Chapter Text
“Boys! C’mere, you’ve gotta get your bags packed!” Maxwell called out to his sons, who he could hear in the living room of his apartment. He knelt on the floor in their room, folding their laundry on the “younger’s” bed. Sure, Miles was only younger by four minutes, but he had fun telling them all about it.
It was stressful, balancing work, feeding his small family, keeping the cops out of his business, and his energetic twins as a single father, but he’d made due so far. He didn’t resent their mother, he never would, he’d been nervous about having kids at such a young age too, but when both of them wanted nothing to do with them, he’d been the bigger person and taken them into his care.
He was glad he did, because as annoying as they were, they were his. He loved his boys, and he’d give the world up to see them happy, even if it was hard. Right now, he was spending thousands on taking them to France over their spring break, because he didn’t want to let bills hold them back from having the best childhood he could give them.
As they ran into their room to dig through their drawers to pack their bags for the trip, he couldn’t help but smile. Amin had his mother’s wavy hair and face, but his black hair and deep brown eyes. Miles, on the other hand, had his straighter hair and face, with his mother’s light brown hair and gentle brown eyes. He was the hardest of them to contain too- God forbid he got his hands on sugar.
He didn’t regret having them, not at all. He would’ve liked to have them at an older age instead of twenty-one, when he would hopefully be more financially stable, but his mom didn’t mind taking care of them when he needed a break. Their mother had given him all legal responsibility, but she still saw them often. She was the one who’d carried them for nine months and birthed them, after all.
When she’d told him that she didn’t want kids, he’d been afraid that she would put them up for adoption or that he’d never see her again. Her parents wouldn’t let her abort, so he volunteered to take care of them. Even if she wasn’t their mom anymore, they still knew that their dad’s friend who picked them up from school sometimes was the woman who’d given birth to them.
She took care of them sometimes too, mostly if he had to work late or needed a minute to himself. They didn’t call her mom, but she’d insisted that he have them call her by her name, Vera, because that’s what she wanted to be to them. She was still proud of them like they were her sons, but that was as far as she went as to being their mother.
He almost gave his ticket for this to her so she could spend some time with them, because she did love being with them, but he really needed a break, too. He was honestly surprised that he hadn’t gotten any gray hairs from this goddamn job yet, but he’d clearly been blessed with good hair genes.
He loved being a mechanic, it paid pretty well, but his body ached and the people who gave him jobs to do had to have failed kindergarten, it was insane. Recently, he’d had someone come in for an oil change, and that was it. Easy, right? It was supposed to be, until he’d gone to do it and discovered that the tank had a huge leak in the bottom. The idiot just kept arguing that it didn’t matter, all he needed to do was “top him up” and he’d be fine.
He also needed some time away from his clients. He was desperate, okay? He needed money, regardless of if it came from hard work repairing vehicles or selling whatever drugs he could get his hands on. Everyone he dealt with already knew that they’d have to either buy extra or find a new dealer until he was back, most of them understood that he had to spend some time with his kids, but there were others who he’d had to resort to threatening to cut off to keep them from yelling at him.
Yeah, he needed this break, bad.
“Dad! We’re done!” Amin grinned, the excitement clear in his gaze and pulling him out of his thoughts. Beside him, Miles was nodding quickly, bouncing on his heels and speaking far faster than he could understand. “Good! Good. But, uh, can you repeat that, Miles?” Maxwell turned his gaze back to his sons, giving them a sheepish smile. He was exhausted beyond belief, and it didn’t help that someone didn’t know how to sit still.
“When are we leaving?” The younger asked, only slightly slower than before. There’s a reason he's trying to get this kid assessed for ADHD. “We’re gonna get to the airport around seven, and we should be boarding at nine. Aren’t you guys excited to be on a plane for the first time?” He bumped Miles’ shoulder with his fist, watching their eyes light up.
They’d never been on a plane before, but they did beg him to take them to the airport often so they could watch the planes take off from the parking garage’s roof. He’d tried to get the money to get them in business or at least premium economy, but this would do. He knew that they’d be happy to be in a plane regardless of class.
“I call the window!” Amin shouted, and he was barely halfway through a sigh before the argument started. “No! I do! I want the window seat!” Miles faced his brother, frowning. “I’m older than you! I should get it!” The dark-haired boy responded, crossing his arms over his chest. “By four minutes!” He yelled back, quickly turning towards their father.
