Chapter Text
George was in the middle of a very serious crisis; he had nothing to wear. Fourteen hangers, three hours of contemplation, three shirts on the floor, one breakdown and four cups of coffee later, he still had nothing to wear. His dignity was in shambles, morale all time low, and he was abandoned by just about everyone, including Alex, who had sworn to stand by him until death did them part (in a bro way).
“I have nothing to wear,” George declared mournfully.
He picked up the silk button down he had thrown in the pile of nothing earlier—Ralph Lauren. He felt guilt creeping in for exactly three seconds before he abandoned it again for his perpetual misery.
It was wrong for the occasion.
George had one rule and one rule only, three words he lived by—dress to impress.
This wouldn’t impress anyone, not even Lando, who once used the word fashion and useless in the same sentence. If Alex hadn’t jumped in the middle, they wouldn’t have stayed friends after that.
“This sucks. Everything sucks.”
Creeping in the doorway like a sad little bird, Lando didn’t even look up, he simply tipped the cereal box higher and crunched like a neanderthal. “You said that about the last twelve outfits.”
“They were wrong,” George snapped. “This is important. This is Alette. I need to look like I belong there. Like I am fashion.”
“You write about mulch,” Alex supplied from the kitchen.
“Botanical lifestyle features,” George corrected sharply. “And not for long. This interview is supposed to be my big moment. My—” he gestured vaguely, narrowly avoiding knocking over a shoe rack “—metamorphosis.”
Lando decided to join their banished friend in his betrayal.
“You’re wearing two different shoes.”
He was so not.
He looked down.
And he so was.
“That was intentional,” he said weakly, before kicking one of them off and hopping back towards the wardrobe.
The room was a covered in clothes—they were draped over chairs, spilling out of drawers, some were even bearing tags like tiny question marks. There was a jacket on the bedpost with the price label still attached. Lando nudged a shirt on the floor with his foot. “You know most people remove the tags before they wear things, right?”
“I might return them,” George said quickly.
He was not ashamed of himself, not in the slightest, but he had also been receiving hate mails from debt collectors. Now more than ever, he needed to be careful.
“You’ve worn that.”
“Once doesn’t count.”
“It has deodorant stains.”
George paused, looked at the shirt, then nudged it further under the bed; out of sight, out of mind.
“It’s reversible.”
Lando crunched a bit more. “It’s not.”
George threw a pillow at him.
“You need to calm down, Georgie.” Alex said reasonably.
George ignored him, rifling through hangers with a rapidly increasing sense of dread. “Okay, think. I need something that’s effortlessly chic but also speaks volumes about my knowledge of fashion. I need a face that yells ‘I UNDERSTAND COUTURE, HIRE ME IMMEDIATELY.’”
“You’re yelling enough for both,” Lando muttered.
George pulled out a blazer, “this looks like something a corporate monkey would wear.”
Why did he buy that?
Irrelevant.
Think George. Focus.
He picked out a different blazer.
“This one I bought for a funeral.”
“Whose?” Both Alex and Lando asked at the same time.
“I don’t know,” George said honestly. “I wanted to be prepared, if the chance ever presented itself.”
Lando threw cereal at him. Alex dropped onto a chair.
George picked up a different suit.
“This says ‘I consider budget’ which is unacceptable.”
“You should consider budget,” Alex said. “before you go bankrupt.”
George waved that off. “My finances are fine.”
“You tried to pay for groceries with a loyalty card yesterday.”
“It had a chip!”
“It had a barcode.”
George turned, scandalised. “You just have to believe in credit cards, Alex.”
“That’s not how debt works.”
“That’s exactly how debt works. It’s conceptual.”
Lando crunched another mouthful of cereal. “I’m sure your bank disagrees.”
George gasped softly, then placed a wounded hand on his heart for dramatic effect, then immediately brightened as he pulled something out of the wardrobe. “Wait.”
He held up an outfit—cream trousers, a fitted shirt, a tailored embroidered jacket. He slipped into it at record speed, fingers flying over buttons, smoothing fabric, adjusting cuffs. Then he turned to the mirror. There was a pause. He indeed was very beautiful. The mirror never lied.
George tilted his head, then gestured for Alex to move it.
Alex dutifully adjusted his collar. George turned slightly to the left, then right.
Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching.
“Well?” George demanded.
