Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

r/relationships

Me [25M] with my roommate of 1 year [24M], I’m worried I might be homophobic towards him?

Chapter Text

comment by u/antmanelli

 Are you sure that weird feeling isn't jealousy...? i mean, this only seems to revolve around 63 specifically

  reply by u/redbullracing33

  I thought about that, but I don't know what I'm meant to be jealous of. He definitely has a more active sex life than I do, but reacting like this to something like that seems really strange and irrational.

     reply by u/germanfinger5

     But we humans aren't always rational. Are you 100% sure you're not into him at all yourself? It's also possible to have weird homophobic reactions to 63 only but I'd guess there'd be something more under the surface.

         reply by u/redbullracing33

                If it was possible for me to be into him, wouldn't I have been into other guys before this? My gay friend likes to say that sexuality is fluid but he also talks about knowing he was gay when he was pretty young, so what you're saying seems kind of strange since I was only into women before.

              reply by u/germanfinger5

 Oh well there's always the first one :) Everyone is different, 63 may have been aware of himself since forever but that doesn't mean everyone's like that. Tons of people realize they're not 100% straight muuuch later in life. I was 23 when I first fully realized that, after meeting a coworker. Is your "disgust" directed at 63 or the other guys? Because from reading your post, it seems that your feelings towards 63 are the same and that's kinda why I thought maybe you're not 100% straight in this case lol.

                  reply by u/antmanelli

                yeah i thought maybe you don't like seeing 63 with other people because you want his attention to yourself? 

                       reply by u/redbullracing33

It’s hard to pinpoint but I think it's mostly the idea of him being with other guys that makes me feel disgusted. I think it's just them I resent. I can't imagine being disgusted by 63 specifically. Not really sure what to say to the rest of that, sorry. I might need to think about this.

 

comment by u/hammertime44

Just wanted to say that I got the jealousy vibe as well, especially re: the disgust being directed specifically at the other guys but you still enjoying your 1-on-1 time with 63, not being uncomfortable with him, and not having any problem with other gay people being gay. Before I realized I was bi, I FUCKING HATED my best friend's girlfriends. It didn't matter how nice they were; I never wanted to see anything PDA-ish from them, didn't really want to see them together at all or think about the fact that he was dating/fucking anyone else.

Spoiler alert, I was in love with my best friend. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

reply by u/redbullracing33

Thanks for sharing your experience. How are you two doing now?

   reply by u/hammertime44

   Oh we are divorced lol. 

      reply by u/politeoscat

      Yikes….

──────────

The sun hasn’t even fully burned off the morning haze when Max finds himself standing outside the supermarket, arms crossed, Redbull in hand, trying to convince his brain that this was a reasonable way to start a Saturday. Saturdays are for sim racing. Saturdays are for gaming. Saturdays are for sleeping in after said sim racing and gaming. Saturdays are not, under any known moral framework, for spending quality time bonding over potatoes and beans with his frenemy-slash-former-schoolmate-slash-recently-acquired-roommate.  

“Right,” George announces. “We start with staples. Rice, pasta, bread. Then produce. I’ve categorised it alphabetically for efficiency.”

Max exhales. “Alphabetically?”

Without missing a beat, George replies, very seriously: “Of course. How else would one ensure proper shopping discipline?”

“Discipline! In a fucking grocery store?”

“Tsk, tsk. Structure is what separates civilisation from chaos, Verstappen. If you dropped me in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on my back, you’d come back in a month to find a city.”

He’s lost his mind, firstly. Max tells him that. And secondly….

 “In no way you would survive in the wild, George. You’d file a complaint against the rain.”

“Excuse you, Verstappen! I would adapt perfectly well.”

“You’d try to alphabetise the trees. And I bet you’d lose your mind if a parrot so much as flew past you. I hope one shits directly on your head.”