“Dad! I’m getting the window seat, right???” Miles asked, giving him that look, the one that meant he had no choice but to give in. “Uhm… When we leave, whoever gets in the car with their bag in the back and their seatbelt buckled gets it first. Whoever loses gets it on the way back. Sound good?” Maxwell said, hoping they wouldn’t realize he was really just trying to get them to put on their seatbelts.
He watched them side-eye each other, the challenge clear between them. As usual, it was only a moment before they were running back to the livingroom, probably to fight to the death or something. He loved his kids, but god were they a handful to take care of. They were sweet boys, always helping him whenever he asked, but if he wanted them to do something for them, fuck was it difficult.
When they got to the point in their lives when people say every kid hates their parents, he hoped he could prove that wrong, prove it wasn’t every kid, it was just bad parents. If they did dislike him, then he’d really do everything in his power to fix whatever he was doing wrong for them. They were everything to him, and he really didn’t know what he’d do if they thought he was a bad father to them.
Miles had no problem winning that race, which made sense considering the fact that he literally never stopped moving. Even in his sleep, he was tossing and turning regardless of how deep in his rest he was, which his brother often complained about. He’d actually removed the frame from the younger’s bed so the noise wouldn’t keep Amin up.
Maxwell held both boys’ hands in the airport, keeping them from accidentally wandering off as they gawked at the vastness of the building. They’d gotten everything packed into two suitcases- one for his kids, and one for himself. He’d tried his best to just have them carry theirs and he’d take his, but of course, Miles took that as a challenge and insisted that he carry his father’s.
It was kind of cute, actually- watching them argue about who would hold his suitcase as if it were some big feat. His wasn't any heavier than theirs, in fact it was probably lighter, but Miles wanted to “prove his strength” and show off to his brother, who resigned to carrying theirs. Amin did, however, win the argument for holding their dad’s right hand, which they seemed to prefer for some reason that was unbeknownst to him.
While they waited to board, he sat in front of the large window with them, smiling softly as they pointed out every plane they saw. Miles’ restlessness had clearly infected his brother, considering the fact that they were both bouncing on their heels in barely contained excitement. While they were watching one take off, Maxwell had the thought to take a photo of them, something he could look back on in a few years when they were no longer so excited by things like this.
When they finally boarded, he guided them to their seats at the back of the cabin. Miles quickly got to his awarded window seat, and Amin took the one beside him while their dad sat in the aisle. Surprisingly, he only had to tell them to buckle their seatbelts once, which was probably only because they were too distracted looking around the interior to be the stubborn little shits they were. They were his little shits though, which he’d always be grateful for.
It wasn't anything remarkable, it was really just the cheapest flight he could find, but to two nine-year-olds who’d never left the state before, it was the best thing ever. He could already imagine it, these two would be bragging about this to their classmates for the next year. This trip could end right here, right now, without him getting any of his money back, and it’d still be worth every cent he paid to see his boys so happy.
He fell asleep an hour or two into the flight, with the sound of his twins gawking at the sight outside the window lulling him into a deep rest. When he woke up, there was an attendant walking the aisle with the snack cart, and there was a light pressure against his side. Looking beside him, Amin was out, leaning against him as Maxwell held his arm around his son’s shoulders.
Miles was asleep too, though he was resting his head on the wall. He was glad they were getting the rest, they’d definitely need it for everything he had planned for the trip. He couldn't believe his eyes, honestly- His son was actually still, for once. To be fair, he usually sent them to bed around eight, and it had been ten when Maxwell had fallen asleep.
From the seat across the aisle from him, he heard a voice that he thought was talking to him- He barely understood what the man said, though. “Tu as des enfants adorables,” He smiled gently at him, which he was pretty sure meant something along the lines of calling his boys cute. Maxwell had to rack his brain to remember the single semester of French he took in high school.
“...Merci?” He responded, not entirely sure if that was the right word, and his accent was horrible. “Tu viens à Paris en vacances ou tu y habites?” The man asked, and that was where he got lost. He had not one fucking clue what this unbelievably gorgeous man was saying to him. “Uhm… Je… Je nes parle… Français.” He guessed.
