Work Text:
When Max thinks of the summer, he thinks of pretty blue eyes and wet brown hair.
Too bad, it was only fleeting.
He takes another swig of beer, to cheer himself up, to haze his mind until he is free of his troubles.
Then, he sees him, peacocking around clad in white.
And, oh, how he'd like to get on his nerves today. Irritate him until he sees red and maybe then, his pressed-on suit would reflect it, but he'd look rather swell in maroon as well regardless.
So there isn't a point to it— but maybe Max wants to make one, splash a little wine on him or something, just to get a rise out of him.
"Hello," Max greets, sliding into the seat opposite George's. They're tucked away in a neat little booth.
"Not invited." George furrows his brows, sipping harder on his margarita. Gosh, does he always have to have those?
"Was there a list?" Max smiles sardonically. George's lips become pressed even tighter, Max wants to open them up and just fill that gap with his own mouth.
He'd bite George's bottom lip slightly, make him feel some pain, then he'd kiss him abit fiercely just to get out his frustrations. The nights he'd spent wishing George looked at him more. The nights he'd spent wishing George looked at him less, all poured out into a first and final kiss.
Then, maybe he's actually try to tell George it's alright through it, try to shift to be as tender and sweet as possible just to let George know he really does want to kiss him.
But that's not, well, accurate. Contemplating how he can kiss George is not equivalent to wanting to kiss George, it's merely an impulsive thought that plagues his mind once in a while. An itch he cannot scratch away, because when he tries it rips the skin off his bones in tatters and draws crimson.
George takes a while to speak again.
"What do you want from me, Verstappen?"
He sounds exasperated. He looks so, too. If Max squints he can see George's under-eyes are a little blemished and dark, he can see it even under the blinding disco lights.
"I don't want anything." Just you.
No, that wasn't a good thought. It was impulsive and reckless, like all the things that shape Max into what he is today.
"Then why're you here?"
It's unfair that George can look so pretty, sitting here alone like this, Max thinks. That half the club's eyes are on him and yet, he's blissfully unaware. Or maybe he knows and he is just acting oblivious. Either way, it doesn't change anything.
But the question George poses is not invalid. Why was Max here? Max himself couldn't tell you, even if he wrung his brain dry.
So, he replied with the most comical thing ever.
"I wanted to talk."
Talk.
"About what?"
Talk.
"Our son."
Talk.
"There is nothing to talk about. He's staying with me at the moment, you obviously know that." George rolls his eyes.
"Then why're you out here clubbing when you should be taking care of him?" Max grits his teeth.
"Alex told me to go out, said he'd care for Andrea for the night."
"And you couldn't bother consulting me?" Max purses his lips.
"You're here too."
I was hoping you'd be here, sits on the tip of his tongue.
"That's my business."
"Well. I guess so. Then this, is mine, isn't it?" George smirks, raising a glass in makeshift salute.
Max storms off. He needs air.
When he goes outside, it's cold. Well, it is late autumn. He scrambles for a pack, rummaging through his pocket to find that familiar box gone ashen.
He takes out a lighter, holds it to the end of the cigarette butt, and sees the fire slowly burn on, its orange flame complementing the crispy trees around him.
He's about to hold it to his mouth when it gets jerked out of his hands, and a foot pins it to the ground with one powerful step. Oh, that poor cigarette.
"I thought you quit."
"That's not any of your business, now, is it?" Max retorts.
George looks down in what appears to be surrender, but it isn't, because George doesn't surrender to anyone. Especially Max.
"Don't smoke again."
He's using that voice— the one that got Max to do everything for him, the one that made Max weak in the knees because of its tenderness and gentleness Max wanted to be real. It wasn't ever proved to be, well, fake. But Max tells himself all of it was, anyway, to get through a day okay.
"Don't go caring about me now, Verstappen." Max smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.
George's face shutters; the divorce hasn't been finalised yet, so Max is technically, well, not wrong.
"Just tell me what the hell you want from me."
You, you, you.
"Why're you clubbing?"
"Alex made me."
"Oh, really?"
Max is being mean, he knows it. But some disgusting part of him has always liked to be mean to George, a part of him he couldn't contain.
"If you can't accept that, then fine. By all means. Anyway, shop's open now." George smiles.
And that's when he remembers that it wasn't solely on his end, the divorce, it had to come from both parties. Because George is horrendous at love, too, and he was as equally, ferociously disgusting of a spouse as Max had been.
