Chapter Text
The kitchen of the Hamilton-Rosberg household was painfully beautiful. All clean lines and soft-toned Scandinavian wood, punctuated by sleek matte-black appliances that gleamed in the morning light. A wide marble island sat at the centre like a throne, wrapped in barstools with worn-in leather, each one seemingly assigned by habit and unspoken rule. The walls carried framed photographs of different event wins and family holidays, snapshots of golden days, smiling faces, arms around shoulders but the quiet in the room this morning made the memories feel a century old.
The silence was punctuated only by the dull scrape of a spoon against a cereal bowl. Lando. Slouched in his seat, hoodie pulled up, earbuds half-dangling, eating like he just came out of the womb. Max sat across from him, cross-legged on the barstool like it was his own kingdom, which sort of was, picking at a piece of toast with a smirk playing on his lips already halfway into a smirk, that is, because- because.
And then George. Sat in the middle. Of course.
He always did. Middle child, middle seat, middle everything. The 'too-good' one, the polite one, the forgettable one.
“Morning,” George said softly, slipping into his chair with textbook posture, like he was sitting an exam.
Lando didn’t look up. Max’s eyes flicked toward him for all of half a second, unreadable, before he went back to his toast.
Nico came in first, hair still damp from his run, shirt clinging to his back, the scent of pine deodorant and morning sweat trailing behind him. Yet he looked majestic. His blond hair was shining due to the sunlight reflecting- making him look like an angel. He was already looking at his phone fine lines etched on his forehead as he squinted at the screen.
“Boys,” he said, distracted, thumbing a message. “Eat something proper today. You’ve all got training.”
“I am eating proper,” Lando mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. Gosh, he ate like a cave-man.
“You’re eating sugar and milk, squirt,” Max said with a laugh.
“At least I’m eating.”
George didn’t say anything. His own plate sat untouched—scrambled eggs, toast with the crusts trimmed, just the way Lewis liked to make it. Lewis always cooked like he was still feeding a ten-year-old. George wished he was a 10 year old again.
Lewis followed a minute later, hoodie draped around his neck like a scarf, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. Cus why not?He would tell Nico when he asked.
“Morning, fam,” he said cheerily, kissing Nico’s cheek as he passed. He ran a hand through Lando’s hair, which earned a half-smile from the younger boy. “Maxie. Looking sharp, huh?”
Max lifted his toast in mock salute. “Born sharp, daddy dearest.”
Lewis paused behind George, hand landing briefly on his shoulder. “Hey, Georgie.”
“Morning,” George said again, almost too quietly.
The hand was gone a second later.
The ache was immediate.
Just a little longer...
He hated how he wanted more. How he noticed the difference. How Lando got his hair ruffled and Max got teased and George got a passing hand and a name he hadn’t liked in years. He wished he wasn't 'George' at all.
He took a bite of his eggs, forcing the food down with mechanical rhythm.
“Have you got your schedule printed, George?” Nico asked suddenly, still scanning his phone.
“Yes.”
“Mm, good boy.”
There it was. That word again.
Good boy.
He wasn’t sure when he’d started hating it. Maybe around the same time he’d realised “good” wasn’t a compliment, it was a category. Something you said about people you didn’t want to think about too hard.
Lando kicked Max under the table, snorting, and Max yelped before jabbing his knee back in retaliation. Their laughter was effortless, even affectionate in that stupid boyish way.
George shifted slightly, but the moment didn’t need him. They never did.
He cleared his throat. “I was thinking, maybe, if there’s time later... could we go over some of the tape videos? I’ve been studying the moves again and—”
“Mate,” Max cut in, voice sharp but smiling. “You study too much. You need a girlfriend or something.”
“Yeah, or a boyfriend,” Lando added, eyes glinting. “Bit tragic, innit? George and his sad book corner.”
“Leave him,” Lewis said mildly, half-laughing, sipping his suspicious green juice. “He’s focused. That’s not a crime.”
George felt heat rise to his cheeks.
“I just meant—” he started, but Nico interrupted.
“Your discipline’s a good thing,” he said, nodding toward George without looking up. “You’re always very consistent. That’s what we like to see.”
