Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

George had just finished setting the table when the front door opened with that familiar, careless sound, keys clinking against wood, the faint drag of expensive shoes on the marble floor, the sigh of someone who no longer knew what “home” meant. Max walked in, phone still in hand, eyes bright but distant, like he was already halfway somewhere else.

“I’m having dinner with Charles and Ollie tonight,” he said simply, as though the words were nothing but dust to be brushed aside. George stood by the counter, hands still trembling from the heat of the pan, the steam from the stew still curling around his wrists like ghosts begging to be acknowledged. He looked at Max and wanted, so desperately, to ask him to stay, to tell him that the table was already set, that the candles were flickering patiently as if waiting for a love that never came.

“I already cooked,” George said softly, almost apologetically, as though being thoughtful was a crime.

Max sighed, already loosening his collar, already halfway gone. “I promised Ollie,” he said. “He’s been asking to see me.”

There it was again, that name. Ollie. The two-year-old boy with Max’s eyes and Charles’s smile, the living proof of a love that once burned bright enough to ruin. Charles Leclerc, the omega who used to be Max’s everything, now happily with Carlos, now raising their child, yet still tethered to Max by invisible blood-red threads that George could never untie. They had broken up a week before Charles found out he was pregnant, and somehow, despite everything, Max never truly left him. Their shared child, Ollie, made sure of that.

“I already cooked,” George said, finally, in a voice too fragile to carry resentment. The table was set for two, candles trembling, as if the flame itself understood heartbreak. “You could’ve told me sooner.”

Max looked at him, not unkindly, but distantly, the way one looks at a painting long admired but no longer felt. “I know. But Ollie’s waiting.”

George nodded, though the motion felt like surrender more than agreement. He tried to smile, the kind of smile that hides the way the ribs ache under the weight of unsaid things. He told Max to have fun, which he understood, because wasn’t that what love was, in the end? Understanding? Submission? Watching someone walk away, over and over again, and still finding reasons to forgive?

When the door closed, the silence that followed was almost holy. George sat down at the table alone, the two plates mocking him, two glasses of wine staring back like eyes that refused to blink. He began to eat, mechanically at first, then greedily, then miserably. Every bite tasted like salt, perhaps from the food, perhaps from his own tears.

“It’s fine,” he whispered into the empty kitchen, “It’s always fine.”

Maybe he accidentally poured a bottle of salt because the food was so salty. Oh, the saltiness comes from his tears.

He knew this rhythm too well. Charles called, and Max went. Charles sighed, and Max came running. There was an invisible thread between them, something fragile yet unbreakable, something that George had never been able to cut. And Ollie—sweet, perfect, innocent Ollie—was the living embodiment of that thread. George could not hate a child, but he envied the way Max’s eyes softened whenever Ollie giggled, the way he became a man that George never got to keep. Charles was the ghost that never left the room, always whispering through the corners of Max’s heart, a reminder that George would forever be the second act in someone else’s love story, the aftertaste, never the flavor.

When Max came back that night, he was carrying Ollie, who was asleep against his shoulder, mouth slightly open, hand clutching the fabric of Max’s shirt.

“Hey, Georgie,” Max said softly, stepping into the warm light of the kitchen.

“Look who wanted to visit.” George’s heart, traitorous as ever, softened.

“Hey there, little one,” he said, taking Ollie from Max with practiced tenderness. The child stirred, then relaxed against him, small and warm.

“He missed you,” Max said absently, taking off his coat.

George’s heart faltered. “Ollie,” he breathed, smiling despite himself. The boy stirred, murmured something incoherent, and George took him gently, cradling him like a fragile miracle. “He’s gotten taller,” George said, brushing a lock of hair from Ollie’s forehead.

“Yeah,” Max said, watching them with something unreadable in his eyes. “He’s growing fast.”

For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like a family. Almost.

Later that night, when Ollie had been tucked into bed, Max turned to George.

“George,” he said, and that single syllable felt like a knife slipping between ribs. “Could you sleep in the guest room tonight? Ollie’s staying here.” It wasn’t a question. It never was. “Of course,” George said again. The words tasted bitter. He went to the guest room in silence, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet, the air thick with resignation.

It had always been this way too, whenever Ollie stayed, George vanished into the guest room, making space for a father’s love, making himself small so Max could be whole.

In the cold quiet of the guest room, George lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. He could hear faint laughter from down the hall—Ollie’s bright, unrestrained giggle, followed by Max’s softer chuckle, the kind George used to love. He closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him like a cruel lullaby.

He thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was what hell truly was, not fire, not torment, but the quiet agony of being almost loved. The feeling of watching someone’s world revolve around another person while pretending it doesn’t tear you apart.

In the darkness, George whispered to no one in particular, “It’s fine, Max. It’s always fine.”

But the night knew better. It wasn’t fine. It never was.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled weakly through the curtains, brushing the edges of the kitchen in muted gold, the kind that looks warm but never really is. George stood before the stove, his fingers trembling slightly as he flipped the eggs—sunny-side up, the way Max liked them, and toast browning just enough to be crisp but not burned. The smell filled the air, domestic and gentle, the kind of scent that made him pretend, just for a moment, that this was happiness.

Ollie sat at the dining table, swinging his legs, humming to himself while Max scrolled through his phone, already dressed in his neat gray suit. George smiled faintly, plating the food with care, his hands aching from small burns he had ignored the night before.

“Breakfast is ready,” George said, his tone soft and proud, the smallest flicker of light in his voice. He placed the plate before Ollie, who looked curiously at the eggs, then at Max.

The silence that followed was heavy, slow—like watching thunder build before the strike.

“George,” Max said, his tone suddenly sharp, slicing through the quiet. “What is this?”

George blinked. “Breakfast,” he said, confused, a weak smile trembling on his lips. “Eggs and toast. I thought—”

“George.” Max’s voice hardened. “You know Ollie doesn’t eat this. He only eats organic food—no processed bread, no eggs unless Charles approves them. You forgot?”

“I—” George started, confused, his voice small. “I thought—”

“You thought?” Max’s voice hardened. “You know Charles doesn’t let him eat things like this. He only eats organic. Charles packs all his meals. We’ve talked about this a hundred times.”

George felt his stomach twist painfully, shame curling up his throat like smoke. “I forgot,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Max’s brows furrowed, disappointment flashing like a blade. “How could you forget something so simple? Charles packs his food every day, you know that. We can’t risk him getting sick.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, muttering, “Sometimes I just don’t understand you.”

Charles again. Always Charles—Charles, the perfectionist omega with his curated menus, his organic meals, his obsession with control disguised as care. Even in his absence, his rules governed the house. George lowered his gaze.

George’s lips trembled, but he nodded. “I’m sorry, Max. I really am. It won’t happen again.”

Max sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that feels like an ending. “Forget it,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. “I have a board meeting. I’ll grab something on the way.”

Before he left, Max stepped closer, his tone softening just enough to pierce George’s chest. “Don’t do it again,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to George’s forehead, like forgiveness handed out of habit, not affection. Then he was gone.

He left his breakfast untouched, grabbed his briefcase, and disappeared through the door, the faint echo of his shoes fading like the end of a cruel dream.

When the silence returned, it was deafening. George stood there for a long moment, staring at the plate meant for a family that didn’t quite exist. He sighed, a deep, hollow sound, before reaching for the ointment on the counter. His fingers throbbed where the hot pan had kissed his skin earlier—a small, stupid injury, but one that hurt nonetheless. He rubbed the ointment in slow circles, staring at the empty seat where Max had been moments ago.

The day crawled by. George spent it taking care of Ollie, who was endlessly curious, endlessly alive. He built block towers with him, played with toy cars, read stories about dragons and kingdoms. The boy’s laughter filled the house like sunlight spilling into rooms that hadn’t seen it in years, and despite everything, George found himself smiling. For a moment, it felt like forgiveness.

But then the phone rang.

“Toto?” George answered, blinking at the name flashing on the screen.

“George,” came the familiar deep voice, tinged with disappointment. “I wanted to speak to you before the news gets out.”

A coldness spread through George’s chest. “What news?”

There was a pause. “You’re no longer with the agency,” Toto said at last. “You haven’t shown up for shoots in weeks. Clients are pulling out. I can’t keep defending you if you’re not committed.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“No—Toto, please,” George said quickly, his heart pounding. “I’ve just been—things at home—Max—”

“I understand,” Toto interrupted, and the gentleness in his voice hurt more than anger would have. “But I can’t make exceptions. I’m sorry, George. You’re talented, but talent isn’t enough.”

The line went dead before George could speak again.

He sat there in silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, until the reality sank in. His career, the one thing that once made him proud, that gave him identity beyond Max’s shadow was gone. Just like that. He placed the phone on the couch, then buried his face in his hands. The tears came quietly at first, then harder, until the sobs filled the empty room like waves crashing against a hollow shore. He cried for his lost career, for the years he had wasted, for the love that devoured instead of nourished.

And then, from somewhere down the hall, a soft, piercing wail.

Ollie.

George wiped his tears, tried to compose himself, and stumbled toward the noise. He found the boy on the floor, crying, his little hands clenched around the broken pieces of his toy car. “Ollie, hey,” George said gently, kneeling beside him. “It’s okay, sweetheart, we can fix it—”

“I want Papa!” Ollie cried, voice cracking. “I want to go home!”

George flinched. “Ollie, your Papa’s working right now. He’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The boy only cried louder, his small fists hitting the floor. “No! I want Papa! You’re mean!”

“Ollie, please—” George pressed a hand to his temple. His head throbbed; the migraine that had been whispering all morning now roared. The room tilted slightly. “Please stop shouting.”

But Ollie didn’t. His cries grew louder, shriller, relentless. George felt bile rise in his throat, the combination of nausea and exhaustion tightening around his chest. “Ollie,” he said through gritted teeth, “I said stop.”

When the boy kept crying, something inside him snapped. He reached out and pushed Ollie, barely, just a desperate reflex to stop the noise, but the boy stumbled back, fell, and began to wail louder.

The sound broke something in George. He froze, horrified at what he’d done. “Ollie—no, no, I didn’t mean—please, don’t cry—”

But the boy had already scrambled up and ran toward the master bedroom, slamming the door.

George staggered back to the kitchen, his stomach twisting violently. He barely made it to the sink before vomiting, the acid burning his throat as he gripped the counter with trembling hands. Tears blurred his vision. “God,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

In the next room, Ollie was on the phone, sobbing into the receiver with trembling fingers. “Papa,” he cried, “Papa, I want to go home! Georgie’s angry! He pushed me!”

Charles’s voice hardened instantly. “What? He did what?”

“I want to go home!” the boy wailed louder.

“Stay where you are, Ollie,” Charles said, fury tightly coiled in his tone. “I’m calling your father.”

When Max answered, his voice was calm, too calm. “Charles?”

“Your lover pushed our son,” Charles hissed. “He hurt him, Max.”

There was silence. Then Max’s tone dropped to something dark and dangerous. “Stay there. I’ll come.”

By the time Max returned, it was evening. The sky outside had turned the color of ash, and George sat on the couch, still pale, still trembling. When the doorbell rang, he rose on unsteady legs and opened it.

Max stood there, eyes blazing. Before George could speak, Max shoved past him, heading straight for the bedroom.

“Max, please,” George began, his voice shaking. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean to—I was dizzy—”

Max turned sharply, his expression cold as marble. “You pushed my son.”

“It was an accident! I swear, I—”

“Don’t.” Max’s voice was low, final, like the closing of a tomb. “You never, ever lay a hand on him again. Do you understand me?”

George’s lips trembled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes filling. “Please, Max, I didn’t—”

But Max was already kneeling beside Ollie, who had emerged from the room, clutching his stuffed toy. “Hey, buddy,” Max said softly, his tone instantly transforming into gentleness. “It’s okay, Papa’s here.” He scooped Ollie up into his arms, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

George watched them, father and son, a perfect portrait of love he would never belong to.

Max turned once more toward him, face hard. “We’re leaving,” he said simply.

And then they were gone.

The sound of the closing door echoed through the apartment, hollow and cruel. George stood frozen for a long time, then slowly sank to his knees, the silence pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe. His bandaged fingers brushed the floor, and he whispered to no one, his voice raw and trembling,

“It’s fine, Max. It’s always fine.”

But even the walls, silent witnesses to his quiet ruin, seemed to murmur back,

No, George. It never was.

Chapter Text

The morning was cruel. George woke to the sound of his own breath faltering — shallow, uneven, like a dying bird trying to stay alive — his skin slick with sweat, his head pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. The sheets clung to him as though even they refused to let go. He rolled out of bed, barely catching himself on the edge of the nightstand, the room spinning, his stomach twisting until the nausea became unbearable, and he stumbled into the bathroom. He didn’t even have time to close the door before he vomited.

He stayed on the cold tile floor for a long while, his cheek pressed against it, trembling, his breath weak and trembling like the flicker of a candle in a storm. The air was heavy, metallic with the scent of sickness. His hands reached for the phone with the slow, stubborn determination of a man still pretending hope was not a luxury.

He called Max.

Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
Thirty-seven.
Sixty-three.

Each time the call ended, his stomach twisted tighter, his throat burned harder, and he thought — maybe the sound of the ringtone would make Max remember that there was someone at home still waiting for him, someone who’d made dinner, someone who’d tried to love him gently despite the shadows between them. But the silence was merciless. Even the network tone began to sound like mockery.

He wanted to call Alex next, but Alex was away — somewhere sunlit and far, with laughter spilling through the phone whenever he posted pictures of his girlfriend and the sea. George didn’t want to break that kind of peace. So he put the phone down, lay on the couch, and stared at the ceiling until it blurred into white light and darkness in turns. The house was so quiet that even his heartbeat felt too loud.

And in that quiet, guilt came — slow, creeping, deliberate. He thought of Ollie’s small, tear-streaked face; he thought of how the boy’s voice cracked when he cried, of how his tiny hand had flinched from George’s touch. He had never meant to raise his voice. He had never meant to lose his patience. But the migraine, the exhaustion, the rejection — it all clawed through him until he no longer recognized himself. He hated himself for it. Hated that he could break something innocent.

The world faded around him after that only fragments remained, the sound of rain against the windows, the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, the bitter taste of guilt clinging to his tongue.

When Max came home that night, the air was thick with something he couldn’t name. The lights were off. Usually, George would at least leave a dim glow in the living room, the scent of something warm lingering in the air — roasted herbs, garlic, butter, life — but tonight, nothing. The stillness of the apartment felt almost deliberate, as though silence itself was accusing him.

