Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room is bathed in golden light.

Not the harsh kind—the soft, sleepy morning kind that filters in through linen curtains, warm and slow, like honey pouring through glass. The world outside is hushed, peaceful. Somewhere beyond the windows, birds trill a lazy tune, and the leaves outside stir just enough to whisper. Nothing more.

George opens his eyes.

For a moment, he simply stares at the ceiling. His eyes adjust to the faint glow. His lashes are still heavy with sleep, his cheek warm where it had pressed into the pillow. The duvet is twisted around his legs, holding him in a nest of warmth and fabric, and for once, his mind isn’t racing.

For once—it’s still.

A small, content sigh leaves him. He stretches slowly, body arching, spine cracking delightfully as he rolls onto his back. His hair’s a mess. His lips are dry. His skin smells faintly of detergent and the subtle cologne he wears to bed sometimes, even if no one’s around to notice. Habit.

His arm flops over the side of the bed.

The clock reads 6:41 AM.

Perfect.

“Nice day.” His voice is hoarse but light. He tells it to no one in particular.

He imagines how he’ll spend it.

First—trash. Always trash first. The bin’s been full for a day now, and he hates the feeling of an untidy flat. Then maybe gym—weights today. Or cardio? He could do both, really. Get it over with early. Then the pool. He pictures it already: the sharp scent of chlorine, the water slicing past his skin, the silence when he's under.

Then—breakfast.

A proper one. Not cereal. No. He wants something real. Maybe eggs. Scrambled? Fried? Toasted sourdough with butter that melts at the edges. Avocado. Coffee. Two sugars. Oat milk. No foam. He smiles to himself.

He swings his legs out of bed and sits on the edge. He stretches again, reaching his arms above his head until his shoulders pop.

The flat is quiet. Too quiet. Peacefully quiet.

Max must’ve gone out early. Or maybe stayed at the track. It’s not unusual anymore. They come and go, and George doesn’t always keep track of which hotel or apartment Max is in—not unless it matters.

He yawns, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and pads toward the bathroom.

His footsteps are soft against the wood. He doesn’t flick on the light. Doesn’t need to. The window's letting in enough golden morning to see everything just fine. His toothbrush is right where it should be. The water runs clear. Cold. Sharp.

He washes his face. Lingers a little at the mirror.

“Damn,” he mumbles, seeing the mess on his head. “What the fuck were you doing in your sleep, Russell?”

He smiles again. Genuinely. Still tired, still soft, but happy.

Today will be good.

Today is good.

He gets dressed in a T-shirt that’s two sizes too big—possibly Max’s, possibly not. It doesn’t matter. He slips on loose joggers and ties the drawstring lazily. He hums as he walks through the flat, picking up the scattered clothes, folding the blanket on the sofa, collecting the mugs that always seem to breed on the coffee table overnight.

The bin’s heavier than he thought. Probably from the broken glass from two days ago—he made a mental note to sweep again. Carefully.

He opens the front door, steps out into the fresh air. The building hallway is cold but quiet. Still early.

The world smells like dew and distant asphalt. Summer, but barely. Birds are still singing. A few neighbors are shuffling out in slippers, murmuring morning greetings, and George smiles and returns them without much thought.

He tosses the bag into the dumpster with a satisfying thud.

Done.

One thing off the list.

Back inside, the music comes on low from the speakers—his playlist. Light guitar, gentle synth, vocals that don't overwhelm. He makes the bed properly. Smooths it down. Wipes the counters. Starts boiling water for coffee even if he’s not ready to drink it yet.

His phone buzzes. A message.

Albono🐻:

-U alive mate?-

-or did max finally shagged you to death-

He chuckles and taps back.

Princess🍓:

-Ew. You are disgusting.-

-Also.-

-Am fully alive. Gloriously rested. Planning a full cleanse of mind, body, and spirit.-

Albono🐻:

-soooo a cult basically-

Princess🍓:

-Exactly.-

He tosses the phone aside, still grinning, and heads toward the closet to grab his gym bag.

He opens the door and stops.

Blinks.

The bag is on the floor.

Unzipped.

His shoes are... not aligned.

That’s weird.

George stands there for a second longer than necessary. Blinking. Blinking. Trying to remember if he left it like that. He’s usually pretty tidy. Not obsessive, but...

Weird.

Whatever.

He bends to fix it, and for a moment his fingers graze something sharp near the edge of the bag. Metal? He lifts it—an open razor? No. That’s not—he didn’t put that there. Did he?

A coldness starts somewhere in his chest.

He swallows.

His fingers twitch.

No big deal. Right?

Just put it away. That’s all. Maybe he—

He hears the door shut.

Not the door. The back one.

He freezes. The music is still playing, but suddenly, it’s louder than it should be. Too loud. There’s a pressure in his ears, a soft hum like static. He turns around.

“…Hello?”

No one answers.

The air is thicker now. He can smell something sharp. Not blood. Not yet. But something close.

He takes a step.

He hears breathing. Shallow. Controlled. From behind the bedroom door. George’s hand tightens around the razor, even if he doesn’t remember deciding to hold it. He doesn’t blink.

