curl inwards, just slightly. "I'm okay," he says, quietly. "I thought maybe I could stay, for Kimi…"
"You need to rest." Toto's voice is gentle, but there's steel underneath it. "You know what happened last time you overexerted yourself." George's face goes even paler. He nods, quick and jerky, and retreats without another word.
Weird.
"He used to work," Toto says, and there's a note of something in his voice, a tired resignation. "Before. But the stress was too much for him. His immune system is compromised, you see. The doctors said—" He pauses, shakes his head like he's overcome with emotion. "Well. It doesn't matter what the doctors said. What matters is that he's here, and he's safe, and I take care of him."
Max nods again. His mouth feels dry.
Toto watches him go, then turns back to Max with a sigh. "He doesn't like to admit when he's struggling," he says. "I have to keep an eye on him. He'd run himself into the ground if I let him.”
Max takes a sip of water. It's cold and clean and tastes like nothing at all. “Seems like a lot of work, to take care of both your son and your husband.”
This seems to please Toto, some of the cloudiness of his expression lightening. “I don’t mind it,” he says. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it.”
“I see,” says Max, and to prevent himself from saying anything further, he takes another sip of water.
"So," Toto says, brightening. "Kimi. Let me tell you about his schedule."
He gets the job.
.
.
.
The Tesco on a rainy Wednesday evening is loud, bright, and aggressively unremarkable.
Max is standing in the middle of the cereal aisle, staring blankly at a box of Crunchy Nut and trying to remember if, for when Liam comes back, he insists on getting the branded stuff, or if the shop-own knock off cereal is acceptable. It bothers him that he can’t remember.
The cart swerves sharply at the last second, wheels squeaking against the polished linoleum.
"Sorry! Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't—"
Max turns, ready to deliver a dry, flat glare, but the apology dies in the throat of the man standing on the other side of the handle.
It’s George. He looks entirely different out of the sterile, silent museum that is their cottage, but no less fragile. He’s drowning in an oversized navy raincoat that looks suspiciously like it belongs to his husband, the sleeves pushed up to reveal pale, knobby wrists.
His light brown hair is damp from the rain outside, sticking to his forehead, and his blue eyes are wide, darting frantically between Max's face and the row of cereal boxes like he’s trying to place where he knows Max from.
"George," Max says, setting the box back on the shelf.
George blinks, a quick flash of pure panic crossing his features before recognition settles in. "Max. Right. Max, good to see you.”
"Yeah." Max folds his arms over his chest, keeping his stance relaxed, but his eyes automatically scan the man. Up close, without the soft lighting of the Wolff living room, George looks exhausted. Dark, purplish shadows sit heavy under his eyes, and he looks like a strong breeze could knock him straight into the Frosties. "Small world."
"Yes," George says quickly, his voice high and breathless. He glances over his shoulder down the aisle, then back at Max. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the handle of the trolley, which contains a bizarrely sparse collection of items: a carton of almond milk, two bunches of bananas, and a tub of plain Greek yogurt. "Very small. I… I was just getting a few things.” Max doesn’t know why he says it like that, all defensive. His lip quirks up. “Is that cereal any good? I told Kimi I’d smuggle him some of the sugary stuff.”
“Yeah, uh, I think so.”
Max takes a half-step closer, not wanting to hover, but noticing the way George’s hands are visibly trembling against the metal cart. "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."
George flinches slightly, pulling his shoulders in, that same shrinking movement Max had seen in the living room. "I'm fine. Just… a bit tired. Toto’s not home from work yet, but I forgot some of the ingredients for dinner.”
He looks at his watch — a massive, expensive silver piece that looks entirely too heavy for his thin wrist — and swallows hard. “He’ll be back soon.”
"He's very protective," Max offers cautiously, testing the waters.
"He cares a lot," George corrects.
“Of course.” The silence sits awkwardly.
"Right," Max says softly. He doesn't press it. He knows a walled-off defensive mechanism when he sees one. "Well, I won't keep you then. Don't want Toto sending out a search party."