George scoffs, deeply offended. “Please. Look at your lack of impulse control! You’d eat a random plant because you ‘happened to feel like doing it.’ Then you’ll end up dying of some horrible disease with warts on your face — ha, Christ. Can you imagine that?”

The bastard’s eyes are practically shining, seemingly very pleased with the idea of Max’s misery and subsequent death. 

Max sucks in a breath. “I would probably be fine.”

George folds his arms. “Absolutely not, you’d end up dead either way. I reckon you’d try to fight a bear.”

Max considers this.

“…Well, actually, it depends.”

“On what.”

“If it started it.”

George just stares at him.

Max shrugs. “But of course, I’m not losing to a bear.”

George promptly ignores him. He proceeds to commandeer the trolley with the arrogance of a Formula One driver about to orchestrate a two-second pit stop at a race, not just some lame bloke buying yogurt. Max trails behind, the disgruntled child that he is, depositing items into the trolley as instructed. He aims a look at George that could best be described as deeply unimpressed European.

As he does, he can't help but stare a little more at George’s unusual ensemble: a simple Williams Racing hoodie and sweatpants. It’s deeply unsettling, really, to see tufts of untamed hair peeking out from under the hood; George’s bare face half-buried in wrinkled navy fabric. Not once in all the time he’s known George has Max ever had the privilege of seeing him without the perfectly styled waves or ironed polos crisp enough to cut glass. Max would almost find it amusing, hell, endearing, even — if George wasn’t currently conducting a seminar on tomatoes.

“Canned tomatoes, Max,” George is saying. “Not diced, whole. And check the expiration date. Six months minimum.”

Max picks up a can and squints at the list George sent over WhatsApp.

“Uh… five months, twenty-nine days?”

“We are not doing approximations. Put it back and get a proper one.”

“For fuck’s sake George, it’s one day.”

George pivots slowly. Max wisely shuts up and obeys; the look George gives him suggests that he has committed a deeply grave sin, and he supposes there isn’t any point arguing with someone who drafted a literal legal contract for their cohabitation. When they’ve finished, Max automatically hands over his card, but George waves it away. 

“Pay me back,” he says as he scans the milk.

“...You're serious?”

“I don’t like owing people money.”

“You’re not owing me, George. We literally live together.”

George scans the eggs. Beep. “Pay me back.”

Max exhales through his nose and starts bagging the groceries instead. When the last bag is filled, George turns to him with an expectant look.

“What?” Max asks.

“Aren’t you going to carry them?”

Max actually laughs. Well, he was going to, but now he's feeling petty. “Why would I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Who else is cooking for you?”

“You—” Max stops himself. He can’t exactly argue, considering he can’t boil water to save his life. “I don't see the problem. You’re the one who insisted on buying all this. I can survive on my Redbull, thanks.” 

George scoffs. “You’re going to drop dead before thirty if you keep that up.”

Oh? 

Max leans in a fraction, voice low. “So you’re worried about me, Russell?”

George gapes at him for a slight second before he huffs, snatching the bags out of Max’s hands, the tips of his ears pink as he turns away. Max can't help but laugh as he chases after George, who's surprisingly extremely fast with his gangly legs. It reminds Max of a baby giraffe, and not for the first time that day, he thinks: Cute.

“You win,” Max pants, catching up. He crowds close behind him, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush George’s neck. Then he hooks his fingers over George’s, knuckles brushing, and lifts the bags straight out of his hands, hoisting them over his shoulder as he strolls ahead. “There. Happy now, Princess?”

George freezes, muttering a half-hearted “You’re ridiculous” before turning away. He doesn’t say another word all the way to the car. 

At the red light, Max glances over at him.

“George?”

 George is staring out the window. “Hm?”

“Why do you bother with all this?” Max gestures to the bags in the back seat. “Cooking, planning, grocery lists… why not just get takeaway? Or eat out?”

George’s mouth drops. His head swivels toward Max. “Is that… is that what you normally do? All the time?”

