Chapter Text
Charles slides out of the cab with a neutral ‘merci’ before closing the door. He fixes his collar, his hair, his sunglasses, then walks alongside the rows of parked cars as the cab pulls out behind him. The walk is quiet, only his shoes against the concrete and the quiet rumble of the engine — even the city is quiet, almost in mourning.
Tentatively wary, like it’s holding its breathe. Something like walking on eggshells in a room full of explosives.
Maybe not so different from that.
He pushes the doors open, politely nodding to the doorman as he steps into the warm-lit lobby. They exchange a brief greeting as he heads further inside, taking in the sights for the sake of doing something with his eyes. His shoes clack sharply on the white marble floors, almost echoing in the silence of the sparcely decorated patterned-walls.
The plants on either side of the path still in his presence even though he feels a light breeze against his neck. He zips down his collar, fixing it down with his reflection on the floor. The backs and the legs of the couches peek in the corner of his vision, prompting his to look up. Warm toned fabric couches sit alongside leather loveseats, all surrounding glossy coffee tables to his left and right. Big carpets section off the areas with standing lights at the corners and the walls — Charles can’t help remembering the mornings, lounging lazy, tapping the armrests while Ferrari goes over morning training while Djacic looks over his media duty list.
Bozzi is to the side, talking with the rest of the team. Paper cups in hands with hot coffee, the steam leisurely mixing with the air, slowly filling the lobby with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
A little sweet. A little bitter.
He doesn’t find much of coffee now, though, only the remaining hints of sweet champagne and that electric feeling of victory. The scent had tickled his nose when he went to congratulate Lewis post race. Despite the utter defeat clawing at his bones under his skin, he had managed a genuiene smile for Lewis as he teased him about checking his configurations later — in French, of course, which had been enough to brush off the quiet worry that was etched into Lewis’ eyes.
Victory. Traces of it swirl in the lobby still, under hints of neutralizing sprays and sharp suits and expensive colognes and hairspray. Too clean, too certain.
Charles tries to not see himself sitting in one of those couches, cheek smushed into his fist, trying to mute the uncertainty of his own team.
He nears the end of the lobby, a couple steps with cold golden handrails, and the reception desk to the far corner. The desk is a dark brown, glossy with a light brown, almost golden veining, and panels runnig alongside the length of it, curving from one wall to the one adjecent one to create its own sectioned area.
There is a double door with frosted windows and two cabinets, dark brown and matte. Peace Lillies elegant in their pots and their spray bottle peeking around it. And singing alongside his footsteps, the clicks and taps from the receptionist.
She looks up from her screen when his footsteps reach her, and she offers an acknowledging smile before clicking around her screen some more, then finally turns her attention to him.
“Bonsoir,” she greets, hands delicately placed in front of her, “Êtes-vous ici pour vous enregistrer?”
“Bonsoir,” he greets back with a smile of his own, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. To her credit, only her pupils dilate in surprise while her expression remains neutral. Charles slides his ID over. “Non, un invité m'attend. Er, George Russell, de Mercedes.”
She nods, taking the ID to check credentials.
“Busy day,” she says, professionally empathetically.
“Ah, yes,” he nods, rubbing the back of his neck, looking down at the corner of her screen. “Il y aura toujours une prochaine fois. It is still very early in the year.”
She hums, nodding along before returning the ID across the desk, eyes still on the screen, “The Mercedes team said so, too. Very lively bunch. They left not long ago, to celebrate I suppose.”
Charles chuckles, tilting his head slightly with a ‘no doubt’ brow raise.
“Alright, I see your details are here, Mr. Leclerc, and you do have an authorized note of entry. Mr. Russell is in room 367, third floor, right side. Lifts are behind you.” She grabs a keycard from under the desk where he can’t see, sliding it over the desk.
“Merci.” Charles snatches both pieces of plastic, sliding them into his pocket before looking up. “Good evening.”
“Bonne soirée, Mr. Leclerc.”
Charles would like to say there is a bounce to his step, a lightness in his chest, something happy that has settled in his bones, but in truth, as soon as the elevator’s doors close, he collapses on the wall beside the buttons. He drops his head, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh that pulls at his shoulders. His limbs pull at his joints, wanting to detach from his body.
It’s been a long, long day. Weekend. Year.
When the doors open, he drags himself to his feet, footsteps muffled into the carpet with a pattern of chains of circles. It’s a narrower corridor, tan walls with white skirting boards, warm lights — less cozy and far more lonelier. He tries to be interested in the paintings and photographs along the walls, only really seeing his tired expression between panels of glass and the ocassional door.