No husband should be threatening divorce every other week, Max knows, or arguing over tiny bullshit that turns into full-on rage-pressed arguments that flood the house into a river of fury.
So maybe that's why Max still wants him back. Because he knows only George can truly meet him halfway, and vice versa— see if the one-night stand George finds tonight can put up with George's non-stop whining and cynicism.
"I guess I'm open, too, then." Max grins. But his teeth are pressed together uncomfortably, and he feels a shiver crawling out of his skin and diffusing away. He hopes some of it carries to George.
George stays silent, and Max decides that, if he wants to play it like that, then fucking fine. They will play it like that, and Max will make sure it's a fair game.
"Is Kimi doing okay at school?" George suddenly spouts, and it seems unfair now that George has found some loophole into the rules. Bringing up their son obviously makes Max way less desperate at winning, because it's their son.
"Yeah. Gets along with this kid Ollie a lot." Max's voice is scruffy from the promise of a cigarette snatched away from him.
George purses his lips.
"He won't tell me shit. About school. Keeps saying he wants us back together, and it's hard to tell him, that we're not."
"Why not?" Max asks mockingly. George just glares at him.
A beat of silence slices through them again. This time, it's Max who speaks to amend his snarkiness from earlier.
"He won't talk to me either, for the same reasons as you."
He doesn't sound like he's really challenging George anymore, he's just worried about his kid. Or, well, their kid.
"What solution do you have, then?" Kids aren't the best topic of conversation at a bar, but it's Max and Kimi's theirs so it's alright. George doesn't care about Max's opinion on his social skills, anyway.
"Let's get married again."
Max meant to pass it off as a joke, but suddenly it really does seem like a viable suggestion, and George gets that manic look in his eyes he always does when he has a bad idea.
"Let's do it."
Max checks to see if George is pulling his leg, but no, he's actually serious, damnit.
"What?"
It feels weird to arrive to a parent-teacher meeting separately, the first time.
George checks to see if Max is following on the walk up from the parking lot; they don't hold hands anymore like they used to.
Kimi's with them, sweet Kimi, who spends most of his day in glee and oblivion. He's just happy both his parents are present, and it makes George feel even shittier of a father, and even more so of a (ex) husband, that he's made Kimi thirst for a sense of familial love. But he knows all that shouting couldn't have brightened Kimi's day, either.
Maybe they hadn't thought it through enough like they thought they had, and maybe George still loves Max so much it hurts, but it doesn't matter because they just don't work.
George holds Kimi's hand as Max trails behind quietly. Kimi hasn't stopped smiling once, despite the obvious tension laid thick in the atmosphere.
Kimi's teacher, some guy called Mark (Kimi just calls him Mr. Mark, George hadn't a notion his surname was Webber until he stumbled into his office with Max) seemed uncomfortable too— his eyes flitted back and forth between George and Max's stiff postures before starting.
Kimi's been having some problems with, uh, other kids' parents, he'd said. Apparently, Kimi's been wanting two parental figures at once so bad he's consulted them about his parents' divorce, so now the whole lot of parents know about George and Max's falling out.
Maybe George should be mad at Kimi, that he's gabbed to everyone about his strained relationship Max, but he can't find it in himself to get angry. Not when the picture of Kimi roaming around asking his friends' parents how to get his own parents back together is ingrained into his mind.
Max seems affected by this, too. And affected by the fact Mr. Webber is raising concerns about their home. He tells Mr. Webber, albeit very calmly, to not mention it again and leaves. It's not angry, or violent, it's eerily calm, the way Max just strides out. Mr. Webber is left with his mouth half-hung open while George tries his best to divert the subject back to Kimi's grades and social life so the meeting can end productively as soon as possible.
It shouldn't affect George at all when he finds Max still outside waiting for them, even when they've taken separate cars, but it does.
Other parents in the lot are already gossiping amongst themselves about the lonely dad, hushed whispers pinging off the concrete bends. George hopes no one is trying to get with Max, because even though they're divorced, or "unmarried", he's still the only person Max went down a knee for. He wants to keep it that way, selfish as it is.
Once the other parents make their leave, George finally confronts Max. He lets Kimi wait in Max's car first, since Kimi's staying the night at Max's.
"You can't just walk out like that."
"I can do whatever I want, I'm a grown man, sch- George."