“George?” he called out, voice low, uncertain.

No answer.

He walked through the hallway, past the kitchen, and saw the counter spotless, no breakfast plates, no tea cups, no sign of George’s gentle chaos that usually made this place feel like a home. He sighed. “Still sulking,” he muttered, his tone half-annoyed, half-ashamed.

He pushed open the guest room door.

There he was — George — lying still under the thin blanket, face turned away, hair clinging damply to his temple. He looked peaceful, but unnaturally so, like a painting too still to be real.

Max stood there for a moment, his expression softening despite himself. “You’ll get sick if you keep acting like this,” he said quietly, though the irony of the statement would haunt him later. “Come on, Georgie. Don’t ignore me like a child.”

But George didn’t move.

Max rolled his eyes and left, thinking the silence was punishment — the usual cycle of fight, silence, forgiveness. He told himself it would all be fine by morning.

Midnight passed, and something in the air began to stir restlessly. The silence had changed. It wasn’t peaceful anymore — it was oppressive, heavy, like something had gone wrong. Max felt it deep in his bones before his mind caught up. He went back to the guest room, slower this time, his pulse beginning to race for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“George?” he whispered, pushing the door open again.

The same stillness.

He reached out, touched George’s shoulder — and froze.

His skin was burning.

“Jesus Christ—George!” The panic cracked his voice in half. He shook him gently, then harder, calling his name over and over until George let out a weak sound, half a sigh, half a whimper. Max didn’t wait. He lifted him into his arms — too light, far too light — and carried him out the door, his heart hammering so hard it drowned out the sound of the rain outside.

He drove like a madman. Every red light was an enemy, every turn a battle between desperation and fear. “Hold on, Georgie,” he kept whispering, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare—don’t you dare leave me like this.”

At the hospital, the world became noise and motion, nurses, questions, forms. Someone took George from him, and he stood there, helpless, with the ghost of George’s weight still in his arms. He could only hear the beeping of the monitor behind the curtain, faint but steady.

Then a doctor approached him, her face calm, clinical. “Mr. Verstappen?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, voice sharp, desperate.

“Your partner’s condition is stable now. The fever was dangerously high, but we managed to bring it down.” She hesitated, glanced at the chart. “If you’d come even a few minutes later, it might’ve affected the baby.”

The words didn’t make sense. “The—what?”

“The baby,” she repeated gently. “He’s three weeks pregnant.”

For a second, the whole corridor fell away. Max just stood there, blinking, his mind blank, the words echoing like something from a dream he didn’t understand. Pregnant. Three weeks. George.

He sat down slowly, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth. Something inside him cracked not with anger, not even confusion, but a deep, raw realization of how little he had noticed, how absent he had been.

When George opened his eyes again, it was morning. The world was quiet, the sunlight pale through the curtains. Max was sitting beside him, his face unreadable, his hands clasped tightly together.

George’s voice came out weak. “Max?”

Max looked up slowly. “You’re awake.”

“What happened?”

“You fainted,” Max said. His tone was calm, too calm, that dangerous calm that comes before the storm. “You had a fever. They said you were… pregnant.”

George blinked, the words swimming in his fever-heavy mind. “Pregnant?”

Max’s eyes hardened. “Have you been sleeping with someone else?”

George stared at him, disbelief and hurt mixing like poison in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re pregnant, George.”

“I know what that means, Max.” His voice broke on the edge of exhaustion. “But I’ve never slept with anyone else. You’re my first. You’re my last. You’re the only one I ever wanted.”

Max leaned back, his hand covering his mouth, exhaling slowly as though trying to contain something vast and destructive inside himself. “Then do you want to keep it?”

George’s eyes drifted toward the window. The rain had started again, soft and steady, the kind that seemed to wash away everything but the ache it left behind. “What do you want?” he asked softly.

Max hesitated, and then his voice cracked, quiet and pleading in a way George had never heard before.
“Please keep it.”

George looked at him then really looked and saw not the man who had scolded him, not the one who left him behind for dinners and promises, but someone terrified, broken, clinging to the one thing that still tied them together.

And for a moment, despite everything, George almost smiled. Because even tragedy had its cruel tenderness and love, as he had learned, always demanded its blood payment.

Chapter Text

The sun burned gold above the endless blue horizon when they arrived at Pulau Semporna,
a quiet island that seemed to float somewhere between paradise and memory, where the wind carried the scent of salt and distant laughter. It had been a month since George found out about the baby, and although the morning sickness had begun to fade, uncertainty still lingered in the corners of his mind like mist refusing to lift after dawn.

When Max told him that Carlos and Charles had invited them for a small vacation on the island, George hesitated. The name Charles still echoed with unfinished business, with apologies that tasted of regret and misunderstanding. But Max had smiled, that familiar, persuasive smile that made George’s walls tremble, and said softly, “He’s no longer mad, George. It’ll be good for us.”

And so, he agreed.

When their boat touched the pier, they were greeted by the sound of waves colliding gently against the wooden dock and by Ollie’s small figure running through the warm air, his laughter cutting through the sea breeze. The child ran straight into his father’s arms, and Charles bent down, scooping him up, his smile wide and sunlit. George watched the scene, a bittersweet tenderness stirring in his chest, he wondered if one day, Max would hold their child like that. The thought was fragile and painful and beautiful all at once.

Charles approached him not long after, and for a brief moment, the tension that once hung between them returned like a ghost. “Charles,” George began, his voice low, “I… I’m sorry about what happened with Ollie that day.” But Charles merely shook his head, his expression softening with understanding. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his French accent wrapping around the words like velvet. “I know it wasn’t you — pregnancy makes emotions unpredictable. I understand now.”

That night, the island transformed under the veil of starlight. The waves whispered secrets to the shore, and a fire crackled near the beach where the four men sat — Carlos tuning an old guitar, Charles humming faintly, Max tossing marshmallows into the flames with the kind of boyish grin George hadn’t seen in months. Ollie played with the local children, his laughter ringing like tiny bells against the sound of the sea. The fire painted everyone’s faces in flickering shades of gold and orange, and for a fleeting second, everything seemed right.

George and Charles wandered away from the group, their conversation gentle and filled with small laughter, the kind that mends fragile bridges. The sand was cool beneath their bare feet, and the air smelled of salt and burning sugar. Ollie, chasing after a ball, accidentally stumbled — his little body colliding into the two men. The world seemed to blur for a heartbeat. Charles stumbled backward, and George’s hand shot out, clutching the nearest palm tree trunk, his heart thundering at the thought of what could have happened if he had fallen.

Carlos and Max immediately ran toward them, Max reaching Charles first. “Are you okay?” Max’s voice was laced with concern, his hand brushing the sand off Charles’s arm. George stayed quiet, his fingers trembling slightly against the rough bark of the tree. Only when Max turned to him, asking, “You alright, George?” did he manage a nod. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”

But from the corner of his eye, George caught Carlos’s gaze, unreadable at first, then softening into something that looked like pity. That quiet sympathy made George turn away quickly, pretending to focus on Ollie’s flustered apologies. The boy’s voice was shaky, his big eyes full of guilt. “I’m so sorry, George! I didn’t mean to—” George smiled faintly and knelt, brushing a strand of hair from Ollie’s forehead. “It’s alright, Ollie. Accidents happen.”

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains of their small villa. The air smelled faintly of coconut and coffee. George sat at the dining table, half expecting to prepare breakfast for everyone like he always did, but when Max came over carrying two plates, George froze. Max — the man who usually never touched the kitchen unless it was for coffee — had prepared breakfast for him. The sight made his heart swell with quiet joy.

Max placed the plate in front of him, smiling awkwardly. “Eat something,” he said. “You need it… for both of you.”

George looked down at the meal. It wasn’t his favorite, scrambled eggs with herbs, toast, and orange slices, but he smiled anyway, because this was the first time Max had ever done something like this for him. He took a bite, the warmth spreading not just through his body, but through the fragile spaces in his heart.

Then Charles appeared, cheerful and sunburned from an early morning walk, holding a plate, the exact same one Max had just served George.

“Ah, you made my favorite!” Charles said, his voice light. George’s smile faltered slightly, the taste of the eggs suddenly dull. Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in George’s chest tightened, not because of jealousy, but because the realization stung. The breakfast Max had lovingly brought him wasn’t for him. It was Charles’s favorite meal.

Still, George smiled through it, swallowing down the bitterness. At least he noticed me today, he thought. At least he cared enough to serve me something. And for now, that small, fragile illusion of affection — even borrowed — was enough to keep his heart beating softly in the warmth of the island sun.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed after their return from Pulau Semporna, the tan on George’s skin fading, the salt in his hair washed away, but the quiet ache in his heart lingered like the scent of the ocean that never truly leaves your clothes. Monaco greeted them with its cold elegance, glass towers, glittering streets, and the heavy silence of a home that had once been filled with warmth. The island had given George a brief illusion of peace, but peace, he realized, was only ever a pause before the next wave.

That morning, Max drove him to the hospital for their first official ultrasound appointment. The air inside the car was filled with that kind of nervous quiet that made every sound too loud, the faint hum of the engine, the soft shuffle of Max’s fingers against the steering wheel. George stared out the window, his reflection pale against the glass, his hand resting unconsciously over his abdomen, where something small and fragile was growing, a heartbeat that didn’t belong entirely to him, but one he already loved more than himself.

Max was talking again, endlessly, carelessly, his voice light but unthinking. “When I went with Charles to his ultrasound, the doctor said Ollie was already kicking like crazy,” he said, chuckling, as if that memory was worth retelling a thousand times. “Charles was so nervous, you know? But I told him it’d be fine. I’ve seen this before.”

George’s fingers tightened slightly against his jeans. He tried to smile, to brush it off, to tell himself that Max didn’t mean any harm. But it didn’t stop. Max spoke about Charles’s first check-up, about how he had held the ultrasound print, about the sound of the tiny heartbeat, and how incredible it had been. Every word fell like a small stone into the space between them, widening the quiet ocean George was already drowning in.

By the time they reached the clinic, even the nurses could sense it, the faint tension in the air, the way George’s eyes lingered too long on the floor, the way his smile looked rehearsed. When the doctor guided the probe gently across his stomach, George watched the monitor in silence, eyes glistening. The tiny flicker appeared on the screen, a heartbeat, steady and fragile, like a candle flame trembling against the wind. That was their baby. Not anyone else’s. The thought should have filled him with joy, but instead, it broke something quietly inside him.

Max, oblivious, kept talking. About Charles, about past ultrasounds, about everything except them. Even the doctor looked uncomfortable, offering George a kind smile, and the nurse gave him a sympathetic glance that made him want to laugh and cry at once.

When they left the hospital, the afternoon sun was already beginning to dip, painting the city in hues of amber and melancholy. The car ride home was silent at first, until George finally spoke, his voice calm, too calm, the kind that came after too many swallowed words.

“Max,” he said quietly, not looking at him. “Can you stop talking about Charles when it’s supposed to be our moment?”

The steering wheel stilled under Max’s hands. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the traffic and the faint rhythm of George’s breath. Then Max exhaled, a long, tired sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you upset,” he said softly. “It’s just that I’ve been through it before, and I thought… I thought sharing it might make things easier.”

George turned his face toward the window again, watching the city blur past. “Maybe,” he whispered, “but sometimes, sharing too much of the past makes the present feel smaller.”

Silence fell again, thick and uneasy. Then Max spoke, his tone lower this time, more careful. “I’m sorry, George. I really am. I didn’t realize how it sounded.”

For once, the apology didn’t feel mechanical. It wasn’t wrapped in excuses or pride. It felt real, sincere in a way that made George’s heart falter for a beat. He looked at Max, studied the weariness in his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he saw something that resembled honesty.

“It’s alright,” George said finally, his voice soft but tired. “Let’s just try to be better, okay? Communication, it’s supposed to matter, right?”

Max nodded, his eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll try.”

And though the air between them still carried unspoken words and unfinished wounds, for a moment, George allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could start again.

It was a warm afternoon in Monaco, the kind where the sunlight bleeds through the sky in lazy golds and the air feels heavy with the scent of the sea and the chatter of strangers. Max had left early that morning, dressed neatly in a dark shirt, saying he had a business meeting with Carlos about some sponsorship deal. George had nodded, quietly, as always, pretending not to notice the way Max avoided his eyes when he said it. He didn’t ask, because asking meant inviting another silence, and George was tired of silences that stretched so long they began to sound like goodbyes.

So he spent his day trying to fill the void. He went to the market, list in hand, buying things they needed—milk, bread, eggs, vegetables, all the things that made the kitchen feel alive again. The grocery bags were heavy, but the act of carrying them made him feel grounded, as if weight was something he could control. He passed the little ice cream vendor near the marina, the one with the blue umbrella and the cheerful old man who always played French songs from a small speaker. It should have been a peaceful sight, but instead George froze, his steps faltering as the world around him seemed to still for a moment.

Because there they were.

Max, sitting on one of the benches, with Charles beside him and Ollie perched happily on Max’s lap, his little hands gripping the melting ice cream cone as his laughter spilled into the afternoon air. Charles was smiling, the kind of soft, tired smile that only parents seemed to wear, while Max leaned in to wipe the chocolate off Ollie’s cheek, his eyes full of that warmth George had been begging for in silence.

For a second, George couldn’t breathe.

He wasn’t jealous of Charles, no, not anymore. He had long accepted that Charles loved Carlos, that their story was written in another time and sealed by another kind of love. But he couldn’t help the ache that bloomed in his chest at the sight of the way Max looked at them, that quiet tenderness, that familiarity. It wasn’t Charles that he envied. It was the attention, the simplicity, the way Max smiled without hesitation, as though he belonged in that small, perfect picture.

And it hit him then, cruelly and without mercy, that Max had lied. There was no meeting. No business with Carlos. Just this moment, this ordinary, unguarded afternoon spent with the two people who would always come first.

He wanted to leave quietly before anyone noticed him. Maybe go home, put away the groceries, and pretend he never saw. Pretend he could still believe in the version of Max who came home late but faithful. But as fate would have it, when he turned away too quickly, his shoulder brushed against someone passing by, and the sound of familiar laughter reached his ears.

“George,” came the voice, calm but laced with hesitation.

He turned and saw Carlos standing there, dressed casually, a small bag slung over his shoulder, looking at him with that unreadable expression George had come to associate with quiet pity. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” George said finally, voice low, almost polite.