Lando considered. “You look expensive.”
George beamed. “Good.”
“…and like you’re about to ask someone if they’ve tried turning it off and on again.”
George’s smile dropped. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I look like fashion.”
“You look like tech support.”
George turned back to the mirror, frowning. “No, no, wait—” He tugged at the sleeves, reshaped the silhouette, stepped back. “Okay. Okay. This works. This is good. This is strong. This is—”
He stopped.
Lando sighed immediately. “No.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “It’s missing something.”
“Don’t.”
“It needs—”
“George.”
“A statement.”
Lando dragged a hand down his face. “You have fifteen statements lying on the floor.”
“None of them are right.”
George turned slowly, scanning the room like a man possessed. His gaze moved over shoes, belts, jackets—
“It needs colour,” he muttered. “And not just any colour. Blue. It has to complement my eyes.”
Lando groaned. “Oh no.”
George was already grabbing his phone case. “I’ll find something”
“You’re going to be late,” Alex called after him.
“I’ll find it on the way!” George shot back, halfway out the door already. “It’ll be quick!”
He was going to look like temptation incarnate. He would charm everyone in the building, make an impression. Alette would hire him and thank him for his services five minutes later.
It was fate.
He strode down the familiar London streets, umbrella in hand, late but with a purpose—coat flaring, mentally revisioning phrases like editorial vision and trend forecasting. This was it, this was his moment, the right turn in his life. The moment that meant something.
He stopped, mid-step and mid-thought, and then breathed, because it really was fate. There, in the shop window to his right, bathed in soft lighting, was the scarf.
Blue.
Not just any blue.
The blue of his eyes. The blue he needed
It was draped over a mannequin. Elegant, luxurious, and bound to be his. George stepped closer to the glass.
It was perfect. Soft, from the look of it. Probably outrageously soft. The kind of soft that changed you as a person, the kind of scarf that said, this man understands fashion. The kind of scarf that absolutely, undeniably belonged at an interview for Alette.
George placed a hand against the window.
“This is fate.”
A woman passing by gave him a look.
He ignored her.
Two seconds later, he was inside.
“I’ll take the blue scarf,” George said, already holding the scarf like it had chosen him, which it had.
The shop assistant smiled politely. “Good choice. It’s our last piece.”
George produced the cash he had, then his first credit card, then his second.
The third one stuck.
What the—
He tapped.
The machine beeped.
“I’m sorry, could you try that again?”
DECLINED.
“Declined,” the lady said, as if punctuating it to wound his soul.
George blinked.
“Would you like to try again?” the assistant offered.
“Yes,” George said immediately. “Yes, that happens sometimes. Banking glitch.”
He smiled, light and charming.
The machine beeped again.
DECLINED.
George held his smile, heroically.
“They’ve been doing updates.”
“Your bank?”
“Yes. Constantly. Updating in the name of improving, but only glitching in response.”
He tapped a third time.
DECLINED.
There was a moment of silence.
George stared at the screen, the screen stared back.
He let out a small, dignified laugh. “Right. Well. Clearly something’s happening.”
“It would seem so,” the assistant provided.
“Could you hold that for me while I sort it out?”
“I’m sorry. We cannot hold sale items.”
*
George made it three steps, but then he stopped again. The scarf was still there, draped exactly the same way.
It was a scarf.
Just a scarf.
And George did not need a scarf. He had an interview. A real, life-changing interview. He did not need a scarf to succeed. He had talent, ambition, a face card—
But the scarf would help.
“Walk away.”
He took one step further, then one back.
“Walk away, George. You do not need a scarf.”
He took another step.
“But it’s blue,” another part of him offered a counterargument.
The mannequin, as usual, offered no guidance.
George stood there, torn between responsibility and fabric.
Responsibility was losing.
He just needed cash.
He glanced down the street, a nearby hot dog stand. A terrible plan began to form in his mind. But a plan that would work. He cast one last longing look at the scarf in the window.
“Wait for me,” he murmured.
Then he marched towards the hot dog stand
This was totally fine. All he needed was a small, reasonable amount of cash. Twenty pounds. That was nothing. People acquired cash every day. Entire economies were built on it. He could do this.
The vendor looked up as George arrived.
“Hi,” George said brightly. “Quick question.”
“Yes?”
“How many hot dogs do you have?”