“Well, yeah?” Max blinks at him.

George’s eyes flash, then he turns back to the window. “Right. Makes sense.”

What? 

“What's wrong now?” 

“Nothing. I forget you have a millionaire dad. Not all of us do.”

George tries to make his tone light-hearted, but Max can clearly hear the splintering bitterness behind it. The car goes silent. 

Max should be angry. He feels the familiar heat rising, and his jawline clenches.

“That's not fair to say.” 

George has the audacity to snort. “Fair? Don't act like you know what that is.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Max snaps. “Suddenly you’ve got a problem with my family? Don’t turn this into some pity-trip, Russell. Grow up.” He frowns at the road. “It’s not like I asked to be born into it.”

“You lot say that all the time. Nepo babies like you, never an ounce of awareness of all the privileges you've got.” 

Max’s temper breaks, snapping, “Well it’s not my fault your dad is a shit farmer!” He grips the wheel so hard his knuckles go white. The car surges forward. A horn blares; Max swerves and curses.

For the third time, a wave of silence crashes over them. It's tense and ugly. 

Again, Max should be angry. But is he? 

After a while, he offers the olive branch: “Sorry. I didn't mean to say that.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, George's shoulders slump, and he sighs. “It's on me. You're right, it's not your fault. I've just been annoyed over something at work. Wasn't my intention to take it out on you.” 

Max nods, accepting the apology. “Want to talk about it?” 

George hesitates before muttering, “I thought for sure I was going to get that secondment …. I’ve busted my arse all year! And of course the bank director’s son gets it instead. I’ve just been so sick of the rich and their obscene amount of privileges, while us common folk have to bend backwards to get the same shit they do, it’s so fucking unfair. And d'y know what? I thought I actually had a chance— no, maybe I’m just not cut out for this… Never mind that. Can’t do anything about it, can I?”

“George. They don't deserve you,” Max tells him firmly. “They’re idiots who’ll regret their decision. You’re far more hard-working and capable than them; you’ll make better use of your talent elsewhere.” 

George gives him a sideways look, eyebrow raised. “Deserve me? You’ve never even seen me at work.”

“I’ve seen you argue with me for five years straight,” Max snorts. “You’re definitely very talented.”

George bursts out laughing. “Thanks, Max.” 

Something warm tugs at Max’s chest. He smiles. “If it makes you feel better,” he adds, “I get zero funding from my dad. I do get support from my mum, of course, but it’s not as much as you’d think.”

George blinks, a little off-guard. “Oh. I… didn’t know that.”

Max’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Only my friends do. I don’t like talking about him much. For the record… I think yours is a better dad than mine, if that helps.”

“Right.” George nods. Then he looks back at Max. “Hold on, are you saying we're friends now?” 

Max answers by pressing harder on the accelerator.

──────────

For some reason, he and George fall into an easy rhythm.  Ever since that day, they’ve slipped into an understanding that Max appreciates. Max actually likes it — likes him. His chest gets stupidly warm whenever George walks into the room.

They’ve somehow made grocery shopping their tradition now, although sometimes one of them will send a silly photo at the supermarket after work, it’s their own SOS signal if something’s suddenly ran out.

George’s cooking is delicious. Max doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. He keeps sending George links to random recipes on Instagram with zero explanation, and George always replies with an eye-roll emoji: 'Do I look like your private chef, Verstappen?’

But he makes it anyway. Max could honestly kiss him for that. 

That’s normal, Max decides. George looks like he wants to do the same when Max washes the dishes without complaining, or does the laundry and folds both their clothes without being asked. When he makes herbal tea in George’s favourite cup after a long day. When Max channels his inner Mr. Bob the Builder, fixing the loose screws in their chairs and lamps and bookshelves — George especially likes that, and Max is all too aware of what George likes. 

How could he not, when George looks at him like that afterwards, in a way that makes Max’s knees go a little soft and shaky?