Carlos sighed softly. “I was actually going to call you later.” He hesitated, then glanced toward the bench where Max, Charles, and Ollie sat. “You saw them, didn’t you?”

George followed his gaze, forcing a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hard not to,” he murmured. “They look… happy.”

“They are,” Carlos said, though the words sounded heavy, as though he didn’t quite know how to make them gentle. He rubbed the back of his neck, his tone careful. “Ollie asked for it, actually. He wanted to spend some time with both his parents, like before. Max was nervous about telling you. He thought you’d be upset once you found out.”

George blinked, his throat tightening. “Upset?” he echoed, quietly, almost laughing at how absurd that sounded. “He thought I’d be upset about what? A father spending time with his son?”

Carlos’s eyes softened. “He thought you hated Ollie. Or maybe Charles. Especially after that ultrasound. He said you didn’t look happy that day.”

George let out a slow breath, the kind that trembles at the edges. “I didn’t look happy because he made me feel like a stranger in my own moment,” he said, his voice quiet, but sharp with truth. “But hate? No. I don’t hate Ollie. I don’t even hate Charles. I just hate being reminded that no matter what I do, I’ll never be enough to fill the space they left behind.”

Carlos looked at him for a long moment, his expression flickering between sympathy and guilt, the way someone looks when they understand more than they wish they did. “You should tell him that,” he said softly.

George smiled faintly, bitterly. “And what good would it do? He doesn’t hear me when I talk, Carlos. He only hears himself.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sea wind carried the sound of Ollie’s laughter again, the sweet sound of innocence that didn’t deserve to be tangled in the mess of adult hearts.

Carlos sighed, resting a hand gently on George’s shoulder. “He’s an idiot sometimes,” he said, his tone kind. “But he does love you, in his own strange, stupid way.”

George looked at him then, and for a moment, his eyes shimmered with something fragile. “Maybe,” he whispered, “but sometimes love isn’t enough when you’re the only one holding onto it.”

He thanked Carlos softly, adjusted the weight of his groceries, and walked away, each step heavier than the last. The world around him resumed its rhythm, the sound of the sea, the chatter of the crowd, but inside him, something had gone unbearably quiet, as if the tide had gone out and taken all the color with it.

And somewhere behind him, the laughter continued, bright and unbroken, as if it belonged to another life entirely.

Dinner that night was silent except for the clinking of cutlery against porcelain and the soft hum of the refrigerator that filled the void neither of them dared to speak into. George had cooked, as he always did, something simple—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, a bowl of salad that remained untouched on Max’s side of the table. The smell of rosemary filled the air, but it only made George feel sick, as if the scent itself mocked him for pretending everything was fine. He had rehearsed the words all afternoon, over and over again, but when Max finally walked in, cheerful and tired, kissing him absentmindedly on the cheek as though the world was still kind, every sentence he’d planned turned to dust in his mouth.

Now, sitting across from each other, George could feel the weight of it pressing against his ribs, that unbearable silence that stretched until it became suffocating. Max was scrolling through his phone, smiling faintly at something, his dinner barely touched. The glow from the screen reflected in his eyes, making him look distant, unreachable. George stared at him for a long moment, then finally put his fork down with a soft clatter.

“Where were you today?” he asked, his tone even, too even, the kind that hides the tremor underneath.

Max didn’t look up right away. “Meeting,” he said simply, still half-occupied with his phone.

George let out a small breath through his nose, more exhale than laugh. “Right. The meeting with Carlos, wasn’t it?”

That made Max pause. He looked up slowly, frowning slightly as though trying to measure how much George already knew. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “Why?”

“I saw you,” George said, his voice calm but his eyes sharp with exhaustion. “At the marina. With Charles and Ollie. Eating ice cream.”

The silence that followed was immediate, brutal, and it seemed to stretch endlessly between them. Max’s lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering away for a second before returning to George’s face. “It’s not what you think,” he started, his voice uncertain.

George leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Then what is it, Max? Because from where I stood, it looked like a family outing. Charles, Ollie, and you. The perfect picture.”

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair, a nervous habit George had come to recognize as his tell. “Ollie wanted to spend time with both his parents,” he said, quietly. “Carlos told me he was asking about it for weeks. I didn’t want to say no to him. He’s just a kid.”

“I know he’s a kid,” George replied, his tone sharp now, anger barely restrained. “I don’t blame Ollie, or Charles. What I don’t understand is why you had to lie to me. Why you had to make me think you were somewhere else when you could’ve just told me the truth.”

Max looked at him helplessly, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Because I thought you’d be upset,” he said softly. “What you told me makes me think you saw the ultrasound as some kind of… competition. That you were jealous, that you hated being reminded of them. I didn’t want to hurt you again.”

George laughed then, a bitter, broken sound that carried no joy. “Jealous? Do you really think I’m that pathetic, Max? That I’d be jealous of your son?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Max said quickly, his voice rising, desperate. “I just— I misunderstood. I thought you were uncomfortable, I thought you didn’t want to deal with them.”

George stared at him, eyes glistening under the kitchen light. “You thought wrong,” he said quietly. “You always think wrong. I was never angry about Ollie. I was angry that every time I try to have something with you, they show up in your words, in your thoughts, in the way you look at the world. You never left them, Max. You just made room for me beside their shadow.”

Max said nothing. His shoulders slumped slightly, his head bowing as if the weight of George’s words had finally found their mark. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I just… I didn’t know how to balance it. I’m trying.”

George stared at him for a long while, searching for sincerity in his tone, for something that might make the ache in his chest soften even a little. And for once, he saw it—real remorse, quiet and unguarded. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, but it was something.

“I know you’re trying,” George said finally, his voice tired, his words trembling like a thread about to snap. “But sometimes, trying isn’t the same as choosing.”

Max lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed, the faintest shadow of regret painted across his face. “You’re right,” he murmured. “But I am choosing you, George. Even if I keep doing it the wrong way.”

George sighed, pushing his plate aside. He didn’t believe him entirely, not yet, but he was too tired to fight anymore. “Then start showing it,” he said softly, standing up. “Because I can’t keep being the one waiting for proof.”

He turned away, walking toward their bedroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the quiet apartment. Behind him, Max sat in silence, his untouched dinner growing cold, his apology hanging in the air like smoke that refused to clear.

And though the night was still, George could feel something shifting inside him, slow and uncertain, like a tide that had not yet decided whether it was coming in or pulling away forever.

“You say, "I don't understand, " and I say, "I know you don't"

We thought a cure would come through in time, now I fear it won't”

“Stop, you're losin' me

Stop, you're losin' me

Stop, you're losin' me

I can't find a pulse

My heart won't start anymore

For you

'Cause you're losin' me”

Chapter Text

Three months into the pregnancy, the days seemed softer somehow, gentler, quieter, though the silence between them still carried the ghosts of arguments that had once filled every room. George had grown accustomed to expecting little, and Max, perhaps sensing the quiet distance, began to move differently. More carefully. More deliberately.

It started with food.

One evening, George came home to the smell of thyme and butter. The kitchen, once a battlefield of takeout boxes and cold plates, was warm again. Max was standing by the stove, sleeves rolled up, his hair a little messy from the steam. There was something oddly tender in the way he stirred the pot, as though the meal itself was an apology.

“I made dinner,” Max said without turning around. His tone was casual, but there was a tension beneath it, like he was afraid George might reject even that small peace offering.

George blinked. “You cooked?”

Max nodded, setting the dish on the table. “Your favorite. The stew with potatoes and thyme. Alex told me.”

George froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Alex told you?”

There was a flicker of guilt across Max’s expression. “Maybe I asked.”

George tilted his head, lips twitching upward. “So you forgot my favorite meal and had to ask my best friend?”

Max sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t forget. I just…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t want to get it wrong again.”

The honesty disarmed George. For all their chaos, Max rarely let his guard down like that. So, he smiled softly and picked up his spoon. “Then let’s call it even.”

From then on, Max tried. He really did. He cooked breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, left small sticky notes on the fridge that said things like drink your water or don’t skip vitamins. George would roll his eyes at them, but secretly, he’d smile.

And for the first time in weeks, he began to believe they might actually make it.

But peace was a fragile thing, and life, as always, had other plans.

One early morning, George woke with a sharp, burning pain in his abdomen. It wasn’t like the usual cramps. This was different, deeper, angrier. His breath came out ragged as he sat up, clutching his stomach, eyes scanning the room in confusion. “Max?” he called out, but the house was silent. His side of the bed was cold.

Panic settled in his chest. He reached for his phone on the nightstand. A new message from Max blinked on the screen.

“Ollie’s sick. High fever. He’s having seizures. Taking him to the hospital. I’ll call later.”

George’s heart dropped. The pain in his stomach intensified until he could barely stand. He called Max once, twice, then again, his voice shaking as the ringing dragged on. No answer. He tried again. Still nothing.

He fumbled through his contacts and pressed Lando’s number.

“George?” Lando’s voice was groggy.

“I… something’s wrong,” George gasped. “My stomach… I can’t…”

That was all it took. Lando didn’t waste another second. Within fifteen minutes, he was at George’s door, hair disheveled, panic etched on his face. Alex was with him, already on the phone with emergency services.

“Where the hell is Max?” Lando demanded as he helped George into the car.

“He’s at the hospital with Ollie,” George winced. “He said Ollie’s having a seizure.”

Lando’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “And he left you alone like this?”

“Don’t,” George said weakly. “He didn’t know.”

Alex, seated beside him, muttered under his breath, “He should’ve known.” He was furious, pacing mentally as they reached the hospital.

Once admitted, George was taken straight into emergency care. The doctors rushed to check on the baby, the rhythmic sound of monitors filling the tense air. Lando paced outside the room like a restless lion. Alex, meanwhile, was on the phone with Carlos, demanding he reach Max.

Carlos’s voice crackled through the speaker. “He turned off his phone. He’s been at Ollie’s bedside. He’s not thinking straight.”

By the time Max finally arrived, his face was pale, hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. He looked at George lying in the hospital bed, the monitors beeping softly beside him, and the guilt hit him like a punch to the chest.

But before he could speak, Alex literally punched him.

“You bastard!” Alex shouted. “He could’ve lost the baby!”

“Alex!” George gasped.

Lando was already stepping forward, voice sharp with anger. “You don’t get to play the worried husband now, Max. You left him.”

Max didn’t defend himself. He stood there, shoulders heavy, eyes glassy. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “Ollie was… he was convulsing. I panicked. I didn’t want anyone calling. I—”

“You turned off your phone,” Lando interrupted, seething. “While George was in pain.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.” George’s voice was weak but steady. “Enough, all of you.”

The doctor entered then, saving them from another blow of words. “The baby’s fine,” she said gently. “It’s a pregnancy complication, but nothing alarming. He just needs rest and less stress.”

The words were both a relief and a weight. Max exhaled shakily, tears gathering in his eyes. George reached for his hand, still trembling from the pain. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Ollie needed you.”

Max shook his head. “But I should’ve been here.”

George smiled faintly, though his eyes were tired. “You can’t be everywhere at once, Max. You’re human.”

Then Carlos called again. Ollie had woken up. Max’s expression flickered, guilt and relief tangled together. His eyes darted to the door, then back to George.

“Go,” George whispered. “He needs you.”

Max hesitated only a moment before rushing out, the sound of his shoes echoing down the sterile hallway.

As soon as he left, the room filled with tension. Lando’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t even think twice.”

Alex crossed his arms, eyes cold. “It’s always them first, Charles and Ollie. You’d think you were just a placeholder, George.”

George’s eyes snapped open, sharp and hurt. “Stop it,” he said quietly. “You don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?” Alex hissed. “He left you in pain. Again.”

“Because his child was seizing!” George’s voice cracked, emotion breaking through the calm. “You think I’d want him to stay here, worrying about me while Ollie might’ve died?”

Silence.

Alex looked away, shame creeping in. Lando sighed, frustrated.

George’s eyes softened. “I’m not angry,” he said, almost to himself. “Just tired. Tired of being compared to something I can’t replace. But I don’t hate them. I never could.”

The room went quiet. The faint beeping of the monitor was the only sound, steady and fragile, like his heart still learning to trust again.

And as the night stretched on, George lay there staring at the ceiling, the cold hospital light washing over him, wondering how much love could endure before it broke completely.

“I never was the best to you
I never was the best to you
I never was, I never was”

Chapter Text

Flashback

He remembered it all too vividly, as if the memory itself had refused to age. The first time George met Max was when they were ten, and the world was still painted in the colors of innocence, though even then George had known something about life was mercilessly unpredictable. It had been one of those late autumn afternoons where the playground reeked of dust and scraped knees, and George, small and quiet, had been cornered by three boys who found amusement in cruelty. He didn’t remember their words anymore, only the way they laughed, sharp, loud, and unkind.

Then Max appeared. A boy with sunlit hair and eyes too fierce for his age, like a summer storm trapped in human form. He had thrown himself between George and the bullies without hesitation, pushing one of them aside and shouting something George couldn’t even process, because all he could think of was how this boy — this strange, radiant boy — looked like he had stepped out of one of those stories where heroes always arrived in time.

When the bullies ran off, Max turned to him, brushing dirt off George’s sleeve. “You okay?”

George had nodded, mute, his voice lost somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Yeah,” he whispered, though his heart was pounding so fast it felt like a living thing clawing at his chest.

That was the beginning.

From that day on, George followed Max with the quiet loyalty of a shadow. At first, they were inseparable, two boys laughing too loudly in the schoolyard, trading secrets about toy cars and future dreams. George would always wait for Max after class, sometimes with a sandwich wrapped neatly in foil, sometimes just to walk home together. But life, cruel as it often is, began to move them in separate directions. Max grew bolder, wilder, the kind of boy everyone wanted to be around. George stayed small and soft-spoken, the kind who listened more than he spoke.

Then came Charles.

Charles was everything George wasn’t — graceful, radiant, effortlessly loved by everyone who looked at him. When Max met him at sixteen, it was as if the world tilted, and George felt it deep inside his chest. He knew that look on Max’s face. He’d seen it in mirrors when he thought of Max himself.

It was love.

The kind that burned quietly and consumed everything.

George had stood by and watched it unfold. He watched Max fall, hard and beautifully, for Charles, and he told himself it was enough to be the friend Max trusted, the one he could run to when things got hard. He watched them laugh together in hallways, watched Max drive Charles home, watched them whisper and touch hands when they thought no one was looking.

