Work Text:
It´s never over.
At exactly 3:12 in the morning, George receives a call from Oliver Bearman, his son Kimi's best friend. The boy spoke with a dragged-out and slow voice, the words coming out of his mouth incoherently, which did nothing to help the sleepiness the Brit felt after being suddenly woken up.
Kimi had gone to a party at a schoolmate's house, Gabriel Bortoleto. The son spent weeks insistently asking for permission to go, claiming that the other father had already let him go, so why would George forbid him? Fatigue overcame him.
Suddenly, the son's voice comes thru on the other end of the line. Kimi was apologizing to him and Max while his friends laughed at him in the background, my God, how much had he drunk? He thought. The call ended and the Englishman panicked. He tried to call back numerous times but it always said out of signal, the phone had probably been turned off.
A notification then lit up the top of his screen. Max Verstappen.
[03:26AM] Going to get Andrea.
[03:26AM] Wait for me outside, we need to talk.
Fuck.
Ok. [03:30AM]
He was furious with Kimi for drinking so much, but the last thing he needed was Verstappen talking crap in his ear at four in the morning. Since they had divorced, the dynamic that was already difficult had become challenging, almost comically impossible. Max was harsh and had a bad temper; he could be more stubborn than their 17-year-old son.
If you asked Russell how many good moments he and Verstappen had, he would have to dig deep into his memory, but it was easy because you could count them on your fingers. They were all moments when they had sex like animals, he had to move after the breakup because the old house brought him posthumous memories of a relationship that never died sexually.
The bodies of the two held an attraction that George had never felt with anyone else, and he tried, God knows how he tried. He went on a few dates with successful engineers, some of Max's friends who were interested in him, but upon sealing their lips, he already knew it wouldn't work for him.
The boy came to them like a slip, an insistence of chance that could have been avoided. George remembers the despair that overwhelmed his mind when he discovered he was carrying the child; he and Max had to change their lives, and Russell had to give up some things he had planned to do, like finishing college. The money he had set aside to open his architecture office was also diverted to meet current needs.
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The road to the Brazilian's house was slow, the foggy streets seemed endless. The more he drove, the farther the house seemed to get. Your destination is 30 meters away, the GPS repeated. The absence of music highlighted the sounds emitted by the car, the noise when the turn signals were activated became deafening.
His head pounded with worry— Your destination is 10 meters away. — He wondered if his son was okay, if he would need to take him to the hospital, if someone at that moment could be violating his integrity. — You have reached your destination.
Upon arriving at the Bortoleto house, Max parks in front of the car, seeing his son on the curb next to Isack Hadjar. The son was vomiting a yellowish-green liquid due to the multiple colors of the drinks he had ingested. Max got out of the car, sighing in relief at seeing his son intact. Without hesitation, he went to the boy, helping him to stand up.
— Andrea, come on, let's go home… — He helped Kimi get up and led him to the car, opening the passenger door.
— Bye, Isack… — He said with a heavy voice, waving awkwardly.
Kimi sat in the seat and Max fastened his seatbelt.
— Thank you for picking me up.— He blinked slowly toward his father, who was visibly upset, and when that happened, a pout involuntarily formed.
Max closed the car door and went to the driver's seat, started the car in a hurry, and soon drove toward his ex-husband's house. Every now and then, he cast glances at Kimi, catching the scent emanating from the clothes he wore. Weed and cheap vodka.
— Why did you do that?
— I just drank with my friends, got carried away, and lost control, sorry.
— And you smoked a joint too. Andrea, I don't pay a shitload for that damn school for you to do this. My dad never put me in a school like that. You have the opportunity and you're throwing it away, and for what? To get drunk with those guys who don't even care about you, they say they're your friends but look at you now. Vomited. Alone. None of them helped you with shit.
Max's car was a sedan, elongated and spacious, but now it was cramped and suffocating. The air that hung over them was dense and palpable. Full of Verstappen's venomous words that revealed his disdain for the boy's actions.
— I work all day, your father works all day to give you the best. You have everything you want and that's how you act. Andrea, I want you to at least touch a joint again and that conversation between your father and me about sending you to a boarding school stops being just speculation and becomes reality.
— What example do you have to give me, huh dad? You smoke at least a pack of cigarets a day, there's not a single day when you don't carry that stench of nicotine. That's why my father left you. — The boy snaps, tired of hearing his father.
Kimi said with a voice heavy with resentment and hurt, this wasn't new, it was an old feeling. Kept for a long time, long enough to suffocate the boy who suffered from the war waged by his parents and the people they had become after the divorce.
