Summary: The Fantastic Four thought they were done dealing with cosmic threats after the defeat of Galactus. That is, until you crash-landed in Gramercy Park. Except, you aren't a threat, and Johnny Storm might be head over heels in love with a woman who couldn't care less for his flirting...again.
Warnings: little steamy but nothing major, making out, so much god damn fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, strangers to friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, star-crossed lovers, slow burn, bittersweet ending but there will be a sequel, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader kind of has PTSD, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Word Count: 24,720 words
Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here
READ PART 2: Irrevocably : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader
Johnny Storm was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around the dining room table of the Baxter Building. Instead, he dug his hand even further into the Lucky Charms box, popping another handful of the cereal into his mouth.
Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.
“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”
“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”
He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.
“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”
“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”
It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.
“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”
The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.
Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.
“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”
Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.
“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”
“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”
None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.
Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.
“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”
“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.
Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.
He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.
Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.
“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.
The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.
“Something is coming,”
Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.
“Reed, what are you talking about?”
Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.
“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”
“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”
“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”
Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”
“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”
The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.
The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.
“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”
“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”
“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”
Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.
The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.
“Reed…what is that?”
On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.
“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.
No one was threatening his family again.
Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.
The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.
The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.
Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.
When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.
Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.
His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.
Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.
You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose.
Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-
His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.
Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.
“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”
“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”
Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.
“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”
It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.
Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.
“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.
“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”
“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”
In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.
Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?
“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”
“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”
“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”
Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.
But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.
No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”
He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.
“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”
“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”
You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.
“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”
“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.
“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”
Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.
“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”
It was your turn to mull over his words.
“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”
There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.
“Johnny-!”
“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”
Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”
Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.
“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”
“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”
You laughed. “I really doubt that.”
Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.
“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”
Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.
With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.
“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”
“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”
Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.
“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”
You stopped in the middle of your sentence.
Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.
“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”
“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”
Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.
“What happened before you showed up in this park?”
“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”
Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.
Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.
“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.
“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”
❤︎
Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.
When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.
If you ever got home, that is.
It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.
You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.
To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.
You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.
The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.
This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.
Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.
“Find anything in there?”
You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.
“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”
Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.
“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”
“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”
Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.
This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).
You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.
“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”
“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”
Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.
“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”
“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”
Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.
“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”
That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.
You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.
“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.
“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”
Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.
Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.
He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.
“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”
“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”
“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”
With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.
“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”
“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.
“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”
“Depends, is it working right now?”
Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.
You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.
Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.
Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?
Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.
Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.
From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.
He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.
“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”
“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”
“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.
“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”
“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”
Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.
“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”
“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”
As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.
“You already know me so well, darling,”
“Are the pet names necessary?”
“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.
“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”
He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.
“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”
Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.
Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.
“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”
With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.
“Why are you like this?”
Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.
Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.
“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”
Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’
The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.
Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.
“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”
In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.
“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.
Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”
Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.
Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.
“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.
“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”
“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.
“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”
Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”
His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.
“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”
“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”
“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.
“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”
“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”
Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.
Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.
“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”
The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.
Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night
❤︎
“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”
Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.
“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”
“And did he?”
“NO!”
Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.
“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”
Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.
If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.
“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had.
Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.
“Thinking about home?”
You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.
“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”
“Did you say yes?”
“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”
Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.
“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”
He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.
The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.
“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”
“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”
You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.
“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”
Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.
“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”
“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”
It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.
Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.
“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”
“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”
You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.
“Hey!”
“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”
Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.
“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”
“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”
The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.
Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.
Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.
The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.
“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”
Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.
“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”
You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.
“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”
“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”
The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.
“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”
The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.
“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”
“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”
Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.
“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”
His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.
“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”
You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.
“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”
As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.
He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.
With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”
“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”
Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.
“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”
“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”
You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.
“Alright, ten minutes,”
He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.
“Good girl. It’s a date-”
“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.
The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.
“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”
“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”
“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”
It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.
It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.
You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.
“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”
“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.
Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.
“Come on,”
Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did.
The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.
“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.
“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”
It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.
The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.
“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”
You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.
“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”
“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”
The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.
“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”
Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.
“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”
His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.
“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”
Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined.
The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.
Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.
“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”
“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”
“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”
You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.
His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.
Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.
The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.
You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.
If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.
“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”
Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.
“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”
“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”
“What can I say, I know you,”
He did. He really did.
It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.
Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.
“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”
“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”
“You’re both such dorks,”
“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”
You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.
“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”
Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.
You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.
With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.
“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”
Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.
“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”
Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.
“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”
Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.
“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”
“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.
“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”
The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.
“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”
“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”
Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.
The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.
Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.
Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.
The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.
Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.
“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.
“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”
You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.
“What would our first date be like?”
Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.
“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”
You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”
“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”
“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”
He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.
“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”
Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.
“When would this date be?”
“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”
“That’s so soon, eager?”
“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”
Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.
“It’s a date, then,”
His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.
“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”
Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.
Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.
“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”
Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.
❤︎
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”
Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.
He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.
Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.
“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”
“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”
“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”
“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”
You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.
“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”
“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”
Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.
“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”
“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”
Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.
The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.
Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.
Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.
“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”
“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”
“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”
A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away.
You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.
“My favorite,” you responded.
“What, did you think I’d forget?”
“Kind of,”
“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”
“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”
Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.
Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.
“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”
Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.
It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.
The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his, arm brushing against his arm.
“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”
“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.
“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”
You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.
“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”
The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.
“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”
Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.
Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.
Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.
“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”
“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”
Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.
He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.
“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.
“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”
“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”
“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”
Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.
“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”
A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.
“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”
You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.
Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny.
The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.
Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.
“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”
“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”
“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”
The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.
“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”
It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.
Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.
His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.
“Anything,”
“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”
“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”
Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”
“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”
Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.
All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.
“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”
“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”
“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”
“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”
“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”
Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.
Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.
“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”
“You never asked!”
Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.
“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”
“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”
The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.
His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.
You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.
His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.
Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.
Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.
“You might be insane,”
“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”
“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”
You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.
“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.
“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”
You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.
“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.
He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.
“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”
You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.
It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.
It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.
Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.
Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.
His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.
When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.
“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”
“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”
Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.
“Me too,”
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.
❤︎
Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.
He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.
Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.
Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.
You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.
He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.
But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.
Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.
He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”
“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”
“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”
Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.
He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.
“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”
He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.
Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.
“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”
“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”
She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.
Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.
“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”
Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.
“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”
Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.
“Round three after, right?”
It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.
“If you can behave, then maybe,”
Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.
“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.
“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”
“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”
Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.
“It’s a date,”
Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”
You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.
Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.
“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.
“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.
Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.
“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”
Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.
“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”
Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.
The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.
Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.
“Johnny-”
“On it!”
He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.
“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”
There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.
He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.
Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.
“O-Oh my god…”
The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.
“Oh, thank god-”
“WONG!”
You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.
Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.
His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.
“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”
“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”
Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.
“Do I need to worry about-”
“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”
Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.
“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”
You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.
He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.
His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said.
In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.
Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.
Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.
Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.
Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.
“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.
“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”
Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.
“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”
You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.
“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”
Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.
“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”
“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”
Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.
“I’ll be counting the days,”
He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.
You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.
The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.
And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.
Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.
“Johnny…”
He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.
“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”
No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.
The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.
Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.
It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.
Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.
Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.
He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.
Unequivocally yours.
That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.
Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.
In that moment, he knew for a fact he’d see you again. And next time, he was never letting you go.
andrew ‘pope’ cody DEFINITELY passes the orange peel theory. you barely have to pass it to him for him to seamlessly grab it and peel it and pass it back.
Pairings: Gator Tillman x fem!reader
Summary: Flirting with your neighbour was pretty hard, considering his disability, but you find that your presence is enough for him to notice you, or the scent you carried.
Warnings: canon events have happened. Mention of being Handicapped, Gator is disabled (blind). mention of using a cane. No use of Y/n. Maybe OOC Gator, but it's based after the show, so he has changed (in my head) mention of scars, burning. Kissing.
A/N: First time writing for Gator, i really hope you like it!
WC: 5.2k
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The first time you saw your neighbour was when you first moved in.
You were carrying your last box of belongings, leaning your head to the side to see over the cardboard.
He had spawned in out of nowhere, you swear.
Coming right at you like an idiot.
When he tripped over, causing you to drop your box, you almost yelled at him.
But when you looked down at the floor, you couldn't help but want to cry.
There he sat, kneeling as he groaned, blackout glasses over his eyes, cane laid just out of reach for him as he felt around.
You abandoned your box immediately to help him, feeling like the worst person on the planet as he cursed at you.
"I am so sorry!" you rushed out, holding his elbow to help him up from the floor, placing his cane in his hand.
He grumbled words you forced yourself to forget.
8 months later, it seemed as though you developed a small crush on him, learning small things about him over time, his patterns, his day to day life.
It wasn't stalking, no, because you already knew where he lived-
The door right across from you.
It wasn't your fault you'd see him out and about in town.
and it wasn't your fault that you'd bump into him in the hallway.
Monday, he left his apartment around 10:45am.
From there, he'd take a walk in the park, stopping by the pet store for 20-30 minutes, then make his way to the cafe on Mary Street to have lunch.
Steak sandwich, black coffee.
Tuesday, he stayed in.
Around 1pm, a lady visited him, wearing a white coat badge. Leaving only 10-20 minutes later.
Wednesdays were also boring, another lady coming in, bags of shopping in her hands. A family friend, you learned after meeting her, who brings him food and necessities.
She'd stay a little longer.
An hour or two, at least before heading home.
Thursdays he left around 9am, taking another walk, you would assume, coming back around an hour later.
Friday was always a surprise.
He'd leave at different times, come back after 10 or so minutes or a few hours later.
It was always different.
The only thing that wasn't different was every time, he'd come back with a simple, blueberry muffin.
Now, flirting was usually easy.
Well- easier than your foolish attempts to woo your neighbour.
You couldn't dress nice and all dolled up.
You couldn't smile.
You couldn't even wink.
Because he wasn't able to see that.
So, you had to get smart.
Use other senses.
Be subtle, let your presence be enough to grab his attention.
So, a month ago, you bought it.
Perfumes. a whole bunch.
Just to see his reaction.
The first perfume you tried was citrusy. Orange and warm notes of sandwood.
His nose had scrunched up when you passed the hall.
No.
The second was classic scents, floral.
You opted for jasmine and rose, out of everything.
He had only sneezed in the elevator.
Then it was spices, cinnamon, to be exact.
Only earning a scratch of the nose as you left your apartment.
You had gone through many perfumes.
Apricot and caramel.
Amber.
EVen bringing out the big guns of Cherry.
Nothing. No reaction.
It wasn't until your 3rd visit to the store, the worker knowing your name as you looked for new arrivals.
He would have to like one scent.
Searching bottles and reading the fine print of notes and tones, you shook your head.
Until you stopped at a blue bottle, a nice bubble glass shape.
Main notes:
Blueberry
Undertones:
Sugar, vanilla
It was like you hit the lottery.
Of course.
If he didn't acknowledge this one, then your plan was doomed, never to succeed.
He loved blueberry muffins.
Surely if you smelled like one, he would notice.
Well, it's been two weeks and nothing.
Elevator trips stayed silent.
Passes in the hallway remained unacknowledged.
It was frustrating, to be completely honest.
You'd try to speak to him, only to be ignored.
You knew he wasn't deaf.
He apparently just held grudges.
You were leaving your apartment when he came out, extending his cane as you jingled your keys.
You looked at him, a little longer than you should have, in all honesty.
His hair was ruffled, falling down into the edge of his glasses, an effortlessly perfect way, his lips chapped and plump before he licked them.
You felt a bit pervy before you forced yourself to look away, matching his steps as you walked to the elevator.
"Goodmorning" you spoke carefully, putting your keys into your purse before pressing the button to the ground floor.
"Mornin'" He mumbled, standing beside you.
His nose scrunched as he tapped his foot on the carpet.
You watched the number on the elevator, sighing as he kept going up to the top floor, you, stuck on the 5fth floor as it reached the 20th.
It was silent as you swallowed thickly, biting your lip as you took a peak in his direction.
He stood still, almost like a statue, looking straight ahead at nothing, the grip on his cane tight but carefree.
"Taking a walk?" you asked, although you already knew the answer.
He huffed, nodding once "yep"
You smacked your lips together, closing your eyes briefly as you tried to calm yourself.
You thought about his route that he takes.
Through Stapes Lane across Draws Avenue to the park.
The park.
You turned to him.
"They're doing renovations on the park today" you informed him, recalling the notice on the daily paper and sighs on street lights.
"Renovations?"
"Yeah..." you started "fixing it up, something about fallen down trees and stuff, but it's closed for the week"
He hummed, furrowing his eyebrows "Oh"
"The field by the freeway is a good walk, though, a fit far but"
He paused, his muscles tensing, breatch hitching.
"Nah, s'ok..." He replied shortly, slowly turning back to the hallway "Just wait for the park"
Before you could say anything else, he was walking away, back to his apartment.
So clearly he doesn't like the field.
The next time you saw him was at the Church.
He was sat at the front of the hall, head down, hands clamped together on his lap, cane resting beside him, leaning against the dark wooden pew.
You sat on the opposite side of the Church, keeping him in your peripheral vision.
You sat there quietly, barely registering the way Gator snapped his head up, tilting to the side, searching for something he wasn't able to find.
"Sad story that one" A creaky voice whispered from behind you.
Turning your head, you frowned at the old lady sat behind you, leaning forward with her hands resting on the back of the pew you occupied.
"I beg your pardon?" You questioned curiously, not knowing what she was talking about.
"That Tillman boy"
You raised a brow, looking over to him.
"What do you mean?" You mumbled back.
"His father was our county sheriff for quite some time, but...after the accident, no one's heard of him since" she tutted, shaking her head in disapointment.
You didn't want to know any more of the story, you weren't one for gossip, but something in you seemed to scream for any sort of knowledge of Gator. Something that would give you just a piece of him.
You knew you weren't entitled to know; it wasn't your business. Still, you asked.
"The accident?"