Yes, it still stings when Max is midway through saying a pet name for George and he realises he can't do it anymore. It still stings when George realises he wants Max to keep calling him in endearments. It hurts when George realises there will come a day Max won't call him pet names by accident anymore, and he'll be just George, while Max goes on one knee for another person and calls them schat everyday like he used to with George.
Max clears his throat, enveloping the silence that surrounded them so suddenly.
"Are Kimi's things all packed? His stuffed bear?"
"Yeah. Blanket, all that." George dismisses.
Neither of them notice Kimi leaning against Max's car window, watching their interaction. Void of hope, and at the same time, full of it.
The next time they have to meet Mr. Webber, Max doesn't walk out. George doesn't miss the way Mr. Webber eyes Max warily. Like he's scared Max will walk out again. George can relate to that bit, atleast.
Mr. Webber doesn't bring up anything regarding Kimi and parents, even though George saw Kimi at the schools' charity baking event talking to the other parents about how George used to cook with Max by his side, grabbing his waist, all the time. They cast him sympathetic glances. And behind stands the event coordinator, Mr. Webber, watching it all in quiet understanding.
Kimi goes in Max's car, Max manages not to call George a half-way formed pet name by accident for the first time. God, does it hurt, but Kimi seems happy nothing's went awry like it usually does.
It hurts when Kimi stops talking about George and Max to the other parents— although it has helped with their social life amongst the other parents alot more— because George now realises Kimi is getting used to this, while he himself, still isn't.
It's summer on George's yacht.
Max is sitting lazily on a lounge chair, basking in the sun lazily. George's sister is away in Portugal for the week, and his niece has come along with them. She calls Max and George her 'second papas' and the thought of it scares Max slightly. He's not sure why.
She comes to pester Max every now and then and while it is a bit annoying at times she's too cute for Max to resist indulging in. So even though she likes to splash salt water on his face a lot, the laugh he lets out is genuine.
She reminds him of her uncle— high-maintenance, slightly mischievous, and very, endearingly annoying.
But he and George weren't even, like, boyfriends. They were just friends with benefits, if you could even call them friends. George was someone Max could have a good time with, and Max was sure George thought of him the same. But maybe bringing his niece here wasn't so casual.
"Sorry," George chuckles sheepishly, holding her up and away from Max, "she gets fidgety when she's sleepy, she forsakes naps."
"It's alright," Max grins, "she's cute."
Max let's her continue using his face as her personal splash zone before George sets her off to go take her afternoon nap; George places a tender kiss in her soft curls and Max comes to realise why being called a 'papa' with George scares him. Because it really wouldn't be bad, having a kid with George. In fact, Max would give so much to wake up to this everyday. To have to deal with dirty diapers, screaming, kicking, whatever— as long as George was there with him.
That thought, scares him the most.
Alot of things change that summer.
They visit George's house alot of times, and Max's, and well, they go everywhere around Monaco.
Max is sitting across George outside a cafe one day on wooden chairs, the hot sun spitting rays of venom on them (that somehow land softly on George), as George is prattling on about something at work.
His hair's catching strays of sunlight, his eyes, so blue, are spotted with flecks of gold, and the slight wind blessing them is ruffling his plain white shirt.
But it's not any of that that make Max's heart stop, no, it's when George takes Max's packet of sugar made for his coffee and dabs it into his own cup of tea instead, sipping with his mouth latched on the porcelain leisurely— because he knows Max doesn't take sugar in his coffee.
It's scary, because Max thinks that's the first time he's felt so seen, all because of sugar and coffee and tea and whatnot.
Later, they walk along the pier, and George's hand inches closer to Max. He doesn't take it, but it's just, well, there, and George doesn't even seem to realise how close they are.
Max closes the distance between their hands, and when their fingers interlock, it feels like he's found something lost for ages. Something he's been born to seek and he's finally found this phantom of a feeling that's been present in his heart his whole life. Now it's finally here and so tangible and real, that he doesn't quite know what to do with it except revel in it.
This thought scares him, too.
When they're on George's yacht again two months later— on the cusp of Autumn— Max asks him to be his boyfriend for the first time.
Not just friends-with-benefits who took each other out on dates— whatever they were doing. He already had more with George, but he'd always noticed the ashen look that fell on George's face whenever they were mistaken as boyfriends in public. That gleeful look when Max kisses his forehead or the back of his palm or his jaw, even his birthmark.