There was a pause.
“Thirty?” the vendor said slowly.
“Perfect,” George said. “Great. I’ll take them.”
The vendor looked unconvinced.
“All of them,” George clarified.
“All thirty hot dogs.”
“Yes. I’ll give you a cheque, you just give me twenty pound cash back.”
“Mate, do I look like a bank to you.”
No. He looked bankrupt.
Someone coughed behind him, trying to get his attention. George paid the intruder no mind. Time was of the essence.
“I need this, it’s a desperately important scarf.”
“Desperately important scarf?” The vendor laughed.
“It’s for my aunt. She’s in a hospital and she’s very sick, I need to get it to her. You don’t understand the gravity—”
Someone tapped his shoulder.
“Just wait a moment,” George muttered, exasperated.
And then, there was something like paper being shoved in his face.
“Here.”
George turned.
A man stood just a step away, holding out a twenty. George found himself dazed, just for a moment, out of breath. Even the scarf slipped out of his mind, because the man was that good-looking. And calm, and in a suit and holding out a twenty.
For a moment, George just stared.
“…sorry?” he said.
“It’s twenty,” the man said. “You need twenty.”
George looked at the money. Then at the man. Then back at the money.
“You’re—” he pointed vaguely, struggling to process, “you’re just… giving me this?”
“You seem like you’re not going to leave otherwise.”
“That’s,” George paused. “That’s very accurate.”
There was another small smile. “Then take it.”
George stepped closer, accepting the note.
“This is,” he started, and let his lip curl into a shy smile. “This is incredibly generous.”
The man’s mouth twitched, just slightly.
“You want your scarf, I want my hot dog.”
“My aunt will really appreciate it.”
The man nodded, and then he turned.
“I will repay you.”
“It’s twenty pounds,” he called back, “don’t worry about it.”
It wasn’t twenty pounds. It was everything.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Max.”
“I’ll will never forget this, Max.” he added.
“I’m sure you won’t.”
George nodded, deeply moved.
Then he turned on his heel and practically ran back towards the shop.
He would get that scarf, and this time, nothing—not banks, not hot dogs, not the fragile concept of money itself—was going to stand in his way.
*
George entered the building with his usual overconfidence. He had the wit, he had the charm and he had the scarf. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall as he stepped inside and, very briefly, forgot how to walk. “Oh, that’s—” he adjusted his collar. “That’s very good.”
He looked like someone who worked here. Even better, he looked like someone who was about to be fought over by publications. He approached the reception desk, smiling ear to ear.
“Hi. I’m George Russell. Here for the interview at Alette.”
The receptionist glanced at his screen. “Of course. One moment.”
George nodded, hands clasped neatly in front of him.
This was it.
This was happening.
This was—
“I am so sorry,” the receptionist said.
George’s smile faltered, just a little.
“Sorry?”
“The position at Alette, it’s been filled. Internally. Just this morning.”
There was a pause, a very awful, very long pause.
George let no emotion appear on his face, but inside, something collapsed, very loudly
“Oh.”
“Yes, we found out not long ago,” the man added. “I do apologise—you must have crossed paths with the timing.”
“Yes,” George said faintly. “I do tend to… cross paths with unfortunate timing.”
His brain scrambled. Rapid-fire.
No position. No interview. No Alette. No future. Return the scarf. No—never return the scarf. Keep the scarf. Live in the scarf. Become the scarf—
“But,” the receptionist continued, and George clung to that word like a lifeline, “there is an opening at one of our sister publications.”
George raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Successful Saving,” he said, as if this was a perfectly normal and exciting development. “They’re looking for a junior writer, and they’ve been accepting internal candidates today. If you’d like, I can see if the editor is available to speak with you.”
George stared at him.
“Saving,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“As in… money.”
“Yes. Budgeting. Financial responsibility. That sort of thing.”
George laughed.
“That’s… that’s funny.”
The receptionist waited.
And in that moment, the decision was made. Forget fashion and forget passion, George needed an income. He nodded. “Yes. That would be great. If you can check in with the editor. I can wait.”
The receptionist gave him another polite smile.
George couldn’t really notice it, the thoughts inside his head were deeply unsettling.
“You don’t know anything about money. You think interest is something that happens to other people. You just attempted to purchase thirty hot dogs with a check.”
He shifted slightly, the scarf brushed against his jaw.