She nodded quietly "Well...It wasn't an accident... the poor boy was tortured by a crazed man...burned his eyes off"
You gaped, turning around to face forward, really wishing you hadn't been so curious.
"His father abandoned him after that...now he's all alone" The lady finished, clearly not understanding that you weren't interested futher.
In fact, it made you sick to your stomach at the thought of his past.
So much so, you gathered your bag, smiling politely to the woman as you stood up, walking down the aisle to leave, a churning feeling settling deep in your chest.
the next few days were rough, the guilty feeling of holding the knowledge of his past eating you alive.
You didn't hold any power to know; you didn't deserve to know that part of him.
Still, you knew, and you couldn't shake the knowledge no matter how hard you tried to. It stuck.
The next time you saw him, your hands were full.
Reusable bags dug into your fingers, the plastic handles threatening to snap as you fumbled with your keys.
You had underestimated how much you could carry in one trip, and now you were paying for it, shifting your weight awkwardly in front of your door.
You didn’t even hear his door open at first.
"Strugglin' there?"
You froze.
His voice, closer than expected, rough around the edges but quieter than usual, made your heart jump straight into your throat.
You turned your head just enough to see him in your peripheral, standing a few steps away with his cane extended.
"I-uh- no, I've got it" you said quickly, which was a blatant lie as one of the bags slipped lower down your wrist.
He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening past your words instead of to them.
"Doesn't sound like it"
You huffed softly, more embarrassed than annoyed, crouching a little to stop the bag from completely falling "It’s just the keys-"
A can dropped.
It hit the floor with a hollow clang and rolled somewhere behind you.
You shut your eyes.
Perfect.
There was a brief pause. Then the soft, rhythmic tap of his cane moved closer.
"Hold on," he muttered.
You blinked, watching as he stepped into your space with surprising confidence, crouching down. His hand hovered over the floor for a moment before landing exactly on the can, fingers curling around it like he’d known where it would be.
You stared.
He stood back up, holding it out in your direction- not quite touching you, just… offering.
"Here"
"Oh- thank you" you said, quickly shifting a bag to take it from him. Your fingers brushed his for half a second.
He pulled back almost immediately.
You fumbled again, but this time managed to get the key in on the second try, pushing the door open with your hip. You stepped inside halfway, then hesitated.
"Do you-" you started, then stopped yourself.
He was already turning away.
Something in your chest twisted.
"Wait-" you said.
He paused.
You adjusted the bags on your arms, stepping back out into the hallway. "Um… thank you. For helping"
A beat.
Then, quieter, "You didn’t have to"
He shrugged slightly, not facing you. "Would've been loud if you dropped the rest"
You almost smiled.
Almost.
There was a small silence, not uncomfortable, just… there. You noticed the way his head tilted again, just a fraction in your direction.
He nodded once, brief, but somehow kind, an unspoken understanding of something.
Something you didn't know.
Then he walked away.
Wednesday rolled around quickly, and you were coming back from work when you got stopped.
The small woman carrying bags almost bigger than her practically stumbling down the hall as you tried to open your door.
She panted as she came closer, her face washing with relief as she saw you.
"H-hey!" she smiled tightly, perhaps due to the strain on her thin arms.
"Do you need help?" you asked, abandoning your apartment to help her.
She let you take the bags from her, sighing deeply.
"Thank you...would you mind bringing these to Gator...I'm a little behind on my errands and I don't have time right now..."
Your eyebrows shot up as you opened your mouth the speak.
She wanted you to give Gator...his groceries?
"Um- I- I mean- Sure...Dot" you nodded, unsure of yourself as she dug into her pockets.
"These are his keys...tell him I'm sorry"
Before you could get another word out, she started walking down, rushing down the hall, clearly needing to be somewhere.
You hauled the bags, groaning at the weight as you held the key out, taking a deep breath in as you stared at his door.
You struggled for a moment, fumbling with the keys, missing the hole, putting it in the wrong way until you finally unlocked it.
You pushed the door open with your hip, taking a slow step forward, cautious as you entered his home.
You shifted the bags, huffing as you pulled the key out with too much force, your feet losing balance before you stabilised yourself with the wall.
"Nadine?" You heard, the weakness in his voice pulling at your heartstrings.
You struggled to find your voice as the door shut behind you, letting you take in the place.
It was cold. That was the first thing you noticed.
Walls plain white, bare, not a single picture or poster on the wall.
The place was spotless, not a messy thing about it.
Wooden flooring was polished, the dark rug of the living room perfectly soft.
It was the opposite of what you expected of him, although, if you thought harder, you realise it made sense.
He was sat on the couch, back to you as he stared at the tv- well, faced in the direction of the tv.
The air was crisp, smelling like a mix of nothing and faint scent of cleaning supplies.
You stepped further in, catching a glimpse of the kitchen around the corner, your feet dragging you towards the room as he spoke again.
"Dot, you there?"
You walked behind him to get to the kitchen, not missing the way he tensed, his shoulders stiffening as every muscle in his body went into a reset.
It fell silent again as you reached the kitchen.
Behind you, he stood, turning in your direction as you put the bags up on the counter, letting out a sigh of relief.
He called your name, soft, tight, sure of himself.
You frowned, placing your hands on the edge of the countertop.
You didn't bother turning around, no, it wasn't like he knew.
"Is that you?" he said, coming out as a statement rather than a question.
You struggled to find the words for a moment, thinking the situation through.
You hadn't even spoken yet, and he somehow figured it was you?
"How did you..." You started, trailing off as he heard him approach you. "Yeah...It's me"
"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice coming out a little harsher than he intended.
"Dot had things to do...told me to do it...and that she's sorry" You replied quietly, digging through the bags.
He was quiet for a moment before you decided to ask again.
"How did you know it was me?"
He only shrugged.
You turned around now, flinching at the sight of his eyes.
Scarred.
Healed- but deeply scarred enough to make you pause.
He remained composed, frowning at your silence until you swallowed, tearing your eyes away as to not stare.
He looked so...at peace, perfect and dishevelled at the same time.
He was himself in his truth with his glasses off, which made you feel guilty for invading in his space, his privacy.
The night went smoother than expected, he didn't hover, didn't get in your way (not that you would have minded)
But he spoke more than he usually did. Which made you feel like progress.
You saw him the next morning, right on time, 9am, almost on the dot, you left your apartment, him coming out of his own barely a second later.
You watched as his ears almost perked up at the sound of your keys locking your door.
Then you heard it, the quiet sniff of his nose.
You turned, giving him a smile he couldn't see.
"Good morning" You greeted, walking along with him, listening to the soft tap...tap of his cane.
He mumbled a hello, seeming to be deep in thought as you arrived to the elevator.
You pressed the button, smiling as it opened no less then ten seconds later.
You stepped in, giving his space as he followed in suit.
You pressed the G button, letting the door close as you brought out your phone.
He hesitated "Your perfume"
It was hushed, like a secret he didn't want to tell.
"Pardon?" you blinked, looking up at him
"You smell different today"
Your heart fluttered at his words, realising what it meant.
He did notice.
"You usually smell like a bakery" He spoke again, stating a fact like it was common knowledge.
"A bakery?" You stifled a laugh, snorting at his description
"A blueberry muffin" He hummed simply.
You grinned.
You knew it would work.
You had your doubts at times, but you had hope.
"I didn't think you noticed..." you shrugged to yourself, eyes drifting away from him.
He chuckled lightly "Your other senses heighten when you lose one, you'll find"
You nodded shortly "Right, yeah...I've heard that"
He stood there, not doing anything particularly as you watched the floors go down.
"Do you...like it?" You asked carefully, not trying to let any emotion that he might pick up on lace through your tongue.
"Which one?"
"The blueberry one"
He shrugged "I like blueberry muffins...and it helps me know when you're near"
You ignore the way your heart missed a beat, processing his words.
"I was hoping it would" you confessed, biting your bottom lip when the elevator door opened.
He smiled, almost proudly as he walked out, letting his cane guide him.
"Enjoy your walk, Gator" you bid goodbye as you separated, going in different directions.
The next day was quiet, the whistle of the wind in the air sending shivers that you couldn't shake even from inside the house.
It was snowy, a day spent inside the house, school was out, and your work was cancelled due to enterances being blocked off.
Gator couldn't go out. Not in this weather.
Which led you to go outside for him, jackets piled on your body to keep warm, bag of baked goods in your hand as you trailed to his apartment.
The hallway felt longer than usual, more narrow as you reached your apartments.
Your heart felt heavy, your mind felt fuzzy.
You knocked once.
Twice.
Three times before waiting, rolling on your heels as you looked down the hall.
It took around 13 seconds for him to open the door, eyes covered in his black out glasses.
He spoke before you had the chance.
"You went back to the blueberry"
You grinned sheepishly, looking down at your feet.
"I did...But I think you also might be smelling the blueberry muffin I got you, so..." You chuckled lightly, watching his eyebrows settle calmly.
"I also brought you lunch so...that'll have to be dessert" You said, letting him think over your offering.
"W-...why?" He mumbled, tilting his head.
"You weren't able to go out today, and you always get a blueberry muffin on fridays...wouldn't want you to go hungry"
He was silent, smacking his lips together as he stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Do you...wanna come in?"
You contemplated fr a beat before taking him up on it, slowly making your way inside as he shut the door behind you.
He led you to the couch, taking a seat on the far corner of the seat as he felt around, giving you space.
You sat down beside him, placing the bag on the coffee table as you took out the boxes.
"I got you a steak sandwich" You stated as you placed the box in his lap, watching him as he felt around the box.
"You didn't have to-"
"-I wanted to" You cut him off softly, digging in the bag to find your own food.
He hesitated as he took the sandwich in his hands.
"Thanks"
You smiled as you took a bite of your food, eyes drifting to the tv, volume on low.
You ate in silence, the sound of his chewing and breathing blocking out the show as you picked at your food.
You turned to look at him, learning the way his jaw tenses and moves as he chews, the way his fingers drag across items like he's memorising the textures.
The pads of his fingers drifting across the styrofoam box, picking at the seeds of the bread.
He licked his lips after he swallowed, nose flaring before settling.
"I can feel you staring at me" he announced calmly, hand searching for the bottle of water you brought him.
"I wasn- I uh-" you stammered, looking away "I didn't mean to...I was just...you don't have to wear those if you don't want to"
He paused for a fraction of a second as he brought the bottle to his lips. He knew what you meant, he knew you were talking about the glasses.
"You don't wan'to see what's under them..." he muttered, taking a swig before sighing, screwing the lid back on.
You frowned "I already did...the other day"
He clamped his lips together, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed.
"Well, I'm sure you don't wanna see it again"
You shook your head gently, biting your tongue.
"I just want you to be comfortable...you shouldn't be ashamed-"
"Ashamed?" He repeated sharply, his head turning to yours in a snap.
You opened your mouth to speak.
"You think it's because I'm ashamed?" he spat, shuffling away from you.
"No-" You started, blinking as you tried to keep up with him.
"I'm not embarrassed about my eyes, I own my truth, I'm reminded of it every day I wake up and can't see! I don't need some random lady I don't know deciding I'm ashamed of myself. I don't owe you shit!"
You flinched at his tone, nodding to yourself quietly as you blinked back tears.
You took in his words.
You didn't know him.
You didn't know anything about him. Not really.
You were just stupid enough to have a silly little crush on a guy you had no knowledge of.
"Thank you for the food, but the last thing I need is your pity"
It went quiet for a while before you decided it was time to go.
His breathing went deep and rigid, a frown plastered on his face as he pushed his food away.
You got up, putting your food in your bag, contemplating whether or not to give him the muffin.
You sighed as you took it out, placing it gently down on the table as you gathered your things.
"I'm sorry..." You mumbled as you walked around the couch, spearing him a glance before heading to the door, slowly opening and closing it behind you.
You didn't see him for days after that, you weren't even sure if he came out of his apartment or not- not that you noticed.
You took a break.
From thinking about him, wondering about him.
You put away your perfumes, the blueberry one taunting you from your dresser.
He was right, you decided.
You wore your regular scent now, hiding the rest of them.
Simple. Plain.
Vanilla and sandalwood, the musk subtle but felt like you.
Or- how you felt.
It was quiet for a week after that, nothing interesting to recall back on.
You didn't bump into him, you didn't notice or hear when he left or came back.
It went back to him being your neighbour, not that he was ever anything else.
You never had any visitors, your family in other states, and barely any friends in town to keep you company, or to distract you from the lingering shame you felt.
So, you were surprised to hear a knock at your door.
It was midday, in the middle of making your lunch when you heard it.
The light tap...tap like the person on the other side of the door was unsure of themselves.
You abandoned your lunch as you made your way through your apartment.
Looking through your peephole, your frowned, brows furrowing as you opened the door.
There he stood, a little pouch in his hands, looking like some kind of make-up bag.
"Gator?" You wondered, looking behind him.
He looked small as he stood in place.
"My nurse can't make it today..." He started, voice soft and weary.
You scratched your arm as you waited for more.
"I...I was wonderin' if you could help me" he asked lowly, running his tongue along is bottom lip.
You raised an eyebrow, looking over him.
"With what?" questioned lightly, not shutting him down.
"Clean my eyes" he responded swiftly, holding up the pouch, giving it a light shake.
You opened your door wider with a sigh "Sure, c'min"
He stepped forward, his free hand darting out to carry him through your home.
He was in an unfamiliar place without his cane, the thought pulling at your heartstrings as you placed a hand on his bicep, guiding him through your house to your bathroom.
The bathroom wasn't small by any means, a decent size considering where you lived, but that did little to stop you from feeling squished as you sat him down on the toilet.
He kept the pouch in his lap as he sat, body stiff as you began to wash your hands.
"You're gonna have to tell me what to do- cause I don't know what I'm doing" you stated
He nodded his head as you dried your hands, turning back to him.
"Can I see what you got?"