It’s meant as a light joke, but George doesn't laugh. Instead, he gives a tense, jerky nod, shifting his grip on the trolley. "Yes. I should get to the checkouts." George turns the trolley around so fast a wheel wobbles violently, and he practically power-walks down the aisle toward the self-service tills. Max watches his sharp, narrow back disappear around the corner of the pasta section.
The Wolffs are a weird fucking family.
Max turns back to the shelf, grabs the branded Crunchy Nut, and tosses it into his basket.
The first session is on a grey Tuesday afternoon. Max parks his car behind a sleek black Range Rover and a smaller, older Volvo that looks out of place: dusty, slightly dented. It doesn’t fit well amongst the perfectly manicured lawn and the splashes of colourful flowers planted up the driveway, the beautiful cottage. He wonders if it’s George’s. Then he wonders if George is even allowed to drive with his medical condition — whatever it is.
Toto answers the door before Max can knock. “Max. Good to see you again. Kimi’s in the dining room. He’s been talking about this all morning.”
Toto explained that where he can, he works from home so he can look after his son and husband. Max thinks it’s a noble pursuit, and also thinks Toto could probably live off the accumulated interest from his investments comfortably for the rest of his life.
Max follows him through the house. It smells like lemon polish and something faintly medicinal underneath. In the kitchen doorway, he catches a glimpse of George. He’s standing at the sink, washing a single mug, his oversized jumper hanging off his shoulders like a curtain. He doesn’t look up when Max and Toto pass through.
Kimi is exactly as Toto described: twelve years old, bright-eyed, buzzing with restless energy. Max likes him instantly. He’s clever, funny, and so hungry for attention that it almost hurts to watch.
He insists on taking Max on a tour through the house, showing him the photos on the walls (some which include a smiley blond lady that he assumes is Kimi’s biological mother, who divorced Toto five years ago. (so what if Max did a little digging on the Wolffs? It’s very likely they did a background check on him too)), his karting trophies, and his room. It’s all very nice. Kimi does not show him his parents’ room.
They start with science — biology, specifically. Human cells and animal cells. Kimi taps his pencil, bounces his knee, asks a dozen questions that have nothing to do with the worksheet, about Max’s life and career and family. Max lets him talk, then gently steers him back. It works.
For twenty minutes, Kimi is focused. Then he’s distracted again, and Max has to guide him back. He thinks it works better, to be one-on-one with him, to offer more structure than a traditional classroom can provide. After forty-five minutes of biology and a successfully completed worksheet, they move onto maths.
Then there’s a knock on the door of the dining room. George pokes his head around the edge, smiling a little, “sorry, am I interrupting?”
Kimi beams at him. “Hi, George!”
George tentatively pushes the door open, and emerges with a tray with two cups of tea and a pair of muffins on it. “Thought you might want a snack. After working so hard.” He sets it down and shoots Max an apologetic look, “sorry, I don’t know how you take your tea.”
Kimi grabs the milky-looking one, which is fine with Max. He thinks all tea kind of tastes the same, anyway. He then makes a lunge for one of the muffins. They smell lemony, with little slivers of lemon-zest in them. Home-made? Is that what George does all day?
Kimi bites into it and hums his delight. “So good! Thanks, George!”
George smiles at him, coming to stand over Kimi and peer down his shoulder at Kimi’s working. “Algebra?”
“Mm-hm!” Kimi chirps. Max takes a sip of tea. “I still don’t know if the subtracting or the adding comes first in BIDMAS, though.”
“Whichever comes first in the equation,” George tells him, and points down at the page. “See?”
Kimi nods and scribbles down the answer, his tongue poking out in concentration. Max watches George’s hand as he points at the page. The tremor is subtle, but it’s there, a fine vibration under the skin, like a plucked string. When George’s sleeve slips back an inch, Max catches a small bruise on the inside of his wrist, yellow at the edges, the kind that comes from a cannula.
“See?” George says softly. “It’s like a sentence, you can read it left to right.”
“Ohhh.” Kimi’s face clears. “That makes sense. You’re better at explaining than my actual teacher.”
George smiles, a real one this time, small and surprised. “I used to help my little sister with her homework.”