On that yacht, Max thinks that, if he doesn't ask him in the moment, he might just drag George to an altar and make him his husband. It's the fact he wants to kiss George everywhere for the rest of his life, fly George around the world, give George whatever he can. It's the fact that if George asked him right now, if they wanted to adopt, Max wouldn't say no.
Max finds George by the yacht at sunset, staring off into the sea. The late hues of dawn caress him lazily, as they shed light on the sea, too. George seems to outshine the sea, George always outshines everything.
Max knows the question that's been burning on the tip of George's tongue already, what are we doing?
So he turns George around, wraps his hands around his waist and kisses his pretty lips softly— slowly, but not sloppily— before finally whispering,
"Be my boyfriend."
George just smiles and kisses him back harder, and like he's read his mind and felt every nerve inside it, he has the gall to add on with,
"I'd be your husband right now if you asked."
And, oh, Max thinks he's never getting over George. Never.
In the vague reflection of them embedded into the waves, Max catches a glimpse of George staring at him in awe— an expression he's caught many times, but it's different now that they're boyfriends— and he has no doubt he is doing the same, staring at George in what can only be called awe, with a fluttering feeling in his chest he's scared to name.
"Got your stuff?" George peers over to Max, who's loading the last box up the truck.
It's different this time. It feels different. The last time they did this, George was helping him, kissing him, and they were easily the most obnoxious couple down the street.
Now, it looked like George was his landlord kicking him out for overdue rent, but had taken the extra care to make sure all his things were thrown out.
Max just nods in return, and they take George's car back together.
It's unsettling when they arrive, wheels of the car halting on the familiar gravel of what used to be their driveway. Now it technically is, again, but Max is so accustomed to the thought of it being George's driveway since the divorce that the memory of him ever driving up here everyday is, frankly, uncanny.
Max's things are already splayed out on the front porch by the time they get there, so they spend the rest of the hour sorting everything out. They've agreed to share a bed, having done it numerous times in the past, but everything suddenly feels so horribly right. The model racing cars back on the shelf left vacant since the divorce, coffee packets in the pantry cabinets (George only drinks tea), cans of Redbulls piled up in the fridge, Max being able to live with both Kimi and George at the same time again.
It's so right it feels wrong, because Max had already gotten used to being without this. But now that it's here, with him again, Max thinks he'll never be able to live without it again— home.
Here goes.
"Kimi!" George laughs when Kimi rushes over to Max, arms spreading wide around Max's legs as they can't quite reach Max's waist yet, not even his hips. Kimi beckons George over, too, hugging the both of them as they squat down to embrace him at an adequate height.
"Why is papa here today?"
"Your papa and I are... trying again," George smiles, "remember my trip to Vegas? I saw your papa there and we got married again."
"Really?" Kimi asks, eyes wide with wonder.
"Yep," Max grins, feeling his teeth scrape against each other nastily, "we're married again."
Then, Kimi starts to cry. Softly, hiccuping, as if he can't fathom any of it. George rubs comforting circles down his back while Max dries his eyes with tissues.
"What's wrong, baby?" George asks, carding his hands through Kimi's hair.
"I missed this." Kimi whispers through tears, and Max feels his heart sink.
For a while, it feels like they're family again.
Until reality hits, and it's bedtime, and Max has to fight that scalding urge to take George's hand, kiss the back of it like he always does, then wrap his arms around George like a koala. They don't do that anymore.
George is seated in bed, reading a book on ancient civilisations (no one knows why) — skin shiny after putting on whatever skincare bullshit he likes to apply every night.
Max emerges from the shower, towel hanging around his waist— George stares for a while before his eyes flit back to his book, he feels like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be even when Max isn't looking. Even when Max is wrapping a shirt around himself with his nice biceps-
Okay. Too much.
"When can we tell Kimi we're over?"
"It's not nice to play with the boy. This time let's make it more gradual, more calming, than the last."
Max remembers the last— endless arguments, slammed doors and countless apologies.
He still misses it, because it's George.
"I guess it's more official then." Max muses.
"What is?" George tries very hard to not look at Max drying his hair with a towel.
"You're George Verstappen again."
And yeah— what a revolting thought that is.
Kimi finally starts talking to them again.
It hurts to realise all Kimi's wanted was, well, a home. A family he could come home to.
Living with Max again is tiring.
Their arguments are hushed, their routines collide unevenly, dishes are always left in the sink to rot. That's until about an hour before Kimi's getting picked up and they have to act like a happy family all over again.