Another step.

The static in his head is growing louder.

“…Max?”

No answer.

George’s heart begins to speed up. His eyes dart to the knife block on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t go for it. Instead, he turns back to the hallway, one footstep after another, until he’s standing outside his own room. His own door. His hand touches the knob. He turns it. Slow. The door creaks.

And what he sees inside. What he thinks he sees— It doesn’t make sense.

It’s Max.

Wait...

No it's not.

It's—

Not anyone.

Not human.

Its smile is too wide. Its eyes are too black. Not like his Max's beautiful soft steel blue. Its skin is twitching, too tight around its limbs like it’s wearing Max’s body. It tilts its head at him.

And George blinks.

The buzzing starts.

And doesn’t stop.

George doesn’t remember how he got to the floor.

His knees ache. His palms sting. His forehead is pressed to the tile and he can feel the sharp grit of dust, splinters, maybe a little glass from that glass he broke two days ago—he never swept properly, did he? He was supposed to. He was supposed to do a lot of things.

But now—

There’s breathing behind him.

No footsteps. No words. Just breathing.

He closes his eyes.

“Go away,” he whispers.

The breathing continues.

Then a voice answers, soft as velvet. Soft like comfort.

“Why? I'm your husband, baby.”

George flinches. His head jerks up.

The voice. That voice.

He knows that voice.

He turns slowly, like he’s underwater, like his limbs are tied to iron weights. The air is thick. His ears are full of static. But when his eyes land on the figure in the doorway—

It’s Max.

Max, in sweatpants. Max, with hair unbrushed. Max, bare feet on the floor. Max, with that tilted head. That smile. Too soft. Too kind.

But—

No.

No no no no no.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s off.

George scrambles backward, palms scraping the floor as he presses himself into the wall. His chest rises and falls too fast. Too sharp. Too shallow.

“M-Max?” he croaks.

The thing smiles.

“You always break when I leave you too long.”

No.

His ears ring.

“No, no—stop—stop talking—”

“Look at you.” The voice is fond. Almost amused. It steps closer. “Crawling around like a broken thing. Again.”

It kneels.

George screams.

He tries to get up—slips. His hand slams into the floor. The same hand that always aches lately. He can’t remember why. He can’t remember how. He just knows that the pain is back, sharp and real, but—

The hand is wrong. Too wrong.

The hand is fucking useless.

“You can’t even stand.” The voice is right in front of him now, breath warm. “You’d die in a week without me. You’d starve. You’d forget how to swallow.”

George’s vision blurs.

His shoulder trembles.

“Stop it—”

“You are nothing without me, George.”

“No, no I’m not—”

“You are useless.”

“I’m not—!” His voice cracks.

“A burden.”

“No—!”

“An invalid.”

George hits the floor again with both fists, screaming.

“You’re lying!”

The voice lowers, quiet and intimate, like a lover in bed. “You’re not even a person without me. You are always hurting everyone. You are hurting me. The kids. Your friends. Yourself.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

He feels hands on his shoulders. Familiar hands. Max’s hands. He remembers how they used to rest there. Ground him. Guide him.

But now—

They squeeze.

Tight.

“Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”

“Stop—please stop—”

“A monster.”

George’s eyes snap open. His whole body goes cold.

“No,” he whispers. “You’re lying.”

“You’re the monster, George.”

He shakes his head, curls up, tries to breathe. The floor beneath him creaks. The light from the hallway seems to be dying, sucked into something black and bottomless.

“Max wouldn’t say that,” George says.

But the thing doesn’t blink.

“I am Max.”

“No.”

“You need me.”

“No—”

“You’ll die without me.”

“No no no no no—”

“You’re too weak to live.”

“You’re too broken to be alone.”

“You’re too far gone.”

He claws at his ears, trying to shut it out. His nails dig too deep. His skin burns. His throat hurts. His lungs twist in his chest and he wants to scream again but it’s lodged in his neck.

And that’s when the voice softens.

Too soft.

“It’s okay, baby. I will take care of you.”

George’s heart skips.

“I’m not broken,” he whispers. “I’m not.”

The thing doesn’t argue.

It opens its arms.

“Then come here.”

And for a moment.. Just one broken second. George wants to.

His knees shift.

He almost does.

He looks up into that face. That familiar, kind, loving face. The one he kissed a thousand times. The one he used to whisper goodnight to. The one he watched sleep, and worry, and laugh.

It’s Max.

It’s Max.

But it isn’t.

It wears Max’s skin. It wears his smile. It has his hands, his eyes, his voice—

But it is not Max.

Max never called him useless. Max never told him he was a monster.

Max never—never would—

Right? Right? RIGHT?!

George grabs his head with both hands and curls forward, nails scraping against his scalp.

He’s sobbing now.

“Stop wearing him—stop—stop using his face—stop—you’re not him!”

The thing doesn’t move. Just watches. Its eyes are so calm. George lifts his face. Red eyed. Hair stuck to his wet cheeks. Breathing like a dying animal. “You’re the monster,” he says, softly. “Not me.”

The thing tilts its head.

“Say that again?”

George stands.

He’s shaking. He’s trembling.