— If you want to send me to that damn boarding school, fine. At least this way I won't have to see you and my dad fight like two dogs anymore. And I also have nothing to do with your relationship with Grandpa Jos, and I have no obligation to compensate you for the mistakes he made with you.
Those words were like knives tearing at Max's flesh, deep enough to reach his core.
It hurt.
Destroyed.
It was true.
He had a nicotine addiction that controlled him, and he let it be, since Kimi was little, he already had the habit of smoking, but a pack lasted a week and a half, up to two. After George left him, the habit began to consume him. A large part of his salary went into the pockets of the big Rothmans companies, while the rest was for Kimi and some personal expenses.
The rest of the trip was silent, he saw his son still wiping away some tears he insisted on hiding. Max was surprised when he noticed how much he resembled himself. But these habits did not make him proud; in fact, he felt a pang of guilt deep down.
When they arrived at George's house at four ten in the morning, he was waiting for them in front of the open door, drinking tea. Max parked the car and Kimi got out, passing by their father and heading straight to the room while stumbling a bit.
— Kimi, son. Do you want help? Are you having a headache? — He asked worriedly as he followed his son, leaving the cup on any surface. — Why did you do that, Andrea? How much did you drink?
Kimi opened the bedroom door and closed it upon entering. Failure. George opened the door behind him and entered without asking for permission, seeing the boy take off his shoes.
— Take a shower before bed, it helps. — He took off the boy's coat, immediately noticing the smell. — Andrea, did you smoke weed?
— I smoked, Dad! I smoked and I drank, okay? Damn...
— Look here, I am not going to tolerate you having this kind of attitude and speaking to me like that. — George says irritably.
— Oh really? Well, I tolerate a lot of things you do. I tolerate even too much. You think I don't listen, that I don't know. I'm not a child anymore, Dad. You think I don't see, there are days when you drink and call Dad to come here at dawn thinking I won't know, but you fuck really loudly and I have to pray that one of these times you don't bring a child into the world and they live the hell of having to deal with you. But hearing my parents have sex isn't the worst part because it's the only time you two don't fight.
Tears streamed down Andrea's soft face as he filled his lungs with the air he had been missing, not knowing where all this was coming from, maybe it was the effect of the alcohol, but he needed to vent.
— You two deserve each other. They were made in the same mold of hypocrisy, Dad threatened to send me to boarding school for smoking even tho he smokes more than anything and you talking to me about drinking too much? It's the biggest joke in the world.
— Kimi, baby…
— I want to be alone. — He said firmly. — And… I'm going to take a shower, okay? Just leave me alone.
George nodded, swallowing hard the words of his son, and soon left the room.
Russell walked over to Verstappen with slow steps, heavy with sadness from having received his son's choked words. He positioned himself in front of the Dutchman and, still in silence, delivered a strong slap to his face, causing a loud and piercing sound of violent contact to echo thru the house. The ambient was already familiar with that.
— Let's talk outside. — Russell says, leaving the house.
Max stood still, feeling his skin burn, definitely not expecting this, despite having been beaten a few times by his ex-husband. He then became aware of reality and followed the Brit, closing the door behind him. George walked over to Max's car and sat in the driver's seat, the blonde, with no choice, sat in the passenger seat next to him.
— Did you threaten the boy with sending him to a boarding school? — He asks calmly. Max preferred if he shouted, since George's dragged-out voice caused him a fear that reminded him of a parental scenario.
— He's smoking weed, he's been really sassy these days, he's doing poorly in school, he's drinking. Damn, if you don't want to deal with him, I will.
— And what way do you want me to do it, huh!? What do you want me to do!? He is a damn teenager, you idiot. He has problems like all teenagers do.
Max stared at George incredulously, had he really heard that?
— I'm not surprised he's your son, damn it... — He averted his gaze, speaking in a mocking tone.
— My son? Our son. — George adjusts himself in the driver's seat just to assert his presence against Max, who was avoiding him with his gaze. — It was you who made him with me, it was you who fucked me like a desperate person while whispering that without a condom it was better and that nothing would come of it, and I was foolish and believed it, most of the blame is indeed mine.
George stared at the face bilaterally bruised by the blow he had caused earlier. George knew that Max was turning his face out of spite because Max knew that he hated being ignored.
— Want to know what I really think, Verstappen? That you want to put all the blame on me to avoid the fact that you failed as a father. You used to always tell me how much of an asshole your father was, how much of a bastard he could be, and how messed up you got because of it, but I didn't believe it because you were so sweet to me, we got along well, you were affectionate. But all I see now is a copied portrait of your father, you might have tried to fight against it, but you're just like him.