The issue is that maybe they are.
Max climbs into bed beside a sleeping George. George still subconsciously faces him until now, and it reminds Max of the days when he could wrap his arm around George's waist and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Of course, he doesn't tell George— it'd haunt him. Anyway, the instinct to sleep while facing Max is natural. They were married for seven years.
But he can't tell George, because then maybe they'd have to sleep in separate beds, and Max would have to sleep all alone again.
It hurts to know he's missed this— arguing with George, finding George doing his skincare, cooking for George, having George cook for him. He's missed George.
Well, they're so-called "married" again, so Max ought to be getting used to this. Whatever this is. Even though he has a husband he can't kiss, a kid that's living somewhat of a lie, and a separate home tenured to a lease lasting another year he doesn't dare cancel, least this blows up.
So maybe, just maybe, he does want to live this lie they've both curated.
"Max," George murmurs as Max tugs the covers over himself, delirious with sleep as his hand grasps for nothing but air, "I love you."
Max's gaze softens because, oh, isn't that so habitual, after all.
For the first time since the divorce, Max drifts to sleep deliberately facing George, like old times.
Because maybe, just maybe, there's another world akin to the past where George would say he loves Max, fully awake, and not just in sleep.
Day In My Life
Max.
It's routine.
8.00AM. George is up and about packing Kimi's bag, making sure he has everything, while Max is busy cooking a basic breakfast. Kimi eats fast, George is the one driving Kimi off to work today since he's the one who has to be in office this week. That way, he can drive straight to work.
8.30AM. Max paces about the house aimlessly. He goes back to sleep, on George's side, and thinks about his situation again. Or more so, their situation.
9.00AM. Max doesn't manage to sleep fully, it's only a nap, after all.
9.30AM. Max tries to sleep again. He slept at 6AM last night.
10.00AM. Max, tentatively, takes a few sleeping pills, stashed below books he doesn't read in his nightstand. He finally rests.
1.00PM. Max wakes up. He still feels sleepy— but there's work to do. He sees George's text asking if he's cleaned up the house before Kimi's home. Doesn't reply, he's tired.
3.00PM. The house is dusted clean, dishes are washed. Max takes a sticky note, writes in a handwriting similar to George's, 'I'll be out, darling. Getting groceries, send me a list' with a heart drawn. He pastes it on the fridge.
3.30PM. Kimi's home, Max hugs him and pries about his day. Kimi's finally talking to him again.
4.00PM. Max is on the sofa when he sees Kimi staring at the stickynote with something that looks like awe. He's happy Kimi's bought it.
5.00PM. Max texts George to get groceries. No reply. Max busies himself cooking again, the hot sizzling of the pan doesn't do much to calm him. He wants to sleep.
7.00PM. George comes home, looking exhausted. They eat dinner together with Kimi, Max always finishes his plate quick so he isn't stuck with George once Kimi goes back to his room.
8.00PM. George takes the liberty to wash the dishes. Max goes to take a shower.
9.00PM. George has also showered by now. He's doing skincare. Max watches in silence.
10.00PM. George turns the nightlight off, he faces away from Max to sleep.
11.00PM. Max gets off his phone and tugs the covers over himself. He doesn't sleep.
12.00AM. Max gets up to take a glass of water, he takes a pill.
2.00AM. Max takes two pills.
3.00AM. Max falls asleep.
George.
It's routine.
8.00AM. Max is the one who needs to be in office today, George makes breakfast. Max eats and talks with Kimi while he stays in the back of the kitchen, staring off aimlessly.
8.30AM. Max and Kimi take their leave. George is left in the house alone.
9.00AM. He doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He's been staring at the wall for a while.
9.30AM. George starts cleaning up the dishes, then the house.
12.00PM. George goes out for lunch with Alex, talks abit about life, but not him and Max's arrangement. Alex knows it anyway— his first question is "Max again?", and that sets George off on a tangent.
3.00PM. George returns home, lays on the sofa for a while.
3.30PM. Kimi's home. George fixes his hair before he opens the door, hiding the fact he's been laying on the sofa aimlessly for half an hour.
5.00PM. Kimi's sleeping, George finds a book to read in his spare time. He knows Max has a lot of books he doesn't bother reading, so he opens his nightstand, aiming to read something fresh.
He finds a small orange bottle beneath the stack of books Max doesn't read.
Wait. This isn't routine.