He slowly lifted the bag, blindly searching for your hands before you took it, laying it down on the counter.
You examined the bottles and containers, reading the labels as you sighed.
"I don't know what half this shit means" you murmured, turning back to him.
"Gator?" you sucked in a breath "You're gonna have to..."
He reached up, fingers pausing at his glasses before sliding them down his nose, taking them off and placing them on his lap.
You bit your tongue.
"Th-there should be soap...you just get a rag and warm water..."
You dug into the cabinet next to the sink, pulling out a clean rag and rinsing it with warm water.
Taking the soap. non-fragranced, you rubbed it against the towel, lathering it up just enough before you stood in front of him.
You reached a hand up, cautiously cupping his chin to lift his head up before he closed them.
You dabbed the rag onto his eyelids- or, what was left of his eyelids- the thin layer of skin saggy and loose.
You were gentle, being careful not to press too hard, pulling away every few seconds to make sure he was okay.
He told you what to do, going through the process of caring for him. The oil, eye drops and moisturiser.
"Then it's the uh- the antiseptic cream" He swallowed "Should be a tube"
You nodded, digging into the pouch to find the blue and white squeezy tube.
Taking your pointer finger, you got a dab of it on the tip.
Raising your hand, your fingers hovered over his eyes for a moment before smoothing it over the skin, smearing over the scars with the cream as he bounced his legs.
It was quiet between the two of you as you finished up, now washing your hands.
"I'm sorry" he muttered, your eas almost not catching it.
"Pardon?"
"For the other day...I was rude" he hummed lowly, fiddling with the glasses in his lap.
You shook your head "No...No- I'm sorry...I was being pushy, and you're right- I don't know you"
He smacked his lips together, pressing them into a thin line as he took a deep breath out his nose.
"I'm glad you don't..." He whispered, making you raise a brow, a stream of sarcastic comments lacing through your tongue, but before you could speak, he beat you, adding on;
"I mean- before...I'm glad you didn't know me before this shit" He fixed his wording, realising how you must have taken it.
"How come?" You stifled a laugh, drying your hands with the towel.
He shrugged his shoulders lazily "Yer wouldn't've liked me"
"I'm sure that's not true" you assured him, getting cut off swiftly as he shook his head.
You went quiet, hearing the subtle blow of his breathing.
"You're one of the only people who don't know the story...I'm glad you don't"
You took in a deep breath, crossing your hands over your chest as you sat on the edge of the tub beside him.
You decided against telling him about that day at the church, letting him stay comfortable with the truth he believed.
"You changed your perfume again"
You huffed in amusement "Yeah"
"Why?"
You thought for a moment, staring at him, not noticing the way his fingers twitched.
"I don't know" You concluded, really not knowing how to answer his simple question.
You looked down at the floor as he silenced, closing your eyes.
But you gaped as his fingers found your face, grazing your skin so softly it sent shivers down your body.
You were quiet as you let him explore your face, the pads of his fingers dragging along your jaw, up your cheeks, ghosting over your eyes, down along your nose, hovering over your lips.
"I bet 'chur real' pretty" He spoke like it was a fact, clueless to the blush that flushed on your cheeks.
"I bet you'd like to know" You snorted with a roll of your eyes.
"That's what I just said, didn't I?" He squinted, to his best ability, that is.
You bit your tongue, nodding, letting his hand cup your cheek.
"Can you go back to the blueberry?"
You smiled, reaching your own hand up to trace over every mole and freckle that adorned his face.
"Yeah...if that's what you want"
He furrowed his brows "I want a whole lot more than that, darlin'"
"What do you want?" you tilted your head.
"Close your eyes" He mumbled, barely audible if your bathroom walls didn't almost echo the sound.
"Okay..." You said sceptically, fluttering your eyes closed.
"Are they closed?" He questioned, his fingers finding the plush under your eyes.
"Yes- yes they are!" You giggled softly, leaning away sheepishly.
His breath hitched, and you waited for his next move.
And you waited, and waited until a soft, warm pair of lips found the corner of your mouth.
You huffed softly as he muttered, pulling away.
"Were you aiming for my lips or cheek?" You teased lightly, eyes opening to see him almost cowering away.
"Shut up"
"How about you let me do it, huh?" you grinned, feeling his finger twitch against your skin.
"I can do it" He assured, sucking in a deep breath before trying again, leaning in carefully to finally meet you in the middle, arguing to himself while you leaned in.
His kiss was tentative, cautious in the sense that he was nervous.
You'd describe it as sweet, but something about it made it feel selfish.
He was taking, more than giving, softly searching for something he was yet to find.
You'd have to start wearing that blueberry perfume again.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
These are the people who replied saying they wanted it!
summary: tillmans. all they do is ruin lives. five years ago, roy tillman ruined yours and left you to pick up the broken pieces of your family. one night, your anger gets the best of you and you venture out to get revenge. only problem is, gator tillman catches you. you never expected to see underneath the steel facade of the sheriff’s first born son. but you do. you never expected that he would recognize your rage as years of grief. but he does. you save each other in the only way you know how. sweat soaked sheets, apologies whispered against skin, gripping to each other till it bruises. salvation isn't real and yet, it's starting to feel like it could be. but you could never love a tillman. all they do is ruin lives.
tags: 18+ mdni, enemies with benefits to lovers, ANGST, hurt/comfort, kinda toxic relationship dynamics (because it’s gator duh), slowburn (emotionally), swearing non-stop, mentions of childhood trauma and graphic depictions of abuse, grief, heavy plot driven smut, biblical allusions and blasphemy?, takes place in a universe where the main events of fargo s5 don't happen
My dream last night was oscar piastri wanting me so bad. I sat down across this long table, which he was sitting on the opposite side with some other boys. And when i sat down with these other girls, he came and sat right next to me. he was down bad
pairing: max verstappen x fem!gf!reader
summary: they met before the trophies, before the noise—two teenagers at a karting track, sharing fries and quiet dreams. Years later, after championships and chaos, they still choose each other in the small moments. A love that grew alongside Max’s career, steady and soft, turning the ordinary into everything.
request by: @amelia098765
note: I loved this song choice!!! It's definitely one of my favorites by Alex. Anyway, I also wanted to say that I've been a little late because I've been doing a lot of things. But I hope to be able to post several things soon 😽💐
2015
ynuser
liked by maxverstappen33, victoriaverstappen, user8 and others
ynuser they say everything fades eventually. we were too busy believing.
kartinggirl04 this is so cute 😭
maxverstappen33 you believed before anyone else did.
ynuser always did. always will.
victoriaverstappen ❤️
friendname teenagers in love fr
randomkartingdad good luck to both of you 👍
fan1 wait… is this the max verstappen?
ynuser he’s just max 🙂
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ynuser
liked by maxverstappen33, friend1, friend2 and others
ynuser he stole my fries AND my heart 🙄💙
maxverstappen33 rude. you offered the fries.
ynuser ok but you didn’t have to take all of them.
maxverstappen33 sharing is caring.
kartingbestie NOT THE FRIES 😭
trackside_mom you two are inseparable lately 🥰
randomkartingkid max always wins even at fries 💀
friend1 couple goals already omg
fan_early wait is that max verstappen???
ynuser no idea who that is, just some boy who owes me fries.
❀。• *₊°。
maxverstappen33
liked by ynuser, user12, victoriaverstappen and others
maxverstappen33 before trophies, before noise. just us.
ynuser i liked you better before the trophies anyway.
maxverstappen33 i’ll still sit with you.
kartingdad22 focus, max 😅
trackmarshal_life kids these days… always on the fence.
friend1 this is actually really sweet
kartinggirl04 omg are you two dating??
ynuser mind ur business 😌
fan1 he’s gonna be big one day, you know.
ynuser i already know.
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2016
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2018
replies Y/N story:
danielricciardo NOT THE SOCKS 😭
kartingbestie he texted me once for this exact reason btw
fan_early relatable king
friend1 pls tell him mismatched socks are a thing now
ynuser he refuses. claims it ruins aerodynamics.
❀。• *₊°。
2021
maxverstappen1
liked by ynuser, redbullracing, victoriaverstappen and others
maxverstappen1 we did it. always you.
ynuser since day one. even before the noise 🤍
maxverstappen1 ❤
fan1 SHE’S BEEN THERE SINCE KARTING DAYS??
fan2 this is actually insane love
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2023
❀。• *₊°。
maxverstappen1
liked by ynuser, victoriaverstappen, friend1 and others
maxverstappen1 higher than ecstasy is coming home to you.
ynuser you burned the onions but i still love you.
maxverstappen1 they were caramelized.
redbullracing chef verstappen 👨🍳
schecoperez next time i’m coming over.
danielricciardo 7/10 plating, 10/10 vibes.
fan1 he wins races and then goes home to cook??? unreal.
fan2 THIS IS HIS SOFT ERA
friend1 invite us next time pls 😭
ynuser only if max does the dishes.
maxverstappen1 this was not part of the deal.
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2024
ynuser
liked by maxverstappen1, friend1, friend 2 and others
ynuser somehow we turned the ordinary into everything.
maxverstappen1 forever didn’t scare me until it sounded too short.
ynuser then we’ll make it longer.
redbullracing congratulations to you both 💙
schecoperez about time 😏
danielricciardo i knew it. i absolutely knew it.
fan1 THEY GREW UP TOGETHER IM SICK
fan2 from karting fries to engagement rings 😭
victoriaverstappen proud of you, brother ❤
friend1 crying at my phone rn
ynuser love you all. thank you for loving us too 🤍
❀。• *₊°。
2025
replies Y/N story:
maxverstappen1 i’ll choose you in every lifetime.
i’d find you in every lifetime too.
fan1 IM ACTUALLY CRYING
fan2 THIS IS A LOVE STORY NOT A MARRIAGE
redbullracing wishing you both a lifetime of happiness 🕊️
thanks admin 😘
schecoperez ok now i’m emotional.
❤
danielricciardo crying in the bathroom, thanks.
friend1 you two are proof love is real
fan3 angels in the clouds are jealous fr
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replies:
Y/N!!! - username hardest win of his career tbh.
y - username THE ERA PROGRESSION IS INSANE
e - username karting girlfriend to WIFE is CRAZY
max verstappen - username can confirm.
h - username no but the way he looks at her???
Y/N!!! - username i trained him well 😌
sergio perez - username harder than abu dhabi.
daniel ricciardo - username don’t tell max i cried.
r - username love wins fr
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maxverstappen1
liked by victoriaverstappen, danielricciardo, ynuser and others
maxverstappen1 out of the ordinary. always was. always will be.
The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You
Summary: It started when you were both 6 years old and Max declared that he was going to marry you and continued to do so at various points during your lives. You’re both now 28, and it takes one practice date with Max, and one real date you go on with another guy for him to say it again. A small follow-on in the same Universe: Heels & Sneakers.
Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of intoxication, Max and reader being generally dumb idiots pining for each other, Max constantly mentioning he is going to marry her, best friends to lovers, F1 inaccuracies, timeline inaccuracies, sudden confessions, crying, arguing, mentions of heartbreak / the end of a previous relationship, mentions of a cheating ex-boyfriend, mentions of not eating during a break up, sudden love confessions, they go from best friends i love you fast, let me know if I should include anything else. Not proofread.
Word count: I wrote this on the tumblr app, so idk unfortunately, but I ran and spiralled with this.
A/N: I’ve half of the first chapter of each of the George and Lando min-series which I’ve wanted to write done (+ a bit of the Epilogue for the George series - why am I jumping around chapters, I’ve no idea), and somehow, Max Verstappen hit my brain like an absolute force to be reckoned with, so here we are. Please engage, like, comment and reblog if you’ve liked this!
DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.
Dividers used in this post taken from here and here.
“I’m going to marry you,” 6 year old Max announces to you, his voice confident, loud, sure, and unabashed in the way children tend to be.
“Only adults get married Maxie,” you respond to the boy currently lying on the grass beside you, both of you staring up at the pinkish hues of the evening sky.
“I’m going to marry you when I’m an adult,” Max says again with the same measure of certainty as he first had. It makes you giggle as you hold up one of your hands, sticking it abruptly into the air, a fist with only your pinky finger sticking out.
“Promise?”
You feel Max’s pinky, almost the same size as yours, curl around yours, tight - locking both your hands hanging above you both in a promise.
“Promise.”
You and Max are both lying on the beach. It’s a hot, dry, summer’s day, the kind that was perfect for being belly down on a beach towel, the sun’s rays hammering down on your back. Your face is propped up by your hands, eyes watching the water out in front of you ripple under the sunlight.
“Look at that boat,” you say, extending a hand to point towards the object of your interest - a white yatch, luxurious, huge, with two levels that is floating on the water, “it’s huge.”
Max hums in agreement without looking upwards, his focus trained instead on the magazine in front of him.
“I wish I could have a boat like that one day,” you sigh, as you drop one of your elbows back on the surface of your beach towel, cheek propped up in your upturned palm. It wasn’t so much the boat you were attracted to, but rather the group of you people you could see on the top deck, their strains of laugher floating towards you - people that were happy, carefree, effortless.
“I’ll buy one for you,” says Max who finally glances up from the soccer magazine he has open in front of him to look at the yatch, “when I become world champion”
“And why would you do that,” you say teasingly without glancing towards Max. You can hear him flip a page of the magazine which he is pouring through.
“Because we’ll be married,” Max says it as if it were second nature to him, without a beat of hesitation. You roll your eyes, but feel the heat of a flush creeping up your cheeks. Max had never wavered in his stance - not since you both were 6, but it was something that you had begun to notice since the beginning of spring. You were now 11, almost 12, with puberty well and truly kicking in for you and surging on slightly ahead of Max.
“You don’t know that,” you drop your head, face down on your towel as if to hide your embarrassment.
“I do,” Max says again, without missing a beat, as if it were fact. You feel wandering fingers tugging on your hair, asking silently why you had face planted yourself into your towel.