But his feet are planted.

“You’re not Max.”

The thing’s expression doesn’t change.

George’s voice breaks apart as he yells, “YOU’RE THE MONSTER!”

And it smiles.

It smiles wide.

Too wide.

George is holding something sharp now.

He doesn't remember picking it up. Doesn't know if it's a knife or a shard or just something broken. But it’s real. It’s in his hand. Cold and silver and screaming in the light.

His knuckles are white.

His fingers ache.

The thing in Max’s skin is getting closer. Walking toward him, arms out like peace, voice soft like comfort—a trick, he thinks. A trap. It’s not Max.

“Stay back!” George yells.

The thing doesn’t stop.

It looks sorry. Pitying. Like it understands. Like it forgives.

“Stay the fuck away from me!”

His voice cracks.

The world spins.

He backs into the hallway wall, his breath ragged, chest heaving. The walls breathe with him. The lights flicker overhead. The floor ripples.

The thing—Max, not Max—tilts its head.

“George—”

He lunges.

A scream rips through the flat—his own. The knife sinks into warm skin. Once. Twice. It slips. He adjusts. Again. He’s screaming louder than ever, arm moving on its own.

Blood splashes across his hand. His wrist. His face.

The thing gasps. But it doesn’t fall.

It catches his hand.

Max. Max’s hand.

The other hand grips his wrist.

Tight.

George screams again, twists, thrashes, tries to pull back, but those hands are like steel.

It’s holding him.

“Let go—let go—let go—!” he sobs, trying to wrench away, but his strength is gone, scattered with his thoughts. The knife clatters to the floor.

But he keeps hitting.

His fists slam against shoulders. Chest. Anything.

He shoves, claws, kicks, but the arms don't let go. The monster won't die.

"I KILLED YOU!" he shrieks. “I killed you—I killed you last year! I killed you yesterday, I—I killed a monster!”

His voice breaks.

He’s crying harder now.

“Max is dead. Max is dead. I killed Max! You’re not Max. You’re not—you're not—you're wearing him!"

His nails dig into the flesh before him.

There’s blood everywhere.

Dripping from hands, sleeves, floorboards.

His hands are so red.

But then— The monster speaks.

Soft. Gentle.

“It’s okay.”

George sobs. Eyes wide. Trembling.

“I forgive you.”

Something pierces his neck.

A tiny sharpness.

A prickle.

He jerks.

Eyes wide.

His breath hitches in his throat.

He stares up at the face in front of him—Max’s face. Max’s lips. Max’s eyes. Blood on his temple. A red stain blooming across his side. A wound. A real one.

Max’s expression trembles. His hands are still holding George. Not to hurt. To keep him from falling.

“It’s okay,” Max says again, voice shaking now. “You're okay.”

George’s mouth opens. But the words don’t come.

The room spins. His knees buckle. His body goes weightless. Arms catch him.

The lights die and the static fades.

And George slips, finally, into black.

Chapter Text

Max was pretty sure he hadn’t slept more than four hours.

Not that it mattered.

Because he had one child hanging off his neck like a koala, another jumping on the couch with a bowl of dry cereal, and a third—smallest, quietest, most dangerous of all—was currently trying to fit a crayon inside a power outlet.

And Max?

Max was grinning like an idiot.

He was on the floor, legs crossed, hair an absolute disaster, his hoodie covered in dried paint and half-chewed stickers. There were three teacups made of plastic beside him—two already “filled” with invisible tea. A teddy bear sat nearby, blindfolded with dental floss.

Astrid was spinning in circles singing something that might’ve been a song—or a summoning spell.

Mila was building a tower out of encyclopedias and muttering rules under her breath like some tiny dictator.

And Theo—

Theo had just abandoned the outlet, thank God, and was now slowly backing into Max’s lap, holding a toy stethoscope.

“Check me, Daddy,” he mumbled.

“Again?” Max asked, already wrapping an arm around him. “That’s the fifth check up this morning.”

Theo nodded solemnly. “Heart goin’ boom. Loud.”

Max pressed the toy end to Theo’s chest. “Hmm. I hear it. Definitely goin’ boom.”

“Boom boom!” Theo added helpfully.

Mila, without looking up from her stack of books, corrected, “He mean heartbeat. It fine. No more check.”

Theo huffed. “Is boom.”

“You’re all boom,” Max said, ruffling his hair. “All three of you.”

“NOT ME,” Astrid screamed from the arm of the couch, launching herself into a jump.

Max gasped as he caught her midair. “Astrid Eline, what did I say about couch flying?!”

“You said don’t do it without socks, so I put on socks!” she beamed, upside down in his arms.

“You didn’t. Those are oven mitts.”

“I like them.”

Max laughed, half exasperated, half in love. Always in love.

People had said triplets would be hard. Triplets with this much energy? With George’s beauty and Max’s temper? Triplets born into a house where time meant nothing and naps were a war zone?

“They’ll grow up wild,” his mother had warned, half joking.

Max had just shrugged. “So did I.”

And now here they were.

Three years old. Loud. Messy. Deranged. And his whole world.