George stared at his plate.
Consistent.
Like a bloody spreadsheet.
The thing was, they did love Max. For all his mood swings and brutal sarcasm. They loved Lando, who could be late and chaotic and still get cooed over like the sun rose out of his arse. And George? George got nods. Approval. The cold, distant kind. Polite claps when he did well. Feedback. Notes.
The more he tried to be perfect, the more invisible he became.
“I could take you out tonight, if you’re that desperate,” Max offered suddenly, grinning. “Reckon we could get you laid.”
George laughed a little, but it came out wrong, too high, too thin.
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Max said with a shrug. “Don’t blame me when you start having romantic dreams about your literature books.”
Lando snorted into his cereal. “Too late, bro. He’s already married to it, trust.”
That earned real laughter from the table. George smiled. It hurt. He couldn’t tell if it was because it wasn’t funny, or because he wished it was.
Lewis looked at the clock and clapped his hands together. “Right. Let’s get moving. Max, your session’s at ten. George—you’re at noon, right?”
George nodded.
“Cool. You can review tape until then,” Nico said. “Keep refining those skills.”
“Yes,” George said.
The chairs scraped back. The room moved around him. Lewis kissed Max on the temple and called him a menace. Nico told Lando to stop slouching like a wet rag. George stood and carried his plate to the sink.
No one noticed.
He turned on the tap, let the water run over the eggs, washing them down the drain like it never mattered. The noise drowned the low chatter behind him. The clinking cutlery. The lightness.
He didn’t turn around until they were gone.
Then he breathed. Shaky. Silent. Small.
When will it be my turn?
---
If his own Hamilton-Rosberg home was all elegant minimalism and muted colour palettes, the Button-Ricciardo household was a deliberate sort of chaos.
Like literally.
There were plants in strange places. One hanging from a whisk dangling from the kitchen ceiling, another growing out of a repurposed racing helmet by the window. The sofa had mismatched cushions with prints loud enough to yell at you. A wall in the hallway was entirely polaroids, some stuck on with coloured tape, others dangling off strings with pegs. There was a shoeless policy that everyone respected, though Logan always forgot until the last minute and kicked his trainers off mid-hop.
Yet it felt more... comforting. Weird? Nah.
It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and- burnt biscuits, because Uncle Jense had a thing for baking when he was anxious. Which was often, but he never admitted it. Uncle Dan had no fixed sleep schedule and frequently forgot to close the cereal boxes properly, but he always laughed the loudest and hugged without warning.
George loved it there. Loved it in the deep, breath-in-your-bones kind of way.
So here he was, dropping by his best friends house after done with his training for the day. He knocked once, but the door was already open, as if he was supposed to be here anyway. He stepped in, clutching his backpack loosely, scanning the corridor for a familiar sound.
“Helloooo?” he called out, tentative.
Logan’s head popped out from the living room. He looked like typical disney kid. Blond hair, blue eyes, big smile- but charming. “Kitchen,” he said, chewing something. “Alex is in the kitchen.”
George smiled faintly. “What’re you eating now?”
“Banana bread,” Logan mumbled around his mouthful. “Please tell papa it's good. Convince him! Maybe then he’ll stop trying to make the vegan version.”
George toed off his trainers and padded down the corridor. The kitchen opened up like a sunroom, floor-to-ceiling windows, morning light spilling through like it belonged there. The worktop was cluttered with mugs, bowls, the half-eaten banana bread loaf. There was flour on the tiles.
And at the table, in a hoodie three sizes too big and hair pulled back with a band, sat Alex.
George stopped for a second, letting the moment rest.
He was pouring over some notes, laptop open beside a mug of tea, headphones tangled around his neck. He looked like the world hadn’t touched him yet today.
“Hi,” George said softly.
Alex looked up, and his face broke into the kind of grin that made George’s chest ache.
“Georgie!” he said, standing up halfway to pull him into a quick hug. “You made it.”
George let himself sink into it for half a second longer than he meant to. Alex always smelled like citrus shampoo and fabric softener. Familiar. Safe.
“Of course I did,” George said with a shrug. “Better here than being bullied over toast.”
