Work Text:
In life, it's surprisingly hard to come across a perfect 100% or a flat 0%. Even a disinfectant that kills 99.9% of germs leaves 0.1% of them standing, and even a 0.0% non-alcoholic beer, strictly speaking, still has some alcohol in it—less than 1%, anyway. Maybe the sky was bracing for a white Christmas, because even though it was morning, the pitch-black sky pressed heavily down on George's fluttering hair. Seven-year-old Kimi lay oblivious to the world, snoring softly, his face serenely peaceful, whether or not he knew what was in his dad's heart. Ah—he couldn't even call himself that anymore, could he? Damn it.
Overall Result:
The biological parent–child relationship between George William Russell and Andrea Kimi Russell is not established. (Excluded)
Excluded. Ex-clu-ded, ex, clu-ded... George muttered it in a daze, staring a hole through the single word printed beneath the tangle of genetic marker numbers. It was like trying to read an indecipherable code in a dream. No matter how hard he rubbed his eyes, the bloody scrap of paper refused to disappear. Blimey. George let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. It seemed to taunt him, handing down the death sentence one more time: You are not Kimi's real father.
Kimi's hair was hard to call dirty blond, but it was blond all the same, and those huge eyes, George had always thought, obviously came from him. Well, the eye color was Kimi's mother's—though of course they'd divorced not long after she gave birth to him—so he'd let that slide. On top of that, Kimi was far more gifted at karting than kids his own age; winning against kids three or four years older than him said it all. George had assumed that, too, naturally came from him. Of course. Where would F1 driver blood like that have gone?
...Nowhere, apparently. That was the fucking problem.
The night before, the moment the paternity results arrived—well, he'd spent a good hour just muttering Excluded first—George had called his ex-wife. ...Kimi. Whose son is he? It was as though some black comedy he'd never imagined had become his life; at the sound of George's wrecked, cracking voice, he could feel her flinch on the other end of the line. After a long silence, she began to speak in a trembling voice.
Right before breaking up with her ex-boyfriend, in that messy overlap between the end of one relationship and the beginning of the next, when she'd just started seeing George, she'd had goodbye sex with the ex. She'd definitely used a condom, she wailed, and of course she'd believed Kimi was his. Right. Fuck. Even with perfect use, condoms are only 98% effective, so whether it had torn by accident or the bastard had somehow come hard enough to fucking blast straight through the condom, the reality that Kimi wasn't George's kid wasn't going to change. What was this, some third-rate erotic movie? George dragged a rough hand down his face.
And so George William Russell—Not Kimi's Father—had ended up staying awake all night. Grinding his teeth, George watched Kimi, who was smacking his lips in his sleep as though dreaming of something delicious. That blond hair, so much yellower than his own. That habit of pushing out his lips in a sulk whenever something displeased him. That reckless, aggressive driving that came out every time he got in a kart, like some runaway locomotive. It hadn't been his imagination that the sullen, stubborn face Kimi made whenever George scolded him for driving dangerously looked just like a certain someone as a child.
Yes, no matter how lovable Kimi was, no matter how much he was the apple of his eye, there was a lot that didn't add up if he was George's own. The boy he'd raised believing he was his son was, in fact, the son of his teenage ex—the boy he'd loved so much he couldn't have lived without him, until they'd fought like dogs and split. (Nobody had known, of course. It had been a secret relationship. How badly would it have hit his career if word had gotten out, at that age, that he was bisexual?) That the guy was also his ex-wife's ex-boyfriend was pretty funny, too. He was probably sleeping like the dead right now, scratching his belly, his World Championship trophy tossed carelessly on top of the fridge, wasn't he? Just like the boy lying in front of George—his son, no, that bastard's son?
George had no intention whatsoever of shouldering this colossal absurdity alone. Who was it who said a trouble shared is a trouble halved? No—a trouble shared turns into twice the screaming, and that's much more fun. George decided to distribute his misfortune in a perfectly fair and thoroughly surprising manner. He told himself that Kimi, too, had a duty to get to know his real father, and worked hard to ease his guilt.