“You have a sister?” Kimi asks, already distracted.
“Kimi,” Toto says warningly from the doorway.
Max hadn’t heard him arrive. Neither had George, judging by the way he startles, his shoulder knocking against the table. Toto stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.
“I thought we agreed you’d rest after lunch,” Toto tells George.
George straightens. “I was checking in on them. Kimi was stuck.”
“He’s not stuck. He has Max.” Toto’s voice is pleasant, patient. “You’re supposed to be lying down.”
“I’m fine.” George says it quickly, too quickly. “I slept. I ate. I’m fine.”
Toto tilts his head. “Are you?”
There’s a pause. George’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
Toto sighs, the sound heavy with fond exasperation. He crosses the room and presses the back of his hand to George’s forehead. They’re about the same height, but George is just so thin. Toto seems to triple his width. Broad shoulders, stocky arms. George goes still, like a rabbit under a hawk. “You’re warm,” Toto murmurs.
“I’m always warm,” George whispers.
“You’re always something.” Toto drops his hand. “Did you take your midday dose?”
George hesitates. His eyes flicker to Max and he flushes. He doesn’t want Max to see this. Max doesn’t want to see this, but Toto insists on doing it in front of Max. It’s only a second, but Max sees it. “Yes.”
“The full dose?”
“Yes.”
Toto studies him. Then he turns to Max with a smile that invites him in on the joke. “He forgets. His memory’s not great. Part of the condition.”
“I don’t forget,” George says quietly, head bowed.
Toto ignores him. “I keep his medication in my office. It’s easier that way; he gets confused about what he’s taken and when. Don’t you, darling?” George doesn’t answer. His hands have curled into the hem of his jumper. “I’ll get your drink,” Toto says. “You need electrolytes. You skipped breakfast.”
“I had tea,” George whispers, quieter again.
“Tea isn’t breakfast.” Toto leaves. The room feels larger without him, but George doesn’t relax. He stands very still, staring at the table, until Toto returns with a small glass of cloudy liquid. “Here. Drink.”
George takes it. He looks at it like it might bite him. “I don’t need this.”
“You do.” Toto’s voice is soft, but there’s no room in it for countenance. “You promised you’d trust me.”
George drinks. He grimaces, but he finishes it. Toto takes the empty glass and strokes his hair, a gesture that might look tender if George didn’t flinch. “Good boy.” Kimi has gone quiet. He’s pretending to work, but his pencil hasn’t moved. Max feels like he’s watching something through a window, something he shouldn’t see.
Toto pats George’s cheek, a brief, possessive gesture, before turning his gaze back to Max. The affectionate smile remains fixed on his face. "I'll let you two get back to it," Toto says pleasantly. "Go on up, George. I'll be in my office if you need anything."
George hesitates for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting toward Kimi, then toward Max, before he gives a faint, defeated nod. "Okay," he mumbles. He turns and glides out of the room like a ghost, his socked feet making no sound against the thick carpet. Toto follows him into the corridor, closing the dining room door softly behind them.
The quiet that settles over the room is heavy. Max looks down at his notepad, then at Kimi. The boy is staring intently at his algebra worksheet, his jaw clenched, the tip of his pencil digging so hard into the paper that the graphite snaps with a sharp crack.
"Damn it," Kimi mutters, slouching back in his chair. He presses a hand to his face.
"It's fine," Max says calmly, reaching into his pencil case and handing over a fresh wooden pencil. "Here. Take a breath."
Kimi takes it without looking up. "He's not stupid, you know,” he grits out.
Max pauses, his fingers resting on his mug of tea. "Who?"
"George." Kimi's voice drops to a harsh whisper, his eyes flicking toward the door as if checking for shadows underneath it. "He's really smart. He used to be an engineer.” He picks at the muffin’s corpse, now half-eaten and rapidly collapsing under Kimi’s angry fingers.
Max keeps his expression neutral, though a cold coil of suspicion tightens in his stomach. An engineer. "He mentioned he helped his sister with homework."