He had fought for this scarf.
He had earned this scarf.
He had emotionally committed to a future in this building while wearing this scarf.
He was not walking out.
He could learn to save.
He could become passionate about… saving.
It was a lie, and a bold one.
Budgeting was just numbers and making smart decisions.
He did not make those.
Saving was just… not spending.
He stared at the scarf.
Well.
George straightened.
Right.
He could fake this.
He would fake this.
*
George made it exactly halfway down the corridor before the panic hit, it was so sudden and so intense he almost collapsed on his own his own two feet.
His hand flew to his neck. The scarf was still there. It would’ve been a signature addition at Alette, but at successful saving? It would only be considered a proof of over-spending.
George stopped walking.
The receptionist, a few steps ahead, turned slightly. “Everything alright?”
“Yes,” George said immediately. “Could you give me a second?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned back the way he’d come. He could not wear this into a financial interview. This was not Alette. This was not fashion. This was all about numbers and spreadsheets. People who probably ironed receipts.
He unwrapped the scarf from around his neck.
“Temporary separation. That’s all this is.”
He looked at it in his hands.
It looked back.
Beautiful, trusting, and completely unaware it was about to be abandoned near a potted plant.
“I’ll come back for you,” he promised quietly.
A woman walking past gave him a concerned look. George ignored her and carefully—carefully—draped the scarf over the edge of a decorative planter, tucking it just enough to feel like he was protecting it, but not enough to wrinkle it.
“There,” he said, stepping back. “Safe.”
He stared at it for a second longer.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Then he turned and hurried back before he could change his mind.
The receptionist led him inside, now holding a door open further down the hall. He tried to breathe through the nerves as he stepped through the doorway. And then, the building might have collapsed on his head, because he froze.
Because Seated behind the desk, looking entirely composed and deeply, deeply familiar, was—
Max.
Hot dog stand, twenty pounds, mild amusement, too cute Max.
Max, who was now apparently—
“The editor?” George said out loud.
There was a pause.
Max eyebrows scrunched and then, slowly, the recognition settled in.
“The scarf,” Max said.
George closed his eyes briefly. This was not happening, this was so not happening. But unfortunately, it was.
Max smiled again—bright, polite—and George realised he was completely doomed.
He was so fucking cute.
Max gestured to the chair opposite him. “Please take a seat.”
George sat. Too fast. So fast, in fact, that he almost missed the said chair.
Max’s eyes brightened again, but he suppressed a smile.
“How’s your aunt? Did you get her the scarf.”
“Of course. It meant a lot to her and when a stranger is kind like that, it just… Right. The interview.”
“Interview,” Max agreed.
There was a brief pause as Max glanced down at his resume, which he hadn’t forgotten, thank you very much.
“You’re currently writing for a gardening magazine?” Max asked.
“Yes,” George said, grateful for something factual. “Botanical lifestyle features.”
“And you’ve applied for Successful Saving.”
“Yes.”
Max looked up. “Why?”
George opened his mouth.
He had no idea.
“Because,” he said, with confidence that had no business existing among Max’s white walls, “I’m very interested in… money.”
That, at least, was true.
Max’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “In what way?”
“In a… holistic way,” George said. “Conceptually.”
“Conceptually.”
“Yes.”
Max nodded slowly. “Alright. Let’s try something simple. How would you approach writing an article about budgeting?”
George lit up, as if this were easy.
“Oh, budgeting,” he said. “I love budgeting.”
“…Right.”
Max waited.
George nodded again, buying time he absolutely did not have. “Budgeting is—um—it’s about balance.”
“Balance.”
“Yes. You have money,” George continued, gesturing lightly, “and then you… decide what to do with it.”
Max stared at him.
“Go on.”
“And ideally,” George said, gaining momentum purely through panic, “you make choices that align with your… long-term vision.”
“Which would be?”
“Having money,” George said.
Max pressed his lips together.
“Right,” he said. “And how do you personally manage your finances?”
George smiled. “Oh, I’m very fluid.”
“Fluid.”
“Yes. I don’t like to restrict myself creatively.”
“With money.”
“Exactly.”
Max leaned back again, studying him with open curiosity now. “Do you save?”
George hesitated. This felt like a trap.
“I believe,” he said slowly, “that money is more of a suggestion.”