7.00PM. Max comes home. They eat dinner together with Kimi. George eats faster so he doesn't have to be left alone with Max soon enough.
8.00PM. George showers.
9.00PM. Max goes to shower. George waits.
9.30PM. George makes sure Kimi's asleep before he finds Max slinging a towel around his neck, freshly shirtless out of the shower.
Day In My Life (Extended Play)
It's hard to find a place to start.
"Max, I-"
Max whips around, he's still without a shirt.
"Put a goddamn shirt on, Verstappen." George feels his face get hot.
Max changes without a word.
"What is it, George?"
Max says it in such a resigned way that, well, George can't help but feel his blood boil a bit. It's like he's an inconvenience, a pest, that won't leave Max. He hates feeling this way, and he never ever felt this way when they were married, but since the divorce he's just felt like he's been a nuisance to Max.
"I know, uhm, I know that- that we're not very, you know, anymore. But I found— I found sleeping pills in your drawer. Accident. Honest. And I just wanted to ask if you're feeling okay with the— the arrangement."
Max stills, focusing on George fully, now, a damp towel hanging loosely on his neck.
"I- what? You went through my stuff?"
"No, Max, wait, it was— I was trying to find a book to read. I swear." George pleads. He knows he sounds pathetic, but it's the truth and he wants Max to know it.
"You're not respecting my privacy." Max mutters, his words sound like they're being scraped out of him, like a fingernail scratching stone. His voice is still dangerously calm.
"It was an accident. I promise."
"You're acting like we're fucking married, George, but we're not! You can't just go through my shit and call it an 'accident'."
George's eyebrows furrow.
"Well, I'm sorry I actually stumbled upon it because we're not married anymore, and I-" his voice cracks slightly, "I thought that drawer would be for books, because we're not fucking married anymore, because I don't fucking know anything about you anymore— but instead I find pills shoved underneath it. Pills, Max."
Max softens
George knows what he's said is a lie. He knows everything about Max until know, but even so, he still feels like he's losing the one thing that he needs with Max, normalcy. Which is what he let slip in his argument. And that's not a lie.
"I'm not addicted. If that's what you're concerned about. I promise. I can— I can throw them out, replace them with melatonin gummies or something."
"You promise?"
"Yeah. And— and I'm fine with the arrangement. It's okay." Max heaves.
Anything for you, whatever you need. Max is tempted to say. But he doesn't, it just lies sedentary on the tip of his tongue like another bad pill.
Somehow, George's words have made him pause and he's not so sure why. He's gone soft on someone who sharpens all his edges.
The hollow of George's throat flexes as he swallows hard, averting his gaze from Max. A betrayal of just how easy this arrangement was for the two of them. Somehow, the world feels smaller when it's just them two, and at the same time, vast and empty.
Later on, when they're getting ready for bed, George suddenly interjects.
"I— I wanted to say earlier that, I noticed in sleep you kind of reach out for- for something. So, if you can't sleep, you can just, put an arm on my waist or something. To help you sleep. Too many melatonin gummies is bad, too."
That orange bottle of pills glows in the moonlight, tossed aside in an empty trash can. It seems to wink at Max, not beckoning, not tempting in the slightest, but more of a gotcha. A soft reminder that maybe he'd needed George instead of it— like the gentle push the tide eases in the sand amongst pale mornings and overcast skies; like summer; like George.
Because everytime before he'd went to bed there'd be only one thing on his mind, and it all had to do with George, George, George.
Max breaks his routine that night. He doesn't take any pills. And when they lie together, Max finds it in himself to put an arm around George's waist, his breath coming in warm wisps down George's neck. It's not necessarily, like, sexy, in a sense— even though George always finds Max very attractive— it's just comforting. Like a ghost of the past that's come back to say hi. It reminds George of what they once were.
"Thanks," Max whispers, "for offering. To help me sleep better."
"You do like to hug things when you sleep." Max can hear the smile in George's voice as he says it.
You do know me, idiot. Max thinks before he succumbs to the wiles of sleep, beckoning him further.
This time, it does tempt.
The next morning is a Saturday. Max is listening to the news broadcasted on television while doing work, Kimi's eating cereal, and it all feels, well, great. George is rooting around the kitchen cooking lunch for them (since Max did so yesterday), and somehow it all feels abit too nice and sweet: the soft clacking of his keys and the tentative rattle of Kimi's cereal bowl everytime the table shakes from Kimi setting his spoon down dramatically.