No real scent jumps at him, though the scent patch on the back of his neck still itches. Mostly in anticipation, he assumes as he pushes the flat of his thumb along the edge of the keycard.
The numbers are gold on a black background, neatly fitted in a plate on the door. Wooden doors. Numbers that go higher and higher on his left, and under his skin, he feels the prick of the sentiment. Of seeing the numbers go up despite moving forward, despite moving, like there is nothing he can do to stop it. To end. To finish this journey.
And there is a numbness when he finally reaches the door. His outline reflected on the numbers, 367 and Charles. The side of his face, sections of his hair, his ear. Parts of his head with missing sections as if he isn’t whole.
Charles knocks, eyes falling to the point where the door and the floor meet, refusing to admit or accept there is something missing.
When the door opens, he feels a little more whole, anyways.
“Thought you weren’t making it,” Lando says, grinning wide, nodding up at him.
Charles shakes his head as he steps inside, zipping down his jacket as he kicks his shoes and socks off. “Meeting was long,” he says then smiles fondly, “and Lewis had a very big, motivational speech to give. You know I cannot leave when the team is like that.”
Lando clicks his tongue, “Didn’t stay for the party, then?”
“Lewis just wanted a dinner with his mother. Quiet, private, for just them. I think that was his plan all weekend, no matter how the race went.”
“And how did the race go?”
Alex calls out, from further into the dim-lit room. He peeks from over the bed with a smile and a wave Charles returns.
“P2,” Charles replies, and he tries so hard to not sound bitter about it. “Best of the season, so far. From P3.”
Charles follows Lando down the pathway between the dresser and the ottoman at the feet of the bed, stopping in front of the mirror to look at his reflection. He fixes his hair as Lando throws himself on the blankets and pillows nestled in the space between the bed and the wall. The coffeetable and chair are pushed to the far right of the dresser, tucked into the corner to give the most room for the nest. And behind him, the bed is mostly stripped of the sheets and duvet and pillows, with loose pieces of clothing thrown around and an open suitcase.
He slides of his jacket and tosses it into the nest, then tugs at the collar of his snug white t-shirt before crossing over to join the other two. He sits with his back to the wall, stretching his legs trying to touch the side of the bed, staring at his grey sweatpants. Alex reaches to pat his leg, prompting his gaze to lift.
“You finished the race, cheer up.” Alex says, but an edge of a tease falls on the smile on his lips. Charles kicks his arm, grinning tiredly.
“P4,” Charles states like it means anything, and maybe it does.
It should.
Alex smirks, because he knows it means nothing at the end of the day.
“It is all about the energy management. And power unit. And… And.”
“And not being taken out by an opportunist papaya,” Alex adds quickly, facing Lando, speaking to him directly.
Lando smiles sheepish, playing with the hems of his black long sleeve, gaze flickering to Alex and his half-hidden hands. And when he thinks Alex isn’t looking, he looks up to see him still looking. He exhales dramatically, hugging a pillow to his stomach, looking up to the ceiling.
“He finished the race too. Add insult to injury.” Lando mutters, though there is a certain lack of feeling to it. Neither Alex or Charles can really tell if he’s happy or upset, or both. His voice softens when he speaks again, almost with pity, “Out of points, though. So, I guess– I guess it didn’t matter either way. Or did. I don’t know. We got data out of it. As did Carlos, I guess, for you. I don’t know, mate, am I supposed to be happy one cars works? Or… Or am I… Ah, whatever.”
A brief silence follows Lando’s words, the nothingness he says with all the implications. It’s fuzzy and eventually it all blurs together, everything narrowing down to that helplessness that seems to stick like a bad day of pheromones.
Although it’s not quite a competition, Alex looks up at the sound of the doorhandle, mudied footsteps on the carpet followed by a breeze of cold air.
Water is still dripping from George’s hair into his chest, flying off in every direction with how abruptly he is rubbing the towel on his head. His gaze is fixed down, switching the ensuite lights before half-closing the door.
“Talking about bad results,” Alex says, loud enough that George has to look up to acknowledge the words. Alex raises a brow, offering a sympathetic smile George halfheartedly replies with. “Did you manage to scrub your foul mood off yet? Or do you need another round?”
George snorts.
Charles tuts, “Two showers? Non, that is very bad for you. Your hair, specially. Two showers is okay, maybe. But not for your hair.”