“They are going to sign me,” Max exclaims as the door of your bedroom flies open with a bang. You stare at him from where you are seated, curled up in an old, soft arm chair in the corner of your room, book open in your lap.
“Wha-” you start to question only for Max to supplement his i initial statement in a rush of excitement. His eyes, blue, striking and dancing wildly with equal parts excitement and equal parts adrenaline as he remains rooted in the doorway of your room.
“Toro Rosso,” the words are tumbling out of his mouth, “they are signing me as a test driver for the remainder of the season, and to drive for them next year.”
You’ve karted a handful of times, casually, the result of Max and his sister Victoria dragging you to the track - as one would expect being friends with Max Verstappen, but despite not being anywhere near as good as Max and Victoria, you’ve been friends with Max long enough to understand the ins and outs of karting, F3, F1. His words make you freeze, your eyes widening, jaw literally dropping open.
“Straight from F3?”
“Straight from F3,” Max voice is quieter this time as he confirms it, but his eyes - his eyes grow even brighter.
“Max,” your voice is shaky as you scramble out of your chair into a stand. Your eyes welling up with tears - of shock, happiness - because god knows how much he has wanted this since you both could remember.
There isn’t a need for anymore words and Max chooses instead to speak with his actions. He crosses the distance of your room in seconds, body slamming into yours, arms winding tight around your body. Max picks you up, lifts you so you are feet off the ground as he crushes you in a bone crushing hug. You laugh, the sound wet with the tears that have now slipped out from the sides of your eyes.
“I’m so proud of you,” you say, as Max chuckles, before setting you back on the ground. He pulls apart from you, giving himself enough space to peer at you.
“Don’t cry,” he says, lifting both his hands to cradle your face in his palms, thumbs swiping away at the tears that falling rapidly down your cheeks, “you heard I was getting signed right?”
His tone is gentle, but the smile remains firmly on his face.
“I know, I’m just,” you sniffle, your hands gesturing blindly in the air beside you as you try to finish your sentence.
“I know,” Max says more softly this time as he drops his hands from your face, arms going around your shoulders instead to pull you into him. Your face collides with his shoulder, tears causing the material of his hoodie to go damp. You don’t have to explain yourself, because Max knows - knows just how happy you are for him.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice muffled from being buried against Max, “I shouldn’t be crying. It’s stupid.”
“Well, it’ll be a good story for the wedding,” his joke comes soft, sudden, and teasing but you both feel a hidden weight behind the lightness of his tone. Max’s marriage proclamations had dwindled from the moment his voice started to drop in octave, and became almost non-existent since he started shaving regularly. The weight of the world and words had become heavier as you both grew from tweens to 17 year old teenagers just hanging around the cusp of adulthood.
“Max,” you find yourself laughing against his shoulder. You keep your face buried against the well worn material of his hoodie, not daring to look up as you feel your stomach do a series of somersaults, “is that your attempt to stop me from crying?”
“Yes,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice grow. Max holds you tighter, pressing you even closer into him as if he was afraid you would slip from his fingers, “it worked, didn’t it?”
He tilts his head to rest the side of his cheek against the side of your hair, as he feels your shoulders shake with another laugh. You miss the look that flashes through Max’s eyes, wistful, longing, want - a look that the world didn’t commonly associate with Max Verstappen.
“So, you and him huh?” Max slides into the kitchen in the pretext of getting himself a new bottle of beer while shutting the door quietly behind him. The echos of the celebratory ruckus caused by your joined families, and more, muffled, but still audible from the hall. You are both 19 now, one an F1 driver, the other a University student; a pair of best friends who had seen too little of each other this year.
“Mhm,” you hum as you pull can of diet soda from the fridge. You set it down on the table intending to search for spoon to crack the tab open, but Max reaches for it the moment the can hits the countertop. His fingers make quick work of popping the tab open, before he sets the can down in front of you.
“Fragile nails, I know,” he shrugs. He had seen you chip your nails too many times from wrestling with stubborn drink cans.
“Thanks,” you smile before you lift the can to your lips.
“You guys dating?” Max redirects your conversation, asking his question, straightforward, to the point - Max.
“Something like that,” your tone is non-committal, casual, but Max can tell that there is something bothering you and more behind your words.
“Something like what?” He pushes you with his words, and you know he is. Max sees yours shoulders square with a tension and he takes a step towards you.
“Leave it Max,” you say, brow furrowing at his question. The truth was you wanted to give him, Will, the guy you had brought home for Christmas a name, but each time you had tried to broach the topic of ‘what are we’, left you and and Will hanging, suspended in limbo because of his reluctance to explore the topic further.
Max takes another step towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Max’s eyes are hard, but unreadable and you tighten your grip around the cool can you still have in your hand.
“Something like what?” He asks again, his voice lower this time, quieter, almost dangerous.
“Max, leave it,” you say again, your tone sharper, voice slightly louder.
“So, I’m around less for one year and you end up forgetting what taste is?” Max’s words manage to be both blunt and cutting at the same time. You glare at him, feeling the tell tale sign of your throat seizing up, as you fight back tears that prick behind your eyelids.
“Around less?” You scoff with an empty, humourless laugh, “you mean weren’t around at all?” Your words come out more accusatory and bitter than you had intended.
You’ve never blamed Max for not being around, but you felt his absence, and you had never asked him, but you were sure that you felt his absence more than he did yours. He was off, around the world, living his dream, and you? You felt like you were still, just you. It wasn’t for a lack of trying to keep up with one another - he tried, you tried but you barely saw each other in person, him a junior driver, already on the rise to dominance but still struggling to prove himself everyday, and you a University student with classes, school work, extra-curricular’s, and a general lack of time and funds to fly yourself from race to race. You both made do with FaceTime, calls, messages, but time zones complicated things, had you and Max missing each other one too many times.
You see Max open his mouth to say something, but you hear the knob on the door turn.
“Everything alright?” Will’s voice accompanied but his head peeking through the door. You manage to take a step to your side, slipping away from Max before he can even react.
“All good, got my soda,” you say with a false cheeriness as you head for the door. Will pushes it open further and offers you a hand. You take it, and follow him out of the kitchen, and back in the hall, leaving Max alone, fist clenched, heart hammering.
Max doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the party, and you don’t seek him out, but his text comes later that night after all your guest had left, your phone lightning up on your nightstand with a buzz.
Max: I’m sorry.
You find yourself exhaling, as if you are letting go of a breathe that you hadn’t even noticed you were holding. He doesn’t tell you exactly what he is apologising for, but he doesn’t need to. You understand.
I’m sorry too. That wasn’t fair.
Max: I wish I got to be around more often.
I wish you did too.
Your reply is simple, truthful. Max knows you aren’t accusing or blaming him for not being around, just telling him in more words than necessary that you missed him.
Max: You will be.
Max: You know, when we’re finally married.
His reply makes you laugh, a sudden sound ringing out in the silence of your bedroom. It is unexpected - but entirely Max.
With our two children?
You find yourself smiling as you type back your reply.
Max: I was thinking three.
Max: Can I come over tomorrow? You know, just to hang out.
The smile on your face softens a the question
I would like that.
Max: Anyone that doesn’t see you are amazing is stupid.
His message comes, sudden, out of the blue and with no link to the previous conversation, but hard hitting - just the way Max is. You don’t respond, you don’t know how, but it means everything to you.
“Max Emilian Verstappen,” you groan as you stagger out of the lift, “are you even trying to walk?”
“M’ trying,” Max mumbles, as you drag him out of the lift and down the hallway towards his apartment. He moves his feet, as if attempting to walk on his own, but only ends up leaning further into you.
“Trying my ass,” you mutter to yourself as you begin the walk towards the door of his apartment.
“Mmm,” Max hums, eyes barely open, “you have a nice ass.”
“Max,” you gasp, half incredulous, half amused.
“I mean it,” he says, raising his arms in a failing motion, before dropping them back to his side.
“How did you get so drunk,” you sigh as you muster your strength to drag him the last few steps towards his door. The question is rhetorical - you had watched his grid friends ply him and themselves with an inhumane amount of alcohol to celebrate the start of the F1 summer break - fourteen blissful days of well deserved rest which Max had cajoled you into taking time off the spend with him in Monaco. He had booked your flights, planned our the two weeks, arranged for your transportation from your home to the airport, and for himself to pick you once you landed in Monaco, cleaned up his guest bedroom for you - giving you absolutely no reason to say no.
“M’happy you’re here,” Max sighs out as he turns his head to nuzzle the side of your hair. It makes you gulp, suddenly nervous, your brain threatening to run itself into overdrive, but you push the feeling away as the movement causes him to lean more of his weight on you, causing you to plant your feet even more firmly onto the ground for balance. You stop mid walk, your focus on keeping Max upright and standing.
“I’m not going to be very happy I’m here if I die from you collapsing on me.”
“Won’t let you die,” Max exhales, his breath tickling the top of your ear. He smells like a mix of tequila, courtesy of Daniel and the last three shots that pushed Max into sleepy drunk mode, and his cologne, “M’gonna marry you, can’t let you die.”
“Max,” you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you even now. You’re both 22 now, but his words from 6 years of age still float in and out of your life.
“S’truth,” he says, planting a soft, careless kiss onto the top of your head. It’s just a brush of his lips against your hair, but it feels intimate - too intimate for a pair who were just best friends. You freeze, for a full three seconds before Max sways in the other direction, reminding you of just how drunk he is. You brush your shock, and his actions aside, refocusing your energy on getting him into his apartment.
“Alright, c’mon Maxie, one foot in front of the other.”
The doorbell rings, and you ignore it, letting the sound sweep over you. You are a mess - hair tangled, in the same clothes you had slept in the night before - clearly not having bothered to change, your eyes tired and red rimmed from crying. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a proper meal. It rings again, this time the sound accompanies by three loud knocks.
You don’t want to answer it, but the person on the other side is persistent, ringing it again and knocking. You get up, feeling wobbly on your feet, while pulling the hood of your jacket over your head in an attempted to hide the state you are in. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself before cracking open the door just an inch.
You expect to see a deliveryman, but the sight on the other side shocks you.
“Max?” You croak, voice scratchy from crying and a lack of use, “what are you doing here.”
“I’m here to see you,” he says simply and you take a step backward, pulling the door open, just wide enough for him and his carry-on to step through. Max shrugs his backpack off his shoulders as you close the door of your apartment behind him. He turns to look at you- he is wearing jeans, a plain black tshirt, with a red bull jacket thrown over the top.
“You look like shit,” he says while opening his arms. He doesn’t need to say another word, and you don’t need to be asked twice. You step into his embrace, winding your arms around him. You shutter your eyes close as Max wraps himself around you. You don’t cry, because you’ve cried enough since the breakup 4 days ago, but your hands shake and you find yourself gripping onto the fabric of Max’s jacket to steady yourself.
“You should be at home,” you say to Max. He was race fresh, having just come off another win - you had texted him to congratulate him through your tears. Max had found out the day the break up happened - you hadn’t wanted to tell him, because it had happened mid week, during the week leading up to the race weekend, but he had sensed something was off from the way you texted. Max had FaceTimed you right away, and your resolved had crumbled, involuntarily, the moment your cameras flickered on. You had apologised, profusely, amidst ugly tears, but Max had brushed it off, stopped your apologies and asked you to tell him what was wrong. His jaw had tensed, shoulders going rigid, eyes darkening with anger as the story tumbled out of your mouth: your boyfriend of almost 4 years had cheated. Not even a drunken one night stand, but worse: a full on 6 month affair that had been going on with a colleague from work.
“I’ll go home once you’re alright,” he says, hands now rubbing soothing circles on your back.
“I really thought I was going marry him,” you whisper into Max’s hoodie. The thought had been playing around in your head the past few days, and it was the first time you had said it out loud. You were now 26, thinking that you had your life together, and everything was smooth sailing only for yourself to be proven wrong.
Max tenses for a second, his teeth clenching together, hands pausing their ministrations against your back. You would have noticed normally, but you don’t, not with grief in the forefront of your heart and mind.
“It’s his loss,” Max says after a beat of silence. Those are the words that he wants to say, but he can’t - not now, not with you like this, and more importantly, not with a girlfriend back home.
-
Max doesn’t tell you why, but you hear it from him six months later, a casual text that lands in your phone in the middle of the night: I broke up with her.
“Take me to dinner,” the words tumble out of your mouth as soon as Max opens the door of his apartment.
“Well hello to you too,” Max steps aside to let you in. He takes note of the determined look you have in your eyes as you barrel on, straight into his apartment. Things had changed in the past 2 years since you had become single, you had, with Max’s encouragement, searched for, and found a job in Monaco - something suited to your skillset, with better prospects, a more exciting portfolio, and better pay. You weren’t earning big bucks, but it was enough for you to get by, even in a city like Monaco. Max played a big part, not by giving you money, but by arguing with you until you relented to renting an apartment from him - it wasn’t as big as his, just a small one bedroom in the same building as him, a few floors down. He had set a price, which you were aware was well, well below market rate for the location, and by Monaco standards, but you had been itching for a change, and reluctant to continue arguing. You tried to make up for it in your own ways - cat-sitting when he was off for races, cooking an extra portion for him when he was home, picking up his dry cleaning when you picked yours.
“I need you to take me to dinner Max.”
“Do you want to explain more?”
“I’ve a date,” you say as you throw yourself down onto his couch. A cat, Jimmy, jumps onto your lap and you extend a hand to scratch the feline behind its ears. It purrs happily, rubbing its body against you.
“A date?” Max keeps his voice neutral as he settles down beside you.
“Mhm,” you hum in response as you trail your fingers down Jimmy’s back, the feline settling into a loaf like structure on your lap.
“With?”
“A friend of a friend from work,” you say with a shrug, finally looking up at Max, hands continuing the trail down soft fur, “she invited him for drinks a couple of times. He asked me out. Nice guy, cute.”