On December 29th, George packed Kimi's things with a grim, resolute face. Kids' Mercedes team T-shirts, underwear and a few pairs of socks, Kimi's favorite toy cars, Lego bricks, his comfort plushie, Kimi's own baby-powder-scented body lotion, allergy medicine, and, for bedtime, a CD of F1 engine sounds and a few picture books. He loaded the sizable bag into the trunk and drove along Monaco's coastal road. With the window cracked open, salty air drifted in along with the clear sunlight. In the passenger seat, Kimi was bouncing his feet with excitement.
"Dad, are we really going to Uncle Max's?"
"Yes."
"But you hate Uncle Max. Last time he was on TV, you changed the channel."
George cleared his throat at Kimi's bright-faced bluntness. Delivering a lethal remark with elegance, with indirection, laced with British humor and impeccable manners—that was George's specialty, and yet Kimi hadn't inherited it at all. And, sadly, Kimi's favorite driver wasn't George but Max Verstappen. Seven years had apparently been too short a time to raise Kimi into another George.
"...No, Kimi. It's not that I hate him. You could say we respect each other's territory. From a very great distance."
"Then why are we going?"
"Because Dad's been given a very important secret assignment. Remember when Da—no, when I showed you that 007 film? I'm James Bond."
"I don't remember. Old movies are boring."
"...Kimi, you need to lie low at a safe house for a while. And the safe house's caretaker is Uncle Max."
Even though he claimed not to remember what 007 was, Kimi's eyes sparkled as George spun his fictional tale with a flourish. George's sports car, filled with the chatter of a small child, soon pulled up in front of Max's penthouse. Leaving the engine running, he let Kimi out and set the enormous suitcase down at the door, as frantic as a bank robber dropping off an accomplice right before the getaway.
"Okay, Kimi. Go ring the doorbell, smile the prettiest smile in the whole world, and say, 'Your New Year's present is here!' Got it? And don't look back—just go inside."
"Okay! What about you, Dad?"
"Dad has to go defeat a villain. Somewhere very, very far away."
The moment George saw Kimi nod bravely, run to the front door and ring the bell, he shifted into gear and floored it. Watching his son—no, the little boy he'd believed was his son for seven years—shrink in the rearview mirror, he felt as though a piece of his heart was being torn out, but he clenched his teeth. This wasn't kidnapping. It was a return. It was only a little late. Once he'd made it somewhere safe, George typed on his phone with trembling hands.
G. Russell
Kimi. Please look after him until January 1st.
At that very moment, Max Verstappen—thoroughly enjoying his off-season, plump lips pushed out as he focused intently on his sim racing—frowned at the sound of the doorbell. He wasn't expecting anything at this hour, but with a vague sense of foreboding he abandoned his race and opened the door. He squinted against the dazzling sunlight for a moment before the outline slowly came into focus. What? A little kid? ...Kimi?
"Your New Year's present is here!"
"...Kimi? Why are you here?"
"Dad said I should spend New Year's with you, Uncle! He went to defeat a villain."
A New Year's present? A villain? George Russell? What, defeating villains? What kind of bullshit— Before Max could get a handle on the situation, his phone buzzed. A text from George. What the actual fuck is this? He nearly cursed out loud but barely swallowed it, remembering that standing in front of him was an innocent child who had only been on this earth for seven years. Some people called him the mad dog of the paddock, but after more than ten years in F1, Max had unwittingly picked up a business smile. Now he put on his most harmless grown-up version of it and ushered Kimi inside. Kimi hopped around, whooping with joy. Dragging a suitcase that looked twice Kimi's size, Max steered him into the living room. Kimi, why don't you sit on the sofa for a bit? I'm going to call your dad. Kimi pressed his lips together and nodded vigorously. Max left him there and went into his thoroughly soundproofed game room. He hit the call button, and George picked up before it had even finished ringing once.
"Hey! Have you lost your fucking mind? You dump a kid on my doorstep and bolt? What are you, a fucking cuckoo? Dumping your kid in somebody else's nest?"