“You can always just shave it all off. It will grow back, in like many years.” Lando adds, grinning with mischief when George looks at him.
“Ever since you got that L'Oréal ambassador title, you have been obnoxious about hair. At least Carlos goes on and on about his own hair.”
“And he has good hair,” Charles bites back defensively. He pulls his legs to his chest when Alex goes to hit him again, smirking when he misses. “It is very good hair, so I think he should be allowed to talk about it.”
“Mate, there is no way you didn’t lose your mind when you were teammates.”
“It was better when we were teammates, but that was, what? A decade ago? Almost a decade ago. I don’t think he cared that much back then.”
“Carlos—” Charles starts, hot with an argument that quickly cools on his tongue. He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose sharply. “Carlos is Carlos. He just is. The way he is.”
“You got any stories about Carlos, ay, George?” Lando asks, shifting attention to the alpha rummanging through his open suitcase.
“Sainz?” George questions without looking up, earning a triple echo of giggles.
“Carlos. Don’t be petty, Georgie.”
“I am not petty. I am being professional about my colleague.”
“Ooo, someone is going on a murder spree.”
“I am not going to kill anyone.”
“No killing, okay. You can always explode the Mercedes headquarters, too. I highly recommend, so the rest of us can win too.”
George frowns, only really making them giggle more. He pulls the towel from around his shoulders to the dirty pile, pulling on a slightly loose white t-shirt before going to the mini-fridge in the left compartment of the dresser.
“Sainz is fine, professional. We don’t discuss looks when we talk.”
“I somehow don’t believe that. Like, at all.”
“We are not vain.” George states firmly, almost coldly as he brings out a bucket with ice and two bottles of champagne. “Not that much, at least.”
George makes his way over, carefully walking between the path of legs and pillows and jackets, digging into the corner of the nest opposite Lando, carefully securing the bucket against the bed and the wall before leaving the nest again.
A surge of unhappiness zap him, which he ignores to bring the bowl of snacks on the dresser. He stands at the entrance of the nest for a moment, staring at an empty spot in the middle. Alex’s dark grey sweats are just centimeters above it, and on his peripheral, he can see Charles’ rings against light skin.
“You should sit,” Lando says, not letting the seconds drag too long. Though his words are not a demand, they are not pleads either — they fall somewhere in the middle, between an order and worry masked behind the safety of the pack. “Just come sit down, George. Stop… pacing.”
George opens and closes his mouth, shaking his head before passing the bowl to Charles. He doesn’t enter the nest, and it feels too much like rejection.
Distress spikes and George still walks away.
He stops at the end of the dresser, hand gripping the corner while the other pinches his brow. The pack doesn’t chase him, or beg him, but they are upset and he feels it. He feels their distress as his own. And he stalls.
Frustration. Anger. Impotence.
There is a rage sizzling in his knuckles. The edge of the dresser burns into his palm. He remembers a ghost sting on the side of his jaw suddenly, then he forces himself to remember how contact had felt.
When his fist collided with someone’s face. When his knuckles cracked under concrete cushioning the force of an exploding sun packed into a punch.
George had never considered himself a violent person, though people would beg to differ. And maybe he should have done more to his car than simply throw the headrest to get it out of his system before all this disgraceful act.
“You’re spiraling,” Alex’s voice cuts through the fog in George’s mind, so clear and pristine George fools himself into imagining the tremble behind them. “George, just… Just sit down. What are going to do? What can you do?”
“Give me a minute,” he mutters then stalks to the ensuite before anyone can stop him.
The door closes between them, and it’s ugly.
Alex grabs a fistful of the sheets on the bed he perched on, eyes on the closed door. Charles flicks his ring like lighting up a lighter, unfocused eyes on the horizon created by the mattress and the wall behind it. Lando bites his bottom lip, closing his eyes because he doesn’t know where to look.
They don’t push. They don’t chase. They only wait.
Tension eases slow on them like a dense blanket, the fog materializing on their shoulders and clinging to their skin. If three upset omegas aren’t enough to outweight an upset alpha, then what else is there for them to do but wait.
For George to pull back himself. His feelings. Put up a brave front and pretend everything is alright so he can smile and laugh and forget.
Or, if given the chance, would George trust them to look after him if he lets go?
If the dam opens and he breaks down and trusts them to catch him. If he is willing to put the broken pieces in their hands, slow down, breathe in and out slow as they try to put him back together. In a couple hours, in a couple weeks, can he wait long enough? Will he wait long enough?