“Nice guy, cute,” Max repeats, tone flat, “if he is taking you on a date why do you need me to take you out for dinner?”
“I haven’t,” you start, clearing your throat, feeling suddenly self conscious, a far cry from the determination you had barged into his apartment with, “been on a date in a while.”
You hadn’t - not since you broke up with your previous boyfriend. Flirting with the occasional handsome stranger at the bar, dancing a little too closely with someone with a charming smile at the club, but not a proper date.
“So I’m FP1?” Max arches a brow at you.
“If we must speak in F1 terms, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes.
Max doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to extend a hand towards Jimmy’s nose. The cat scrunches its nose to sniff his hand, before closing its eyes with measured indifference. Max scowls lightly at the betrayal of his own pet, before he finally responds.
“Alright, when do you want to do this?”
“The coming Saturday?” You know there no races the coming weekend.
“Fine with me.”
“Where shall we go?”
“He had no ideas, huh?” Max throws you a look, half amusement and half disbelief. It was a guess, inference on his part, but he hadn’t expected to be, had hoped that he wouldn’t be, right.
“He just asked for suggestions,” you say defensively.
Max shakes his head slowly in disapproval. He is playing it cool, calm and collected outwardly, but his heart is hammering against his ribs, thoughts spinning in his brain. He doesn’t want you to go on a date, but he wants this excuse to take you out for dinner. Not just the both of you heading to the Italian place down the road or ordering takeout.
“6pm on Saturday,” Max says as he leans forward. You find yourself holding your breath as you stare into light blue irises that are just inches from your face, “don’t think of coming down here, I’ll pick you from your doorstep.”
You see his eyes dart down for a millisecond, ghosting over the curve of your lips and you can’t help the similar pattern which your gaze traces down his face. You can’t say you haven’t thought of Max’s lips before, wondering how they would feel against your own. You drag your eyes back up to find Max’s again. You see a flicker of light in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like hope, intrigue, curiosity.
“Why-” you start, mouth acting on instinct, moving faster than your mind - you want to ask him why, why he is looking at you like he wants to kiss you; but a shrill meow breaks through the space between you as Jimmy sinks his claws into the surface of your pants, sick of having his space crowded by his two humans.
“Jimmy,” you yelp as you and Max jump apart, startled as the feline jumps off your lap, leaping onto the coffee table. He turns back to stare at you both with a look that is almost too scathing for a non-human.
“He’s definitely your cat,” you mutter to Max as the sassy feline swivels his head slowly around to pad his way to the corner of the coffee table.
“Can’t even deny that he is.”
-
The knock on your door sounds at 6, sharp.
“Coming,” you call out as you steal one last glance at yourself in the mirror hanging in the hallway by the door. You looked good - date ready, even if you said so yourself - hair done, and light makeup that helped you look fresh but very much still yourself. You smooth the front of your dress down, brow furrowing with a slight uncertainty - Max had refused to tell you the destination for the night and had, only after much pleading, told you in a vaguely unhelpful fashion that “any dress is fine”. You had gone safe with a black dress, straps holding it up on your shoulders, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring out slightly and falling to mid-calf. You inhale deeply and pull open the door.
The sight that greets you stuns you, but in a good way - the kind that has a smile involuntarily creeping onto your face and butterflies filling the pit of your stomach. You see Max, dressed in a dark linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, holding flowers - a small bouquet, not ostentatious, but thoughtful.
“Hi,” you breathe out as a sudden shyness washes over you.
“Hey,” Max says as he offers you the flowers, before leaning in to brush his lips against the side of your cheek, barely there and fleeting, not something he hasn’t done before, but it makes your skin burn with a blush.
“Do you always greet your dates like this?” You tease, a poor attempt to cover up the flush you can feel against your skin.
“Only when they look like you,” Max says, his words ghosting against your skin before he pulls away. Max’s gaze doesn’t drift below your below, but you find piercing blue eyes holding yours.
“You’re making me nervous,” your words are soft and honest, you saying them as they come to mind.
“It’s part of the experience. You’re supposed to feel nervous on a first date,” Max says his voice equally soft, his cheeks dimpling - only lightly teasing, with a genuine curve to his smile.
It was meant to be practice, something to warm you up - your very own FP1 courtesy of Max Vertsappen, but it didn’t feel like just practice.
-
Max had chosen perfectly - he hadn’t gone for anything fancy, opting instead for a restaurant slightly out of the city, perched on the edge of a cliff, nice, polished but subtly so and busy but in a pleasant, quiet laid back manner. He had wrangled you both a table tucked in the corner with a view of the evening sun dancing over the water’s surface, reflecting off the boats floating across the deep blue water.
“So, come here often?” Max asks casually, elbows on the table as he pops a piece of calamari into his mouth. He had ordered, but only after asking you what you felt like having, and had topped your order off with other plates of things he knew you like. You arch a brow at his question, a hint of amusement on your face only for him to shrug innocently, “FP1, remember.”
“No one is going to ask that,” you say deadpan before picking up the glass of wine in front of you to take a sip.
“Alright, I’ll try again,” Max dusts his hands off before leaning casually back in his chair, “what brings you to Monaco.”
“Max,” you start only for him to stop you.
“Nu-uh, FP1 remember.”
“My move to Monaco was caused by guy,” you say slowly, fingers tracing the outline of the base of the wine glass which you had placed back on the surface of the table, “and because of the badgering of some other guy.”
“Some other guy huh?” Max’s smile mirrors the faint, amused one on your features, “he must be pretty amazing for you to move to a whole new country for.”
“He’s alright,” you say with feigned carelessness.
“Just alright?” Max’s smile grows, “I think he’ll be a pretty great guy, You know, handsome, pretty good at what he does, thoughtful, caring.”
“You know an awful lot about him without me having mentioned his name.”
“Just a hunch,” Max says as he throws you a wink.
“He is,” you play along, pretending to nod thoughtfully, “handsome, great at what he does, thoughtful, caring, generous.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
“I think some other guy is handsome,” you correct.
“So, have you and this some other guy dated?” Max asks his question without missing a beat. You fix Max with a look that borders on exasperated, but he counters, too smoothly and pointedly, “you said you moved here at his badgering.”
“No,” you fiddle with the necklace that hangs around your neck, a habit of yours since the very man across the table had gifted you the necklace on your last birthday. Something which you had insisted was too expensive, only for him to have told that he couldn’t return it either because he has thrown away the receipt.
“Why?” Max remains with his tone light, stance open, eyes gentle, but with just a hint of the same calculated focus he uses when racing.
“We’re friends,” you start, fingers still touching your necklace as you turn your face slightly to the side, letting your gaze dance across the sea which has started to ripple with the evening breeze, “and he doesn’t see me that way. I’m not his type anyway. His girlfriends have always been stunning, put together, not me.”
You end your answer with a soft laugh - not mean, but just honest. You had answered without giving it much thought, letting the same words that came to mind, out. You had been thinking of Max’s last girlfriend - she had been glamorous, put together, polished, and with the natural confidence of someone who had grown up in all the right circles. His previous girlfriends hadn’t been all that different either. It wasn’t surprising to you - after all, you knew him as your Max, but he was, well - the Max Verstappen.
“How do you know you’re not his type,” Max’s voice is steady, the same as before, but you keep your gaze focused on the water, missing the intensity in his gaze which goes a notch up.
“He’s a four time world champion, arguably one of the greatest drivers to hit F1 and I’m just me, we don’t really match,” you tone is teasing but your words reflect the truth of your belief. You had asked yourself before, and throughout the years you had known Max, why not - allowing yourself on one too many occasions to toy with what if, only to always remind yourself that this was Max, and you were just you: his childhood friend.
Max doesn’t say anything in response, and you tear your gaze from the view to turn your attention back to him only to find him with his brow slightly furrowed, eyes looking as though a storm is brewing behind. Your heart catches in your chest as his gaze locks on yours - you can’t place a finger on why exactly, but you feel your pulse quicken.
“Max?” You shake off your silence, quashing any feelings that come bubbling up to the surface down.
“Yeah,” he snaps back to his previous self, reaching out for his own glass.
-
“You really didn’t have to walk me to my door.”
“What, you mean your dates don’t walk you to the door?”
“Well, I don’t really live in the same building as my dates.”
Your response has Max letting out a light chuckle as you both come to a stop outside door. Your keys are already in hand.
“Well, this is me.”
“Mhm,” Max hums in agreement, slight amusement on his face. He doesn’t say anymore.
“Thanks for dinner. I’ll get you for-”
“You will not,” Max cuts you off with a disapproving expression. He doesn’t need you to finish your sentence offering to pay for half of dinner.
“I-” you struggle with your words for a beat, before you sigh, choosing not to fight a battle you can’t win, “thank you for dinner, and also for this, FP1. Next weekend seems less daunting now.”
Max doesn’t say anything, but nods lightly.
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” You probe gently.
“Yeah, tomorrow morning. They want to test some upgrades with us in the sim. See what we can do before the race weekend comes around.”
“We’ll see you when you’re back,” you don’t have to explain we. Max knows you mean yourself, Jimmy and Sassy. The found family he comes back to after every race.
“Always,” Max nods again, and you smile, about to turn on your heel to unlock your door when he speaks again, “one more thing.”
“One more thing?” You look at him curiously.
Max steps a step forward, putting himself in your personal space. The scent of his cologne envelops you. Max moves, gently, with purpose, and slow enough for you to move away if you wanted to. His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb ghosting across your cheek. You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, your stomach flipping - and in a good way.
“Alright?” Max’s voice is low, soft as he checks in on you. His eyes searching yours.
“Alright,” you confirm, barely a whisper.
He leans in, face inches from yours, gaze still locked onto you.
“Still alright,” he murmurs again, and you can only nod. Your confirmation something Max can feel against his palm from the slight motion of your head.
It happens before you have a chance to overthink. You feel Max’s lips against yours, softer than you had imagined, gentle, but decisive - without an ounce of hesitation. It’s innocent enough, one kiss, but the look in Max’s eyes as yours flutter open is what finally sends your mind reeling. One that makes it look like he wants more.
“FP1, right.” you say softly, Max’s hand still against your skin, the warmth of his palm a welcome sensation against your cheek. Max gives you a crooked smile, that is tinted with a hint of amusement, but also wistful and saying so much more.
“Don’t kiss him on the first date,” you find his searching yours, gentle but with something raw behind the blue, something threatening to burst at the seams.
“I won’t,” you both don’t say anything more, but manage to be both sure, while completely unclear on what you’re both agreeing on.
-
The week passes without much fanfare, and as it usually does when Max is away. You let yourself into his apartment twice a day, once before work to check on the cats and feed them and once after, for a longer time to feed them, replenish their water, and to provide a human presence and comfort. You send him pictures, videos of Jimmy and Sassy, peppered in through your usual text conversations. Neither of you mention the last Saturday, or your date on the coming Sunday.
Nothing has changed between you and Max, but there is an undeniable crackle of something more threatening to bubble over.
Max wins, takes 1st, and you watch, eyes glittering, joy surging through your chest as the television shows him stepping onto the podium with ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. You pause the rummage through your closet for a date appropriate outfit to send him a text, something which you always do after each race, podium or no podium, which you know he won’t see till later - after the debrief, his work and media obligations, and the celebrations have taken place.
-
Marc is nice, good looking, sweet, almost without a flaw. He picks you up from your door, holds the doors open for you, is nice to waitstaff, and up takes you to a nice restaurant - fancy, and after for a drink in well selected bar nearby, something that is currently trendy. He doesn’t let you pay for anything, says and does all the right things, compliments you in the sweetest way, which you are sure will have any other girl swooning - but you can’t help the nagging thought running through your brain. The date is perfect but it isn’t Max - it isn’t the both of you sitting amongst a quiet bustling crowd with a sea view, it isn’t Max driving you home with easy conversation and making a detour along the way for ice cream cones at a quaint, but quiet kiosk just before you hit the city.
“Well, this is me,” your words bring about a small smile to your face. One that comes off as being for Marc, but which really is because you had said the same exact words to Max one week before, “thank you for today, it was lovely.”
“Can I see you again?” Your date asks, and you hesitate, visibly, mouth opening briefly before closing again. You had no reason to say no - he was a catch, by anyones standard, but he wasn’t who you wanted, wasn’t Max.
“I’m sorry,” you offer him a weak smile, only for him to nod, understanding even in the face of rejection.
-
Max’s mind is racing at a million miles per second, he hadn’t stopped moving, since he had left you, not at HQ leading up to the race weekend, not during the each segment of race weekend not since he had gotten off that podium, not during media, the debriefs, not since the rushed shower he had before heading for the airport, not since he had boarded his jet, and not since he had ran out and off practically the same moment the wheels hit the tarmac.
Max had channeled his energy into the week, distracting himself from you, from himself, from thinking too much about you. He had flown through the race weekend in a flurry of activity, pushing himself and the team to finish on the top step of the podium, just so he could worm his way home unbothered by anyone else. From experience Max knew, that the surefire way to gain goodwill and a few days of sanctioned silence was to be at the top of the leaderboard.
He tries your apartment straight from the parking garage, suitcase in tow. He rings the bell twice, knocks three times - no answer. He checks the time, it’s late, but still within Sunday, and he hasn’t heard from you since your congratulatory text earlier in the afternoon. Max feels his heart sink, as the realisation sets in that it was likely that you were still on your date and it was going well.
He drags himself back to his apartment, the sinking feeling growing with every step, morphing slowly into something more bitter, into regret. He should have asked you not to go when he had kissed you last Saturday, but Max had been bold enough to kiss you, but too afraid to say more, because while Max wanted you, his greatest fear was losing you.
Max steps in, locking the door behind him and leaving his suitcase and backpack in the hallway. He frowns, ears not picking up the usual sound of claws clicking against the floor that greets him upon entry. Max toes off his shoes, leaving them strew in the hallway as he pads in, eyes darting around in search of the cats.