And he smiled through it all. Because that was what love did — it hurt, but it stayed silent.

When the news came that Charles was pregnant, George had locked himself in his room for hours. He didn’t cry, not really. It wasn’t sadness; it was a quiet, hollow ache, the kind of pain that seeps into the spaces between your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. He had always known Max belonged to someone else, but knowing and feeling were two entirely different things.

Then, almost as suddenly, it all fell apart.

They broke up a week before Charles found out about the pregnancy, and by then, Max was already a ghost of himself. The man who once smiled like he owned the world had turned into something fragile and desperate, chain-smoking by windows, barely eating, barely sleeping. George found him one night on his doorstep, rain clinging to his hair, eyes red and distant.

“He’s gone,” Max had whispered. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

And George, without thinking, pulled him in. He didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t ask why. He just let Max collapse against him, his tears soaking through George’s shirt, and he whispered things he didn’t believe himself — that it would be okay, that time would fix it, that love never truly disappeared.

In that moment, George thought maybe it was enough to love quietly. To love without being seen.

But life had a strange way of shifting when least expected.

Months passed, and Max slowly began to heal. They started spending more time together again — movie nights, long drives, dinner in silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. Then one night, as they sat on the couch surrounded by half-empty mugs and the soft hum of the city outside, Max turned to him and said, “You’ve always been here. Why?”

George blinked. “Because you needed someone.”

Max studied him for a long time, his gaze unreadable. “And what if I need you now?”

The words fell heavy between them, like a confession neither had meant to speak aloud. George felt his heart twist painfully, his breath catching in his throat. “You don’t,” he said quietly, though he wanted to believe otherwise.

Max leaned closer. “What if I do?”

And before George could reply, Max kissed him. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that promised forever; it was the kind that reeked of loneliness and longing, of something broken trying to find warmth. George didn’t pull away. He should have, but he didn’t.

Because for once, Max wasn’t looking at Charles. He was looking at him.

Later that night, when Max asked him out properly, George said yes. He said yes because he had waited for this moment for thirteen years, through heartbreak, through silence, through every quiet ache that came with loving someone who belonged to another. He said yes because love, even when born from pain, still felt like a miracle.

But deep down, in the quiet corner of his heart, George knew the truth. He knew he wasn’t the first choice. He knew that he was stepping into a shadow that once belonged to someone else. And yet, when Max smiled at him that night — really smiled — it was enough.

Because sometimes love isn’t about winning. Sometimes it’s about staying when everyone else leaves, about being the hand that still reaches out when the world turns cold.

And George, for all his gentle foolishness, had never been the kind of person who stopped reaching.

Chapter Text

It was early April when Max left for Australia on a week-long business trip. He had kissed George goodbye that morning, promising to call every night, though both knew that his promises often fell through once work consumed him. The house in Monaco felt quieter than usual after he left. George didn’t mind the silence, but lately, it had started to echo. Every sound, the ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustle of the sea breeze, reminded him of a home that didn’t always feel like one.

When the day for his next ultrasound arrived, George decided to go alone. He didn’t want to bother Max, and part of him wanted to prove to himself that he could handle things independently. The hospital was bright and cold, the kind of sterile environment that made his heart race. The nurse smiled kindly as he lay on the bed, the monitor flickering with the faint outline of new life, his and Max’s child.

It was a quiet, emotional moment for him. He wished Max were there, not because he needed his presence, but because he wanted him to want to be there.

Afterward, George stopped by a small hospital café for tea. He was stirring his cup absentmindedly when a familiar voice drifted from across the room, soft, warm, and unmistakably nostalgic.

He turned around.

Oscar Piastri.

The boy he used to know. The one who once confessed his love, years ago, when George’s heart still belonged — painfully, foolishly — to Max. Oscar was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by a circle of children in hospital gowns. He was making silly voices with a hand puppet, making them laugh until the entire ward seemed brighter. George couldn’t help smiling; some things never changed.

“Oscar?” George finally called.

Oscar’s head snapped up, and his expression softened into genuine surprise before lighting up. “George Russell? No way.”

Moments later, they were sitting together in a nearby café — one that overlooked the bay, famous for its pastries and quiet charm. The conversation flowed easily, as though no time had passed at all.

Oscar told him about his work as a children’s rights activist, traveling around hospitals and communities to help improve care and awareness. His voice carried both passion and gentleness, and George found himself listening intently, admiring the way Oscar spoke about others with such warmth.

Then the conversation shifted.

“What about you?” Oscar asked. “Still modeling? You were amazing at it — the way you could tell a story just by standing there.”

George looked down at his tea, swirling it slowly. “No. I stopped a while ago.”

“What? Why?” Oscar leaned forward, frowning. “You loved it more than anything.”

“I did,” George said quietly. “But life changed. Priorities shifted. And… I suppose I lost that part of myself somewhere along the way.”

Oscar looked at him, understanding dawning in his eyes. He didn’t ask more, but the silence between them was filled with a thousand unsaid things, regrets, what-ifs, and the ghosts of moments that never happened.

Hours passed before George realized how long they had been sitting there, laughing softly between sips of tea. For the first time in a while, he felt light, not because he had forgotten Max, but because Oscar reminded him of who he used to be before love became complicated.

When Max arrived back in Monaco later that evening, tired but eager to see George, he didn’t expect the sight waiting for him. Through the glass of the café terrace, he saw George and Oscar sitting together, leaning close, sharing a quiet smile.

Something ugly twisted in his chest.

By the time George turned and noticed him, Max was already walking toward them — every step heavy with restrained anger. Oscar immediately stood up, polite as ever.

“It was nice catching up, George,” he said gently. “I’ll see you around.”

George nodded, offering him a small smile before turning to Max. But Max didn’t smile back. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp.

The car ride home was silent — the kind of silence that screamed.

When they got inside, Max finally spoke, voice low but cutting. “Tell me something, George. Is the baby even mine? Or is it Oscar’s?”

The world seemed to still.

George stared at him in disbelief, his hands trembling. “What did you just say?”

“I saw the way he looked at you. The way you—”

Before he could finish, George’s hand met his cheek with a sharp crack. “How dare you?” His voice broke as tears welled in his eyes. “After everything — after what I’ve done, what I’ve given — you think I’d betray you?”

He turned and stormed to the guest room, slamming the door shut behind him.

For a long while, Max stood frozen, the echo of the slap lingering like thunder. Then guilt began to crawl up his throat, burning him from the inside. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, muttering curses under his breath. The rage wasn’t at George — it was at himself.

Minutes later, the house rang with the sound of shattering glass. Max had punched the mirror, his knuckles splitting open, blood dripping down his hand. The reflection of his own furious, broken face stared back at him — the face of a man who kept ruining everything he loved.

He slid down to the floor, chest heaving, and crawled to George’s door.

“George,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please… I didn’t mean it. I was jealous, stupid. I’m sorry. Please open the door.”

There was no reply.

So he stayed there, leaning against the door, whispering apologies until his voice cracked. At some point, exhaustion took over. He fell asleep on the floor, his injured hand still bleeding.

Morning came softly, sunlight spilling into the hallway. George opened the door, and the sight before him nearly broke his heart. Max was slumped on the ground, his face pale, hand covered in dried blood, eyes swollen from crying.

George knelt beside him, carefully taking his hand. Max stirred awake, confusion flashing in his tired eyes.

“Don’t move,” George murmured. “You’ll make it worse.”

He guided Max to the kitchen, cleaned the wounds with quiet precision, and wrapped them gently in fresh bandages. Neither spoke until George finally said, “You really hurt me yesterday.”

Max’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice trembled. “I just— when I saw you with him, I panicked. I thought… maybe I wasn’t enough.”

George sighed softly. “Love isn’t about being enough, Max. It’s about trusting the person beside you even when your mind screams otherwise.”

“I’m trying,” Max whispered. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be that man who ruins everything.”

George looked at him for a long time before leaning in and pressing his forehead against Max’s. “Then don’t. Learn from it.”

There was a silence between them — heavy, fragile, and yet beautiful.

George smiled faintly, voice soft but firm. “Love hurts, Max. But it’s supposed to. It hurts you in the most beautiful way — because it teaches you where you need to heal.”

Max closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks as he held onto George’s hand.

And for the first time in a long while, they didn’t feel like enemies caught in a storm, but two wounded souls trying, desperately, to love each other right.

Five months into the pregnancy, the world seemed to move more gently around George, slower, softer, yet still tinged with the same melancholy that had followed him like a shadow since the day he said yes to Max Verstappen. The baby had become his anchor, the only thing that grounded him through Max’s unpredictable waves, moments of affection intertwined with storms of jealousy. The gender reveal party was supposed to be a small redemption, a day carved out for joy amidst the chaos. For once, George wanted something to go right.

The morning sun poured over the kitchen counter where he stood mixing the cake batter, his hair tied back, face glowing with quiet anticipation. He had refused help from everyone, even from Max, who had offered with an overzealous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s my project,” George had said with a faint grin. “Let me do this.”

Max had kissed his temple, murmuring that he trusted him, though George wasn’t sure he meant it.

By noon, the villa was alive with chatter. Carlos and Charles arrived first, hand in hand, the picture of domestic ease that George sometimes envied but would never admit aloud. Alex and Lando followed, their laughter spilling into the room like light through open windows. And last came Oscar, quiet, polite, but with the same warmth that had once made George fall, briefly, tenderly, before he ever dared to dream of Max.

He hadn’t expected Oscar to come. He had sent the invitation out of courtesy, never believing the man would actually show. But Oscar did, carrying a small basket of flowers and a hesitant smile. “Congratulations,” he said simply, his tone careful. George only nodded and smiled back, unsure whether to be grateful or uneasy.

The cake was perfect on the outside, smooth white frosting, sugar flowers in pastel shades, a delicate ribbon tied around its base. Inside it hid the secret Max and George had been waiting for, pink for a girl, blue for a boy. George had checked the hospital envelope three times, heart fluttering every time he thought about it.

When the moment came, everyone gathered around the dining table. Cameras ready, laughter in the air, Max’s arm wrapped around George’s waist, his breath brushing against George’s ear. “You ready, baby?” he whispered, and for a moment, George believed everything would be okay.

He smiled, nodded, and they cut into the cake together.

But when the first slice fell away, the color that bled through wasn’t blue, nor pink. It was a muddled grayish violet, an ugly confusion of tones. Silence fell.

George blinked once. Then twice. His throat tightened as he whispered, “It was supposed to be blue. I followed everything exactly, I—” He choked, setting the knife down, hands trembling. “It was supposed to be perfect.”

Max immediately turned to him, pulling him close, his voice soft and quick like a prayer. “Hey, hey, it’s fine. I already know. It’s a boy, George. I know it is.”

Tears welled up in George’s eyes. “You don’t know that.”

Max smiled gently, thumb brushing a tear away. “A father always knows.”

The tension melted, laughter rippled around the room, and for a moment, the sweetness returned. Carlos clapped him on the shoulder, Alex raised his glass, and even Oscar stepped forward to offer his congratulations. “You’ll both be wonderful parents,” he said warmly.

And for a fleeting instant, George allowed himself to believe it, that maybe, finally, happiness could last.

But then it happened.

George turned to refill a glass when a sudden crack cut through the air, sharp and brutal. He spun around just in time to see Max’s fist collide with Oscar’s jaw. Oscar stumbled backward, nearly toppling over a chair. Gasps filled the room, the laughter dying instantly.

“What the hell, Max?!” George cried, rushing forward, grabbing his boyfriend’s arm to stop him from striking again.

Max was breathing heavily, eyes wild, voice trembling with fury. “He said I ruined you!” he shouted. “He said you gave up your career because of me! That you’d be better off if I never came into your life!”

Oscar wiped his lip, blood staining his sleeve. “I said it because it’s true,” he spat, though his voice shook slightly.

“Enough!” George snapped, stepping between them. His voice was no longer soft, it was breaking, raw with exhaustion. “Do you have any idea what today was supposed to be? This was supposed to be our day, Max. The baby’s day.”

Max froze, guilt dawning too late. Oscar stepped back, eyes filled with regret, and muttered, “I’m sorry, George.”

But George didn’t want apologies. Not from either of them.

He turned toward Max, who now stood there like a boy who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. His voice trembled when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it. I just… I can’t stand hearing that I hurt you.”

George shook his head, tears brimming again, though this time not from tenderness but exhaustion. “Then stop proving them right, Max,” he whispered. “You hurt me every time you lose control like this.”

Max’s lips parted, but no words came.

“Don’t ever do it again,” George said softly, his voice thin, fragile. “Please. Don’t.”

And though Max nodded, the silence that followed felt heavier than any promise.

When everyone left, Carlos with Charles’ hand in his, Oscar with an ice pack pressed to his cheek, George stayed behind in the dim kitchen, staring at the ruined cake. The frosting looked sickly under the yellow light, the color a muddled reflection of everything his relationship had become: confusion, compromise, and too many apologies.

He touched the knife still lying on the counter, its silver edge gleaming faintly. “It was supposed to be beautiful,” he murmured to himself.

But beauty, he thought, had become a cruel word, something that always slipped away the moment he tried to hold it.

Later that night, when Max came into the room and sat quietly beside him on the bed, George didn’t speak. He didn’t have the energy to argue, or to cry. Max reached for his hand, and George let him, not because he forgave him, but because he was too tired to keep resisting.

He realized then that love had turned into something else, not a soft place to fall, but a battlefield they both kept crossing barefoot.

Because this version of Max, this new, suffocating tenderness that came after all the neglect, wasn’t love. It was penance. It was fear.

And as George lay awake, listening to Max’s slow, uneven breathing beside him, he thought that maybe love was never supposed to feel like this, like a wound you kept tending to even after it stopped bleeding.

Because sometimes love didn’t break you all at once.

Sometimes it just wore you down, grain by grain, until you were too tired to tell the difference between devotion and defeat.

I'm getting tired even for a phoenix

Always risin' from the ashes

Mendin' all her gashes

You might just have dealt the final blow

Chapter Text

Charles and Carlos had fought again, something big this time, the kind that left silence hanging like fog. Out of sympathy, or perhaps nostalgia, Max had offered their guest room to Charles and little Ollie until things settled down. George hadn’t objected. How could he? Charles looked lost, and Ollie’s small smile tugged at something soft in him. Still, the air in the house shifted. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but George felt it like a chill in the walls.