He wants to capture it and frame it in his soul forever.

──────────

Charles quirks an eyebrow as he watches Max slurp ramen very loudly. He's holding a fork in one hand (as George has very kindly pointed out: he cannot manage chopsticks very well) and scrolling on his phone with the other.

“Well?” Charles prompts.

Max frowns at the screen. It’s the Instagram profile of a girl Charles had tried to set him up with. He’d already swiped past five others without a second thought. But this one…

Gigi Marshall. She’s an aspiring model, a year or so younger than him. Born and raised in London. Has a degree in business administration.  And… she looks good in a suit.

“Hm,” Max says, “not bad.”

Charles laughs. “Ah, yes, I thought she was your type.” 

She's beautiful, really, that's all Max can say. It's as simple as that, isn't it? He frowns, squinting at her photos. It's the eyes: Gigi has gigantic eyes, a vast turquoise sky amongst shards of silver stars. Long brown hair, too, slightly honeyed at the ends. She seems to be taller than him, all legs like a Barbie doll. 

Max glances up. “What? Do I have a type?” 

Charles rolls his eyes. “Obviously, mate. Your ex had brown hair and blue eyes, too. But you usually kind of like it when they resemble you, you narcissist. She doesn't really look like you this time.”

Max doesn’t register Charles's comment. He has a funny feeling of dëja vú. 

“I’ve messaged her,” he says casually, putting his phone down. “Let’s grab a drink.”

──────────

Max brings Gigi over for the first time. They aren’t in a committed relationship, per say. He wants to keep it casual for now. He’s only just come out of a long-term relationship, and the thought of jumping straight into another one makes him tired.

Still, he doesn't mind her company.

Gigi is witty and funny; she has a personality that feels strangely familiar, as if he’s ripped it off from a book he’s read a thousand times before, but can’t recall the title of. It’s comfortable and predictable in a way that excites him. He enjoys the clarity of her speech, where her accent rolls out steady and calm, like water running over stones. He enjoys her small flashes of defiance too, namely her dramatic pouts, or the sharp mouthiness that slips out when she’s annoyed.

They get along easily as friends, albeit with some side benefits.

Max texts George about it, giving him a heads up. George reads it, but doesn’t reply, not until hours later, long after Gigi has left. When the reply finally comes, he reacts with a thumbs up emoji and sends Max a light-hearted ‘Have fun’. George says he’d been stuck in a briefing when Max texted, only seeing it afterwards.

Yeah, that makes sense. Max pretends it doesn’t bother him. Why should it?

──────────

“Do you want to come to watch a movie with me?” Max asks George, who's slumped gracefully on the sofa. 

George eyes Max warily in return. “What is the reason for your proposal, exactly?” 

“Can you talk normally for once?” Max rolls his eyes and sits next to George. “Well, I was going to go with Checo, but his kids got sick.” 

Their legs are pressed against each other, shoulders casually brushing. George inches away from him. Max frowns, scooting in closer. 

“Can't you refund them?” George asks, eyeing Max warily. 

“Non-refundable. Besides, I want to see it, it's about cars.”

George's upper lip twitches. “Of course you do.” 

“Come on, we have the same hobby; you've been watching races with me on weekends. I bet you'd enjoy it as well.” 

“Ha. Well, doesn’t your girlfriend like cars? You could ask her.”

“My girlfriend?” Max looks confused for a second, before he replies, “Gigi’s not my girlfriend, did I not tell you that? She’s my fuck buddy. I’ve told you it’s all casual.”

“Right, I don’t care about that. My point remains the same, you should go with her.”

“I mean, I don’t think she’s available…”

“Wow. I’m so hurt,” George deadpans, lifting a palm on his chest mockingly. “So you ask me to fill in the place of your girlfriend? I’m the last option for you, Max. And to think we were friends….”