Max was hopping mad, but on the other end of the line, George's voice was eerily calm. No—not calm so much as dry, like a man whose soul had been run through a threshing machine.
- Max Verstappen, the end of the year and the new year are for spending with family. Warmly, you know.
"What the fuck are you talking about? My family's in the Netherlands! You look after your own family, what kind of bull—"
- You're the family.
"...What?"
- You're Kimi's dad. His biological father. Mr. Fucking Great and Mighty Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen—guess one of you wasn't enough, so you went and made the next World Champion?
"......"
- Don't you remember the day you broke up with my ex-wife—your ex-girlfriend? The hot little mistake you two made that night is standing in your living room right now.
"......"
- I put the DNA test results in your mailbox, so read them or don't. Hanging up.
Click. The line went dead. Max stared blankly at his phone until the screen went black. Dad? Me? That night? Kimi? A son? It felt like fireworks made entirely of question marks were going off in his head. He opened the door limply and slowly turned his head to take in the sprawling living room. Kimi was fiddling with Max's World Champion trophy, his eyes full of curiosity. Max walked over as if in a trance. He'd always liked kids, but he'd never once looked closely at Kimi—
Kimi stared right back at him, as if asking what was going on. No—in looks, he didn't resemble Max one bit. His blond hair was just... blond. Nothing unusual about it, and not even the shape of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, or his lips looked anything like Max's. Right, of course. But just as Max was trying hard to deny reality, Kimi, gazing blankly up at him, parted his lips slightly. Ah. That was Max's childhood habit. Then he burst into giggles. Something about the way he laughed was uncannily like Max's own. Bored by Max's silence, Kimi scampered off and climbed onto Max's sim racing rig. The way he gripped the steering wheel was sure and practiced. The way his eyes turned dead serious in an instant—ah, fuck. That's me. Wow, who needs a DNA test? Those instincts are all mine. Max pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. It was exactly how his mother, Sophie, had always described him whenever she pulled out his childhood photos.
But the mystery of genetics ended right there. The moment Max and Kimi's strange cohabitation began, Max realized something horrifying. The kid had only had his instincts stamped out at the Verstappen factory; the software running underneath was thoroughly, terrifyingly George Russell.
That first evening, when Max ordered a pizza from some Italian place, flipped the box open and tossed it onto the table, Kimi frowned. Uncle, don't you have plates? Eating out of the box is unsanitary. Max spent a moment wondering how a seven-year-old's mouth could produce a word as fancy as unsanitary. Just eat. Washing dishes is a pain.
"Dad says meals should be eaten with dignity, because then you digest better."
"......"
"And do you have wet wipes? I need to clean my hands."
Kimi rummaged through the kitchen and, by sheer persistence, came back with a plate and a fork. Then he put a slice of pizza on the plate, cut it up, and ate it elegantly. When he was done, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. It looked so exactly like George that Max burst out in a dry laugh.
Even when they played games, it was the same. When Max sat Kimi down in the sim rig, Kimi took the wheel and said gravely, Max, the tires aren't up to temperature yet. I don't think we should push. Kimi, just floor it there! Full throttle! This isn't karting, it's a sim—
"No. We have to manage risk. Uncle, we at least have to finish the race. Do you want to retire?"
Risk management. Not a phrase that should come out of a seven-year-old's mouth. Max pressed a hand to his forehead. George had raised the kid into a complete clone of himself. And yet, strangely, he didn't mind. That fussiness and nagging that had worn Max out so badly back when they dated as teenagers was, seen again through the child, oddly lovable. He even felt relieved that Kimi had the calm and neatness Max himself lacked. The Max of the past would have plugged his ears at George's nagging, but the Max of now, watching Kimi turn his socks inside out before dropping them in the laundry basket, was swept up in a strange nostalgia.