"Dad met him when he was getting his Masters in Cambridge," Kimi continues, his tone defensive, almost angry. "After he divorced mum. Then George got sick. But he's not... he doesn't just forget things like Dad says. He's not stupid."
"I didn't think he was," Max says quietly.
Kimi chews on his lower lip, the nervous energy from earlier mutating into something restless and sharp. He looks down at the algebraic equation George had just explained. "Dad just takes care of everything. He gets mad if George stays up too late, or if he tries to drive."
"The Volvo outside?" Max asks gently. "Is that George's?"
Kimi nods. "Dad took the keys months ago. Said George's reaction times aren't safe anymore." Kimi rubs his forehead, suddenly looking much younger than twelve. "Can we do the next sum?"
"Yeah," Max says, letting the topic drop. "Let's look at section two."
For the next hour, they work in relative peace, but the light atmosphere from the beginning of the session is gone, burnt out. When the hour finishes, Max packs his pens away and helps Kimi organise his folder.
As Max walks back toward the front entrance, he hears the faint sound of voices coming from up the stairs, from the direction of the study. The heavy oak door is slightly ajar.
Max isn't an eavesdropper by nature, but his feet slow down on the runner rug.
"—don't like you speaking over me in front of the tutor," Toto's voice is low, measured, and entirely void of the warm, paternal inflection he uses with Kimi. This is way more reprimanding. The kind of tone Christian used to use on junior staff members at school.
"I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to help Kimi," George's voice is raw. "I miss doing things, Toto. I feel like I'm losing my mind just staying in the bedroom all day."
"You are sick, baby. Look at your hands. You can barely hold a pen." A pause. The sound of a drawer opening and closing. "I give you everything. I keep you safe from the stress that put you in the hospital in the first place. Is this how you show gratitude?"
"No," George whispers, sounding small and broken. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Good. I forgive you. Now take your rest. I don't want to hear another word about driving, or going to the shops, or helping with tutoring. Max is paid to do that.” The sound of a chaste kiss. “I just want you to feel better, okay?”
Max stiffens, stepping back quickly as he hears footsteps approach the door. He marches swiftly toward the front door, making enough noise with his jacket zip to announce his presence.
Toto emerges from the hallway a second later, perfectly composed, wearing a warm, expansive smile. "All finished for today, Max?" Toto asks smoothly, holding out his hand for a shake.
"All done," Max says, keeping his grip firm, though his skin crawls at the contact. "Kimi did well. He's quick when he wants to be."
"Excellent. I knew you were the right man for the job," Toto says, opening the heavy front door for him. The chilly late-afternoon air sweeps in, smelling of damp soil and rain. "Same time next Tuesday?"
Max looks past Toto, up the grand staircase. At the top landing, standing in the shadows where the warm hallway light doesn't quite reach, is George. He's clutching his oversized jumper around himself, his pale face almost translucent in the dimness. He catches Max looking, freezes, and then vanishes back into the darkness of the upper floor.
Max turns back to Toto, whose smile remains impeccably polite. His skin crawls. There’s something really wrong here. "Yeah," Max says, his hands sinking deep into his coat pockets. "See you next Tuesday."
Max makes it down the driveway and into the driver’s seat of his car before he lets out the breath he’d been holding. He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, watching the soft yellow glow of the cottage windows in his rearview mirror.
.
.
.
By the second week, a pattern establishes itself.
Max arrives at quarter to four every Tuesday and Thursday. Kimi is always waiting at the dining table. Max teaches, Kimi learns most of the time.
Toto is almost always there, a towering, benevolent presence hovering in the background like a stormcloud. But George is around too, even if Toto tries his best to keep him tucked out of sight.
Max learns to spot the small details. The subtle ways George tries to signal he’s still human.
A fresh stack of index cards left neatly beside Kimi’s textbooks, covered in George’s precise, razor-sharp handwriting; reminders for how to solve linear equations. A Tupperware container of warm flapjacks pushed to the edge of the kitchen counter where Max can reach it, accompanied by a post-it note that reads For Kimi (And Max!) in neat cursive.