“Again, not my girlfriend,” Max corrects him. “Gigi and I don’t really … do stuff like that, it’d be weird if I asked her. And an actual friend would go with me to watch a movie.” 

“What about your other friends? Like Charles, Lando…”

Max sighs and looks at him. “I want you to go with me.”

George is stunned into silence. He clears his throat after a few seconds, avoiding Max’s gaze. “Christ, Verstappen, I have goosebumps from that,” he says, shuddering. “Never say that again.”

Max ignores his dramatics. “Well? Is that a yes or no?”

George sighs as he gets up from the couch. “I want butter popcorn, not your stupid caramel. And you’re paying.”

George almost drops his precious baby of popcorn as he trips while trying to squeeze into their aisle. Max snickers as George shoots him a dirty look. 

“Need to hold my hand next time, Princess?” Max jokes as they settle into their seats.

George kicks him.

It’s a pain going through the advertisements, so Max fumbles for the popcorn bucket. George apparently has the same idea, because their hands collide, and both of them freeze.

“Oh— sorry,” Max mutters, pulling back a little, cheeks warm.

(Why are they warm? It was an accident. It literally means nothing.)

“You can go,” George says, fingers lingering over the bucket.

“No, you—” Max starts, faltering off as the movie logo flashes on the screen. 

The theater quiets down, leaving only the faint hum of the projector. They’re both staring ahead at the flickering light, but neither are moving their hands. Fuck, this is ridiculous. They’re friends, they shouldn’t be so awkward about this. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Max reaches in and grabs a handful of popcorn. George mirrors him, brushing knuckles against Max’s again. This time, neither of them pull away.

Max keeps his eyes fixated rigidly on the screen. Entirely focused. Intensely focused. Very normal amount of focus. He doesn’t steal glances to look at the shadows sculpting George’s side profile in the dimly lit room, oh no, that isn’t him.

Also, the movie is good! Great, even, Max is actually enjoying it so far, even if it’s a little bit nonsensical. It’s about an ambitious automobile racer who makes a deal with the devil to secure a championship. The devil agrees, but for a comical reason: he wants to spite his ex-lover, the angel, who is a fan of an opposing team. Currently, the angel is talking on the screen. He’s portrayed by Nico Rosberg, a popular actor whose casting announcement crashed Twitter for weeks. Honestly, Max can appreciate his beauty, but he doesn’t think he’s all that to be fawned over. He isn’t even as beautiful as …. As…. 

Max looks at George, whose head is slumped down, teetering dangerously close to Max’s shoulder. He feels instantly offended on the director’s behalf, and then on his own behalf (did he pick out a boring movie?), but remembers George spent yesterday half-buried in legal documents, so he lets it slide. In fact, he’s feeling so generous today that he twists his shoulder upwards to catch George’s cheek, letting it comfortably rest there.

No, Max thinks, there isn’t any angel as beautiful as his. 

──────────

Max finds it funny that George spends a lot of time on their balcony. Calling it a balcony is generous, as it, for the record, is roughly the size of a pizza box, but George treats it like a sun-drenched terrace in Nice. Every afternoon he drags a chair out there, tea steaming between his palms, narrating the street like he’s auditioning for BBC wildlife commentary.

“Look,” he’ll gasp, as though revealing a miracle in that lofty British accent of his, “that cocker spaniel thinks it can ambush a baby bird— oh, and he's missed it again, bless him.”

Max pretends to ignore him from the couch, controller in hand, headset on, but he listens anyway. 

──────────

“Would you like to order takeout?” George asks as he swings open the door. 

Max stills, looking puzzled. “What?”

George rolls his eyes and goes on a staunch ramble about something else entirely. “I’m not piss poor, Max, Alex and I had takeout too sometimes, it’s not a Michelin star dining experience. It’s just not good for the long-term, especially for my health. Blimey.”

