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Summary
Being dramatic is George’s full time job, but Max isn’t just watching anymore. Sometimes solving problems requires… forceful cuddle tactics.
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And oh, Max knew then, without a shred of doubt, that he had bagged himself a true diva. A masterpiece. And it was his.
Max caged him in with his arms, looming close, eyes soft but fierce. “I’m sorry.”
George froze. His chest rose and fell quick beneath the blanket, his lips parted, words caught between fury and disbelief.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Max repeated, slower now, firmer. “I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it. You’re not annoying, George. Never.”
George blinked rapidly, torn between maintaining his diva rage and the way Max’s voice stripped him raw. His fists curled in the blanket, but his words spilled out sharp, defensive.
“You’re a bastard. You don’t think, do you? You just run your mouth, and—do you know how it feels? Hm? Do you? To be dismissed like some pest—like some… gnat buzzing in your ear?” His voice trembled with the crack of something deeper. “I’m not trying to be annoying, Max. I’m—” His throat closed up. “I’m just... me.”
Max’s chest ached. He lowered himself until their foreheads brushed, his voice rough. “I know. I know you’re you. And you’re everything, George. I don’t ever want you to think otherwise.”
George’s lip wobbled despite his best efforts to scowl. “You’re an arsehole.”
Max’s smile was faint, aching. “Ja. Yours.”
George’s fists beat weakly against his chest, his anger dissolving into something smaller, sadder. “You don’t get to say sweet things and fix it just like that. I hate you. I bloody hate you.”
Max kissed his temple, whispering, “I love you too.”
George groaned, muffled his face into the pillow, and cursed him again in a long, colorful tirade that Max took every word of with bowed head and quiet devotion.
And when George finally exhausted himself, chest heaving, Max wrapped him close and held him as though nothing in the world could drag him away.
----------------------------------------------George’s breath hitched again, his words cracking through his sobs, “I know I’m… too much sometimes—”
Max nearly flinched. He cupped George’s face, thumbs swiping tenderly at the damp trails down his skin, tilting his head so their foreheads pressed together.
“Do not say that,” he whispered fiercely, his voice low but steady. “Do not you ever say that, George.”
George’s lashes fluttered, his tearful eyes struggling to focus.
“You’re not too much. Not for me. Never for me.” Max’s chest tightened with the weight of it. “You’re… you’re everything. You fill the room, ja, but you’re supposed to. You’re supposed to shine. Do you think I’d ever want you small? Quieter? Less?” His voice cracked, betraying him. “No. Never. I want all of you.”
George let out a shaky laugh, broken by a sniffle. “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you.”
----------------------------------------------The sobs gradually softened, tapering into sniffles. George’s breathing grew slower, heavier, his fists unclenching as he melted into Max’s chest, pliant where before he had been rigid with anger.
And in the silence that followed, Max simply looked at him.
George Russell, divinely dramatic, stretched across their bed like something that had stepped out of marble and oil paint. His hair mussed, his lips swollen from crying, his body heavy with exhaustion—and still, he was the most breathtaking man Max had ever laid eyes on.
George opened his eyes just enough to catch Max staring. His voice was groggy, petulant. “What.”
Max smiled softly, brushing a thumb over his damp cheek again.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t look at me,” George muttered, burrowing into the pillow, the tips of his ears glowing red. “I look a mess.”
“You look like you were sculpted by God,” Max said simply.
George froze, then made a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a sniff. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you’re beautiful,” Max murmured, kissing his temple. “Even when you’re crying. Especially then.”
George groaned, hiding his face deeper into the pillow. “Shut up. You prat.”
Max laughed softly, tugging him closer until George was practically sprawled across him. The weight of him felt grounding, real, perfect. “Ja. Your prat.”
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