But as time went on, bitterness welled up in a corner of Max's chest. It was because of the things Kimi would blurt out in the middle of laughing and chattering. Uncle, why don't you have any books? Dad always reads to me before bed. Dad cuts the crusts off when he makes sandwiches. Seven-year-old Kimi's universe was entirely filled with George. No matter how expensive the toys Max bought, how much sim racing he let him do, how much tiramisu he fed him, however much fun they had, he couldn't fill the empty space George had left. To Kimi, Dad was only ever one person. Max was jealous. Not because Kimi had been taken from him, but because the person Kimi missed so badly wasn't him, and because George had raised this child so well all by himself—a tangled mix of jealousy and guilt. He might be the biological father, but he wasn't this child's dad. Not yet.
On the evening of December 31st, only a few hours before the new year, a dusky sky wrapped itself around the calm sea of Monte Carlo. In contrast to the quiet world outside, Max Verstappen's living room felt like the epicenter of a disaster. Kimi, who'd been playing happily, had suddenly burst into tears.
"Waaaaah!!! Dad!!! I want my daaaaad!!! George!!!!"
"Kimi, Kimi! Stop! Don't cry—you can't start the new year crying, okay?"
"Waaaaaaah!!!!!"
"I'll take you for a ride in a Ferrari tomorrow. A real Ferrari convertible. You said you wanted to ride one! Or do you want to try the Valkyrie? Huh? Kimi?"
"I don't want it! Stop it, you're so loud! I want the scrambled eggs Dad makes! Waaah..."
Max plopped down onto the floor with a thud. Max Verstappen, no less, four-time World Champion, had been utterly defeated by the tears of a seven-year-old. This wasn't a problem that could be solved by the face of Max Verstappen, Kimi's favorite F1 driver, or by his driving skills. Even playing the F1 engine sound collection George had thoughtfully tucked into the suitcase pocket did no good. It couldn't compete with the care George took cutting the crusts off sandwiches with that serious look on his face. In the end, Max called George. After a few rings, he heard the rustle of fabric. A slightly hoarse voice came through.
- ...What.
"Hey. Come get Kimi."
- I'm not even his real—
"Just come. Please. Kimi's crying so hard he's going to choke."
- ......
"I'm not enough, George. Biological father or whatever the hell, Kimi just needs you."
George sniffled on the other end. Kimi was wailing loudly enough to bring the house down, and the sound carried faintly through the phone to him. Max hesitated for a moment, then added with a sigh.
"And,"
- ......
"I need you too. I miss you like crazy, George. Looking at Kimi, all I see is you."
The sniffling grew louder. ...I'm at the door. I forgot the passcode, so I couldn't get in. Max knew George had told a small lie—George remembered the date, time, and reason of every fight he'd ever had with Max, so there was no way he'd forgotten the passcode to Max's apartment—but that didn't matter at all. He flung the front door open, practically launching himself out.
Outside stood George Russell, who looked as though he'd aged ten years in a few days. Instead of his usual crisp shirt he wore a wrinkled hoodie, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw. George Russell, who'd always seemed as cold and flawless as an android—how many years had it been since Max had seen him this honest about his feelings, this openly miserable? Max could only stare blankly for a moment.
"Daaad!!!"
Kimi, who'd been crying in the living room, shot toward the front door like a bullet. George dropped to his knees out of long habit and caught the running boy in a tight hug. Hey, hey, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Dad was too late, wasn't he? Liar! You said you were going to defeat the villain! Waaah... I know, I know. God, I can breathe again. I missed the way you smell, Kimi. George buried his nose in the top of Kimi's golden head and drew a deep breath. Watching them, Max felt not the strange sense of exclusion he'd expected, but the acceptance of reality. I'm just the one who shares his blood. His real dad is right there.
Kimi had been so heartbroken that he kept crying for a long while even after George arrived, finally falling asleep exhausted in George's arms. George carefully lifted him and shot Max a glance. Max's warm-toned blue eyes flickered. George's cold blue eyes narrowed slightly. Where do I put him down? Show me. Max, hesitating, led the way to his king-size bed. George laid Kimi gently in the middle of it and tucked the blanket around him. The dad who'd raised him and the biological dad sat awkwardly on either side of the bed. Only Kimi's even breathing filled the room. In his characteristically self-deprecating tone, George spoke first.
"See?"