“Okay, I never— No, I mean. What?” He gestures towards the living room, where the lights are dim and the couch is propped up with pillows and fluffy blankets. There’s a scent of caramel popcorn coming from the microwave. The TV is on.

“Oh, right. Surprise?” George exclaims weakly, doing non-committal jazz hands. “Erm. Well, you mentioned you had a project due today. I thought— maybe you’d enjoy a movie night? So I can repay you for ours. Or… I know you like gaming, so I wasn’t sure— Well, anyways, I was thinking about it, but I forgot to text you what food—”

Max can’t help it. He’s grinning so wide it feels like his cheeks will split. And there’s this warm, stupid little pull in his chest at the sight of George’s slightly flushed face, the slight twitch of his hands. He wants to lean in just a little closer.

“Stupid,” Max mumbles, but his voice is soft, and there’s no bite in it. “I’m in the mood for Thai.”

──────────

“I’m surprised you haven’t killed each other yet.” 

Max blinks at Lando. “Who? Me and George?”

“Obviously, you muppet. Who else? You two used to be each other’s throats.” Lando grins. “Honestly, it was quite entertaining.”

“For you.” Max scoffs. “Not for us, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, so now it’s ‘us’?” Lando nudges him teasingly. “Come on, don’t lie. I don’t know about Georgie, but you definitely got a kick out of winding him up.”

There’s excessive spluttering on Max’s end. He can feel his cheeks color, getting all splotchy. “That’s— that’s ridiculous. Absolutely not. It’s him. George is a drama queen, you know that.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lando says, his shit-eating grin widening. “Have you two ever considered that you’re way more alike than you think? Both stubborn, both argumentative… no wonder you get under each other’s skin. But come on, Max, you know you enjoy the little game of wits, no matter how mad you get, you sicko. You like the challenge, you like the push-and-pull. You like pressing his buttons until he pops.”

Max doesn’t answer. He just thinks about George.

Whenever George sees Max doing something he dislikes, his pretty face tightens — lips pressed into a faint, thin line, corners turned down for a few seconds, a tiny dimple appearing on his right cheek — before he forces his signature plastic smile back onto his face. 

Max hates that smile. He wants it gone, wants it erased completely. He wants to see George’s teeth bare and primal in loathing, watch his cheeks heat up, catch the sharp flare of frustration in his eyes. He wants to see George unravel, to feel that tension spill over, and he wants to be the one who’s there to watch it happen, close enough to taste it. 

Come fight me, he’d repeat silently back then, in class, after class, before class. Just come to me.

Lando catches his gaze. He knows he’s right, so he changes the topic.

──────────

It turns out George was spot on when he once called Max a hypocrite.

For instance, Max constantly rolls his eyes at whatever George does. And then Max goes and copies him. Constantly.

He sits with him on the balcony sometimes, knees tucked up next to George’s, pretending it’s only for the fresh air (certainly not the company!). He listens to the street-stories, the people-watching, the dog-epics, the thought pieces about urban architecture. He starts talking, too, yapping about the mundane (“I think I need to buy new detergent, this new one we’ve been using smells awful”), the ordinary (“Lando was getting it on with this guy at the club, my God”), and the unordinary (“Gasly won the Grand Prix”) as George nods intently over the kitchen stove. 

Don’t blame him; Max tries, tries so very hard to cook. When he does, George has to stand there and observe like a parent. Max can hear the mutterings in his sleep: “Oh, Blimey …. Do not cross-contaminate the chicken. That’s unsanitary, that’s unsanitary…..”

Sometimes George doesn’t have the heart to tell him that perhaps he should actually pay attention to watching the Tiktok recipe he’s been replaying in the background for the sixteenth time in a row. Max can tell it in George’s grimace as he swallows down burnt soup (how does one burn soup?), but George is kind and empathetic and pats his back instead. 

Sometimes George is a little shit, and does tell Max that his food is absolute garbage. Max is prideful and argues back but in the end he knows he’s only cooking at all to hear George’s praise. So maybe that’s on him.