That is, until Kimi's voice pierces through the peaceful silence.
"Why were you both fighting last night?"
George whips his head around instantly, eyes wide.
"We weren't fighting, it's okay, Kimi." Max feigns a smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Kimi looks down at his bowl absent-mindedly, George lets the stove simmer to a slow stop before sitting across Kimi on the dining table.
"We're doing okay, love."
"I don't want you guys to— to fight again." Kimi's voice breaks slightly, and now Max is by his side too, arms wrapped around him protectively.
"I love your father. It's alright." Max whispers, so soft for only Kimi to hear.
Strangely, it doesn't feel like a lie.
Similarly, later on at night, George goes to speak with Kimi again, and he says the same thing.
"Papa said that about you, too." Kimi grins, his adult teeth still hasn't grown in yet, so when he grins his baby teeth are slightly spaced out in neat intervals.
George doesn't know what to reply to that.
Then, when he goes to lie beside Max, and Max asks if he can put an arm around George again, George obliges. He says I love you, in his mind, in a breath that feels silent but is loud— in a way Max cannot hear.
Max feels it anyway. By the soft puff of George's breath on his neck, the way he trembles slightly when Max's hand shifts slightly for better grip, the way he leans in closer.
And maybe, just maybe, while George is nuzzling himself, Max manages to mouth the words I love you. They do not sound.
The third time they lie together, it's unusual.
They're not sleeping. They're just staring at each other, and somehow, it's so surreal they both can't stop.
Max observes George's freakishly blue eyes, George observes Max's jawline.
Neither speak, until Max ruins it. He always does.
"Why did we opt for divorce?"
Strangely, they both have a hard time recalling it.
"I..." George furrows his brows, "yes, why did we?"
"I loved you." I still do.
"I loved you, too." Why did you use the past tense? Do you not love me anymore?
"Then why don't we work?"
"Don't we?" George parallels.
It's like they're just mirroring each other, one and the same. But if George was to be his reflection, Max was Narcissus.
This time, George is the one prying a question. No, not asking, stating.
"I once said, before we dated, that maybe if we both were retired, had nothing on our plates, we could work. Because we're competitors, right?"
Max nods solemnly.
"Then, we fucked anyway, and after I moved office, we didn't really have to compete."
"Why'd you come back to the London establishment, then? Florence ought to be better." George's voice is soft. He still doesn't know why. Maybe that's why they couldn't work; there were too many gaps they didn't fill in.
Max just smiles.
"Think abit harder, schat."
George's throat goes dry.
This time, he turns away from Max.
Max presses his face into the crook of his neck, holds his waist, and says no more.
And in the wake of silence, George is off to sleep, idle in a sea of uncertainty, and Max is just a fellow sailor rowing the ship with him, equally unsure.
"And the reason for your divorce is?" Max's lawyer asks.
George's gaze flits over to Max's. They're unsure of how to answer the question.
"Does it matter? We're un-divorcing now." George plasters on the fakest smile he can muster, interlocking his fingers with Max's and holding their hands up to prove something.
Max nearly scoffs, but it's more pointed towards the fact that George doesn't do this in private. Not anymore, atleast.
"Well, Mr. Russell, your assets would be inexplicably intertwined to his. It'd be extremely hard to rearrange, should you both divorce again, if there are any further changes, so we will divide them evenly now. Let us file this script, just incase. Mr. Verstappen, any place of residency you own yourself that is not yet listed here?"
"No—" George begins, but is cut off by Max abruptly.
"Yes." Max coughs.
Beat.
"What?" George's gaze sharpens.
"I had to find somewhere to stay."
"We've only been separated for two months— couldn't you have just— crashed somewhere? At Lando's? Charles's?"
"I tried. Lando was, well, busy. With Oscar. Charles has Carlos, too, unfortunately. It's not nice waiting outside for two hours because of a sock on the door." Max presses his lips into a thin line.
"Yeah, but you getting an apartment means that it's permanent." George whispers.
Max pauses.
"I'll sublet the apartment."
"No, wait— you can just stay there, and we can tell Kimi we just have two houses now." George is almost pleading. He feels like he's got what he's wanted far too easily, because for some twisted reason, Max is so willing to give everything up for him.
Max just smiles.
"I want to live with you. Is that okay?"
George almost chokes. Almost cries, even.
"Yeah. Yeah— it's... Okay, sublet it." George relents.