He let Astrid wiggle out of his hold and immediately tackle her sister’s book tower. Mila let out an offended gasp like her twin betrayed her in war.

“Theo, move,” she said, standing with her little hands on her hips. “I need Daddy.”

“No,” Theo said. “Is my Daddy now.”

Max groaned, flopping onto his back. “I am not property—”

“YES,” they all said in unison.

Max stared at the ceiling. “This is karma. I know it.”

Mila marched over and put both tiny hands on Max’s face. “Be horse now.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Horse. For my Barbie. You be horse. I ride.”

“Absolutely not.”

Astrid jumped on him anyway. “NEIGH DADDY!”

Theo climbed on next. “You gimme snack after.”

“Snack for what?” Max yelled through the giggles.

“For... bein’ baby,” Theo whispered.

Max sighed. “Okay. Snack for baby. Horse for dictator. Hug for chaos monster—”

“YAY!”

And it was warm. So warm.

The sun shone in through the kitchen windows. The smell of George’s shampoo still lingered from the upstairs bathroom. The laundry beeped in the background, signaling the end of a wash. There were milk stains on the counter, and someone had drawn a smiling spider on the fridge in permanent marker.

It was a mess.

But it was his.

His hands were full. His heart was fuller.

And George was upstairs, probably still half-asleep, dreaming of a day where he’d get through breakfast without stepping on a Lego.

Max would give him a kiss soon. Bring him his coffee. Let him take the first hot shower in days. He had it all planned. Just another morning in the Verstappen-Russell chaos house.

He had no idea.

Not yet.

Not while Astrid was putting her fingers in his mouth to “check his teeth,” and Theo was laying across his stomach like a starfish.

Not while Mila was drawing blue circles on his arm with a marker and muttering that this was for “order reasons.”

Max was still giggling, chest heaving, as Astrid tried to stick a plastic fork into his ear.

"Okay, okay—enough," he gasped, pushing her gently off his shoulders while Theo clung to his leg. "I surrender. You win. Daddy’s going into early retirement."

Mila, perched on the coffee table like a general, declared, “Retirement means nap!”

"Exactly, Ms. Emila." Max wheezed, sprawling half off the couch.

And then—

His phone chimed.

A small bing! from the kitchen counter, followed by his 7:42 alarm vibrating across the marble. He craned his neck and squinted.

[George’s Wake-Up - Check In 💙]

He smiled.

“Oh, papa’s up,” he muttered, already moving to get off the floor. “He’ll want tea—maybe coffee if he’s feeling reckless. And toast, not the burned kind—”

And then he heard the scream.

Not a bang. Not a crash.

A scream.

Sharp. Fractured. Animal.

The kind that rips up your spine before your mind can catch up.

Max froze.

The triplets didn’t.

Astrid cackled. Theo bit his sock. Mila threw a pencil at the wall.

Max slowly stood up, blood draining from his face.

“Anne,” he said aloud, already pulling Theo off his thigh.

She was there in two minutes. Somehow always two minutes away. From the kitchenette, clutching a tray of baby waffles and two peeled apples and a juicebox per child.

Her face turned when she saw his.

She knew.

No questions.

He nodded once. Carefully. Like his neck might snap.

“The upstairs is locked,” he said, voice quiet.

“Copy,” she replied, already ushering the kids into the playroom. “Do you want—?”

“Turn the music up.”

She blinked.

Max’s eyes were glass.

“Turn it up. Loud.”

Anne obeyed.

The speakers clicked. Children’s playlist. Something stupid and sweet and full of clapping.

The triplets cheered.

Max didn’t look back.

He walked through the hallway and tapped in the emergency lock override. The door clicked. He turned toward the guards stationed at the rear stairs.

“The second floor is sealed. No one goes up. No one comes down.”

The taller guard, Michael, hesitated. “Sir, one of us should maybe—go with you? The noise—uh—the screaming, it’s—getting—”

Max didn’t flinch. His face didn’t change. But his voice did.

“No.”

Just that.

And Michael understood.

Everyone always did, eventually.

Max turned, took one step, then another. Up the stairs. Slowly. Quietly. Like if he stomped, the house would shatter.

His ears rang. He could still hear the music below. Muffled now. Astrid shouting something ridiculous. Theo giggling. But up here—

Silence.

No.

Not silence. Breathing. Heavy and erratic.

And behind it—

Sobs.

Max’s hand hovered over the handle to their bedroom.

He stared at it.

The screams were louder now.

Not sharp anymore.

Just raw. Ragged. Like something tearing from the inside out.

Max moved through the upstairs hallway with practiced calm—every step measured. Deliberate. Like approaching a wild animal, not the man he’d woken beside a hundred mornings. Not the man he kissed behind closed paddock doors. Not the man who gave him three babies and a life and a home.

No.

This... This was something else.

He reached the bedroom.

Pushed the door open.

And stopped.

Disarray. Everywhere.

Drawers open. Clothes half-pulled. Pillows tossed. Sheets stained with something. Wet. Maybe sweat. Maybe something else. One curtain torn down, slumped across the floor like a collapsed body. The mattress tilted, askew. The mirror—

The mirror above the dresser was shattered.