George never delivers these things when Toto is in the room. He slips them into existence when Toto is taking a business call in his study or pacing the back garden on his phone.
On Thursday, Max is packing up his laptop when the heavy front door clicks open down the hall. He notices the clack of polished leather shoes, followed by the dry, rasping cough of a smoker.
Max pauses, zipping up his bag. He leans out of the dining room. Kimi has already scarpered off once Max dismissed him. He’d been agitated all session. Max had not even realised there was someone else in the house.
Coming down the grand staircase is a tall, middle-aged woman in an impeccable charcoal coat, holding a leather doctor’s bag. She moves with a stiff, professional efficiency, her expression impassive as she checks a silver penlight into her pocket. Toto walks a step behind her, his hand lightly resting near her elbow.
"—his bloodwork showed the expected parameters, then?" Toto is asking. His tone is smooth, almost conversational, but there is a strange, tight density to it.
"All stable, Torger," the physician replies. Her voice is crisp, accented, and dry as bone. She doesn't look up at him, her eyes fixed firmly on the front door ahead. "As expected, following last month’s adjustment. He’s exactly where I expected him to be.”
"And the tremors?" Toto asks softly. "The fatigue?"
"Common secondary effects of the regimen," she says flatly, pausing at the foot of the stairs to adjust the leather strap of her bag over her shoulder. "As I’ve noted in the chart. The sedating properties are working as expected to keep his stress levels down.”
Max stays motionless by the doorway, his fingers lingering on his backpack strap. Something about the exchange feels scripted, like two actors running through a familiar scene they’ve rehearsed a hundred times. Like they’re both pretending, performing, lying.
"Good," Toto says softly. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a thick white paper envelope, and slips it cleanly into the side pocket of the doctor's leather bag. The gesture is quick and fluid, hardly noticeable in the slip of his hand. Not the typical way one would pay for an invoice.
"I appreciate you coming out on such short notice, Dr. Steiner. It reassures me to know he’s getting the exact care he requires."
Dr. Steiner’s hand rests over the pocket containing the envelope for a brief second. Her expression doesn't shift. They’ve done this song and dance before.
"He is as stable as the medication allows him to be," she says, her tone dry. There’s an implication there, one that brushes against Max but one he can’t properly grasp onto. "I will sign off on the usual refill for the pharmacy. Keep him rested and avoid unnecessary exertion."
"Of course," Toto murmurs. "I monitor everything he takes."
"I am aware." Dr. Steiner turns toward the entrance, her eyes sweeping across the hallway until they land on Max standing in the shadow of the dining room frame.
She stops for a fraction of a second. Her gaze is sharp, assessing Max's scuffed sneakers, his dark jeans, and the flat, unblinking way he’s watching the two of them. A subtle, almost imperceptible tightness forms around her eyes, but she says nothing. She merely gives Max a brisk, curt nod of her head before turning back to Toto.
"I will see myself out," she says, pulling open the heavy oak door. The cold, wet smell of autumn air rushes into the sterile, lemon-scented hallway. "Good day, Torger.”
"Thank you, Frauke," Toto says smoothly, watching her walk down the gravel path to her car before closing the door with a soft, solid thud.
The heavy quiet of the house settles over them again. Toto stands in the foyer for a moment, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. When he turns around and notices Max, his face instantly melts back into his usual smile, the one that tells of paternal care, of a tired, caretaking husband. The smile that Max doesn’t trust.
"Ah, Max," Toto says pleasantly, walking over. "Apologies for the intrusion. Just routine checks for George. Our private physician comes by to make sure his treatment stays on track."
Max looks at Toto. He thinks about the tremor in George's fingers, the dull, foggy look in his big blue eyes, the way he shrank when Toto mentioned his medication, and the crisp envelope currently sitting in Dr. Steiner’s bag.
"Right," Max says.
Toto’s smile doesn't slip, but his dark eyes narrow just a fraction, searching Max’s face for any flicker of doubt. Finding none, he pats Max lightly on the shoulder. "It’s a long process," Toto sighs with practiced sympathy. "But we do what we must to keep him safe. I'll see you on Tuesday, Max."