Max froze. George knew him too well. He knew that the Brit was saying that to hurt him.
— You know, the boy adores you. But you can be a real jerk to him, always humiliating him, talking about the friends he has. Not saying that you can't talk, you can, but the aggressive way you talk to him is so stupid. You treat him the way your father treats you and then try to buy him something expensive that you never had because, damn, you're a better father for giving material things that your father never gave you.
Max finally looks at him.
— I understand that I'm a lousy father, but what about you, George!? The perfect guy, the one who never messes up anything. You lie and manipulate that kid so you don't fight. I do make mistakes, and I am a messed up person who maybe shouldn't have had my child, but now I have one and I'm taking care of it, I take responsibility for my shit. You never manage to take responsibility for anything, neither for your son nor for yourself.
The Dutchman starts raising his voice in the typical way he always did to manage to control the tears, hiding the sadness with violence.
— I know that deep down you blame him for losing what mattered most to you, which was your career. You blame him for ruining your damn dream, because the blame is always on everyone else, never on you. You never do anything wrong. Sometimes I think you would burst into flames if you hadn't had Andrea and had failed, because then you would have to look in the mirror and acknowledge the mistake.
— Funny, this was one of the only times tonight that you made it clear that Andrea is your son. To speak ill of me. Do you realize how stupid you are?
Max fell silent. He rolled down the car window, took one of his Rothmans cigarets from his pocket, and lit it. Each one looked in a different direction, refusing to face the problem.
— You two always blamed me for our relationship ending. — He took a drag from the cigaret.
Russell laughs nasally. It must be a joke.
— I can't believe I´m being responsible for our son's perceptions of you and what happened. — George says.
Silence.
— I didn't want it to end, I didn't want any of this. I was so sure. — He said as the smoke escaped from his mouth. — I don't know where we went wrong, where I went wrong. I don't understand how we got to this point.
—I don't know either... it's strange to think that we used to get along so well and now... we can't have a conversation without attacking each other. I wish I could go back in time and fix everything. I feel that all I have to offer you now is an endless loneliness. — He sighed heavily. — You are right when you say that I blame everyone for my mistakes... but I'm trying to change that...
— Sometimes I feel like he hates me. — George Russell laughed nasally.
— Welcome to the club. Most days he can barely tolerate me. I don't blame him, I don't blame him for anything.
— I was wrong when I judged him too, I drank for the first time when I was about 14... I think I lost my virginity at 15 and smoking, damn I don't even remember. — He looked at George with a sideways smile trying to lighten the bad mood.
— I remember, we did most of these things together. It hurt like hell the first time. — George smiled slightly, but quickly erased it.
Max kept smoking. The good mood was dissipating and giving way to a trauma he had ignored until that moment. The dense nicotine smoke seemed more toxic than usual, as it caused a pain in his throat that resembled someone wrapping barbed wire around his neck. Nothing came out. It hurt too much. But with great effort, he soon began to vociferate.
— Do you think... I'm really just like my father? — Max asked with a heavy voice, as if he were about to cry. It was possible to count the times Max cried out of sadness in front of George.
Russell looked in the direction of the blonde with red eyes, holding back that bad feeling for not wanting to be vulnerable, but there he was, completely exposed and once again, only for George.
— Of course not... I'm sorry, I spoke without thinking. — He moves closer to Max, caressing his face, stroking where he had previously beaten him.
Their relationship was like this. They loved each other. Deep down, they felt an immeasurable love, a bond that seemed unbreakable because neither party wanted to break it.
A thread red as blood, forged by an irrational attachment to the dream of what they could have been. Embarrassed. Cutting. Sharp enough to suffocate both and anyone who, unfortunately, might get involved. Suffocating enough to choke his own son.
Even if they tried to stay apart, they could never manage for long; they needed each other's contact, they depended on it. At the same time, when they saw each other for more than two consecutive days, they would come to understand and remember the reason they had chosen divorce.
It hurt not to be anything, but it tore them apart to be anything at all, as long as they were together. When they lived in the same house, it was always the same thing; during the dinners George prepared, Max would arrive tired and silent.
In front of the expensive dishes that Max had gifted George in an attempt to make amends for some mistake he had made, they would look at each other, touch each other, and misunderstand each other the moment they tried to communicate.
George's hand rested on the cigaret in Max's mouth, he took a drag, exhaling the smoke upwards, delicate and elegant as he had always been. He threw the cigaret out of the car and then wiped his partner's tears.
— I can't stand living like this anymore.
— Our son can't take it. There has to be something we can do. — Max retorts.
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`Cause it´s not too late.