"Okay, so, your apartment being listed for subleting means that your assets are now even. You both are free to go." George's lawyer chips in, smoothing out the stack of papers on the table.
For a second, George wants to hate him for ruining the moment, wants to say it's none of his business. But then he realises it, factually, is, and he shouldn't be this angry at a moment lost. Then he realises, what moment?, and that he shouldn't even be thinking about it in such a way, because it's nothing. Nothing at all.
The bitterness of that thought is, factually, unwelcoming.
Max doesn't know when the urge came.
That itch, that itch.
Nagging, biting.
That itch to confess.
They've been about a few months into semi-fake relationship, Kimi is happier than ever, and somehow, their fake marriage may have become something real.
He wanted it to stay fake at first, but it can't be, no matter how much he tries to pretend.
It wasn't fake when they were in the bathroom brushing their teeth side-to-side and he found himself in the pivot mirror looking at George with an expression that could only be ascribed as intimate.
It wasn't fake when he was cooking one day like usual and he turned to see George sitting at the dining table staring at him. Not waiting, not wanting, or expecting— just watching.
And it definitely wasn't fake when the first thing he thought after his first sip of vodka when he went out with old friends for drinks the other day was, I want to be with George.
So yeah, maybe he knows something about himself he doesn't dare voice out-loud.
But then he thinks to the fragility of their circumstance and realises it's not, well, worth it. To give all this up because of his selfish, untended feelings.
There are times. Times when he sees George sleeping like an angel and he has the urge to press his lips to George's and tell him how much he loves him.
But he also knows that maybe there will come a day George will come to him. And on that day, he'll be waiting.
George doesn't know when he started to realise he never stopped loving Max.
It didn't come as a sharp, sudden epiphany that rocked his world and frazzled his mind like it did when they were dating. They were well past that stage now.
It came like wine. Fermented, fostered, and tended to. And yeah, he did try to deny it a few times— liking your ex-husband isn't ideal— but somehow, that feeling only ripened with time.
Maybe, the time he'd realised, though, was when Max came home one day drunk and clung to George the whole night.
Or the day he woke up and he saw Max staring up, lost in his own thoughts. Just laying there looking pretty. And he realised the joy of waking up with someone you love.
Or the day he'd brought Kimi back home from school and Max had lifted him with no hesitation and showered him with the love he'd always promised to give Kimi. And Kimi accepted it so gracefully, that George knew no matter their divorce Max had never betrayed his love for the kid. Their kid.
It's like everything he's wanted in love is curated by an angel. An angel who spits and seizes flames. But one day, that angel seized a flame that turned into light and it became what they have now.
Something indescribably, inexplicably, burning and painful but also artful, and, somewhat, filled with solace and hope.
It's kind of weird, when they confess to each other again. After a year.
See, Max was thinking George would make it a whole thing, like their past confessions. An argument or something that turned into some melodramatic spill of tension from the past two months and they'd both kiss like their lives depended on it.
But nothing happened in that form.
It was in the dead of night— Kimi had already been tucked to bed, and Max was busy catching up on work in their bed room, while George was holding up some newspaper. He looks over at George, stills because he always does, and George suddenly catches him. And he smiles. But it's nowhere near smug, it's fond.
George sits up, and he presses himself closer to Max. Max doesn't think they should be doing this, they still have their arrangement going on, but he leans into it anyhow.
George suddenly kisses his jaw, and then, finally, finally, his mouth.
"I love you." George breathes, pulling away with a soft smack. He's so warm, yet Max feels like he's being scorched by a cosmic star. Maybe a burn would explain the red on his cheeks.
"I love you, too." Max whispers against George's neck, because George's skin feels sacred and it feels so much better to talk into it, before cupping George's face and kissing him again softly.
"I'll go wash the dishes, okay? There's some left in the sink." George smiles.
"Oh, stay. I'll do it tomorrow." Max pleads, kissing George's neck sweetly. George just giggles. He always gets giggly, like this.
"I'm picking Kimi up from school tomorrow, yeah?" George says as he gets out of bed. Max kisses his hand gently, holding it delicately with his fingertips.
"Yeah."
"Don't pout, I'm coming back to bed later."
"Worst husband in the world." Max grins. George rolls his eyes.
The next day, they fight over something trivial again which slightly scares Kimi but Max kisses George's cheek, apologises, and suddenly they're alright again.
It's just them.