What does it mean for the bonds and the pack if he can’t? If he won’t?
Lando moves before he rusts on the spot, throwing himself to the other corner, shuddering when his hand wraps around the cold neck of the bottle. The ice rattles and draws attention, tentative and quiet, and he smiles at them weakly, rolling the base of the bottle on his knee.
“We can start without him,” he says softly, looking at his reflection on the bottle, flicking the foil with his thumb nail. “Or I can, if no one wants to join.”
“That is very greedy,” Charles chuckles. He scoots closer, forcing Alex to fold his legs as they sit face to face, his left knee lightly tapping Lando’s own.
“Would be a waste if not.”
Lando peels the foil, scrunching up the torn pieces into a little ball that he tosses back into the bucket. He points the neck away from himself, Alex and Charles flattening themselves to not get hit, and with a couple twists of the wire and the cork, a soft pops signals a victimless opening.
The extra bits join the bucket and Lando takes the first swig. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, passing the bottle to Alex, who then passes it to Charles, soon the faint smell and taste of crisp apples surround them.
The bubbles tickle the back of their throats, settling calmly inside them though nothing really feels settled.
Alex pushes the bottle next to his knee, watching a wet ring form around the base. He draws on the condescensation of the neck, brushing the label and blurring the words with droplets.
“I’m gonna go, go break the door or something.” He mutters, passing the bottle to Lando before using the bed to push himself up.
Alex makes his way to the ensuite, listening to the quiet conversation behind him. A couple laughs, more words, gentle and fragile. Knocking on the door sends shivers down his arm, the wood cold, everything outside the nest cold.
“George, come on, you’ve been hiding long enough. Come out or we’re gonna finish everything without you.”
Silence on the other side, followed by the rustling of snacks being opened.
He knocks again.
“George. You can’t do this to us– Or yourself. You let us come here, only to hide from us? That’s not fair, George. And you know that. If you are doing this to punish yourself, then… then, I don’t know why you would do that. Or why you would want to hurt us.”
The door opens without the sound of the lock, Alex steps back. His eyes land on the hand on the handle, white knuckled and grip tight, then he shifts his gaze up to meet clouded eyes. Not glossy or muted, but cloudly and lost.
Something cracks, in himself or George, when they look at each other. And the fight dies, too, when George crumbles in Alex’s arms. Too tense to tremble, but too unsteady to stand on his own.
Alex buries his head in George’s shoulder, hugging him tight, rubbing warmth back into the back of his shoulder.
“You’re cold,” he whispers, “come sit with us.”
George replies small, dragging the words out of himself with effort, “Okay.”
It’s another heartbeat, in tandem, as one, before Alex holds George’s hand to guide him to the nest. Lando and Charles are alert when they are the entrance, collectively holding their breaths as a trio until George steps in and they can all finally exhale.
A lightness rushes in, and though it doesn’t do much to clear up the fog, it does push it above their heads. Looming, but with enough distance to breathe.
George fills the empty corner. And just like that, everyone feels a little more whole. A little more steady. Their heads a little more clearer.
The nest has spots of water and spilled drinks, a couple crumbs sneaking under legs, and it only has been a handful minutes but it already feels like hours.
Right, George thinks idly, crossing the first third of the bottle on his own. The mouth is salty and sweet from the flavors lingering on the others’ lips, and he can feel the ghost renmants of their touch on the neck — the outlines of their fingers, their fingerprints, he presses his own over them, bringing them even closer than they already are.
He huffs when someone snatches the bottle from him, leaving his palm empty and wet, yet when he closes it into a fist, he doesn’t feel the itch anymore. Only dampness and a grain of salt . He drops his head back on the wall, closing his eyes and tunes out the conversation happening in front of him — the alcohol muddles up his memory and makes him forget what life had been without them.
He opens an eye when something presses between his lips, seeing Charles looking down at him. He opens his mouth, pulling whatever snacks was being forced into his mouth with his tongue.
Charles smiles triumphantly.
Teeth carve off chocolate, and his tongue dislodges salt before he bites down on the pretzel. He tastes them flavors and the mixture, though he can’t say he is enjoying it as much as he is enjoying being under Charles’ attentive gaze.
Charles offers another before he can even swallow. He accepts it regardless, feeling the side of Charles’ index brush up his bottom lip.
“No snacking, hm?” Charles teases before he sits again, closer to Alex so they are properly caging George against the corner of the nest. “Lying does not suit you, George.”
Lando chuckles while Alex lets out a little puff of air against the bottle.