Max’s eyebrows turned upward again. “Not a finite resource?”
“Well, it is, technically,” George admitted. “But I don’t like to engage with it that way.”
Max let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “Okay.”
George shifted slightly in his seat, his elbow caught something. There was a split second where time seemed to slow—
The cup tipped.
The papers—
“Oh no—” George lunged forward.
Too late.
Coffee spread across the desk in a slow, horrifying wave, soaking into what looked like every important document. George froze, one hand hovering uselessly in the air.
“I can fix that.”
He could not fix that.
Max stared at the papers.
Then at the coffee.
Then at George.
George grabbed a napkin—where had that come from?—and made an immediate, catastrophic attempt to dab at the mess, which only succeeded in smearing it further. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “This—this never happens.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Max said.
“That’s fair.”
George stopped, hands still, looking at the damage.
There was a pause.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he sat back. Because what else was left there to do?
“In my defence,” he said, because apparently he had one, “this is a high-pressure environment.”
Max looked at him for a long moment.
And then he laughed.
George felt humiliation curling somewhere deep inside.
“Are you laughing?” he asked stupidly.
“A little,” Max admitted.
George considered that.
“I respect that.” Because he did. At least Max wasn’t yelling.
It was that moment a knock came.
“Come in,” Max called, still looking at George like he’d just discovered a particularly confusing but entertaining species. The door opened. And then, everything somehow got worse. Because it was the receptionist from before, carrying, well, the scarf.
The blue scarf.
He held it lightly in one hand, gaze flicking between the two of them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Russell. You dropped this outside.”
A silence followed. Stone-cold fucking silence.
George stared at the scarf.
The scarf stared back.
Max’s eyes shifted, from the receptionist, to the scarf… to George.
George’s brain, which had already been underperforming, now fully shut down for good.
No. No, no, no. Not this. Not now. Not in front of—
George remembered every lie he had told in the last hour.
The aunt.
The very sick, possibly minutes-from-death, scarf-loving aunt.
The aunt for whom this scarf had been urgently, tragically, dramatically purchased.
The aunt who—
Oh no.
Max tilted his head slightly.
George opened his mouth.
This was the moment where he could tell the truth.
Where he could say, actually, I lied, I just really wanted it, I have poor impulse control and worse financial habits and I’m deeply unqualified for this job but at least I’m honest now—
Instead, what came out was:
“She died.”
Max just looked at him, George avoided eye contact.
“Oh, Mr. Russell, you’ve had a very, very difficult,” he glanced pointedly at his watch. “Thirty-five minutes.”
“Yes, I’m so glad you understand.”
Max made a small noise that might have been a suppressed laugh or a cough.
“Mr. Verstappen, I should let you know, the building manager called for a meeting.” The receptionist said to Max, like this was a normal day and not a complete unravelling of George’s reality.
“Later,” Max said, eyes still on George.
“Of course.” He said politely, and then turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
George closed his eyes briefly. “In my defence—”
“I’m not sure there is one.”
“That’s fair.”
Max glanced at the scarf. Then back at George.
“You know,” he said, almost conversationally, “most people, when caught in a lie, tend to de-escalate.”
George nodded faintly. “Yes. I see that now.”
He placed his hand on the table, resigned, “I’m not getting this job, am I?”
“I’m afraid not.” Max said, not bothering to sugarcoat the rejection.
That was fair too.
Max studied him for a long moment.
And then he laughed, again.
George looked at him then, a little helpless, then at the scarf, then the coffee-stained papers.
Max was still smiling.
George stood abruptly.
“I should go,” he said, because clearly there was nothing left here except the slow erosion of his dignity. “Thank you for the interview, and the financial support earlier.”
“You’re welcome.”
George reached for the scarf, hesitated, then picked it up like it might still betray him somehow.
“I will repay you,” he added, because apparently he was incapable of stopping himself. “The twenty. With interest. Real interest. Not conceptual this time.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
George nodded once, then walked to the door.
He paused with his hand on the handle.
“This never happened,” he said, without turning around.
George could practically hear the smile in Max’s voice.
“I will try my best to pretend.”
This time he couldn’t help but turn around. Max was still smiling, just a little, and he was so good-looking. If George wasn’t so embarrassed, he’d hit that.
“Right.”
Maybe another time.
“I’ll see you around, Max.”