“Oh!” The man exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Je m'excuse, je n'en avais aucune idée. Err…” He dropped his voice to a grumble, most likely talking to himself, Maxwell thought. “Je suis un idiot,” He sighed, which was pretty easy to understand. “I do not speak.. anglais. English.” He finally said, his accent thick.
Oh, he likes this man. He had short, tight brown curls, gentle grey-green eyes, and pink lips that looked so soft. He’d never realized how attracted he was to a French accent until now, holy shit. He nodded for a while, far longer than he thought he was, probably because he was distracted by the absolute god sitting beside him.
“That’s alright. Or… Ce n’est pas… oui. Close enough.” Maxwell offered a sheepish smile, hoping that got the point across alright. “You dans France for… Travail ou, or, vacances?” The man spoke, his hybrid-English broken but clear enough. Thankfully, he did remember that travail was not travel, mostly because he always got that wrong in high school.
“Vacances.” He answered, mimicking the other’s pronunciation as best as he could. “Je m'appelle Maxwell, et tu?” Nope. That wasn't right, but it would work. “Enchanté, Maxwell! My name is Jordan. Leurs noms?” The man, Jordan, gestured at his sleeping sons, most likely asking for their names.
“This is- Or, il s’appelle Amin,” Maxwell gently squeezed his arm around his son’s shoulders before continuing. “Et il s’appelle Miles.” He finished, nodding at the younger of them. “Good, good!” Jordan smiled, which he was guessing was supposed to be along the lines of him saying that they were good names, or… something.
“Tu fais quoi dans le v- er, what… Putain. What do you, work?” He asked, cringing to himself. He definitely wouldn’t be mentioning… all of it. “I’m a mechanic. Or, je suis… voiture, corriger.” That should be… similar to the right words. He definitely didn’t pronounce corriger correctly, but oh well. “Et tu- Toi?” Maxwell finished, gently carding his fingers through his son’s messy hair when he felt him shift against him.
“Ah, un mécanicien! J'aurais bien voulu en devenir un, à une époque. Je suis mannequin maintenant, je reviens tout juste d'une séance photo aux États-Unis.” Jordan spoke quickly, far faster than he could even translate the basic words. He got mannequin, which only confused him more. “Non, je suis un idiot.” He repeated, taking a long moment to think. “Comment m'ont-ils appelé… Model! Oui, model.”
Oh.
That made sense.
He was truly a gorgeous man, and he must be making good money then.
If that were true, then…
“Why economy, then? You must be able to afford a better seat.” Maxwell blurted out before he could think about how that might sound, kicking himself before realizing that the other man probably hadn’t understood a word he’d said. “Qoui?” Jordan furrowed his brow. “Again?” Definitely hadn’t understood him. To be fair, if he’d said it in French, the mechanic certainly would’ve been making the same expression he was currently seeing.
“You must, uhm… That’s not gonna work. You’re a model, but…” Maxwell gestured around them at the cramped cabin. The other man opened his mouth to answer, but never finished. “No English.. Bon sang.. I need my translator.” That last part was said with a perfect American English accent, which surprised him. His translator, who or whatever it was, had probably drilled that phrase into his head for situations like this. “Elle est aux toilettes.”
Okay, so, his translator was a person, a woman who was in the plane’s bathroom at the moment. He felt… Jealous, almost. He shouldn’t, really- He’d only known this man for maybe five minutes, and who knows if he even likes dudes? “Ah! La voilà! Maxwell, je te présente ma petite sœur, Hallie.” Jordan grinned, pulling his legs in to allow a woman to sit in the seat beside him.
She was a pretty woman, shorter than the Frenchman with similar curls in lighter hair. Hallie, he was pretty sure Jordan had said her name was. “Alors, tu as rencontré quelqu'un pendant les cinq minutes où je t'ai laissé tout seul?” She laughed quietly, before glancing over at him. “Il est plutôt beau. Est-ce qu'il est célibataire? Pour toi, bien sûr.” She said, looking back at Jordan.
“Hallie!” The model half-yelped, looking flustered as he whipped his head around to look at her. “Tu as de la chance qu'il ne parle pas français, espèce d'imbécile.” Jordan sighed, continuing his conversation with the woman. “Ah, c'est donc pour ça que tu parlais de moi.” She smirked at him, and with the ease they spoke with, that jealousy just wormed its way deeper into his heart.
Jealousy for the ease with which they spoke, or the money they must have, he wasn’t sure.
This was gonna be a long flight.