"See what?"
"Kimi's personality is something else. The stubbornness is definitely from you. Genes are terrifying, aren't they? All those times Kimi gave me chills—turns out it was you."
"I don't know, to me he's Little George Russell."
"What?"
"The nagging, the obsession with tidiness. Eating his vegetables first so his blood sugar doesn't spike. He's just you."
"......"
"Seriously, you can tell who raised him, so fussy—"
Max's words broke off. Tears had welled up in George's big eyes. ...Does Kimi really take after me? Really? Truly? Not you? Max huffed a quiet laugh and reached across the bed to cover George's hand. George flinched and tried to pull away, but Max held on tight, murmuring. Yeah. He's basically your clone. Anyone can tell he's your son.
"So it's right that you're the one raising him. It's only my blood mixed in. The core of him is you."
"......"
"But it's a bit unfair to me too, isn't it? I own a 50% stake, and I'm the only one getting cut out."
Max leaned back against the headboard and said it shamelessly. George's eyes, which had looked ready to cry any second, turned suspicious. What. What about it. So what am I supposed to do about it?
"Let's raise Kimi together."
"......"
"...And our relationship could use a bit of rebuilding too, don't you think?"
"What is there to rebuild—"
"I still haven't gotten over you."
I'm planning to use Kimi as an excuse to get back together with you, Max went on. George stared at him in disbelief. Max's pufferfish stare was, for once, completely serious, so George knew he wasn't just saying it. George pressed his lips together. He could feel heat rising in his face. Thank God the lights in the room were off.
"Are you seriously... asking the ex-boyfriend who raised, all by himself, your biological son by your ex-girlfriend, to get back together? Do you think that makes any sense?"
"It doesn't make sense. That's why we should do it. When have we ever been normal?"
Max grinned and toyed with George's fingers. Be honest. You couldn't forget me either. That's why you went out of your way to bring him to me like this. You could've just contacted me through a lawyer. George couldn't find a rebuttal. It was true. When he'd learned Kimi wasn't his son—no, when he'd learned Kimi was Max's son—the first thought that had come to him, before anger, was now I have a reason to see Max again.
"Honestly... you never do what I expect, Max."
"You, on the other hand, are completely predictable, George."
Max snickered. George's tears dried up instantly as he glared at Max in the dark. Just then, with a series of pops from outside the window, brilliant fireworks burst across the black sky. January 1st, 2026, 00:00. The fireworks heralding the new year. Max raised his head and gazed at George. Crimson fireworks danced in George's eyes, bright against the darkness. Happy New Year, George. Max murmured it almost without thinking, as if something had drawn the words out of him. After a brief silence, George's pink lips curved into a faint smile as he answered. Happy New Year to you too, Max. Neither could have said who leaned in first. Their lips met. Their tongues tangled softly, like vines twining together. The fierce light of the fireworks scattered across their wet lips. It was different from the rough, clumsy kisses of their teens. As though they'd become somebody's dads in some strange and subtle way, it was a kiss that was more mature, heavier, more complicated, more tender.
It was a fairly romantic moment—right up until Kimi, fast asleep, a curious half-and-half blend of Max and George, George and Max, must have started racing in his dreams, because he launched a kick that sent the blanket flying.
"......"
"......"
"That sleeping habit is definitely you. You can't stay still for a second."
"No, that's him taking after you. He's got long legs."
"Max, Kimi isn't tall."
"......"
"He got the short thing from you too."
I don't know if I can even say this to a Dutchman, but you're short for your country, aren’t you? George giggled as he said it, though he couldn't have told you what was so funny, and Max finally couldn't hold in his laughter either and giggled too. Their son, perhaps woken by the laughter, stirred and blinked slowly. George stroked Kimi's soft blond hair and kissed his forehead lightly. Oh, honestly, you cried so hard you missed the fireworks! Happy New Year, Kimi. Max chimed in, his voice full of laughter. Let's have our own fireworks. Happy New Year, Kimi.
Kimi, thick with sleep, smiled and mumbled.
"Happy New Year, Dad!"