The sight that greets him as enters his living room has him freeze in mid-step, his attention transfixed on you, lying curled up in a corner of his wide sofa. You’re in tights and a hoodie, arms curled around one of the throw blankets you had left in his apartment with both cats dozing as individual loafs at your feet. Max feels his gaze soften as the bitterness he had been feeling ebbs slowly away. He knows you’ve been out, because Max knows that you would have said something if you had cancelled your date, but seeing you now curled up on his sofa, in his home, his cats dozing at your feet - Max feels like he won more than the Belgian Grand Prix today.
Max flops onto the floor beside you, bringing a hand up to brush your hair behind your ear.
“Hey,” his voice is soft, careful not to startle you. You start to stir, shifting with a soft whine of protest which has Max chuckling softly.
“Welcome home,” your say with a sleepy smile as you bring a hand up to rub your eyes, “I thought you were only going to be back tomorrow.”
“Wasn’t much in Spa,” he shrugs, not bothering to explain the fact that he had in fact, been a whirlwind since he had left you, bothering on a menace for the entire week he had been away, pushing everyone harder than he had in a while simply to keep up with the pace he set for the entire week, prompting even GP to question if this was him making a Mad Max come back.
“Congratulations on the win,” you push yourself up into a seated position, moving to a side and patting the space beside you for Max to settle into. He does, and you let yourself shift closer, mind still foggy with sleep. Max opens an arm, bracketing the back of the sofa, allowing you to curl your body towards his, allowing your head to drop towards his shoulder as your eyelids flutter close again, “you had everyone online questioning if this marks the return of your Mad Max era.”
Max hears the amusement that tints your voice even as you stifle a yawn. Your body is warm against his, the weight of your head against his shoulder, dropping towards his chest a welcome anchor. Max inhales, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in a week.
“GP asked me that, as well” he admits. Max pauses, before his mouth moves again, words coming out of his mouth faster than they can spin through his mind, “but I just wanted to get home to you.”
“To me?” His words have you cracking open your eyes, pupils clearer, more awake than they were a moment again. Max sees you bite down on your bottom lip as you shift slightly, letting your head tilt up to look towards him. You both stare at each other, and Max searches your face. He’s looked at you thousands of times, memorised every mark you have on your skin - whether a mole or a freckle, but for the first time, Max feels as if he is watching you in daylight because he sees the same expression he has on his face in yours, the same swirling of a storm behind your eyes - fear, hope, anxiousness, longing, the same tell tale sign of someone who has wanted more for a long time. Max watches as your eyes search his, and it emboldens him.
“I keep thinking of Saturday,” the admission comes, raw and honest. Max sees the shift in your expression, micro - with your eyes widening just slightly, but it tells him everything he needs to know.
“What about Saturday?” You are asking him, but you both know the answer to his question.
“I keep thinking,” Max pauses, eyes darting across your features again, “about how I wish I could have kept kissing you.”
Max watches as your lips part, and your eyes widen even more. He sees a light behind your eyes grow, and he keeps talking.
“About how I’ve wanted to kiss you for so fucking long but let every opportunity slip. About how I should have told you not to go on the date after I kissed you. About how I wish you were there in the garage for every single race because you are the only person I care about seeking out after I get out of the car. About how I’ve seen you get your heart broken more times than it should have, and thought to myself that you should have been with me. About the time we were 6 and I promised I would marry you. About the time I broke up with my last girlfriend and walked into a jewellery store on the same day and picked up an engagement ring which I’ve had hidden in my bottom drawer for the last one and half years without wanting to admit to myself that the only person I saw when buying that ring was you.”
You’re now gaping, full on, lips parted, eyes blown wide with the tirade of information which Max had just let out.
“Talk to me,” Max starts again slow, voice almost pleading. You don’t say anything, not yet, but your brain is running at a thousand miles per hour trying to process everything.
“Fuck,” the next word comes again from Max as he moves his arm, leaning forward elbows on his knees. He drags a hand down his face before covering his face with both his hands, “I fucked up didn’t I? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”
Your body mourns the loss of warmth as he shifts away, and you pull yourself from your shock. You don’t touch him, but you start talking.
“I went on the date today,” you see Max’s shoulders tense visibly, the rounded edges of his shoulder going rigid and square, “he was nice, the date was perfect, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was wrong - because it wasn’t a drive out of town to a sea-side restaurant, it wasn’t comfortable silences and effortless conversations, it wasn’t stopping for ice cream and watching as you struggled you eat the ice cream faster than it melted. It wasn’t right because I kept thinking about you.”
Max drops his hands from his face slowly, as he turns, full body moving, to look at you.
“I think I love you,” you blurt out the sudden confession, and you can feel the heat of a blush prickling against your face immediately, warming cheeks, creating a tingling sensation on the tips of your ears and running down the sides of your neck.
“You love me,” Max echos as he stares at you and you feel yourself cringe internally as he parrots your own words back to you.
“Max I-,” your doubt kicks in as you fumble over your own words.
He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, but he moves like lightning. His lips are against yours, arms winding around you, pulling you onto his lap. Max manoeuvres you with a shocking ease so that each of your knees are bracketing his thighs. You’re kissing, his mouth sliding over yours, your lips meeting his with equal feverance, like you have both waited for this forever. It is desperate, messy, heated - but perfect.
“You love me,” he mumbles again, and this time you can feel his words against your lips. He pulls away, only to rest his forehead against yours, hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie, but still only gripping either side of your hips over the material of your tights. Max holds you as if afraid that if he didn’t, you would slip away. You see blue irises sparkling, brighter than you’ve ever seen them after a race or championship win.
“You bought a ring?” You ask, unable to help the smile that creeps onto your face. Your palms are light, pressed flat against his chest. The confession doesn’t scare you, not when it is you and Max, not when it is this. Not when he has been telling you since you were both 6 what exactly he wanted to do.
“I did,” he doesn’t even attempt to deny it.
“You’re insane,” you breathe out, but you statement is without malice, as Max leans forward to capture your lips with his again. It feels so natural to him, for you both to be here with everything different and yet it being all the same.
“I’m insane but I love you,” Max mumbles once again, against your lips. His confession slips out as easily as yours. You pull back slightly, causing Max to frown at the loss of your lips against his. He squeezes your hips lightly in protest.
“Were you just going to hide it in your drawer forever?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.
“Until you were ready, yes,” the response answers your current question, “and until you are ready, because I am going to marry you.”
He repeats his promise of 22 years ago again, with a smile on his face that manages to straddle mischief and a genuine happiness, and which causes his cheeks to dimple.
You run your hand up his chest, along his shoulder, along the side of his neck letting your fingers hang loosely from the base of his neck.
“You’ve always been presumptuous.”
“Or I’ve just know all along that you’re mine.”
“Am I?” You only mean to tease with the question but it elicits a growl from the back of Max’s throat. He drags you closer to him, pulling you further along his lap, closing the mere inches of space you have left between you.
“Yes,” his voice is low, tone featuring a possessive edge, “you’re mine.”
You don’t reply, because you don’t need to - you know, Max knows, and some part of you has known all along that you are his, have always been his. You opt for tilting your head down to meet Max’s lips again and you feel his smile against your own.
pairing: alex albon x fem! reader
genre: podcast au, college au, strangers to lovers au. fluff, hurt/comfort, domestic, comedy, mutual pining, slowburn
wc: 22k (22.571)
warnings: talks about alcohol and sensitive topics such as mental health issues and the loss of a loved one, handle with care! (nothing graphic tho.)
Two people, two assignments. Tumbling together through the hurdles of the first year, the ever-so-talkative Alex has to record a podcast for his class while you, a shy introvert, promise him a never-ending list of topics to talk about. While trying to prove to yourself that love is bullshit, together, you find out that sometimes all it takes for feelings to blossom is equal to the time it takes you to record 8 episodes.
🎙LISTEN TO THE Y/N AND ALEX SHOW UNDER THE CUT!
a/n: first fic on a new blog always gets me nervous omg... please f1 be nice to me I am just trying to feed the albonation. this fic has been in works since august of last year and was originally a kpop fic (eric sohn nation missed out :p), but it's very very personal to me and soso special, so please handle it with a lot of care. :) oh ALSO I am aware the "experimental method" of this is incorrect on a lot of levels I literally have a bachelors degree in psychology but lets just ignore it for the sake of this fic please xx
EPISODE 1: THE PILOT (JK WE NEED AT LEAST 8 EPISODES THIS WILL CONTINUE NO MATTER THE RESPONSE…)
“Hello dear listeners, hello professor Vowles,” Alex talks into the microphone in front of him after clearing his throat and pressing record, looking at you as if to give you the cue to say something as well.
“And professor Smith,” you add, lips close to the other microphone the male provided for you, skin almost brushing the metal tip of the device. You’ve never handled such a thing before, so you don’t really know how close you have to be to have your voice picked up by the machine, but you kind of feel like a rockstar right now, so you’re going to make the best of it while you’re at it.
“And we welcome you to the first ever episode of our podcast called The Y/N and Alex show,” the boy finishes, flashing you a grin at the end of the little introduction.
Shaking your head at him, you sigh. “We are not calling it The Y/N and Alex show,” you argue.
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“Well, I don’t, but–”
“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, then,” Alex shrugs, making you once again sigh at his antics. You haven’t even really started, yet you are already regretting even getting together with the boy to do this in the first place. It seems like it’s going to be rather difficult to complete your assignment with someone like Alex Albon.
“Okay, let’s at least redo the intro, then,” you mumble after pinching the skin in between your eyebrows, lost in thought.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You can’t just leave that in–”
“Watch me,” Alex grins. If you knew recording with him would be such a hassle, you wouldn’t agree to do this. He looked normal in his profile picture, though– oh how foolish you were… “All of this is staying in.”
“Why would it– you know what, let’s just proceed…”
After knowing Alex Albon for about a total of 25 minutes– of which you spent in his kitchen getting a glass of water and then in the dimly lit spaces of his bedroom right across the hall that he remade into a makeshift recording studio for your little podcast– you already learned that there is no use arguing with the stubborn guy. You just have to nod and accept that it’s his way or the highway– and since editing the whole podcast was his responsibility, you can’t really tell him what to do and what not to do when it comes to it.
“So, to anyone who doesn’t know– which might just be everyone, I think– let’s introduce ourselves. My name is Alex Albon, I am a freshman and I study communications. This is an assignment for my podcast making class, and I recruited miss Y/N over here to do it with me, because she promised to have a never-ending list of topics to talk about,” Alex says, looking over to you with the microphone close to his plush lips, as if signaling your turn to speak.
“And I am Y/N, studying psychology. I can’t really tell you what my assignment is about, because it would defeat the point of it, but I met Alex in the campus Facebook group begging for someone to do this with, and.. here we are.”
After getting your assignment description for social psychology– to try to replicate an existing experiment from the history of psychology to the best of your abilities– you chose to put Arthur Aron’s theory to the test. To anyone unaware of the man, he pretty much compiled a list of conversation topics to talk about that, supposedly, inevitably will make two people fall in love.
And since you’re quite skeptical of love in general, you decided that this is the best thing to put to the test. You really needed this documented to the last detail and also needed someone that you didn’t know well– so there was no previous feelings or opinions involved– and so after joining the university Facebook group where students help each other with the most various things, you found a lost freshman asking if anyone wanted to help him with his assignment for a podcast class.
It felt like a heureka moment. After turning up and actually doing it, though, not so much…
You don’t really know what you expected, to be fair. You didn’t stalk Alex, because you figured finding out something that would make you want to turn down the plan would be a disadvantage to you, since you needed to start on the assignment as soon as possible. However, after turning up to his apartment and finding a messy haired brunet smiling at you and excitedly waddling like a puppy into the flat he shares with a guy he introduced to you as Lando Norris, you can’t say you expected this– to record the said podcast in his room, at 10 in the evening– ‘for aesthetic purposes’, surrounded by only his bedsheets and a single microphone in hand.
You’re not disappointed. Maybe just a little… weirded out? No… That’s not the right word. Just a little taken aback, you suppose.
You note Alex’s state– loose gray sweatpants adorning his long legs and a cozy, big sweater hanging off his broad shoulders. You wore your best jeans and a pretty top, which might be a little excessive for something like this, you must admit, and make a mental note to get here dressed more casually the next time.
“Here we are,” Alex nods, agreeing with you. “So… before we start with whatever you have prepared, I was meaning to ask… how did you find the first week of university? Given we are both freshmen and all,” the male smiles, taking you off guard with his friendly question.
“Oh,” you start, humming. “It was alright, I guess. It’s kinda awkward in class, but my roommate seems nice enough, so that’s good.”
“Awkward?” Alex raises his eyebrows at you. “How come?”
“Well, you know, since we don’t really know each other and all,” you say. “Everyone’s a little scared of each other, or something,” you joke, making the boy opposite of you smile.
“Wow… that’s weird, though,” Alex mumbles. “I already made like 5 friends, I think?”
“Because you seem to be extroverted,” you point out, having the boy roll his eyes at your comment– he seems to get that a lot.
“I have a lot of energy,” he nods. “People laugh at me because I make friends with everyone, like, up to the point where I was friends with my friend’s dad back in high school.”
“With his dad?”
“Yeah,” Alex laughs. “Shout out to Joe,” the boy mutters before continuing, “we fully went to see a tennis match together and everything, excluding my friend.”
“That’s wild…” you comment. “Poor guy.”
“I don’t think he minded… but you see what I mean? Maybe I should keep more to myself.”
“Maybe,” you nod, but instantly rebuke your own words. “But no, I find that to be a good thing. I always like it when an extrovert takes me under their wing, because I find making friends a little scary. Too bad I chose a major where everyone is an introvert, so I kinda have to make an effort myself or I’ll end up lonely.”