Max tried. He really did. He cooked dinner more often, complimented George’s cooking, texted him sweet things during the day, little gestures meant to reassure. But no matter how many words he said, no matter how many times he smiled, George could still see it. The softness in Max’s eyes whenever Charles entered the room. The quiet warmth that never quite reached him in the same way.

One night, George woke up to an empty bed. The sheets beside him were cold. At first, he thought Max might have gone to get water or check on Ollie. But when he didn’t return after several minutes, something in George stirred, curiosity, anxiety, maybe both. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet brushing against the wooden floor, and followed the faint sound of voices.

The living room light was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp casting long shadows. He stopped when he heard Max’s voice.

“Are you happy, Charles?”

There was a pause, then Charles’s voice, quiet and careful. “Sometimes. Not always. You?”

Max gave a low, humorless laugh. “I don’t know. I should be, right?”

George’s heart clenched.

They talked about Carlos after that, how complicated love could be, how easily it frayed and healed again. Then, the conversation shifted, turning softer, more dangerous.

“I miss how simple it used to be,” Charles said.

“It wasn’t simple,” Max replied. “We just didn’t know how complicated we were.” He paused for a long time before saying the words that shattered George’s fragile calm. “Maybe in another life, we’re fated to be.”

George’s breath caught.

Charles’s voice came next, steady but sad. “Not this life. We both have someone we love.”

Max smiled faintly. “That’s why maybe in another life, we ended up together.”

The silence that followed was heavy, intimate. George turned away before he could hear more, his chest tightening as if something inside him cracked quietly. He knew Max loved him, he had never doubted that, but love wasn’t always enough. Because sometimes love came with ghosts, and tonight, George realized that Max’s heart still carried one.

He went back to bed, his vision blurring, and lay there in the dark, tears soaking into the pillow. When Max finally returned and slipped into bed beside him, wrapping his arm around George’s waist, it wasn’t comfort that filled him. It was unease. For the first time, Max’s embrace felt like a lie he no longer wanted to believe.

The next day brought more chaos. Carlos showed up unannounced, angry and exhausted, demanding to see Charles. They argued in the front yard, words sharp and reckless, until anger turned into something else, a kiss, desperate and furious. Then they left together, Ollie in tow, without saying goodbye.

The house felt emptier than before, and George couldn’t breathe in it. He made an excuse to meet Alex and Lando at a café. Oscar was there too, sitting quietly with that knowing look he always had, as if he could read what George wouldn’t say aloud.

George told them everything. Every fracture, every ache. His voice broke somewhere in the middle, the words spilling out like a confession. “Why can’t someone just choose me?” he whispered. “For once, just choose me.”

Oscar sighed softly, his tone gentle but firm. “Then stop choosing people who keep breaking you. Stop hurting yourself. Let him go, George. Break up with Max before you lose yourself completely.”

George snapped, his pain boiling over. “Shut up, Oscar. You don’t get it.”

Oscar didn’t respond. He just looked at him, sad, understanding, but silent.

When George returned home, the house was quiet again. Too quiet. He walked through the rooms until he found a note on the kitchen counter.

Went to Carlos and Charles’s place. Ollie forgot one of his toys. I’ll be back soon. Love you.

The words blurred as George’s chest tightened. He stared at the note for a long moment before tearing it apart, piece by piece, until the paper crumbled between his fingers.

Of course Max left. Of course it was them again.

He slumped against the counter, his throat burning. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. The possessive Max, the one who’d fought for him, who couldn’t stand to see anyone else touch him, had made him feel suffocated. But this new Max, the calm and distant one, made him feel invisible.

He didn’t want either version.

He just wanted someone who would stay. Someone who would look at him and, without hesitation, choose him. Every time.

But as the pieces of the torn note scattered across the floor, George finally realized that maybe no one ever would.

“A greater woman has faith

But even statues crumble if they're made to wait

Please I've been on my knees

Change the prophecy

Don't want money

Just someone who wants my company

Let it once be me

Who do I have to speak to

About if they can redo the prophecy?

Who do I have to speak to

To change the prophecy?”

Chapter Text

Flashback

The air that afternoon was soft and gold, the kind that only existed in memories, where even the smallest things seemed drenched in meaning. The curtains danced lazily in the breeze, and young George sat cross-legged by the window, his chin resting in his palms, watching the slow clouds drift across the English sky like old, tired ghosts. His mother was there beside him, sewing one of his father’s shirts, her movements slow and practiced, the needle glinting whenever it caught the light.

“Do you believe in invisible strings, Mama?” he asked suddenly, his voice small and thoughtful.

She looked up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Invisible strings?”

“Yes,” he said, turning his wide blue eyes toward her. “Like in that story you told me. About the red thread that ties two people together, no matter where they go.”

His mother chuckled softly. “Ah, that one. I remember.” She put the shirt aside and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Yes, Georgie, I do believe in it. But maybe not the way fairy tales tell it. I think the strings are not always red, or kind, or easy. Sometimes they hurt. Sometimes they tie us to people who are not meant to stay forever.”

George tilted his head, confused. “But if they’re tied to us, how can they leave?”

She sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to come from a place older than time. “Because love, my darling, isn’t always about staying. Sometimes it’s about teaching, sometimes it’s about breaking, and sometimes it’s about waiting for the right moment to be seen. The invisible string only means that you’re meant to meet, not that you’re meant to last.”

George’s little brow furrowed. “Then how do I know if someone’s my string?”

His mother smiled softly, that knowing kind of smile only mothers had. “You’ll know, my love. You’ll feel it here.” She pressed her hand gently over his chest. “It’ll ache and burn and make you dizzy, and you’ll hate it sometimes. But if it’s real, even when you pull away, something inside you will always pull you back.”

Just then, laughter came from outside, bright and boyish, the sound of childhood itself. George turned his head and saw Max, muddy from playing football, waving at him from the garden gate. “Georgie!” Max shouted, his voice full of energy. “Come play! You promised you’d join!”

George hesitated, glancing at his mother. She arched a brow, her smile growing mischievous. “Go on then,” she said. “Before he starts climbing the fence again.”

George stood up quickly, but his mother caught his hand before he could run off. “Georgie,” she said gently, her eyes soft with something he didn’t yet understand. “I know that look you get when you see him.”

George blinked up at her, confused. “What look?”

“The one that says your little heart’s already decided something before your head can catch up.”

His face flushed instantly, pink creeping up his neck. “Mama,” he whined. “He’s just my friend.”

She chuckled, her laughter warm and light, like a melody. “Of course he is,” she said. “For now.”

George frowned. “What does that mean?”

But she only kissed the top of his head. “It means some strings start young, my love. And they pull quietly for a very long time.”

Outside, Max called again, impatiently this time. “George! Come on, slowpoke!”

And George ran. He ran barefoot through the grass, the wind catching his hair, his laughter mingling with Max’s. Somewhere behind him, his mother watched from the window, her needle and thread forgotten in her lap. She smiled faintly, though her eyes shimmered with something wistful. Because she knew.

She knew that her son’s invisible string had already found its other end, and that one day, that thread, delicate, merciless, unbreakable—would tug his heart toward a love that would both build and ruin him.

End of flashback

It had been nine months of waiting, of counting heartbeats and sleepless nights, of quiet anticipation thick enough to choke on. The house had grown gentler, quieter, as if afraid to disturb the fragile rhythm of their life together. Every small sound felt like a promise of something coming, every silence like the calm before a storm. George had been moving slower these days, his body heavy but his heart heavier still. Max tried to be careful, too careful, perhaps as though his guilt had finally begun to grow alongside the child he had planted.

Every morning, Max would check the hospital bag, make sure the car had fuel, charge his phone to a hundred percent, and swear again and again that when the time came, he would not repeat the same mistake. “I’ll be ready, George,” he said, every night before kissing George’s temple. “I won’t let you do this alone.”

And George, softhearted fool that he was, believed him again.

It was a Saturday when the world decided to test that promise. The sky was a bruised shade of blue, rain threatening but never quite falling. Max stood by the door, adjusting his jacket. “Charles called,” he said hesitantly, “Ollie misses me. He hasn’t seen me for weeks, George. I’ll just go for an hour.”

George looked up from the couch, his fingers absently stroking the swell of his stomach. “You promised you wouldn’t leave before the due date,” he said, voice quiet but trembling.

Max smiled the way he always did when he wanted forgiveness. “I know. I’ll keep my phone with me, fully charged this time. I’ll answer you, always.”

And so he left.

George stayed behind, wrapped in a blanket, watching some meaningless sitcom on television that he wasn’t really following. The sound of laughter from the screen echoed hollowly through the room, almost mocking. He shifted slightly, uncomfortable, when suddenly he felt warmth spreading beneath him — unfamiliar, terrifying warmth.

At first, he thought maybe he imagined it. But then it came again, the unmistakable sensation, the sharp ache following right after. His breath hitched, panic slicing through the fog of calm.

“Max,” he whispered, fumbling for his phone, his fingers trembling. He called once. Twice. Ten times. The ringtone echoed in the room like a cruel joke. No answer. He tried again, his breath growing ragged, tears burning his eyes.

“You promised, Max,” he gasped, his voice breaking as he pressed the phone against his ear. “You promised!”

When the silence on the other end stretched too long, George didn’t think twice. He scrolled shakily through his contacts and pressed the next number.

Oscar picked up on the first ring. “George? What’s wrong?”

“My water broke,” George managed, his voice trembling. “I can’t— I can’t reach Max.”

“I’m coming,” Oscar said, no hesitation, no questions.

Minutes later, he arrived, his face pale but steady. He guided George to the car, his hands gentle but firm, whispering reassurances between every contraction. By the time they reached the hospital, George’s tears had mixed with sweat, pain crashing through him like waves, relentless and wild.

Soon after, Alex and Lando arrived, breathless, faces etched with concern. Behind them, finally, came Max — disheveled, panting, guilt radiating from every movement. Alex had called him after Oscar’s message, his voice sharp with anger.

The tension in the room was unbearable. Max’s eyes met Oscar’s, and something unsaid hung between them, sharp as glass. But no one spoke. Not here, not now.

Max rushed to George’s side, grasping his hand tightly. “I’m here, I’m here now, love,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, my phone— it died, I—”

George’s face twisted with pain and fury. “Shut up,” he hissed, his nails digging into Max’s palm. “Just— hold me.”

And Max did. He held him through every scream, every breath, every moment that blurred between agony and miracle.

When it was over, the room went quiet. The sound of crying — small, piercing, alive — filled the space. A nurse handed Max the newborn, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Max’s eyes glistened as he kissed the baby’s forehead, his tears falling freely.

“It’s a boy,” the doctor said softly.

Max turned to George, a trembling smile on his lips. “Andrea Kimi,” he whispered. “Our son.”

George managed a tired smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The name tasted bittersweet in his mouth, like something he had once loved but now could barely bear to say.

Because he remembered.

He remembered the night, months ago, when they sat together by the kitchen table, baby name books scattered around them, laughter weaving between sips of tea. George had suggested Kimi, eyes lighting up like a child’s.

“Kimi,” he said, smiling. “Simple, strong. I love the sound of it.”

Max had tilted his head thoughtfully. “I like Andrea.”

George had frowned. “Andrea? Like— Charles’s pick?”

Max had shrugged. “He didn’t want it. Said it didn’t fit Ollie. I think it’s beautiful though.”

George had laughed then, a small, uncertain laugh. “Of course you’d choose something Charles didn’t want.”

Back then, it had felt like a joke. Now, in this sterile hospital room, it felt like a wound that refused to heal.

Max was still crying softly, his hand trembling as he cradled their son. George watched him, silent, exhaustion and heartache swirling together until they were indistinguishable.

He smiled again, because that’s what love had turned him into, someone who could smile even when it hurt. Someone who could look at the man who broke his heart again and again and still find beauty in the pieces.

Because maybe his mother had been right after all. Some strings don’t bind to bring you peace. Some are meant to pull you apart, thread by thread, until all that’s left is the ache that tells you it was real.

Chapter Text

The house had grown quieter since Andrea’s birth, quieter yet fuller in a way George could not quite describe. It wasn’t the kind of silence that once stretched between him and Max like an invisible wall; it was softer now, breathing, alive. The air smelled faintly of milk and lavender soap, and sometimes when George woke at dawn, he could hear Max humming to Andrea, a low, broken tune that sounded like repentance wrapped in lullaby.

Max had changed, or maybe, George thought, he was simply trying hard enough that the universe had decided to let him.

“This is me trying,” Max said one night, his voice quiet as he folded a small mountain of baby clothes. His fingers trembled slightly as he smoothed each sleeve. “I know I wasn’t good before. But I want to be someone you and Andrea can depend on.”

George leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, exhaustion painted beneath his eyes but something warm flickering in his chest. “You already are,” he said softly, though his heart whispered not yet, but maybe soon.

When Andrea turned five months old, Max suggested they introduce him to Ollie. George hesitated at first, afraid it would open wounds that hadn’t yet healed, but Max’s eyes had that determined glint again, the one that reminded George of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“It’s time,” Max said simply. “Ollie deserves to meet his brother.”

And so they did.

Ollie arrived with Charles, clutching a small toy car in his hand. He looked nervous, glancing between Max and George before his eyes landed on Andrea, who gurgled happily in his father’s arms.

“Can I hold him?” Ollie asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

George smiled and nodded. “Of course, sweetheart. Gently, okay?”

Max guided Ollie’s small hands, and for a moment, everything felt like a fragile miracle—the way Andrea cooed softly, the way Max’s expression melted into something pure and unguarded, the way Charles stood at the doorway with a bittersweet smile.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, George wandered out to check on Andrea and found Ollie sitting alone in the corridor, knees drawn to his chest. The boy’s shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

“Ollie?” George knelt beside him, concern twisting his voice. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ollie scrubbed at his eyes. “I’m scared,” he whispered. “Papa loves Andrea a lot. What if he forgets me now? He used to sing to me like that too.”

The words pierced George straight through. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. He saw himself in Ollie—in that trembling voice, in that quiet ache of wanting to be chosen, to be enough.

He reached out and pulled the boy close, his arms wrapping around him like a promise. “Hey, listen to me,” George said gently. “Your papa could never forget you. He loves you like the sky loves the sun. It doesn’t matter how many stars come out, the sky always waits for the sun to rise again.”

Ollie sniffled, his small hands clutching George’s shirt. “But what if Andrea shines brighter?”

