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“Who’re you texting?” The question was simple but a spike of panic shot through Max as he instinctively rolled over, hiding his phone screen from view. It meant that he was facing George now, however, heads resting next to each other on the pillows. George would be able to see through the darkness, read each of Max’s expressions like a book — he was sure of it.
“No one. Go back to sleep,” Max said, fighting the instinct to smooth out George’s wavy hair, trace the shape of his face, close his eyes for him. He gripped the duvet tightly instead, tugging at the nondescript hotel white cover until George protested at the rush of cold air and dragged it back over himself.
Max’s phone was still on, unlocked. It illuminated George’s eyes (which were somehow even more blue than usual) and his slight pout as George asked, “Are you cheating on me?”
George wasn't Max’s boyfriend; there was no relationship to cheat on. Max explained as much to George who went incredibly still beside him. Max was confused. Sure, the agreement had been unspoken, but it had been understood, right? Max had never said he’d be exclusive with George and George, of course, would not be exclusive with Max. Max’s voice became softer as he added, “but for the record, I’m not cheating on you.” Hopefully that would help avoid George sulking, as inevitably happened when they were together.
“Mm, OK,” said George, quickly followed by a yawn as he settled back into sleep, pulling Max’s arm over his body and wrapping himself around it. That was new. It wasn't so long ago that staying after hooking up had been a novelty, after setting the expectation of leaving the other’s hotel room with barely a goodbye. Yet now he had George curled up against him and it didn't even feel like there was anything wrong with that.
George was fast asleep within minutes, his chest rising and falling, pressing against and away from Max’s hand. There truly was no other word to describe him but 'beautiful'. Max tried to limit his movement as much as possible, fearful of disturbing George in one of his rare moments of peace. He’d been very stressed recently about the future of his modelling career and it had taken so much for Max to bite back the words about how he understood what George was going through, that he too was struggling with a dilemma about his future. As far as George knew, Max was just a music producer, good at his job but no one especially notable. He could never know that he was sleeping with MAX, internationally famous to EDM listeners, and due to his ongoing Twitter beef with George.
It wasn't fair. Of all the models to end up in bed with, why did it have to be the one that hated him? Or, at least, that hated a part of him. Sure, MAX was more of a persona, a deliberately incomplete version of himself that he projected to the public, but it was still him. And George could never find out.
It was as though they were hiding together in some other world, safe from the fans, the media, the general public, safe even from those that knew them well but would judge them for what they had. But the whole time, a shadow loomed, George oblivious to MAX’s secret, any slight revelation threatening the peaceful existence they had settled into.
Max could envision it: the fire burning behind George’s eyes, door slamming open and then closed as he stormed in, not caring about — and perhaps even wanting — making a scene. He could hear the poisonous edge to George’s words as he launched into a speech so very clearly practiced in front of a mirror. That didn't even matter when it was such an impressive speech, dismantling Max’s carefully built wall separating the two parts of him.
If it weren't for George’s reliance on his looks to make a living, Max wouldn't have been surprised if it turned physical, anger and passion giving way to violence — and wouldn't that be ironic, given some of George’s own words about him?
The George glaring at him in his head was honestly very hot; maybe switching their current arrangement for hate sex wouldn't even be the worst idea. But then his focus switched back to the real George, snuffling in his sleep, completely unaware of Max’s internal struggle. Maybe they could continue like this for a little while longer.
Using his spare hand, Max unlocked his phone, refinding the email that had taken over his thoughts in recent days. It was the kind of record deal he'd been desperate for these past few years because he was, of course, known already but this could potentially surge his listener numbers outside of his regular genre. However, it would also require more promotion, more time spent being MAX, and therefore less nights like these. He wasn't even officially with George, and yet he wasn't sure what he'd do without him.
He read through the email again and again, trying to spot something, anything, that could be used as a loophole. The words blurred into each other until they were little more than black marks on the screen made further unreadable by Max’s watering eyes. Whether the tears collecting were from the brightness of the light, or how tired he was, Max couldn't tell. Likely a combination of the both he supposed. Either way, this was a decision for another day. Maybe he'd even be able to get George’s opinion if he asked subtly enough.
Sliding his phone under the pillow, Max carefully manoeuvred his arm, slipping it under George’s neck and bringing it to join his other. He would regret it in the morning, already feeling the discomfort of the awkward position and George’s slightly too warm body, but for now he could rest. How right George laying in his arms felt was his last conscious thought before he fell asleep.