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Max knew he was in trouble the second Nico opened the front door.
He knew George's parents would be visiting. Yet he would be never prepared to face the Nico Rosberg. Ever. There was a certain look Nico Rosberg had when he was restraining himself from violence - jaw clenched, nostrils flared, that painfully polite smile like he was greeting a nosy neighbor instead of the teenager who had knocked up his son.
“Max,” Nico said, voice pleasant and clipped.
“Hi… Uncle Nico,” Max said, swallowing. “You look- uh. Nice.”
Jenson’s voice floated from the kitchen, “Play nice, Nico.”
“I am playing nice,” Nico said, not breaking eye contact. “Aren’t I being nice?”
Max took a small step back. “Should I come back later?” As if it wasn't his own home he's running from.
“You should’ve thought of that two years ago.”
Max blinked. “I- um- fine. Honestly? Fair.”
Inside the flat, the scent of soup and lemon lingered. George had been sleeping off a fever upstairs, and Max had brought over fresh flowers and the latest toy Kimi wouldn’t shut up about. He’d been trying to do things right.
Too bad Nico’s rage was generational.
“You were seventeen,” Nico began as he closed the door behind Max. “My George had never even kissed anyone properly- he was sixteen, Max. Sixteen. A literal child.”
Max sighed. “I know. I know. I think about it every day-”
“Good,” Nico snapped. “You should. Because I think about it every time I see my baby with dark circles under his eyes and a toddler chewing on his nipples in the middle of a Tesco.”
“Okay- technically, that only happened once-”
“Max.” Nico stepped forward. “You turned my child into a mother.”
Max opened his mouth, then paused. Then opened again “Well he doesn't mind being a baby mam-”
“DO NOT.”
“Okay!”
Nico let out a long, long sigh and pressed a hand to his temple.
Max, wisely, remained still. Very still.
“I used to joke,” Nico muttered, pacing now. “I used to say - George will give me grey hairs when he’s a teenager. I didn’t expect the grey hairs to come from the stress of scheduling prenatal appointments.”
Max tried to smile. “At least Kimi’s cute?”
“Kimi is the only reason I haven’t buried you in my garden.”
Max swallowed. “He… also looks a lot like George, huh.”
That made Nico pause.
Just for a second.
Something soft flickered behind his eyes.
“He does,” Nico admitted, quiet. “Same hair. Same pout. Same drama.”
“…and attitude,” Max added, carefully.
Nico shot him a look. “That attitude was earned.”
Max raised his hands. “Okay. No lies here.”
Jenson peeked his head into the hallway. “Dinner’s ready. And Nico, maybe you could stop scaring your son-in-law for five minutes.”
“I’m not his father-in-law,” Nico snapped.
Max tried, “Y–yet…?”
“Shut up.”
Later, over dinner...
Max sat in silence as Nico spoon fed George, who had finally come downstairs in a hoodie three sizes too big, mumbling about how sore his throat was.
George had barely sat down when he felt it.
That tension.
That charged air across the dinner table that buzzed like someone had plugged a toaster into a live wire. The kind that made the back of your neck prickle and your stomach twist just a little - except George’s stomach twisted a lot, because that someone was his dad and his boyfriend, and they were staring each other down like it was a damn spaghetti western.
Max was trying. He was really trying - fork in hand, posture polite, nervously glancing at George every few seconds like he was asking for permission to breathe.
And beside him, Nico sat with way too much poise. He was buttering his bread with the calmness of a man plotting someone’s disappearance.
George sighed loudly. “Okay. What is it now?”
Max opened his mouth. “I wasn’t-”
“You exist,” Nico cut in.
Max immediately went back to buttering his own roll in pure panic.
George groaned. “Papa, please. Can you two, like, be normal for once? You’ve been doing this weird passive aggressive hate flirt thing for two years now.”
“It’s not flirting,” Nico deadpanned.
“I don’t hate him,” Max added quickly.
“You got my son pregnant at sixteen.”
“And I’m still here, aren’t I?” Max snapped, just a little.
“By sheer mercy,” Nico muttered.
George slammed his spoon down. “Okay, Jesus - can we not fight over my uterus at the dinner table?”
Max turned bright red.
Jenson nearly choked on his wine.
“Technically it is -” Max began.
“Max!” George hissed. “Don’t make it worse.”
Just then, Kimi perched in a high chair with yogurt all over his face - giggled and tossed his spoon across the room, clearly enjoying the show.
George took a deep breath. Rubbed his temples. “Okay. Listen. I’m gonna need everyone here to calm the hell down. Max, stop sweating. Papa, stop glaring like you’re gonna challenge him to a duel. It’s fine. I’m fine. Kimi is fine.”
He looked between them.
Nobody moved.
George narrowed his eyes. “I said-”
Jenson leaned over, plopped a slice of chocolate tart on George’s plate, and pressed a kiss to his hair. “George, darling. Let them fight.”
George blinked. “What?”
“I said let them fight,” Jenson said again, sitting back. “It builds character. And if Max really wants to be part of this family, he’s gonna have to survive it first.”
Max stared at him in horror.
“Dad!” George whined. “Do something!”
Jenson didn’t even look up. “Let them work it out, love. We already had to sedate your papa when you went into labor. This is nothing.”
George groaned again and shoved a forkful of tart into his mouth. “This family is so dramatic.”
Max, quietly, “That’s rich coming from you, George.”
George threw a napkin at him.
After much much many while later, peace finally was made. Kimi now sat on Max’s lap, chewing on bread and laughing at nothing.
“You’re lucky,” Nico muttered finally, eyes fixed on George.
“Me?” Max blinked.
“Yes. You still have them both.”
Max sobered. “I know.”
And this time, Nico didn’t argue.