George smiled faintly, a sad, tender smile. “Then you just remind him that you’re his first light,” he whispered. “The kind that never fades.”

Ollie’s breathing slowed, his tears drying against George’s chest. “Do you really think he loves me that much?”

“I know he does,” George said softly, brushing the boy’s hair from his forehead. “And so do I.”

They ended up falling asleep like that, George holding Ollie as if protecting the child from every shadow of doubt. When Max entered later, he paused in the doorway. The soft golden light from the hallway lamp fell on them, George and Ollie asleep together, two fragile hearts finding comfort in each other’s warmth.

Max stood there for a long time, eyes glassy, before he whispered, “You’re better at this than I’ll ever be.”

George stirred slightly, opening his eyes just enough to meet his gaze. “Then learn from me,” he murmured. “Don’t let him wonder if he’s loved.”

Max nodded, crossing the floor quietly and sitting beside them. He wrapped an arm around George and rested his head against George’s shoulder, his fingers brushing lightly through Ollie’s hair.

For a while, none of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was full of unspoken healing, of slow forgiveness and second chances.

And in that fragile stillness, George thought, maybe love doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe it just needs to keep trying.

It was one of those fragile afternoons that felt like a sigh before a storm, the sky soft and glazed with sunlight, the air tasting faintly of coffee and salt. George sat with Alex, Lando, and Oscar in the corner of a little café where the chairs creaked and the pastries looked like delicate sculptures behind glass. There was laughter, real laughter, the kind that comes rarely now that life has grown heavier and quieter. For a few fleeting hours, he could pretend the world outside didn’t exist—no Max, no invisible strings pulling him in directions that hurt, no love that ached like a bruise beneath the ribs.

Lando was the first to break the calm, throwing crumbs at George with that mischievous grin of his. “You’ve gone full domestic,” he teased, “I still can’t believe the man who once thought boiling water was a culinary skill now knows how to make mashed peas for a baby.”

Alex snorted. “He’s basically a dad influencer now. You should see his kitchen—stacked with bottles, bibs, and those pastel baby spoons that cost more than a decent dinner.”

George rolled his eyes, though his lips betrayed him with a small smile. “You both act as if I’ve grown an extra head. It’s just part of life. You adjust.”

Oscar, who had been listening quietly, leaned forward with that familiar half-smile, gentle and observant. “You look happier now,” he said softly. “More grounded. Like someone who’s finally found what he’s been chasing.”

George paused, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “Maybe,” he said. “Though I don’t know if happiness is ever something you find. Maybe it’s something you make, even when you’re tired.”

The words hung there, and for a moment, nobody said anything. The café filled with the hum of people talking, the clatter of dishes, the small sound of life continuing. Then Lando’s phone rang, slicing through it all, his tone shifting immediately.

“It’s my alpha,” he murmured, half-smiling, half-anxious. “I have to go.”

Alex stood up too, his arm already reaching for his keys. “I’ll send him. You two catch up.”

George blinked, a little startled, but nodded. When they left, the quiet between him and Oscar didn’t feel empty—it felt weighted, like a curtain pulled between two unfinished stories. They finished their drinks in silence before Oscar spoke.

“Let me send you home.”

George hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod. “Sure. Thanks, Oscar.”

They walked together through the underground parking lot, where the hum of engines echoed like heartbeats. The air smelled faintly of metal and dust. When they climbed into the car, Oscar didn’t start it. The keys dangled motionless from the ignition, catching the dim light. George turned to look at him, brows furrowing.

“Oscar?”

His name came out like a whisper, almost afraid of being answered. Oscar didn’t look at him immediately. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale, his jaw clenched.

“George,” he said finally, voice trembling, low but certain. “Are you really happy?”

George blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… with Max.” Oscar turned then, and the look in his eyes almost broke something inside George. “Every time I see you, you smile like someone who’s trying to convince the world you’re fine. But your eyes—they look tired, George. Like you’ve been carrying someone else’s heart for so long you forgot what your own feels like.”

George froze. His heart stumbled in his chest, a small ache blooming behind his ribs. “Oscar, don’t—”

But Oscar shook his head, cutting him off softly. “I still love you. I always have.” The confession came out trembling, vulnerable, like something escaping against his will. “It’s been years, and I tried to forget. But I can’t. You were the first person who made me believe I was worth something. And watching you break yourself just to be loved—it hurts, George. It hurts because you don’t deserve that.”

For a moment, George said nothing. The silence in the car grew louder than words. He looked away, eyes glistening with something that wasn’t quite tears. “Oscar,” he murmured, “you shouldn’t say that. You shouldn’t still feel that way.”

“Maybe not,” Oscar said, his voice cracking. “But I do. I love you, even now, even knowing I’ll never have you.”

George’s throat tightened. He wanted to say thank you, to say sorry, to say something that would ease the ache between them—but all he managed was a whisper. “You deserve someone who will choose you, Oscar. Every single day. And that person isn’t me.”

Oscar gave a small, sad laugh. “You’ve said that before. I just never learned to listen.”

George reached out then, gently taking Oscar’s hand and squeezing it, as if trying to convey all the words he couldn’t form. “You’ve always been kind to me. Maybe too kind. And maybe that’s why I can’t let you hope for something that’ll never happen.”

He leaned forward and hugged him—a quiet, trembling kind of hug that smelled like goodbye and memory. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For loving me even when I didn’t know how to love myself.”

When they finally pulled away, the air felt heavier, but calmer somehow, as if a storm had finally passed. Oscar started the car without another word, and the drive back was silent except for the faint sound of the radio playing something soft and sad.

When they reached the house, the lights were still on. George turned to thank Oscar, but his breath caught. Standing by the window, barely visible through the curtains, was Max—his figure shadowed, holding little Andrea in his arms.

The moment George stepped out of the car, he could feel the tension before a word was spoken. Max’s eyes followed him like storm clouds ready to burst. Oscar gave a small nod, the kind that meant “take care of yourself,” before driving away.

Max stood at the doorway, silent, the child resting peacefully against his shoulder. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was thick with unsaid things, with jealousy and guilt and that sharp ache that only love can create.

“Max,” George began softly, “it’s not what you think—”

“I didn’t say anything,” Max replied, but his tone betrayed him. It wasn’t anger this time. It was hurt. The kind that sinks quietly, deep and slow.

George looked at him for a long moment, then lowered his gaze. “Then maybe we don’t need to say anything tonight.”

Max’s jaw tightened, his eyes shining with something that looked like fear. “Maybe we don’t.”

And that was it. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just two people standing under the fading light of their own love, watching it flicker like a candle that refused to die but had forgotten how to burn bright.

George watched Max turn and walk away with Andrea, his silhouette swallowed by the soft glow of the hallway light. And in that silence, he thought of invisible strings again, the ones his mother once told him about. The kind that tied souls together, not always by choice, but by fate.

Maybe theirs was one of those strings, stretched so thin that one day it would snap. But tonight, it still held, fragile, trembling, but still there.

Chapter Text

It began quietly, the way most tragedies do.
No thunder, no storm, only the sound of a door creaking open, soft enough to deceive the heart into thinking everything was still fine.

George had spent the morning preparing their anniversary dinner, a domestic ritual that had once felt sacred. The table was laid, candles lit, music faint, Andrea asleep in his crib. Everything was warm, alive, almost peaceful. Almost.

When Max entered, the light seemed to die in the room. His steps were heavy, his silence unbearable. There was something in his eyes — a hollow gleam that didn’t belong to the man George had loved.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

A handful of papers struck George’s face and scattered across the floor like fallen feathers. He picked one up. Then another. His trembling fingers clutched the edges as though the paper might cut him if he didn’t hold it carefully.

Photographs.
Him and Oscar.
Talking in a café. Standing too close in the basement. The car — the hug.
From that merciless angle, it looked like a kiss.

Max’s voice broke the silence at last, a low, almost amused murmur that felt more dangerous than shouting.
“Tell me, George,” he said, his tone like a knife dragged lazily across silk. “How long were you planning to make a fool out of me?”

George’s throat tightened. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?” Max’s jaw clenched. “Didn’t betray me? Didn’t lead him on? Didn’t let him touch you?”

Tears burned at the back of George’s eyes, but he stood still, like a man awaiting his sentence. “He confessed. I turned him down. I swear on—”

“Spare me the sanctity,” Max hissed. “You’ve already been judged.”

He turned away, the fire in his voice fading into something colder, quieter, infinitely crueler. “You always look for someone to save, George. But maybe you do it because you’re afraid to be alone.”

Then he left, leaving the photographs scattered across the marble floor — ghosts of a love story mutilated by misunderstanding.

That night, Andrea cried for hours. Max didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, his body heavy with exhaustion or contempt — George couldn’t tell which.

And so the house began to die, slowly, room by room.

The laughter faded first. Then came the silence — thick, suffocating, the kind that eats at the soul. George still spoke to Max, but his words fell like stones into a bottomless well.

Even Andrea, only eight months old, could feel it. Babies know when love disappears. They recognize the absence, the shift in warmth, the distance in touch.

One morning, desperate to breathe something that wasn’t misery, George took Ollie out for waffles. He left Andrea with Alex and Lily — the only people who still looked at him without suspicion.

The day was golden, gentle. A cruel illusion.

They never made it home.

When George opened his eyes, the world was darkness. His wrists ached. The air was colder than winter itself — it tasted of iron and grief. He tried to move, but his limbs struck metal.

He was inside a cage.

Across from him, another cage — smaller. Inside, Ollie huddled, shaking, eyes wide with a kind of terror no child should ever know.

“Ollie…” George whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s okay. I’m here, alright? I’m here.”

The boy’s lips trembled. “It’s so cold.”

George’s heart cracked at the sound. “I know, darling. Just hold on.”

Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing against the concrete walls.

When the figure appeared in the faint blue light, George’s blood froze.

“Oscar.”

He smiled. But there was nothing human in that smile. It was too calm, too certain, the smile of a man who had already accepted damnation.

“Do you know what it’s like to love someone until your mind collapses under it?” Oscar asked softly, almost gently. “To watch them choose someone else, again and again, until you start to think maybe you were never real to begin with?”

George’s voice broke. “You did this?”

“I had to,” Oscar whispered. “You see, Max needed to see the truth. He needed to see you for what you are — a man who can’t decide who to belong to.”

George shook his head violently. “And Ollie? He’s just a child—”

“A collateral shadow,” Oscar murmured. “You should understand that, George. You’ve been collateral your whole life — in someone else’s story, someone else’s love.”

He took a step closer to the cage. The light caught his eyes — wild, glistening, almost feverish. “Max knows where you are. I made sure of that. Let’s see if he comes for you.”

“Oscar, please—”

But he turned away. “Love makes us do terrible things. You taught me that.”

When he left, silence returned — heavy and absolute.

Ollie whimpered. “George… I’m so cold…”

George tore off his cardigan, hands shaking. He pushed it through the bars. “Take it. Keep warm, okay?”

Ollie clutched it, his tears soaking the fabric.

Now it was George’s turn to freeze. The air bit at his skin, cruel and sharp, but he didn’t care. His eyes never left the boy’s face.

And as the hours stretched into something infinite, George whispered quietly, to the dark, to himself, to whoever was listening.

“If there’s a God… don’t punish him for our sins.”

Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open.

And for the first time in days, George dared to hope.

The door opened with a long, mournful groan, the sound of rusted hinges crying beneath the weight of their own neglect. The air that followed was so cold it could have been death itself entering the room. Max stood there in the threshold, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a mix of terror and determination. Behind him, the faint light from outside looked like salvation bleeding into a world built from ice. George lifted his head slowly, his entire body trembling from exhaustion, frost clinging to his hair and the edges of his sleeves. For a moment, he could not tell if he was still alive or dreaming — because Max was here. Max, the man he loved beyond reason, standing in front of him like a ghost summoned by desperation.

George’s lips parted, his voice hoarse from crying. “Max.” The word came out broken, fragile, barely a whisper. But Max heard it. He took one step forward before a second voice, smooth as silk and cold as steel, slithered through the air. “He came,” Oscar said. He emerged from the shadows like a figure painted in the darkness itself, his expression calm, collected, disturbingly serene. “I was beginning to think love had limits after all.” His smile was thin, his gaze sharp enough to wound. Max turned sharply, fury flashing across his features as he scanned the dim room. His voice trembled with rage. “Where are they?”

Oscar extended a hand toward the back of the room, and under the flickering light, Max saw them — two cages, small, crude, cruelly built from rusted bars. Inside one, Ollie huddled against himself, pale and shaking, his lips blue from the cold. In the other, George sat on the floor, hands gripping the frozen steel, his breath uneven. The sight tore something deep inside Max’s chest. His knees weakened, but his resolve held. He took another step, his eyes never leaving Oscar. “You bastard,” he muttered.

Oscar tilted his head slightly, as though intrigued by the insult. “Words won’t change the rules of the game, Max,” he said softly. From his coat pocket, he drew two small keys, both silver, both identical. They dangled from his fingers like a cruel riddle carved into metal. “Two cages,” Oscar murmured, his tone almost reverent. “Two lives. But only one key opens a lock. Choose wisely.”

For a moment, the world fell completely silent. The only sounds were Ollie’s faint sobs and the wind pressing against the cracked windows. George’s heart hammered violently in his chest. His voice trembled as he spoke. “Oscar, don’t do this. Please. This isn’t love. This is… obsession.”

Oscar turned toward him with that same detached calm. “Is there a difference, George?” he asked. “Love is the most exquisite form of madness. It drives men to build empires or burn them to ash. I only chose the latter.”

Max’s entire body shook. He looked at the keys, then at George, then at Ollie. His lips parted, but no words came out. The weight of the decision crushed him before he even made it. Oscar saw it and smiled faintly, as if admiring his own cruelty.

George’s voice broke the silence again. “Max, listen to me,” he said, pressing his palms against the bars. “He’s lying. The pictures, everything — it was all a setup. He told me himself. Please, Max, you have to believe me.”

Oscar’s composure faltered for the first time, his jaw tightening. “Shut up,” he hissed.

But George didn’t stop. His tears froze on his cheeks. “He wanted you to hate me. He wanted this moment. Don’t let him win.”

Max’s breathing quickened. He looked at George — those eyes he had once adored, those hands that had built a home with him, those lips that whispered his name on sleepless nights. And then he looked at Ollie, a trembling child who looked so much like him, his son, his first love’s legacy. The universe narrowed into two cages, two souls, and one unbearable choice.