Max scanned the room, carefully, slowly—

And then—

He saw him.

Crammed beneath the dresser. Pressed into the tight dark like a wounded animal. Legs folded awkward. Arms clutching his knees. Body shaking.

One leg—the left one—was bent wrong. Max knew that leg. Knew the ache George never mentioned anymore. The one that burned if he sat too long. It was twisted now, awkward, jammed up under his chest.

“George…” Max whispered, slowly lowering into a crouch. “Baby, it’s me.”

A second of stillness.

Then—

“NO.”

Max flinched.

His voice. It was—

No. It wasn’t to him.

George wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking through him. Past him. Eyes glassy. Wide. Feral.

He was somewhere else.

Max moved a little closer.

“Hey, sweetheart—just breathe, okay? It’s alright. You’re safe—”

George growled.

“You’re not real.”

Max paused. “George—”

“You’re not him. You’re not—you're wearing him! You’re using his voice!”

Max's breath caught.

"George, it’s me. Please. You're just scared, you're—"

“SHUT UP!”

The words hit like slaps. Max held his ground, hand inching forward slowly on the floor. George’s whole body was shaking now. Twitching. Fingers clawing at the floorboards.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’d never—”

“Liar!”

George clamped his hands over his ears.

And Max saw it then.

The glitter of something in George’s grip.

Small. Silver. A shard.

Glass.

From the broken mirror.

Max’s eyes widened. “George, no—don’t—baby, put that down—”

But it was too late. He lunged. The glass slashed across Max’s forearm. Not deep enough to tear through tendon, but enough to spray. Max grunted, fell sideways. Blood hit the carpet.

Then—

Another swing.

This one caught his shoulder. Ripped his sleeve, dragged red behind it.

Max dropped to one knee. His hands were shaking, not from fear—but from calculation.

He didn’t want to restrain him. Didn’t want to cause more damage.

“Georgie, listen to me,” he gasped, keeping eye contact. “You’re safe. I’m real. I’m here.”

“I'm not the monster! You are!” George screamed.

He straddled Max’s chest, glass shaking in his grip, breathing like thunder.

Max’s hands didn’t move.

The shard came down but not deep. Not killing. Not precise.

Just desperate.

It grazed his ribs. Tearing the edge of skin. Red bloomed under Max’s shirt.

And then—

George stopped.

His hand trembled.

His face—cracked.

Eyes blinking fast, lips moving soundlessly. “I killed him.” he whispered like he was telling a secret.

Max’s breath hitched.

George’s voice was a ghost.

“I—I killed Max. I killed him. He was here. I saw him. And I—I killed—”

He dropped the shard.

It hit the carpet with a soft thump.

And George fell right into Max’s arms. Sobbing. Wailing. Collapsing under the weight of what wasn’t real.

“I killed him I killed him I killed him—”

“No,” Max breathed, arms already tightening, one hand bracing behind George’s neck. “I’m right here. I’m right here, baby.”

George clawed at him, panicking, trying to pull away.

“No no no—don’t touch me—he's dead—he’s—I saw it, I did it—last year—I killed you—!”

Max gasped, bleeding, as he dragged them both across the room—toward the nightstand.

He fumbled the drawer open. Knocked a photo frame off. His hand wrapped around the syringe case, cracking it open with one hand.

“Shhh, shhh—just a second. Just breathe, I’ve got you—”

George was still sobbing. Still thrashing.

Max popped the cap off. Hands slick. Blood on his palm. Syringe nearly slipping.

“George, please, stay with me. I’m here. I swear it’s me—”

He plunged it into George’s neck. The body in his arms jerked. Gasped. Then—

Stilled.

Not immediately.

But slowly. Like a dying storm. George’s head lolled into Max’s shoulder. He kept whispering.

“It’s okay.”

“I forgive you.”

“You’re coming back to me.”

His own tears were silent. They slipped down his cheek and soaked into George’s hair. The blood beneath them was sticky. Warm. Real.

Max held his husband close. Held him as the weight in his arms grew heavier. As George’s eyes finally fluttered shut. As the house upstairs fell quiet again.

And in the stillness—

Max mourned the man still breathing in his arms.

Chapter Text

Max sat on the edge of the bed, the muted lamplight painting soft shadows across the walls. George was warm in his arms, the weight of him somehow heavier now that the fight was over, now that the frantic rush had passed and there was nothing left to do but hold him. His hand—thin, cool, fingers curled slightly—rested on Max’s chest as if it belonged there.

The bandages on George’s palm were neat, clean. Max had been meticulous, wrapping them himself before Anne had gently pulled him away to tend to his injuries. He hadn’t realized how bad they were until she’d frowned at the deep scratches on his forearms, the bruises blooming under his skin. The antiseptic sting had barely registered.

Now, though, the room smelled faintly of it. Medicinal. Clinical. Too clean for the chaos it had contained only hours before.

George shifted in his sleep, a small sound leaving him—nothing coherent, just a low murmur—and instinctively, Max’s hand came up to cup the back of his head. His hair was soft against Max’s palm, damp still from the earlier attempts to clean him up. His breathing was slow, even. The sedatives had done their job.