Alex laughed, pulling out the chair beside him. “You have got dramatic since Max got that new haircut and became the heartthrob.”
“It’s the ego,” George said, sitting down. “It’s contagious.”
Alex grinned, passing him a slice of banana bread. “Here. Eat. You look like you didn’t get breakfast.”
George blinked. “How’d you know?”
“Because I just- just know you,” Alex said simply.
George looked down at the banana bread. Warm. Soft. Comfort in slice form.
“Uncle Jense made it?”
“Yeah, he’s on a roll. Pun intended,” Alex said, poking his tongue out. “Logan’s been using it as an excuse to skip meals and just eat cake.”
“I see nothing wrong with that,” George said, taking a bite.
The warmth settled in his stomach like a balm.
Alex nudged him with his knee. “You okay?”
George glanced at him. His friend’s eyes were soft. Worried, but not probing.
“Yeah,” George said after a moment. Yeah I'm okay, I'm always okay. “Just a morning, y’know?”
“Mm,” Alex hummed. “I can offer you tea, and- of course- banana bread, or a deeply inappropriate meme from Logan’s phone. Choose your fighter.”
George chuckled. “Tea sounds safe.”
Alex got up, filled the kettle, and bustled around like he’d been doing it forever. George watched the way he moved—how he hummed under his breath, how his hands were always slightly animated, like he couldn’t quite sit still with all that kindness buzzing inside him.
“You’re staring,” Alex said without looking up.
George blinked. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. It’s fine. I know I’m stunning in the mornings.”
George rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
Alex turned with a cheeky grin. “Say it again. Louder. For the people in the back.”
George felt something tighten in his chest. Something bitter and sweet at once.
Because this.. this ridiculous back-and-forth, the freedom to be soft, to be sarcastic, to be seen—wasn’t something he got to have at home.
Here, he wasn’t being measured or compared. He was just... George. Normal George.
“Logan was asking about that gaming thing,” Alex said, setting the tea down. “The charity stream. Said you promised to help him set up.”
“Yeah,” George nodded. “He wants overlays and transitions and all that streamer drama.”
“Don’t let him guilt you into designing his merch,” Alex warned. “He tried to rope Oscar into doing logos last week.”
George laughed. “I’ve got boundaries. Sort of.”
“Sort of,” Alex echoed with a smirk. “Come on. We can set it up in the afternoon if you’ve got time.”
George nodded, cupping the warm mug in his hands. “I’d like that.”
There was a pause.
Then carefully Alex said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
George hesitated.
He wanted to say, No. I’m falling apart and no one sees it.
He wanted to scream. Cry. Curl into Alex’s hoodie and pretend he was seven again.
Seven.
But Alex had a girlfriend. And a whole, big, warm life. And George didn’t want to be the problem. Not here. Not in this sanctuary.
“I’m fine,” he said instead. “You’re here.”
Alex looked at him for a long moment.
Then he smiled. Soft and honest. “Always.”
George smiled back. It felt smaller than it should.
Later, Uncle Jense came home and ruffled his hair, called him “the best boy” and slipped him his favourite biscuits with a conspiratorial wink. Uncle Dan popped in after a run and declared George “a treasure” for fixing the kitchen speakers. Logan flopped over him during the game set-up, whined about cable management, and then hugged him out of nowhere.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was enough.
Enough to survive another day.
And he will be back to get more the next day.
-
His home was the same as it was when he left.
The air was heavy when he stepped inside. Not tense but just indifferent.
He was ten minutes late. Maybe twelve. He’d texted. Said he’d been helping Logan with the stream setup. Said he was heading back now. Got a thumbs-up from his papa.
He didn’t rush. He liked the walk from Alex’s place. Liked the quiet. It gave him time to breathe.
But as he slipped his keys back into his coat pocket and toed off his shoes, something felt off.
He stepped into the kitchen and stopped.
They’d started eating.
Without him.
Without. Him.
The table was set, plates half-full, chairs occupied. Max was halfway through what looked like the Thai takeaway they ordered every Thursday. Lando was already on seconds. Nico had a glass of red wine in one hand and his phone in the other. Lewis was laughing at something Lando had said something George hadn’t heard. Couldn’t have.