George swallowed hard. He saw the agony in Max’s eyes, the silent apology that lived there. He forced himself to smile. “It’s alright,” he whispered, voice soft, almost tender. “You have to save him. He’s just a boy.”

“George, don’t—”

“Do it,” George said again. “You’re a father, Max. You always will be. That’s who you are.”

And with that, something in Max shattered. He reached forward with trembling hands and took one of the keys. His knuckles turned white from gripping it too tightly. The silence that followed was suffocating, almost holy. Even Oscar, for a moment, looked in awe of the pain he had created.

The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final click. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The door to Ollie’s cage swung open. The boy stumbled forward, weak, crying. Oscar pushed him toward Max, who immediately caught him, wrapping him in his arms, holding him like a man trying to hold on to what was left of his soul.

George’s lips trembled as he looked at them. He didn’t cry. He simply smiled, faint and resigned, a smile that belonged to someone who had loved too deeply to hate. His gaze met Max’s one last time, and in that moment, Max saw everything — the heartbreak, the forgiveness, the quiet acceptance of being second.

Oscar’s laughter broke through the air like the cracking of ice. “I told you, George,” he said softly, his voice echoing. “He would never choose you.”

The words hung in the air, cruel and true. Max looked at George, his lips forming words that never came. His body trembled as tears streamed down his face. Ollie clung to him, frightened and silent.

Then, from the distance, there was a thunder of footsteps, shouts, the sound of metal being torn apart. The police burst into the room in chaos, shouting commands. Oscar’s laughter turned into a scream as he was tackled to the ground. The cages were pried open.

George barely registered it. His body was numb. He felt arms lifting him, voices calling his name, but it all sounded far away. His eyes fluttered as he was carried toward the light. Just before he lost consciousness, he saw Max once more, still kneeling on the floor, clutching Ollie, shaking, crying, his face hidden in the boy’s hair as though he could disappear inside his own regret.

And as darkness swallowed him, George thought of one thing only, not anger, not hatred, not vengeance. Just a quiet, desolate truth that burned inside him like the final ember of a dying flame.

Even in another life, perhaps I was never meant to be chosen.

Chapter Text

Charles was the first to move when Ollie collapsed into sobs, his small frame shaking as if the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders. Without hesitation, Charles pulled him into his arms, holding him tightly while tears streamed down his face. Around them, the rest of the group stood frozen, the reality of what had happened sinking in like slow poison. The air was thick with silence — the kind that screamed louder than words ever could.

Max stood a few feet away, his face pale and his eyes lifeless. His hands trembled as he tried to explain what had happened — how he had found them, how Oscar had forced him to choose, how he had chosen Ollie because he couldn’t bear to lose another innocent life. The words came out fragmented, strangled by guilt. But no explanation could make it right.

Lando’s fist met Max’s jaw before anyone could stop him. The sound echoed through the room like thunder. “You left him to die!” Lando shouted, voice breaking, veins standing out in his neck. “You left George there!”

Max stumbled back, blood dripping from the corner of his lip, but he didn’t fight back. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling as if each breath was punishment. His eyes were distant, lost — like he wasn’t really there anymore.

Alex didn’t move for a long time. He just looked at Max — really looked at him — and the silence that followed was heavier than Lando’s anger. Finally, he said, in a quiet, disappointed voice, “You know what hurts the most? I believed you changed, Max. I really did.” Then he turned away.

When they all decided to visit George, the nurse at the counter stopped them gently. Her expression was sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “His parents have already arranged for a transfer. He’s leaving the country tonight.”

The words hit Max like a physical blow. He didn’t even wait to hear more. He ran — through corridors, out the hospital doors, into the cold night. He drove without direction, mind blank, heart pounding. When he finally reached the house they had shared, the emptiness swallowed him whole.

George’s things were gone. The shelves where his books had been now stood bare. The faint scent of his cologne was fading from the air. Even Andrea’s toys — his favorite stuffed bear, the one he always carried — were missing. The house felt hollow, stripped of warmth, stripped of life.

Max sank to his knees in the middle of the living room, pressing his hands against his face as he broke down completely. Every sob tore through him like glass. He had lost George — not because of death, but because of the kind of pain that killed slowly, silently.

The next morning, he was on a plane to England. He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. His mind replayed every moment — George’s voice, his laugh, the way his hand used to fit perfectly in his. The memory of George’s scream when the door had closed on him haunted every second.

When Max arrived at George’s family home, the sky was gray, the wind sharp. He banged on the door until a maid opened it, startled by his disheveled state. Her face softened slightly when she recognized him.

“They’re at the airport,” she said quietly. “Mr. and Mrs. Russell are sending George away for treatment. He’s… not well.”

Max didn’t even thank her — he just ran.

The airport was chaos — the sound of boarding calls, luggage wheels clattering, voices blending into static. And then, through the crowd, he saw them. George was there, leaning weakly against his mother, Andrea in his arms. His face was pale, lips slightly cracked, but he was still heartbreakingly beautiful — like the echo of the person Max used to know.

Max’s knees gave out the moment their eyes met. He dropped to the floor right there at the boarding gate, tears falling uncontrollably as he reached for him. “George,” he gasped, his voice breaking, “please — don’t go. Don’t leave me like this.”

Before George could respond, his father stepped forward, shielding his son with an anger so sharp it could cut steel. “Haven’t I told you before?” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “If you no longer want my child, return him to me. Don’t hurt him anymore. I never even let a mosquito bite him — and yet you return him to me bruised, broken, and bleeding inside.”

Max could barely breathe. He fell forward, hands clasped together in front of him, muttering apologies over and over. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t want to hurt him — please, please, I’m sorry—”

George’s father pushed him back, but George stopped him with a weak hand. He handed Andrea to his mother and stepped closer to Max. The airport noise faded into nothing, all Max could hear was the soft sound of George’s breathing.

“I still love you, Max,” George said, his voice trembling.

Max’s breath hitched. “Then why are you leaving me?”

George’s eyes filled with tears, but there was a calmness in his expression — a painful acceptance. “Because I need space,” he whispered. “I need time. I need to find myself again. I hate who I’ve become, and I hate the way I’ve let pain define me. How can I love you when I can’t even love myself? I need to heal. And you do too. You’ve lost yourself somewhere along the way, Max. Find who you really are… and see if you truly love me.”

His voice cracked on the last words, but he smiled faintly through the tears. “If we’re meant to be, even gods cannot interfere.”

Max reached for Andrea and kissed her forehead, his lips shaking. “I’ll find myself, George,” he whispered. “And when I do — I’ll find you again. And I’ll love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

George smiled again a small, broken smile before turning away. His mother guided him toward the gate, and Max watched as the man he loved disappeared into the terminal, swallowed by distance and time.

He stood there long after the flight had taken off, long after the crowd had dispersed. The only sound left was his own heartbeat slow, heavy, and full of promises.

Five years had passed since that day in the airport, yet for Max, time had stood still.
He’d built his life again — or at least pretended to. He had a house in New Zealand now, a quiet place far from the chaos of the circuits and the noise of the world. The waves outside his home crashed against the cliffs, as restless and hollow as the guilt inside his chest. He had learned to smile again, learned to breathe again, but there was still one thing he could never do — stop missing George, and stop yearning for the little boy he hadn’t seen grow.

That night, the moon was bright, silver light spilling across the lawn like a secret waiting to be discovered. Max crouched by the window of the white-bricked mansion, careful not to make a sound. The cold bit into his fingers, but he didn’t mind. This was the only way he could see his son.

He knocked lightly on the glass.
A few seconds later, a small hand appeared, followed by a soft giggle. The window creaked open, and there he was — Andrea Kimi, almost six now, his smile wide and innocent, the same shade of eyes that once looked at Max through tears and promises.

“Uncle Handsome is here!” Andrea said, clapping his tiny hands with delight.

Max smiled, but it was a fragile kind of smile — the kind that trembled at the edges. “Yeah, it’s me,” he whispered. “Uncle Handsome.”

He climbed inside quietly, his boots landing softly on the carpet. Andrea threw his arms around Max’s neck, laughing as Max lifted him off the floor and spun him around gently. The laughter filled the room — a sound so pure that it almost hurt to hear.

Max’s heart ached. His son had no idea who he truly was. To Andrea, he was just the stranger who came through the window sometimes, bringing little gifts — a toy car, a storybook, a chocolate bar hidden in his coat pocket. A stranger who loved him in secret.

He knew he should wait for George’s permission, should respect the boundaries that time had built, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. He had waited for years — three long years since finding their trail here in New Zealand. Three years of driving past the mansion, of watching the boy play in the garden from afar, of longing gnawing away at his resolve.

And so, every once in a while, when the house was quiet and the lights were low, he would sneak in through that same window, just to see Andrea — to hold him for a while, to listen to him laugh. He knew it was wrong. He knew they needed better security. He even thought bitterly that George should teach Andrea not to talk so easily to strangers, even kind ones like him. But this was the only way he could feel alive again.

They played together that night — Andrea showing him his drawings, his tiny cars, and the little wooden airplane George had helped him paint. Max listened to every word, memorizing the way his son’s face lit up, the sound of his voice, the way he giggled when Max tickled his side.

And then, a voice called from the other side of the door.
“Andy? It’s bedtime, darling. Are you still awake?”

George.

The sound of that voice froze Max in place. He hadn’t heard it in years, and it hit him like the ocean — fierce, endless, and full of memories. He closed his eyes, trying not to breathe too loudly. God, he had missed that voice.

“Coming, Papa!” Andrea called back cheerfully. Then he turned to Max and whispered, “I’ll tell Papa I’ll come down later, okay?”

Max smiled again, softer this time. “Okay, kiddo. Be good.”

When the footsteps faded away, Max kissed Andrea’s forehead and quietly slipped back out the window, disappearing into the night before the ache in his chest could suffocate him completely.

The next night, he returned.
The air was colder now, and the moon was hidden behind clouds. He climbed the wall with the ease of habit, heart steady and heavy at once. He wanted to see his son again — maybe just one more time before he tried to talk to George properly.

He pushed the window open, whispering, “Andy? It’s me.”

But the room was silent.
And when he stepped inside, his blood ran cold.

Sitting in the chair by the bed was not Andrea. It was Mr. Russell.

The older man looked composed, almost regal, with silver hair and sharp, unreadable eyes. He was holding one of Andrea’s storybooks, tapping his finger idly against its cover as if he had been waiting for hours.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice someone sneaking into my family’s home night after night?” Mr. Russell asked quietly. His tone wasn’t angry — just deeply tired. “Talking with my grandson as if the world forgot who you are?”

Max froze, guilt crashing down on him like a storm. “I— I’m sorry, sir. I just… I couldn’t stay away.”

“I know,” Mr. Russell said, closing the book gently. “No one else noticed because I told them not to. George doesn’t know — and he mustn’t, not yet.”

Max swallowed hard, eyes downcast. “I just wanted to see him. My son.”

For a long time, there was silence. The only sound came from the wind pressing against the window. Then Mr. Russell stood, walked toward him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve already proved yourself to me, Max,” he said. “You’ve stayed away when you had every reason not to. You came back when everyone told you to forget. You’ve changed.”

He paused, his eyes softening. “Now it’s time to prove yourself to George.”

Max’s throat tightened. “How?”

Mr. Russell’s gaze turned distant, as though he were seeing both the man before him and the broken boy from years ago. “Not through grand gestures. Not through guilt. You prove yourself by being the man George believed you could be. By standing before him not as the man who broke him, but as the one who’s learned how to hold him right.”

He stepped back toward the door, leaving Max standing there in the dim light of Andrea’s room, heart pounding, breath shallow.

“For what it’s worth,” Mr. Russell added, his voice quiet but sincere, “I think George still loves you. But love, my boy, isn’t about wanting. It’s about being worthy.”

And with that, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Max stood there for a long time, staring at the bed where his son had been the night before, the small pillow, the toy car, the blanket tangled at the corner.
His hands trembled as he reached for the window again. The night outside was dark, but somehow, for the first time in years, it didn’t feel endless anymore.

He would prove himself.
To George.
To Andrea.
To the man he once promised he would become.

And when the time came, he would knock on the door, not the window.

Chapter Text

A week after the encounter in the mansion, Max’s phone rang while he was going through documents in his home office. The name on the screen made his heart pause — Mr. Russell.

He hesitated before answering. “Sir?”

“Max,” the older man’s voice came through, clipped and deliberate, the tone of a man who had once been a commander in another life. “I have a business proposal. A potential joint project between Russell Holdings and your company. It will be in Auckland. You’ll be meeting the project’s person-in-charge.”

There was a pause, then that quiet, dangerous calm returned to Mr. Russell’s voice.
“Do not mess this up, Max. I arranged this personally. And the PIC—” another pause “—is George.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, Max simply stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, pulse hammering in his throat. George. He was going to see George again — not through a window or in secret, but face-to-face, under the clean light of professionalism, where no heartache could hide behind shadows.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. Don’t fuck this up, he reminded himself. Not again.

The meeting room was a cathedral of glass and light — cold, modern, and immaculate. Max arrived early, but George was already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, back straight, posture poised. Time had refined him. His once soft features had sharpened, his expression calm but unreadable. There was no trace of the boy who cried at airport gates or baked cakes with trembling hands.

“Mr. Verstappen,” George greeted, his tone polite, professional, utterly detached.

“George,” Max said quietly, though the name tasted strange on his tongue now — too formal for what they once were, too intimate for what they had become.

“Let’s begin,” George said, flipping through his notes.

The meeting went smoothly, but every minute felt like a punishment. George never looked at him directly for too long. He spoke to him as one would to a client, his voice even and steady. His words were sharp, rehearsed, safe. There was not a single trace of the warmth that once wrapped around Max like sunlight.

What Max hated more, though, was the blonde male beta seated beside George — his assistant, apparently — who kept leaning too close, whispering comments, eyes full of something unmistakably flirtatious. George didn’t respond, but he didn’t shut it down either, and that made Max’s jaw tighten until it hurt.

When the meeting ended, George thanked him professionally. “We’ll follow up with the final draft soon, Mr. Verstappen.”

“Of course,” Max replied, his voice slightly strained. “And… George?”

George finally looked at him, and for a fraction of a second, the faintest flicker of emotion crossed his eyes — recognition, memory, pain. But it was gone as soon as it came.

“Good day, Mr. Verstappen.”