Max should have been relieved.

Instead, Anne’s words kept circling in his head.

"Sometimes loving someone means letting go. Letting people in. Letting them help."

She had said it softly, not as an accusation but as if she were reminding him of something obvious. As if she believed he’d forgotten.

Let go.

Let others in.

Max’s chest tightened. His gaze drifted down to George’s sleeping face, so deceptively peaceful.

Let go of what?

Let others see him—this George?

What would they see?

A victim? Someone fragile, breakable, too unstable to be left in Max’s care? Or worse—would they see George as a burden? A problem to be solved?

No.

Max’s jaw set, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t see the way George could be—bright, stubborn, unyielding, fiercely alive on the good days. They’d see only the aftermath of nights like this, the trembling hands, the glassy eyes, the blood.

And what then?

They’d decide George was the danger. That keeping George here was wrong. That he was wrong.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

He had been here every second, holding the pieces together when George couldn’t. He had been the one to calm him, to clean him, to stop the bleeding.

His pulse quickened as the thought rose, unbidden—he couldn’t lose him. Not to the outside world. Not to people who would never understand.

George stirred again, curling instinctively closer into him. His breath tickled the hollow of Max’s throat, a soft, steady rhythm that almost made him believe nothing had happened earlier.

Almost.

Max leaned his head back, eyes closing for a moment. Anne’s voice still lingered in the back of his mind, threading through his thoughts, trying to root itself somewhere it didn’t belong.

Let go.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

If letting go meant opening the door for judgment, for someone to take George away—or worse, to strip him of the fragile sense of safety Max had built around him—then no. That wasn’t love. That was negligence. That was betrayal.

Max’s hand moved in slow, absentminded strokes along George’s back, over the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the thinness of him through it, the frail bones, the way his ribs pressed under skin. That fragility only deepened Max’s certainty.

George needed him.

Needed him more than anyone else could.

Outside, rain had begun to fall, tapping against the window in uneven rhythms. Max listened to it, eyes opening again to look down at the boy in his arms. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, his mouth slightly parted.

Naive. Sweet.

Almost normal.

If someone walked in right now, they’d never guess what had happened. They’d see a quiet scene—two people resting, one asleep, one watching over him.

They’d never see the raw edges beneath it.

And maybe that was the point.

Max’s thoughts began to spiral, and he let them, because fighting them felt impossible. He imagined what it would be like if he did let others in. If he allowed anyone to see George in his worst moments.

Would they look at him with pity? Would they try to take him away?

The image made his stomach turn.

No one could take care of him the way Max could. No one would stay through the screaming, the panic, the hallucinations. No one would know the exact tone of voice to use when George’s mind slipped too far.

No one else had earned him.

The thought was dark, possessive, but Max didn’t flinch from it. He leaned into it instead, because it felt more honest than Anne’s pretty notions about love and letting go.

Love, Max thought, was staying. It was holding someone even when they were thrashing against you. It was keeping them safe—even from themselves.

Especially from themselves.

He bent his head, pressing a slow kiss into George’s hair. It smelled faintly of shampoo and antiseptic, an odd mix that somehow made Max’s chest ache.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, more to himself than to the sleeping boy.

George shifted again, a faint whimper escaping him before he settled. Max’s arms tightened around him instinctively, a silent promise. Outside, the rain grew heavier. Inside, Max kept watch. Because letting go wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever.

Yet, Max’s chest tightened again.

Because his mind wouldn’t stop looping backward.

He’d thought — God, he’d so fucking thought — that George was going to be okay. That they were going to be okay.

The babies.

Them.

All of them, tangled together in some fragile, stubborn miracle of a life.

It didn’t even matter that the amnesia had stolen every memory they’d built. Max had been ready to rebuild them from scratch, brick by brick. They could make more. They were making more.

Until George started to hear them.

The voices.

Relentless. Whispers at first, then louder, gnawing into him in every quiet moment.

Max had tried — God, he’d tried — to tell him to let it go, to ignore it, to not give the hallucinations a place to nest. But George had snapped. He’d yelled.

They’d fought again.

And again.

Until George was spiraling so fast Max couldn’t reach him. Until the flashes started — bursts of memory that didn’t belong together, moments ripped from their proper places and stitched into something hideous.

Max’s cold face, his shouts, the crack of bone when George had fallen down the stairs — those things played in George’s head like they had happened yesterday.

And worse, George remembered them stripped of their context, stripped of the apologies, the months of peace, the hand-held moments in dim kitchens, the proposals whispered between heartbeats.

Those… were gone.

What remained were the ugliest pieces.

And George… oh God, George had screamed them back at him until his voice went raw.

"You don’t love me!"

"You only kept me because I was carrying something of yours!"

"You fucked me up on purpose!"

"You ruined my career!"

"I'm fucking useless now!"

And more.

Each one slicing Max open.

Max had known, deep down, that one day George might remember that night. But he hadn’t expected the memories to come wrong.

He hadn’t expected the timeline to twist, for the nights of tenderness to vanish, for the violent moments to fuse with the betrayal and become the whole truth in George’s mind.