──────────

“What are your plans for the winter holiday?” George asks, as he puts a yellow card down. 

“Not sure,” Max replies. “You?”

“I’m going to go to Norfolk, visit my family.” He hesitates before looking at Max. “Are you— are you going to be alone for Christmas?”

Max snorts. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

George’s face turns red, and he rushes to say, “No, no, you know that’s not what I meant, Max— I meant…. Well, if you’d like, maybe you can… go with me?” And then just as quick as he gives Max the offer, he immediately takes it back. “No, sorry, never mind. That’s not—”

Max chuckles. George can be downright adorable. Max wants to cup his face into his palms and have him stay there for as long as possible.

“George. I appreciate that, really. But I don’t want to be a burden. Also,” Max adds as George opens his mouth, “I do want to see my family as well… my sisters and my mum, mostly. We’re trying to decide the plans right now, so yeah, not too sure.”

“Ah. Alright,” George says, eyes on the cards in his hand. “Sorry if this is too personal, but— are you still in contact with your dad?”

Max huffs a laugh and draws a card, buying himself a second. “Wow. We’re really doing this over Uno?” He takes a breath. “Yeah, a little bit. Mostly pleasantries, empty talk.”

“He’s still mad,” Max adds after a second. “About how I’m not continuing his business. He won’t say it outright anymore, but it’s there, and every conversation somehow circles back to it. Like I’ve just taken a long coma and I’ll eventually come to my senses.” He gives a short laugh. “He talks about it like it’s this legacy I’m throwing away. I just see a bunch of self-important assholes in shiny suits arguing with each other through their shitty lawyers about money they’ve already got.”

George makes an offended sound.

“Not you,” Max says quickly. “For starters, you look great in suits.”

“Charming.”

Max presses his lips together, then sighs. “I’ve thought about cutting him off, properly. Every time I try to picture it, I don’t…. As much as I dislike being around him, he’s still my father. Despite that, as much as he is my father, I’ve never felt more free than when he stopped talking to me first. That's when I thought, eh. That’s not normal. You’re not supposed to feel relieved when your father stops calling.” He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “So yeah. Maybe he was just a dick.”

George doesn’t react right away. He’s looking at the table, thumb dragging along the edge of a card.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I get it. It’s sort of similar for me, too. It always felt like there was this bar I was supposed to reach. And I was always just close enough, always not quite there. Still, I can understand that he put all his effort and penny into investing in my education; I know not all fathers do that. It’s stupid, though, I’m an adult and yet sometimes I still think I’m never enough for him. Being around him makes me feel like I’m a kid again, on the verge of being punished.”

And this fissure of vulnerability, this raw and unguarded earnestness that sometimes breaks through George’s composure, makes Max’s heart ache. He thinks it is one of the quiet differences between them, grown from the same root, yet split into two separate stems: it is precisely this openness, this hesitant willingness to wear his heart on his sleeve, to confess to longing without flinching, that makes George so beautiful in Max’s eyes.

“George—” Max starts, but George laughs and makes a shoo-ing motion with his hand. 

“Nope. Not going there! So it doesn’t turn sappy, Lando and Alex were thinking of hitting that winter carnival before we all fly out. Do you want to join us?”

“Sure. Also, uno. I peeked earlier and I know your cards are all red, so I win.”

“You dirty, cheating prick—”

──────────

The carnival was fun. To summarise it, Max would simply say: bright lights and adrenaline rides and pretty sights. Pretty sights, being the delicate dusting of rosy blush on George’s nose and cheeks in the crisp winter air, and how it mirrored the pale pink fluff of cotton candy wisps he stupidly threw in the air and caught on his tongue, sticking it out in triumph. 

That image — sweet, ridiculous, alive — unfortunately stays with Max long after. He replays it in his mind over and over again throughout the holidays. So what, if it’s what keeps him satiated until he sees George again?