They didn’t even glance up straight away.
That’s what hit him first. Not even the food.
The fact that no one looked up.
And then they did. “Oh. Hey, George,” Lewis said, finally, like it had just occurred to him. “Grab a plate, yeah?”
George stared. Just for a second. He covered it quickly. Blinked once, nodded, and moved towards the counter. But something inside him stalled. A beat off.
“When did you start?” he asked, not looking at anyone.
“Quarter past,” Nico replied, not looking up. “You said you'd be late.”
There was no accusation in it. No real judgement. Just fact.
George opened a cupboard, took out a plate. The cabinets clicked softly. Everything too quiet.
They always waited. That was the thing. The one rule. Dinner as a family. The only bloody ritual they took seriously in this house.
Now, apparently, they were eating already even when he was late.
“I thought you'd wait,” he said, voice thinner than he meant it to be.
Max let out a snort. “It’s not a royal court, George. We don’t need to wait for you to christen the naan.”
“Max,” Lewis warned gently, but he was smiling. The kind of smile he used when Max was being cheeky, not cruel.
George bit the inside of his cheek.
He served himself wordlessly. The curry was lukewarm already. He didn’t bother reheating it. Didn’t want to make a thing of it. He slid into his usual seat—between Max and Lando, always in the middle and picked up his fork.
The noise of the room returned gradually. Lando talking about some Twitch stream. Max mocking his fanbase (which was friends and family- for now. But hey! Let a boy dream yeah?). Nico saying something about work. Lewis chiming in with a half-formed story from his youth.
No one asked where George had been.
Maybe cus they knew.
He ate slowly. Mechanically. Chewed like it was a task. Not one of them noticed the silence.
When did they stop waiting?
And then he realised.
They never had.
Not for him.
He’d always been the first one at the table. Always polite. Always on time. Always waiting. It wasn’t some family code, they waited when Max was late. Waited when Lando was still picking an outfit or taking a shower or texting someone. They waited for the wild ones. The chaotic ones.
Not for him.
Because they weren’t waiting when George arrived. He was the filler. The one they didn’t need to hold space for.
He put his fork down a little too quietly.
Lewis noticed, maybe. Tilted his head. “You alright, love?”
George looked up. The word felt like a trap. Love.
“Yeah,” he said. “Long day.”
“Alex still with that girl?” Max asked suddenly, grinning over his beer.
George blinked. “What?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Y’know. His girlfriend. The golf enthusiast one. Thought you might know, you spend half your life at his house.”
George blinked again. “Yeah, he is. Lily. Her name.”
Lando cooed. “He definitely gonna marry her. She's cute. And- - Georgie here... he’s just pretending to be chill about it.”
George’s hands clenched under the table.
“You lot are obsessed,” he muttered.
“We’re observant,” Max corrected, smug. “You’re the one pining over a taken man. Bit tragic, really.”
Lewis gave Max a look, but it was soft. Teasing. “Don’t tease your brother like that.”
George stood up suddenly. “I’m not hungry.”
Everyone paused.
“You’ve barely touched your food,” Nico said, frowning.
“I said I’m not hungry.”
He picked up his plate and dumped it in the sink with a dull clatter. It didn’t break. He kind of wished it had. He wished he could see something else other than himself break.
No one followed him.
Not when he walked out. Not when he climbed the stairs two at a time. Not even when his bedroom door clicked shut with finality.
He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers trembling.
He knew it didn’t matter. It was dinner. One dinner.
But he also knew it wasn’t just one dinner.
It was a pattern. A million tiny moments. A lifetime of being the reliable one, the good one, the easy one.
Invisible.
He wished he wasn't the good boy Georgie.
He curled in on himself, knees to chest, fists curled in the fabric of his hoodie. The one Alex gave him two days ago when George forgot his own and refused to admit he was cold.
It still smelled like Alex. That soft citrus and shampoo scent. Like safety. Like someone had seen him once.
His eyes burned.
He didn’t cry. Not yet. Not here. Not now.
Cus what was the point crying over spoilt milk?