And since then George had only spiraled. Down and down.

Now, in the quiet, Max stared at his face. George’s lashes lay dark on his skin, his lips parted faintly, breath coming slow. He looked so young like this, so impossibly soft.

Max smoothed a hand over his arm, remembering the way that same arm had shoved him back during their last fight. Remembering the trembling that had followed, the words choked out through tears that George had been too dizzy to wipe away.

Anne’s voice wouldn’t fucking stop echoing.

Let people help.

Hah.

No.

No one was taking him.

Not while Max could still hold him like this. Why would they need other people when they have each other?

Max didn’t even realise when sleep had dragged him down. One moment he was staring at the soft weight in his arms, the faint rise and fall of George’s chest beneath the blanket, and the next… the hours had been stolen from him. The room was the same, dim and muffled, but something shifted in the air—something small, warm, alive.

A rustle.

A hum.

He blinked awake, and the first thing his eyes found was the slope of George’s back, the way his shoulders moved faintly, almost like he was swaying in place. The younger man was curled, sitting up now, knees drawn close, head tilting as if he was listening to something only he could hear—but it wasn’t the glassy, haunted look from before. His gaze was focused. Bright. There was colour in his face.

George was awake.

And—Max could tell in a heartbeat—this was one of the good moments.

He didn’t move at first. Just watched. Let his brain drink in every second of it. George’s lips moved, a quiet murmur under his breath, almost like he was testing his own voice. Then—he turned, and those familiar, boyish eyes landed on Max like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“...Why the hell are you in a bandage?”

It wasn’t suspicion, not the paranoid kind. It was protective. Instant. His gaze darted down to Max’s arm, the white wrap still snug around his forearm and knuckles. “What happened? Who—” George’s jaw set, his shoulders squaring in that tiny, stubborn way Max knew too well. “Who hurt you?”

Max exhaled, slow. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” George’s voice went higher, incredulous, like he’d just been told the ocean wasn’t wet. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t brush it off. Tell me who it was. I’ll—”

He stopped, as if realising the sentence might sound absurd coming from someone wrapped in blankets, still pale, still recovering. But the fire in his eyes didn’t dim.

“I’ll fight them.”

Max almost smiled. Almost. But it came out softer than that—a small, aching curve of his mouth as he shook his head. “There’s no one to fight, schatje.”

The thing was—he’d already forgiven him. Forgiven him before the blood had even dried. Why would he throw that back at him now? Why drag George into the ugly truth when all he wanted was to hold on to this—this version of him, the one with sharp protectiveness and no haze in his gaze, no fractured whispers under his breath?

George frowned. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell when you are.” George shifted closer, his fingers brushing against Max’s wrapped hand, as if touching it might give him the answers Max wouldn’t speak. His thumb lingered on the edge of the bandage, light but stubborn. “You always look away when you lie. You’re doing it right now.”

Max let out a small breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “And if I am?”

“Then I’m right,” George said simply, as if that ended the argument.

It should have been an argument. But instead—Max just looked at him. Really looked. His hair was a mess, his face was still drawn with fatigue, but there was this life in him, this spark that had nothing to do with lucidity and everything to do with George just being George.

This George—the one who thought he could take on the whole world for him—Max loved him. He loved the George who teased him. The George who fought him tooth and nail. The George who looked at him with suspicion and the George who looked at him like he hung the stars.

He loved all of them.

Max’s hand—his uninjured one—found its way to the back of George’s head, threading gently through his hair. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “What matters is you’re here. You’re… you.”

George’s frown softened a fraction, confusion bleeding into it. “I’m always me.”

Max didn’t argue. He just let the silence linger, let his fingers stay in George’s hair, memorising the weight, the warmth, the quiet thrum of his breathing.

The truth could stay locked away for now.

Max only held him a little more tighter. The warmth of George’s body pressed into him, restless and insistent, the quiet rhythm of his questions breaking up the steady beat of Max’s own heart.

“Tell me,” George said again, the words almost buried against Max’s chest. “Tell me… did—” His voice faltered, then picked up, thinner, fragile. “Did I—?”

“No.”

The answer came so quick, so certain, Max almost startled himself with it. He could feel George’s breath catch, the faint stiffening in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into Max’s shirt as if trying to hook into the truth.

“B-but—”

“My love,” Max murmured, bending his head until his lips brushed the hair just above George’s temple, “shh.”

The sound seemed to catch George off guard—soft, low, almost foreign in Max’s mouth. It wasn’t his usual sharpness, wasn’t the steady iron tone he used when things were falling apart. It was gentler than that. Too gentle, maybe.

George stilled, but his brows pinched, the stubborn furrow Max could feel even without seeing.

“You can’t just say ‘shh’ and think I’ll drop it,” he muttered, though his voice had gone quieter, like the heat of his protest had already started to dissolve into something else.

Max didn’t answer—not directly. His arms tightened fractionally, bringing George closer until their breathing lined up, chest to chest, so close Max could feel every slight hitch in him. His good hand stroked slowly over George’s hair, combing through tangles, fingertips dragging in a rhythm meant to soothe more than speak.