──────────

Because George is a practical person, he doesn’t adopt two Bengal cats on a whim.

Is Max a practical person? He thinks he can be. 

“You like to go on and on about long-term investments. I tell you, this is one.” Max insists. 

“Hopeless,” George says with a sigh. “You're hopeless.”

But the line’s been crossed long ago. He’s already scratching the kittens’ heads, and they’ve cosied right up to him. He’s officially in too deep. Max knows they've settled far beyond sunken waters when George starts suggesting names first.

“Jimmy,” George says. 

Max raises an eyebrow. “Who's that?” 

George laughs. “I don't know, could be anyone, mate. The American live show hosts. My dad's high school maths teacher. A club at Monte-Carlo.” 

“Right…” Max murmurs, scratching behind the other kitten’s ear. He thinks. He thinks far too hard for something this simple, this trivial, this easy before finally declaring, “Sassy.”

There's a pause before a full-throated, sunny belly laugh comes from George. He doubles over and wheezes. 

“Oh. Oh, we're doomed.” 

Sassy meows in agreement. 

Max ends up returning home armed with neon-rainbow cat toys that glow in the dark. George, being George, insists on playing with one too. Their hands brush as Max passes it over. Max jerks his hand back and hides it in his pocket, fingers curling in on themselves. He cradles it like an injury, worships it like a blessing.

The warmth of it does not leave his flesh.

──────────

When Max ends things with Gigi, he knew that it was over long before it actually was. Or, well, perhaps it is the reverse: technically Gigi is the one proposing to end their “relationship,” or the lack of one, anyway. She brings it up quite graciously over coffee and cake, and Max hugs her as she leaves. 

“Well, I had a great time,” Gigi tells him. “The sex was pretty good, Max, and you were— you still are, actually, a nice person to talk to. But I've kind of been crushing on someone for a long time now, and I think he's finally starting to realise it.” 

“Yeah, that's great, Gigi,” Max says, and he means it. “I'll be rooting for you two to end up together.” 

Gigi smiles as she exits the café. “I'll be rooting for you two as well.” 

What? Max blinks. What does she mean by… ? He furrows his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his coffee, then shrugs. She probably worded it wrong.

──────────

England has stupid heat waves. Max doesn’t even know why he's here. Sure, escape-asshole-Dad and all, but he really had no reason to choose living here. Continue living here, even. 

He gets a phone call from George.

Ah. Well. That's one reason.

“Come home,” his roommate pleads, and Max thinks it's a coincidence that his stomach flips upside down at that. “Come home and fix the damn fan.” 

“Tsk tsk. You're overexploiting my engineering degree.” 

“You're paying for that degree for a bloody reason, asshole!” 

Max laughs. He can't help it. George sounds perfectly adorable right now. He can imagine his roommate pouting, cranky and annoyed, and Max wants to run ice cold water through his sweaty hair and pinch his cherry-red cheeks. 

“The ice cream is positively melting in the freezer! How do you think I'm coping?” 

“... Are you comparing yourself to ice cream?” 

“Well, when you get home, I’ll have melted away. No George left — just a little sad sticky George-flavoured sundae on the floor,” George declares loudly, drowning out Max’s laugh.

“Sure. I can live with that.” 

“You’re not even attempting to rescue me, are you, Verstappen?” George positively whines. “You’re just going to let me perish! I reckon you’ll scoop my remains up and serve me to our children.”

It must be the heat, Max realises. The heat is making him hear things. Making his face flush and his head all dizzy because there is just no way George thinks about their ridiculous, lovely cats as their children. Like they're— They're…. 

It’s all a joke. Max will not address it. George is just being playful. He is ridiculous. 

Then why don't you beg for it? 

The words sit on Max’s tongue, but his heartbeat is fucking spiking, his body feels like it’s melting, his face scorching— and—

Be normal, Max.

“Be there soon, George.”