George only smiles at Charles, wiping the corner of his lips where he feels chocolate melting.
The pass the bottle around, between sips and gulps and snacks, George finally releases the tension on his shoulders. His voice is low when he speaks, barely louder than glass knocking against knees and knuckles.
“So what? Who wants to start? Dick measuring competition. Who had it worse.”
“We don’t have to,” Lando replies first, leaning until his cheek is pressed to George’s shoulder. The smell of hotel’s soap and the scent patch tickle his nose, warmed up on George’s body — his scent hides further back, Lando notes, wary. “It was bad. Very bad. Do we have to think about it tonight?”
George hums, non-committed, popping another cheddar cracker on his tongue.
He glances up to see Alex looking at him at the corner of his eyes, bottle tilted up to his mouth. His eyes flicker to damp lips, then back to brown eyes.
“I guess not,” George shrugs, and Lando fully presses to his side.
They eventually find something else to talk about. Not too far from the paddock, and not even making it away from Formula 1, but it’s not about the race. It’s not about Canada, not about the missing laps and the damage and every heartbreak that followed.
Alex starts with the Vcarb media team, and Lando namedrops Oscar in response, the connection only existing in his head. Charles sneaks Leo into the conversation, gushing about a trick he finally learned after two years of having him. Then Alex talks about the Team Torque podcast with Carlos and Charles gets that stupid fond look in his eyes, and Alex has to talk fast else Charles interrupts with with his own Carlos anecdotes that don’t have anything to do with the tale. Lando empties half a bag of popcorn in his lap.
Conversation spirals from there. Gossip about other teams. Plans for the two weeks before Monaco, plans for Monaco, plans for after Monaco. Sensible topics, safe topics. George laughs along mostly, not finding much to add himself without sounding as bitter as they claim he still looks.
By the time they reach for the second bottle, the bucket has been exiled to the entrance of the nest, and the omegas piled on George against his protests.
Charles is tucked to George’s right, curled up slightly against his arm. Alex on his left, mostly sitting shoulder to shoulder. Lando is outright on top of George, face into his chest, arms around his sides while arguing with the other two about their teammates.
George skips that topic, too, after being teased about it first.
They talk over each other, getting cattier by the exchange, nearly pulling each other’s pigtails, and even try to pull George into their bits. And another day he would have joined, the would have picked sides, he would have made everything worse in the worse ways — but he didn’t have it in him, so he resorted to caressing Lando’s back, kissing Charles’ temple, and holding Alex’s hand to appease their clinginess.
Two bottles are not enough to build a proper buzz between four adults, but there are matching blushes on all their faces. Slightly tipsy, warm and giggly — but not drunk. And waves of sleepiness wash over them though they could not begin to guess what time it could be.
George supports Lando when he sits up, scrunching his nose to steady his spinning head, and George waits until Lando balances.
Clumsily, Lando grabs George’s faces, tugging his cheek with his thumb a bit.
And he leans in, pressing their lips together. Soft and sticky from the champagne, warm in all the ways that is familiar. George leads Lando lead, all clumsy and playful, humming when he feels the smile on his lips.
Lando pulls back enough to lick George’s lips before sitting up, the blush on his face darker.
“When’s the last time Max kissed you?”
George snorts.
“Hey,” Lando reprimands with a pout barely containing his grin, “I am asking a very important question here.”
Rather than answering, George rolls his eyes and pulls Lando back in by the neck, swiping Lando’s lips first. Lando hums happily, obediently parting his lips to let their tongues find each other. The sweet taste of champagne coats Lando’s tongue easily, crisp apples mixed with the chocolate he’d been snacking on — there is nothing Lando gets from George other than spit, his hand massaging the muscles on his nap, fingers twirling the hairs playfully.
Heat builds up quick between them, Lando practically rubbing on George, clinging to the shirt and the muscles under.
Charles whistles beside them while Alex laughs.
“Hey, hey, come on, share,” Charles purrs, flicking Lando’s ear before turning to face them. His knee bent flush against George’s side, hand quickly on George’s jaw when Lando pulls away with a wet pop, pouting.
“You should’ve thought of it first, then.” Lando clicks his tongue, settling on George’s lap with his hands on George’s hips, lightly pushing down.
Charles tastes more of champagne, the essence of it rather than the flavors unlike Lando. The bubbles smooth and rounded, sweet from the gummies he kept grabbing. And George could lick the smile from his lips, the slightest kick of sharpness from the mischief.