“You’re safe,” Max said finally, the words quiet but deliberate, the kind of words you placed in someone’s palm rather than threw at them.

“I wasn’t asking if I was safe—”

“I know.”

That pulled George’s gaze up, sharp with confusion and something wary. “Then—”

“I know what you were asking,” Max cut in, still soft, but steady enough to stop George from tripping over his next word. “And my answer doesn’t change. No.”

George swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his lashes low as he glanced toward the wrapped hand again. “Then who—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Max said, and it was the kind of quiet that wasn’t dismissive, wasn’t avoidance—it was final. He didn’t look away this time, didn’t give George that easy tell to cling to. Instead, he let George see it straight on, the calm that had nothing to do with indifference and everything to do with choice.

Because it was a choice. He’d already forgiven him. The moment it had happened, before the ache had even set in, Max had let it go. There was no reason to hold it up in the light now, no reason to pull George into the weight of it when all he wanted—when all he needed—was to keep him in this moment, in this version of himself that laughed, and bristled, and protected.

George’s lips parted like he might argue again, but instead, he slumped forward until his forehead met Max’s collarbone. The hum he’d been making earlier came back, faint and almost unconscious, like he was grounding himself in the rise and fall of Max’s breathing.

Max tilted his head, pressing his mouth into the curve where George’s hair met his ear. “I love you,” he said quietly, and it was almost too easy, almost reckless, how much truth there was in it.

George’s fingers tightened in his shirt. “…You sound weird when you say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” George hesitated, then shrugged against him. “Like you’re trying to convince me. Or you.”

Max didn’t answer, just held him, his thumb drawing idle circles into George’s back.

Max’s thumb was still drawing those slow, absent circles into George’s back when he felt the change—the slight restlessness creeping back into the smaller man’s posture, the way his fingers twitched like they were trying to find another question to cling to.

“Mm,” Max murmured, almost casual, like it was a thought that had just occurred to him. Or he was just trying to change the subject.

“Do you want to see the babies?”

George froze for a beat, his mind clearly caught mid-loop, then blinked up at him like Max had just dropped him into a different room entirely. “The… babies?”

“Mila. Astrie. Theo,” Max said, letting the corner of his mouth curl just slightly. “They’ve been waiting.”

The change was instant. George’s brows lifted, confusion flickering into something lighter, something that almost looked like guilt softened by excitement. “They’re here?”

“They’ve been here,” Max corrected gently, brushing a thumb along George’s jaw. “They keep peeking in to check if Papa’s still sleeping.”

George’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to—not after whatever he thought had happened. But the mention of their names worked its way past that hesitation, because now he was shifting, trying to push himself upright.

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

“You weren’t awake sooner,” Max reminded him, steadying him as he sat up.

George made a soft, irritated sound but didn’t argue. Instead, he looked toward the door like he could already hear them on the other side. “Bring them in?”

“They’ll bring themselves in,” Max said with a low chuckle, and as if on cue, the patter of quick little feet and the excited scrape of socks on hardwood echoed in the hallway.

The door didn’t just open—it burst, in the chaotic, joyful way only their brood could manage. Mila was first, hair slightly messy, her face bright with a smile that seemed too big for her cheeks.

“Papa’s awake!” she squealed, halfway into a bounce before she was even at the bed.

Astrie was right behind her, quieter but with eyes so wide and shining they nearly outdid Mila’s voice. “Papa, Papa,” she breathed, climbing onto the edge of the mattress like she’d been waiting for this moment for hours.

And then there was Theo.

Max barely had time to shift before the boy scrambled up without hesitation, his little hands gripping whatever he could find for leverage. “Papa!” he announced, as though George might’ve forgotten who he was, and then he launched himself forward in a fearless sprawl that landed squarely against George’s chest.

“Oof—” George let out a startled laugh, catching the boy before he could knock the breath out of him entirely. “Theo, you menace—”

Theo was already tucking himself under George’s chin like a small, warm bolt of energy, his tiny fists clutching at George’s shirt.

Max leaned back, just enough to take in the scene—George surrounded, Mila wedged against his side, Astrie curling into his lap, Theo claiming whatever space was left. It was loud, overlapping chatter and tiny limbs, but the look on George’s face…

That was what Max had been aiming for.

Not the haunted, searching gaze from before. Not the sharp lines of fear and guilt. Just this—George’s eyes crinkling, his mouth breaking into that rare, unguarded grin that made Max’s chest ache.

“You’re all too big,” George teased weakly, hugging them in close. “When did this happen? You’re supposed to stay small until I say otherwise.”

Mila giggled, Astrie ducked her head like she was shy about smiling too much, and Theo—predictably—ignored the statement entirely in favor of patting George’s cheek as though to make sure he was real.

Max’s bandaged hand throbbed faintly, but he didn’t care. He leaned against the headboard, close enough that his knee brushed George’s thigh, and let the noise wash over him.

Because this… this was the version of George he loved in every form.

The one who lit up under the weight of little arms and unconditional affection. The one who didn’t know he was still the center of the room even when he thought he’d been broken apart. The one Max would keep choosing—every single time.