Alex nods, humming to the microphone to accompany his body language, since your podcast is not recorded and you two aren’t shown on camera. “You have to channel your inner extrovert.”
“I am actively doing it, dude,” you snicker, “it’s a little hard, but I’m trying.”
“I can see that,” he nods, grinning. “Not a lot of introverts would hop on a podcast with a random dude off Facebook, that’s for sure.”
You laugh, agreeing with his point. “Yeah,” you nod, “I don’t really know what came over me in that moment, but anything to get this assignment done, I guess.”
“And I’m sure you’ll do a good job on it,” Alex says, smiling. “Speaking of, do you wanna start with it? I promise not to look online or anywhere, as you mentioned– Mr Smith, I am a completely unaware subject of this experiment–”
“Don’t address him like that, gosh,” you shush him, the respect you have for your professor coating the words coming out of your mouth.
“I don’t think he’s listening, Y/N.”
“Well, you never know!” you lick your lips, shaking your head at the boy in disbelief. Getting your phone out of your jeans back pocket, you open your notes app and scroll through the various documents, finding the list of questions you copied off the internet.
“Mr Smith, if you’re listening, send Y/N an email–”
“Shut it! I’m starting with the thing now, okay?” you hum, looking up at the boy opposite of you through your eyelashes, finding him nodding at you obediently with a soft smile playing with his features. Does he ever stop smiling? Does his facial muscles not hurt..? Weird.
“So, Mr Albon,” you clear your throat, “given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as your dinner guest?”
“Interesting question,” Alex hums, pursing his lips a little against the microphone. “Dead or alive?” he asks for clarification.
“I guess either…?” you shrug, looking up from the phone screen again, giving him your full attention now that you asked the question.
“That made it harder to answer.”
“Why?”
“Because the selection is bigger now, duh,” Alex says, rolling his eyes at you jokingly. You sigh a little at that– teasingly, of course– before you watch the boy contemplate his answer, squinting his eyes a little, as if thinking about the response took way too much of his brain power.
“Who are you choosing out of?” you ask, curiosity getting the best out of you.
“I don’t know yet,” he says, pursing his lips a little. “What about you? Who would you choose?”
You hum. Before asking all those questions, you didn’t really prepare any answers– thinking that it would kind of defeat the whole purpose of the experiment. Your task was to be authentic, to fully test out your theory– being that Arthur Aron was wrong, and there is no way you can fall in love with someone just after asking them 36 simple questions. After seconds that, however, feel like eternity spent contemplating your answer, you start to think that maybe, you should’ve made up some answers before coming here to make it easier for the boy, though.
“Maybe my grandpa,” you say, noticing the way the boy looks at you with raised brows, instantly wanting clarification. “He’s not here anymore, so… I think it would be nice to talk after so many years.”
The boy turns more serious at your answer, an understanding look flashing over his features. The aura around you two calms for a bit, the playfulness escaping the boy– adapting himself to the topic of conversation at hand instantly, trying to sense the boundaries. “How old were you when he passed?”
“Like… 11, I think?” you hum, nodding to yourself. “I miss him sometimes.”
“That’s understandable,” he says, “he must have meant a lot to you.”
“He did,” you agree, “he does.”
Alex offers you a sympathetic smile, humming to the mic. Careful not to ask something that would upset you, he lets you take charge of the conversation, listening. “Yeah, so… that would be my answer,” you conclude, not really ready to discuss anything more intimate with the boy just yet. “What about you? Who were you deciding on?”
“Oh,” the boy perks up, taking the hint and leaving the previous topic alone, “I was actually in between my friend George and Lando,” he says, making you instantly burst into laughter.
Furrowing his brows at you, a confused question drags itself out of Alex’s throat. “What?”
“It’s just… you asked if it’s anyone, dead or alive, and out of everyone in the whole world, all time, you chose your friends?” you say, shaking your head at him in disbelief. His response felt ridiculous– Alex Albon sure is a weird one.
“What’s so funny about that?” he asks, the expression of a confused puppy theatrically appearing on his face.
“I mean, it’s just funny to me that you chose someone that you can have lunch with at any time anyway, you know?” you clarify, shrugging. “I’d expect you to choose someone like… I don’t know… Michael Jackson, or something.”
Alex laughs at that, shaking his head at your argument. “Well, no. I don’t really know what I’d talk to Michael Jackson about, y’know?”
“I dunno,” you shrug. “I’m sure you’d think of something. You seem like quite the social butterfly.”
“I get that a lot,” he agrees. “But no, I’m serious. I’d probably pick George, if I had to choose. George, if you’re listening, you still owe me 20 quid,” Alex sing-songs to the mic, tone of voice cute and scolding, making you laugh at the ridiculous manner of the boy in front of you.
“Is this a friend from back home?” you ask, curious.
“Mhm,” he hums. “We met in elementary school. He’s my longest friend.”
“Is his dad Joe?” you joke.
Alex snorts. “No,” he shakes his head.
“Why didn’t you choose Joe?” you tease, making the boy in front of you laugh out, a gentle warmth caressing your heart at the sound. His laugh is pretty, you conclude– the type that makes you want to laugh with him.
“Look, me and Joe didn’t have much in common except for tennis, if I’m being honest,” he says, grinning.
“So you’d choose to have dinner with someone you already know well instead?” you ask, testing the boy.
“Well, yeah,” Alex shrugs, “do I get to choose the place as well?”
“Sure,” you nod, completely dumbfounded with the nature of the podcast host in front of you.
“I’d take George Russell to Subway. I am craving Subway and I know he hates it, so although I’d bring him to dinner with me, he would get nothing out of it, and I think that’s kinda funny.”
“You’d take him out just to spite him?”
“Something like that,” he nods. “That’s for the 20 quid he owes me,” Alex says, tone of voice serious, yet you know there is a hint of a joke behind his words.
Shaking your head at him, you let out a defeated sigh. “That’s– why would you even choose him, then?”
“I dunno,” Alex laughs, eyes settling sincerely at your face. “I think I’d choose George because I know the dinner would be pleasant. I always have things to talk about with him. I guess… I guess the person I’d like to spend my free time with the most would have to be my best friend, y’know?”
You nod, smiling. You must admit that although Alex’s response is unexpected, it’s sweet. It shows his character.
Maybe having this podcast with him for the course of this semester wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
EPISODE 2: INFLUENCER ERA??
“Hello listeners,” Alex sings into the microphone, a soft melody making you laugh at the resemblance he has to old-school radio hosts, “or shall I say, listener?”
Snorting at his comment, you shake your head at him at the bluntness of his words. After the first episode of your podcast was posted on Soundcloud, Alex wasn’t very pleased with the response it got. Not only did none of his friends he made at university listen to it like he asked them to– not even the ones from the podcast class he is doing all of this for– but his friends from home didn’t either. The episode was stuck on one view, and that surely hurt the boy’s pride more than he’d like to admit. (Not to mention the single listen might have been from you. He sent you the link two days after the recording, and you clicked on it in curiosity only to click out when you cringed at hearing your own voice.)
“You’re surely salty about that, aren’t you?” you joke, eyes meeting with the boy in front of you.
It’s Monday evening and you turned up to his apartment the same time as last week, meaning it’s close to midnight. You don’t complain much, since the quiet atmosphere of the dimly lit room provides just the perfect setting for the experiment and the recording itself, but after finishing up just after the clock strikes early morning, you can’t say you’re not at least a little sleepy.
Which is why you finally came to the recording dressed in your comfortable clothes– big sweater, fuzzy socks and all, sprawled out on the top of Alex’s duvet.
“Just a little bit. I wonder who the only listener is, though.”
“Your mum, maybe?”
“Was this a your mum joke, or are you actually suggesting it’s my mother?” Alex laughs, the sound resonating through the quiet apartment.
“No, just an actual suggestion,” you clarify, watching as the boy shakes his head at you.
“I actually think it’s my professor,” he says, “since he’s the only one that has to listen to it to grade me, y’know,” Alex notes, having you nod at his suggestion.
“Well, hello to Mr Vowles, then,” you say sweetly into the microphone, watching your co-host grin at the antics you’ve picked up from him since the last episode. “Wait, that’s a good segway into the next question I had prepared.”
“Oh, so we’re rawdogging it? Right away?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows at you innocently.
“I don’t think you’re using that term correctly and I wish you would never use it again,” you hum, but continue with your speech nonetheless, not really giving him space to correct himself. “But yes, right away, because it fits. Would you like to be famous? Since the absence of views on our podcast is a problem to you, it seems,” you point out, watching the boy chew on the inside of his cheek– much like every time you ask him a question and he takes a moment to think about it.
“Yes and no,” he says, earning himself a sigh from you. Can he never give you a single normal answer?
“What does that even mean?” you mourn.
Alex Albon is surely something different. You’ve never met someone just like him– the way he thinks, the way he replies to your curious questions… You’re amused and entertained just by watching him dwell on your words– wanting to know more about him, about the way his brain works. Every answer he provides you is analytical, saying too much, providing you with a view of his brain, a sight of his inner thoughts.
“Well, I think I’d like to be like… medium-sized famous…? Like, I could still go out without a mass of people following me everywhere, but I get recognised like once every two weeks on the street, y’know.”
“So specific…”
“I’d love to be like a… niche influencer, or something,” he says. “They kinda have it easy, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one studying social media, not me,” you laugh, pointing out the obvious.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying it,” he hums, pursing his lips a little. “Only if more people and friends of mine listened to this podcast…” he ironically muses, making you snicker. “Maybe this would be the first step towards my stardom.”
“Medium-sized stardom.”
“Right,” he grins, nodding at you. “What about you? Would you want to be famous?
A hum slips its way past your lips, only a few seconds passing before you offer him your final response. You thought about this before, if you’re being honest, and although you would want to give him a more eloquent, more interesting answer, you have to be true to yourself.
“I don’t think I would,” you note. “I like attention, but I think it would be too pressuring for me.”
“Pressuring?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at you. He is always so patient with your answers, wanting to know what you have to say. It’s not every day you meet a person who truly engages in conversation with you– and doesn’t treat it like it’s an interview– and that has you appreciating Alex Albon’s efforts twice as much.
Maybe this is why he has a lot of friends. It’s easy to warm up to him.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Like, everyone’s watching my every move and I can fuck up any minute, and everyone would know. I’m also quite a private person.”
“I can see that,” he notes, making you furrow your brows at him, confused.
“Huh?”
“I- Lando tried to stalk you on Instagram the other day– since he met you, and all– and he found nothing. You only have a profile picture,” he laughs, “so yeah, I’d expect this answer from you. You don’t seem to be the one to enjoy having many eyes on you.”
“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing with him. “Although, your roommate wanting to stalk me is mildly concerning. Maybe I should stop coming over…” you joke. (Or do you? It’s seriously quite weird…)
“Oh, Lando is harmless. He runs into poles on the street sometimes,” Alex jokes, wanting to reassure you. He knows you won’t stop coming– he turned his bedroom into a studio. A bad one, a cheap one, but it works, and you know that moving everything and making sure it works each time you want to record would be taxing.
You’ll just… avoid Lando Norris at all cost…
“Okay, well,” you hum, almost a little ironically. “I’ll try to make myself believe that.”
Alex laughs at that, scratching the back of his neck before continuing. “Okay, so we established that no listeners on this podcast is actually the ideal for you. What other questions do you have prepared for today?”
“Let’s see… the next one– since I have to do them in a specific order,” you say, listening to Alex hum in understatement, “says: before making a phone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”
“I don’t,” Alex says, “but maybe I should, actually.”
“Hm? Why?”
“My friends say I talk too much,” he says, pursing his lips a little. “I guess I can be quite annoying sometimes.”
“Annoying?”
“Yeah,” Alex laughs, but somehow, you don’t think he really finds it funny. “Like, I’d start one thing, and then I move to another, and I ramble on and on, and I guess sometimes, it’s a little tiring.”
“I guess I could see that,” you hum, nodding. You don’t know Alex very well yet, but you’ve seen him get lost in his own train of thought before, his conversation taking you on trips you would’ve never expected to arrive to after hearing him say the first word of the sentence. “But for what it’s worth, I think that’s better than me– I always have to rehearse what I say, or else I don’t say anything. Especially during important phone calls.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I used to… I used to have social anxiety, so…” you say, trailing off a little when the conversation once again moves to a more dangerous territory– which seems to happen a lot during the recordings. Curse you for choosing such an experiment to test. “Yeah, but… phone calls still scare me. I don’t really like doing them in the first place.”
“Interesting…” Alex says, acknowledging your words. “We’re kinda like two sides of the same coin, then,” he laughs, making light of the situation.
“I guess so,” you agree. “I think I’d prefer it if I was more like you, though.”
“And people around me would prefer it if I was more like you, so I guess the grass is always greener,” he points out, making you shake your head at his words.
“I don’t think I’d want you to talk less,” you note. “It’s easy to approach you when you’re talkative and energetic. People like you always made it… easier to be around, back when I had trouble with socializing, and all,” you hum, watching as Alex’s eyes glimmer a little in the dimly lit room, a gentle smile pressing its way towards his lips.
Shuffling in the sheets of his bed, changing his position from cross-legged sitting to more of a relaxed half-lay on the duvet, he locks his eyes with you in a newly found sincerity. “Well, then something like this,” he gestures around the room, the microphone momentarily leaving from in front of his lips, “must have been difficult for you to approach. Props to you for fighting it.”
You laugh softly at his words– even though they’re not funny. You're just trying to lighten the situation. “It’s gotten better in the last few years, definitely,” you admit, “but thank you.”
“Yeah, of course,” he hums, voice growing a little more quiet. The atmosphere shifts for a moment and you wonder if you have to just push through the silence by asking the next question off your list, but before you have a chance to, Alex speaks up again, beating you to it.