“So you haven’t talked to Max? Not even to congratulate him?” Alex questions, sounding genuiney curious and amused.
When George tries to pull away to answer, Charles holds him in place, swallowing whatever words he was ready to give. George frowns but Charles only looks at him with innocence, keeping their mouths together, tickling his chin with his beard in the meantime.
Lando lunges back into George’s space, lips landing right on the tense muscle. He smirks as he nips on skin, kissing down along the muscle towards the collar of his bone, hooking a finger on it to pull down to reveal more skin.
“What a shame,” Alex continues, despite the growl in the back of George’s throat at their conniving. “P3 is big for him, aren’t you supposed to celebrate that, hm? After the Red Bull performance all season so far.”
Alex sighs.
George rolls his eyes, but reaches a blind hand to swat Alex’s arm with the back of his hand.
“Oh well,” he continues, taking George’s hand in his own. He places George’s hand, palm-down, atop his. “And he didn’t reach you either? That is somehow worse. So much worse.”
Charles runs his thumb along George’s jaw, letting his lips go to breathe. Still, he pecks him, smiling while George sighs.
The sigh turns into a groan when Lando’s teeth find their way into his collarbone. Not playful, but with no real intention either.
“Come, switch,” Lando urges, grinding on George’s lap to get his attention while Charles rises to his knees to kiss George’s shoulder.
Alex moves around until he’s sitting cross-legged facing the trio, bouncing George’s hand on his now. “Did he not reach out, at all?”
George glares at him sideways, even with Lando bitting down on his bottom lip.
Alex lets out a short note whistle at George’s lack of answer, smirking when George smacks his hand but doesn’t pull away. George doesn’t move away, doesn’t push — he stays in place between them, letting them lead, in whatever wacky and unorthodox direction they want to go in.
Not typical for an alpha.
But George doesn’t feel like an alpha, or very human at all after today.
“That’s not nice, is it?”
‘Don’t be dramatic,’ George attempts to say, all muffled into Lando’s mouth. Another eyeroll follows, and at the edge of his attention he starts feeling lightheaded. The strength drains from his limps, every ounce of fight kissed from him — Charles sucks hickeys on his shoulders at some point, even though he can only hear the wet sounds of his lips on his skin.
He doesn’t feel strong or steady, not like how an alpha should be.
But his pack don’t need him to be, evidently.
Alex squeezes George’s fingers, letting his attention fall on their hands together. The way George’s skin changes with the pressure, following the lines of squished skin. And he chuckles when he lets go, watching it all bounce back to normal.
“Did he ever say if he is joining or not? Is it a good idea, George?”
George throws his head back. Lando grumbles and chases, only really landing at his jaw when George tilts his head away.
“What are you trying to say?” George asks finally, words slippery as his mouth is full of spit. A messy concoction of his own and theirs, mixing into something sweet that sticks to the back of his throat.
There is a sharp edge to his question, loud enough that causes the two latched onto his body to giggle.
Akin to playing with fire, or more like willingly lighting up fireworks indoors.
Alex smiles, friendly and warm, shrugging. “Just asking. It’s important, no? For us to know. If we are going to be a pack, of all us. We should know these things, Georgie. It’s just been us for years for how long now? And suddenly another alpha is to join.”
George sighs.
He doesn’t mention his phone dead somewhere in the room. And he doesn’t mention anything, at all, really.
Instead, he defends an odd neutrality that stabs somewhere in his chest.
“Either way,” he says softly, closing his eyes as he sighs against the wall. Lando and Charles stop marking him, settling comfortable on him to listen. “We’ve known Max forever, so he is no stranger to you — alpha or not. It sounds like, to me, that you are implying that it won’t work.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lando giggles.
“Max can do what he wants,” Alex says, parroting the words they have heard from George one too many times, “we are more than happy to welcome him in. If he wants to join. But if he doesn’t…”
Alex drops the end of the sentence, letting insinuation fill in the gaps.
George frowns again, but he has no energy to truly figure it out.
“Why are we talking about Max? Shouldn’t this be an us thing?”
“We do not have to talk about Max if you do not want,” Charles compromises, nuzzling into his shoulder to kiss at the base of his neck.
“Okay,” George whispers, struggling to open his eyes to face any of them or himself, “good. Because I can’t right now.”
The trio give their respective comfort.
Charles kisses his neck again.
Lando kisses his nose.
Alex kisses the back of his hand.
And George decides that he really doesn’t want to open his eyes again for the rest of the day.