And just like that, George walked out, leaving Max standing alone in that spotless room that suddenly felt suffocating.

That night, Max couldn’t sleep. He found himself standing outside the same mansion again, eyes fixed on the second-floor window that glowed faintly with lamplight. He told himself he’d stop doing this — sneaking in, crossing lines — but his heart was already scaling the wall before his mind could catch up.

He knocked softly on the glass, and it opened almost instantly.

“Uncle Handsome!” Andrea grinned, throwing his little arms around Max’s neck the moment he climbed inside.

Max hugged him tightly, breathing in that faint, comforting scent of milk and baby shampoo. “Hey, champ. You miss me?”

“I did!” Andrea said proudly. “Papa’s been busy lately, but Uncle Jannik’s been visiting a lot. He’s nice, but he’s not very fun. He doesn’t know how to do airplane sounds like you do.”

“Uncle… Jannik?” Max repeated carefully, forcing a smile.

Andrea nodded enthusiastically. “Uncle Jannik Sinner! He’s trying to be my papa, but Papa said no. Papa said no one can replace my real papa, even if he’s far away. But I don’t know where far away is.”

Something inside Max twisted painfully. He brushed a hand through Andrea’s hair, whispering, “You’ve got a good papa, you know that?”

Andrea giggled. “Yeah, I do. But you’re my Uncle Handsome. You come from the window, and I like that better.”

Max couldn’t help but laugh softly, though his eyes burned. “Don’t say that too loudly, kid. Your Papa might—”

A sound came from the hallway. The door handle turned.

Both froze.

The door swung open — and there stood George.

He froze in the doorway, his expression first blank, then sharp with disbelief. “Max?”

Max didn’t have time to explain before Andrea jumped in front of him, spreading his little arms as if to shield him.

“Papa, you can’t take Uncle Handsome away from me!” Andrea shouted, his small voice trembling with outrage. “Find your own Uncle Handsome!”

For a second, silence reigned, stunned, absurd, heavy silence.

George blinked, torn between anger and disbelief. “Andrea, that’s not—”

But the boy was already clinging to Max’s leg like a tiny knight guarding a kingdom.

Max tried not to laugh, his chest tight with a strange mix of love, guilt, and ache. “Hey, hey, little one,” he murmured, crouching down. “It’s okay. Your Papa’s not taking me away. I just— I missed you, that’s all.”

George exhaled shakily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Max, what are you doing here?”

“I… wanted to see him,” Max said simply. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Something flickered across George’s face — exhaustion, maybe, or the faintest trace of something he was trying hard to bury. “You can’t keep doing this,” he whispered. “You can’t just appear like a ghost and vanish when it suits you.”

Max met his eyes. “Then tell me to stay.”

George froze, his lips parting as if to say something — anything — but no words came. The silence stretched between them, fragile and aching.

Then, softly, Andrea’s small hand slipped into George’s. “Papa, please don’t be mad,” he said, his voice small. “Uncle Handsome makes me happy.”

George sighed, glancing at Max, his expression unreadable. “It’s not that simple, Andy.”

And for the first time in a very long while, Max saw it again that old sorrow in George’s eyes, the one that said I still love you, but I don’t know how to forgive you.

The house had fallen silent.
The only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of a sleeping child, the faint hum of the heater, and the ghosts pacing along the walls.

Andrea had long fallen asleep, his tiny hand still curled around a stuffed toy Max had brought from Monaco three years ago — a small lion, faded now, worn from love and years of being hugged too tight. George tucked the blanket around the boy’s shoulders, his hand trembling just slightly, before turning to the man who stood behind him, half-shrouded by the shadows of the room like a sin he could never fully escape.

“Let’s talk,” George said finally, voice low, tired. “Outside.”

They stepped out to the balcony. The New Zealand night was cold, the air sharp enough to carve memory into skin. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The moon hung above them like a pale, indifferent witness.

It was Max who broke the silence first.
“I didn’t mean to—”

George laughed bitterly, the sound like glass breaking underfoot. “You never do, do you? You never mean to do anything, but somehow you always end up doing it.”

Max looked down at his hands. They were the same hands that once held him, the same that once built a home, broke it, then came crawling through a window five years later. “I just wanted to see him,” Max said quietly. “You can’t keep him from me forever.”

“I never did,” George replied, his voice trembling despite how steady he wanted to sound. “You left us. You were the one who stopped calling, stopped writing, stopped asking.”

“I was trying to fix myself,” Max said, his voice cracking on the word fix. “You told me to find myself first before I came back. I tried. I swear I did. But how can I find myself in a world where you exist and I’m not allowed to love you?”

George turned away, his jaw clenched. “You’re not allowed to love me because your love always comes with destruction, Max. Every time you love someone, you tear something apart to prove it’s real. And I—I can’t afford to be torn apart again.”

Max took a step closer. “Do you really think I’d hurt you again?”

George turned to him, eyes shining with anger and sorrow. “You already did! You hurt me when you lied, when you chose others over me, when you made me feel like I was something you could replace whenever the past came knocking! You hurt me when you promised to answer your phone and didn’t. You hurt me when you made me love you more than I loved myself.”

The words hung between them like smoke, suffocating.

Max’s voice was barely a whisper. “You still love me.”

George’s lips trembled, but he didn’t deny it. “That’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? I never stopped. Even when I hated you, I still loved you. Even when I left, I carried you with me. And even now, when I wake up at night and hear the wind against the window, I think it’s you, knocking.”

Max’s eyes softened, his expression one of deep, aching regret. “Then let me in, George. Let me make it right this time.”

“Make it right?” George laughed again, softer this time, sadder. “You think love is a formula, Max? That you can make it right with gestures and apologies? No. Some things don’t need fixing. They need healing. And healing takes more than words. It takes years. And sometimes, it takes letting go.”

“I can’t let go of you,” Max said, taking another step forward, his voice shaking. “You’re in everything I do. You’re in every breath I take. You’re in every quiet morning when I make coffee and think about what I lost. You’re the ghost that never left me.”

George’s eyes softened, but there was still that same distance in them — the one that comes from loving someone too deeply and knowing it might destroy you again.
“You can’t build a future with ghosts, Max.”

For a moment, Max said nothing. Then he reached into his coat pocket and took out a small silver chain. At the end of it hung a ring — simple, tarnished, familiar.

“I never took it off,” he said quietly. “Five years, and I never took it off.”

George looked at it, his breath catching in his throat. “Why?”

“Because this was the only thing that reminded me I once made someone happy.”

Silence again. The wind howled through the trees. A dog barked in the distance. The world was too alive for two people standing in the ruins of their past.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” George whispered finally. “But I also don’t know if I can live without you.”

Max stepped closer, his eyes searching George’s. “Then maybe we stop trying to define it. Maybe we start again. Slowly. No promises. No lies. Just… us.”

George looked at him for a long time, then exhaled shakily. “You always knew how to make madness sound beautiful.”

“And you always made me believe that love was worth the madness,” Max said, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

From the room inside, Andrea stirred, calling softly for his Papa. George turned, instinctively walking toward the door. He looked back only once, his silhouette framed by the warm light spilling from the room.

“Goodnight, Max,” he said quietly.

And Max, standing alone in the cold night, whispered to the empty air, “Goodnight, my heart.”

The door closed.

The invisible string still tied between them trembled softly, unseen, but unbroken.

It was late evening when the rain began to fall, faint and rhythmic against the glass walls of George’s office. The sky outside was bruised violet, the kind that lingered before night fully swallowed the day. George was reviewing a contract, every line blurring into a ghost of memory, when a knock echoed through the room.

It was Max.

He looked almost the same—older perhaps, with sharper edges, quieter eyes, and a hint of exhaustion that came from years of chasing redemption. He closed the door behind him softly, as if afraid the sound itself might scare George away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” George said, though his voice didn’t hold much conviction.

“I know,” Max replied, stepping closer. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”

George sighed and turned back to the documents, pretending to focus, though his fingers trembled slightly. “You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it this time.”

There it was again—that tone, the one that once melted every wall George had ever built. He looked up slowly, meeting those blue eyes that had haunted his sleep for half a decade. “You always mean it, Max. But meaning something doesn’t make it right.”

Max took another step. “And yet you still keep your promise ring in that drawer.”

George froze. His eyes flickered to the drawer beside his desk, then back to Max. “You shouldn’t know that.”

“I notice everything about you,” Max said quietly. “Even the things you try to bury.”

The silence was unbearable—thick with yearning and the ghosts of what they’d been. Then something in George broke, perhaps out of exhaustion, perhaps out of love. “What do you want, Max?” he asked softly.

“You,” Max said simply. “Just you.”

And before George could stop himself, Max’s lips were on his—years of longing spilling into a single kiss that felt both wrong and divinely right. Papers fell from the table, chairs scraped, hearts remembered. George tried to push him away, but his fingers found their way into Max’s hair instead. When Max pulled back, both of them were breathless.

“Max…” George whispered, voice trembling. “We can’t—”

But before the rest could follow, the door burst open.

Jannik stood there, eyes wide, shock and heartbreak written across his face. “George… I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

George stumbled back, flushing, guilt flashing across his features. “Jannik, please—”

But Jannik was already gone, leaving the door half-open behind him. The air felt heavier, but Max only looked at George, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between relief and disbelief.

That night, George said nothing as they left together. Words felt unnecessary, fragile things compared to what hung between them. When they reached home, the lights were still on in the living room. Andrea was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book, waiting.

When he saw Max, he jumped up and ran toward him with a wide grin. “Uncle Handsome!”

George froze.

Max bent down, smiling through a flicker of pain. “Hey, buddy.”

Andrea tilted his head curiously. “Why are you here so late? Papa said you’re busy.”

George knelt beside him. “Andrea, sweetheart,” he began carefully, “there’s something you should know.”

Andrea blinked, confused. George took a slow breath. “Uncle Handsome isn’t just your uncle. He’s your father.”

The boy’s eyes widened, his small mouth forming a perfect O. “Father? Really?”

Max nodded, his throat tight. “Yes, little man. I’m your father.”

Andrea gasped, then pouted dramatically, his eyes darting between them. “But… you was Papa’s first Uncle Handsome?”

George blinked. “What?”

Andrea crossed his arms, jealousy brimming in his tiny voice. “Papa said Uncle Handsome used to make him smile a lot. So Papa stole Uncle Handsome before I could have one!”

Max chuckled softly, lifting the boy into his arms. “You’re right,” he said, kissing Andrea’s cheek. “I was your papa’s Uncle Handsome first. But now, I’m both your Uncle Handsome and your father. That means you win, huh?”

Andrea squirmed, trying to suppress a grin. “Hmm. Maybe. But next time, don’t kiss Papa before me, okay?”

George covered his face, stifling a laugh while Max tried not to smile too widely. For the first time in years, their home felt warm again, not perfect, not mended, but alive.

Later that night, after Andrea fell asleep between them, George turned slightly toward Max. The moonlight spilled over the bed, tracing faint silver lines across his skin.

“Don’t break him,” George whispered. “Don’t break me again.”

Max looked at him quietly. “I won’t,” he said. “Not this time.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, George let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Max returned to their lives. The rhythm of the house had changed again, not abruptly, but in quiet, uncertain ways. The laughter that used to echo only between George and Andrea was now joined by a deeper voice, a gentler baritone that made the boy giggle louder and cling harder.

Andrea adored Max, too much, perhaps.

Every morning, when Max came down for breakfast, the little boy would scramble out of his chair and run straight into his arms. “Father!” he’d squeal, wrapping his small arms around Max’s neck. George would watch from the kitchen counter, smiling softly, at least at first. But then Andrea would shoot him that look again. That possessive, narrow-eyed glare that could only belong to a child fiercely protective of something he didn’t quite understand.

“Father is mine,” Andrea said one morning, frowning as George set a plate of waffles on the table.

George raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Mine.” Andrea folded his arms, puffing out his cheeks like an angry kitten. “You had him first, now it’s my turn.”

Max, halfway through sipping his coffee, choked on it. “Andrea—”

“No!” Andrea insisted, glaring up at him. “You can only hug me. Papa has Lando and Uncle Alex and Uncle Jannik—”

“Uncle Jannik?” George interrupted sharply.

Andrea blinked innocently. “He said he likes your face.”

George pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.”

Max was trying not to laugh, but failed miserably. He crouched down to Andrea’s level. “Hey, little man, I have enough love for both of you, okay?”

Andrea narrowed his eyes again, leaning closer. “You’re lying. You said I’m your little sunshine. You never said Papa is sunshine too.”

George folded his arms. “He didn’t have to. I’m the sun, darling. You’re just one of my rays.”

Andrea gasped in betrayal. “You take that back!”

The two of them stood there — father and son, same proud expression, same stubbornness — glaring like two lions in a domestic jungle.

Max groaned, rubbing his temples. “I think I need another coffee.”

But the rivalry didn’t stop at breakfast. When they went on walks, Andrea refused to let George hold Max’s hand. If George reached out, Andrea would slip between them like a little bodyguard, clutching Max’s hand tightly and giving George a triumphant look.

When Max and George sat together on the couch, Andrea would squeeze himself right in the middle, plopping onto Max’s lap. “This is my seat,” he’d declare, sticking his tongue out at George.

One evening, George tried to kiss Max goodnight in the hallway. Before their lips could even meet, Andrea appeared like a tiny storm cloud in pajamas, arms crossed. “No kissing! Father belongs to me until I turn ten!”

“Ten?” George asked, incredulous. “And what happens after ten?”

Andrea thought for a moment, then said solemnly, “Then Father can hug you. Maybe.”

Max burst into laughter, pulling Andrea into his arms. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m protecting my uncle handsome,” Andrea mumbled against his shoulder.

That night, after tucking Andrea into bed, George sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, watching his son sleep. “He’s so much like you,” he whispered.

Max smiled faintly. “Stubborn?”

“Possessive,” George replied, glancing up at him. “Loves fiercely, hates loudly, forgives slowly.”

Max leaned closer, brushing George’s hair back gently. “Then maybe he’s a bit like both of us.”

George smiled, though his voice trembled just slightly. “Maybe.”

And as Andrea stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about Papa not sharing his hugs, Max and George shared a quiet laugh. It was the laughter of two people still healing, still learning how to fit their broken edges together, while a little boy with too much love for his own good slept between them, guarding his Papa like the most precious treasure in the world.

“We’re not perfect. But we’re still trying.”

“At least we’re trying.”

The end—