“Speaking of phone calls, though. Let me tell you about how my friend Pierre handles phone calls– I swear it’s so funny–” he starts, giggling a little at the thought of what he wants to share with you.
You find that talking with Alex is as easy as breathing. It’s comfortable, although new. He always has something to share, something to laugh about. He’s entertaining. He’s fun.
Maybe he should be a medium-famous podcast host.
EPISODE 3: MY 13TH REASON
“Hello listeners, multiple this time,” Alex announces to the microphone, tone of voice low and calm in the darkened room. “Welcome to another episode of The Y/N and Alex show.”
“Welcome,” you chime in, trying to mimic his tone– you think you’re starting to sound a little too alike to all those youtubers doing ASMR roleplay videos online, and so in fear of laughing at yourself and breaking the atmosphere of the podcast, you move on and talk casually from then on.
“Our listener count has gone up since the last episode,” Alex hums, raising his brows at you with what you assume is a sense of pride in his chest, making you snicker at the boy. Truth be told, you don’t really care about the numbers your little podcast does– after your respective assignments are done, it’s going to be over anyways– but it’s amusing to see the boy thriving in the attention, pointing finger guns at you when he announces that the last episode got ‘over 50 listeners’, as if the two of you were the next B-list celebrities of your town.
“On your way to stardom,” you say, “remember me when you’re famous.”
“We’re getting famous together, whether you like it or not,” Alex shrugs, “I think this podcast thing is really my kind of thing, y’know.”
“I don’t wanna get famous just because you are.”
“Sorry, I think that’s kind of… inevitable at this point…” he shrugs, faking guilt.
“I’ll just have a Britney moment then, or something,” you say, “so I can disappear from the face of Earth.”
Alex snickers, but then he seems to remember something, sighing. “Almost had a Britney moment today, to be fair.”
“Why?” you ask, laying back a little in his bed that you’ve been using as the podcast set-up for the last 3 weeks now. If you’re being completely honest, his mattress is kind of comfortable. If you weren’t so into the topics you’ve been talking about, you could very well fall asleep on it easily, without even trying.
Your co-host takes a sip from his water bottle before continuing, as if to keep you on your toes. “So, I just had the worst day ever, basically.”
“Oh no,” you gasp, genuinely feeling sorry for the boy, “why? We could’ve rescheduled if you weren’t feeling well.”
Alex pouts at you, as if taking your words of kindness to heart, before he sighs. “Nah, I’m fine,” he says, noting that he might have been a little over-dramatic. “But dude, it was rough. I slept through my alarm, obviously,” he starts, mentioning the problem he already talked to you about off-camera before, when you were waiting for him to set up the equipment last time. “And then I was late for class. Which meant my professor didn’t let me take my exam– for legal purposes, I won’t mention any names, but if you’re listening, you know who you are–”
“Alex–” you panic, cutting him off before he gets himself– or both of you– in trouble.
“So that meant I was already in a pissy mood, right? Then, I went to get lunch between classes and I realized my lunch card didn’t have any money on it.”
“You could’ve gone to the store and bought something to eat with cash, then,” you hum, but with the way Alex looks at you, you might’ve just said the most criminal thing to him.
“I didn’t have enough time! I had to run to class right after,” he says. “So that meant I was pissed and hungry, and failing my class. Then, I tripped and ripped my favorite jeans, because I absolutely ate shit in front of everyone walking down the stairs from my class.”
Your mouth falls agape from shock at the new information. The image of Alex Albon falling down the stairs is not one you should be laughing at, and so you try your hardest not to.
“It’s really not funny.”
“No, I know,” you agree, but the look on your face says otherwise.
“That’s not all, though.”
“It’s not?”
“No!” Alex yelps, as if to further prove that life absolutely hates him today. “So I walked through the campus with blood on my knees, like a toddler, and then when I finally got home with half the groceries I originally wanted to get at the store– because they either didn’t have them or they were too expensive–” you chuckle at that, “I found out that I didn’t have my keys on me, so I basically locked myself out of the apartment.”
“Oh my god,” you gasp, trying your hardest to give the boy a good reaction, to make him feel seen. “What did you do after?”
“Well, I tried calling Lando– my roommate, for those of you who don’t know– but he wouldn’t pick up, so I thought he was somewhere out, or something. So I asked around for him, to see if any of our other friends were with him, but I got nothing. So I just sat in front of our building for like, approximately two hours, while my phone battery was on 15% so I couldn’t even do anything, and then who do I see coming out of the building?” he asks, an ironical smile plastered onto his lips.
“No way. Don’t tell me–”
“Lando! Lando Fucking Norris going on a walk,” Alex says, pure fury mirroring his features. You’re convinced the boy mentally moved back in time to earlier this day and is reliving the moments, feeling the same emotions again. “So I just got ignored by my roommate for two hours as I locked myself out. That… that was my 13th reason.”
“That was vile.”
“Wasn’t it?” he grunts, shaking his head at the situation. “But I got over it now… kind of…”
“Totally, yeah,” you nod, agreeing with the boy despite knowing that he’s still mad at the poor boy living just behind the wall. It’s alright, though– you’d be mad too.
“How was your day, though?” Alex asks, switching the topic to give you more attention, not only wanting to talk about himself.
Shrugging, you answer. “It was alright. Definitely not as eventful as yours, that’s for sure.”
“You’re the first one that didn’t call me overly-dramatic so far,” Alex says, and you swear there is a hint of appreciation in his tone.
“Because you’re not being overly-dramatic! Your feelings are valid,” you shrug, “besides, I would’ve wanted to off myself after all of these as well. Like, I’d be feeling like I am on God's least favorites list, or something.”
“Exactly!” Alex agrees. “I fully thought this was gonna be my last straw, but I figured that it’s not worth ending it all when I’m so close to reaching fame.”
“You’re so–”
“Anyways, what’s your topic of the day? What’s the burning question you have for us today?” he switches the topic, wanting to steer it away from his overly-confident speech.
“It’s kind of ironic, I’d say,” you laugh after reading it out in your laptop, making the boy look at you with raised eyebrows and glimmering eyes, a grin mirroring his features at your light composure.
“What? Why?”
“It says: what would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?” you say, looking at him with weary eyes, voice trembling a little with the laughter you’re trying your hardest to control. It’s easy to laugh when you’re next to Alex, you’ve noticed. He isn’t only amusing whenever the recording is on, but also whenever the microphones are off and you chill for a bit in his bedroom after, talking to him about whatever comes to mind before you take off and walk home. He is down to earth and casual, and it’s making you feel perhaps the most comfortable you’ve ever felt around a man before.
“The universe is really making fun of me today,” Alex hums, tone of voice serious. “Anyways, I’d say a perfect day would be if I woke up on my alarm, got to take my exam, didn’t eat shit in front of everyone, and my roommate would let me in to my own apartment–”
You burst out into laughter, falling over a little, invading Alex’s side of the bed. The boy watches you with glittering eyes, breaking into an amused chuckle as well. “Be serious for once!”
“Oh, I am serious! Any day but today would be perfect for me, at this point–”
“I’m not taking that as a real answer.”
“Tell me yours, then,” he says, waiting to hear you out again.
After a few seconds of careful consideration and humming to fill the silence, you decide on your answer. “I think a perfect day would be one that’s exciting,” you say, nodding to yourself. “Like, I love concerts, for example. Or travelling. I just… love to do stuff, y’know? Like, growing up I never thought I’d get to do those things, so when I do them, life feels so worth living.”
The boy opposite of you nods, humming with agreement. “Why didn’t you think you’d get to go to a concert or travel?”
“I thought they were just… childish dreams…? I never really had a chance to experience much growing up, since we didn’t have a lot of money, so now that I earn my own and get to travel to meet friends and go to concerts and see stuff, it’s really eye-opening,” you nod to yourself, explaining your train of thought. You don’t know how or why it happens, but you always allow yourself to get a little vulnerable with the answers to the questions on the list.
Is it Alex’s effect, or do you just want to put the experiment to the best test?
“I’m glad you get to do all that, then,” he says– and it sounds like he means it. “I think you don’t really need every day to be perfect to have a good life. Like, I’d say you ideally need to have most days where you feel okay, and then days where, as you said, you feel like life is worth living– something exceptional that makes you appreciate it in the middle of the mundane things.”
“That’s a nice way to put it,” you agree, voice softening at his words.
Alex hums, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a second before he continues. “For me, I guess, a perfect day is one where I’m happy. Like, when I’m having fun with my friends, hanging out with them– as you said, maybe traveling, or just going out and playing padel,” he shrugs, “I enjoy free days like this a lot.”
“You play padel?” you ask, watching as he nods, humming.
“I’m not as good, though. I am much better at karting. I actually wanted to go pro with racing when I was a kid, but I don’t think… I just wasn’t really good enough,” he admits, a chuckle escaping his mouth at the sentence, trying to laugh it off to show that it doesn’t really bother him– or at least he tries to show that it doesn’t bother him as much as it seems.
“Well, what’s important is you love doing it,” you say.
“Yeah…” he agrees. “I actually haven’t raced in a while.”
“Oh?” you hum. “You should.”
“Wanna go race with me?” he asks, eyebrows rising. If you didn’t know him better– to, as a person who’s known him for barely a month, is a lot to say– you’d think he was just being polite, not really meaning his question. This is Alex Albon you’re talking to, though. You know he is sincere with his sentiments.
“I don’t even know how to drive,” you shake your head.
“I’ll teach you. You don’t even have to have a licence.”
“What if I run someone over?” you laugh. “How will you compensate for that?”
“I think it would be quite impossible for you to run someone over at the track, Y/N,” he giggles, shaking his head at you in disbelief. “I swear it’s fun! No murder involved. There’s a karting track like… 35 minutes away from the town. We could go some day.”
“I hate things I’m not instantly good at, so you better be a good teacher,” you say. You don’t even know why you’re agreeing to his proposal– you have a lot on your plate already, when it comes to assignments, and you also don’t really know the boy that well.
You think it might be the loneliness talking. It’s been three weeks, and although you tried, you didn’t make any new friends in class. You’re starting to think it’s getting a bit too late for it– although the healthy side of your brain keeps telling you you’re just being over-dramatic.
“We’ll make it work,” he laughs, “as long as you don’t crash into me, I think we’re gonna be fine.”
“Well, you can never know. I’m clumsy.”
“That’s okay. You can pay the hospital bills with the huge check we will get from this podcast–”
“Okay, so we are moving on to the next question,” you cut the boy off, pretending to be tired of hearing him joke about the fame you’re getting. Both of you know it’s just irony, but only one of you finds it amusing enough to make countless jokes about it.
Alex laughs at your comedic timing, taking another sip of his water. “Okay…” he sighs. “What is it?”
“When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?” you read out. When you look back up from your phone screen, the boy is staring at you, and when your eyes meet, he instantly retracts his gaze. You wonder if you have something on your face, but before you get a chance to ask him out loud, he cuts you off with his answer.
“You know what,” he starts, “I don’t really sing.”
“Not even in the shower?” you ask. “You look like the type to sing in the shower.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, furrowing his brows at you in concern. Was that a compliment, or the exact opposite?
“Oh, y’know,” you shrug, “I just– actually, I don’t know. It’s just the vibes.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Y/N,” your name rolls off his tongue. Something about the way he says it catches your attention, the sound replaying in your head, staying in your memory.
“Actually, no. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”
Alex sighs, shaking his head at you. “Okay, well, no. I don’t sing in the shower. You know who does, though?” he asks, voice already accusing, making you get the hint of who he’s going to talk about again.
“Is it–”
“Lando Norris, yes. My roommate. Actually, I think living with him in general is my 13th reason– he was singing so loud last night when he was showering that he woke me up from my well deserved nap. And he wouldn’t stop, the shit he is, can you believe that?” he scoffs, disbelief flashing over his sculpted features.
“Everyone sings in the–”
“I don’t care, shower quietly! Especially you, Lando. If you’re listening, sleep with one eye open at all times, I’m so serious right now,” he grunts.
You wonder if you can get banned on Soundcloud for hate speech and threatening.
EPISODE 4: STARTING A MAKE A WISH PROJECT
The next time you’re recording, you realize your immense gratitude for the fact that your little podcast is audio only. Not because you’d be ashamed to put your face out there– it’s easy enough to look you up on Instagram, as you were proven before– but because it means you don’t have to show the whole university (or the 500 people who have turned up to listen to your last episode, which is still crazy to think about, by the way) your face when you’re at your lowest.
A little sick, incredibly tired and with dark circles adorning your eyes.
“Hello listeners,” Alex muses into the microphone, pressing one last look full of worry mixed with reassurance your way, “welcome to episode 4 of The Y/N and Alex Show. Tonight’s episode is going to be a little different, since my co-host is currently indisposed and shivering in my sheets, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”
His comment makes you shy away from his gaze a little, now fully aware of the fact that not only are you really covered up with his sheets, the smell of his shower gel protruding your nose with all the force aloe vera and cucumber mixed with the smell of his laundry detergent can master, (which is already bad enough), you’re now also exposed to everyone listening that you made a nest for yourself in his bed.
Which isn’t bad, not at all. It just makes it seem much more intimate than your friendship really is.
“Hello,” you greet, voice hoarse and scratchy.
After arriving at his apartment, you were already scolded by your co-host himself for worrying about a ‘stupid assignment’ in your current state, all followed by him forcing you to wear his fuzzy socks, making you hot tea and placing you under his sheets when he realized you were cold. In retrospect, Alex might’ve been right when he told you you should’ve stayed home and slept the cold out, but the idea of missing a week and then having to catch up on everything was too unbearable.
That, and you also really wanted someone’s company. Alex just happened to be the easiest option.
“I’ll do most of the talking, if you aren’t feeling it?”
“Shocker,” you muse ironically, still having enough energy in you to joke. When you try to giggle at your own teasing, you are hit with the immediate force of karma making you cough, almost spilling your ginger tea all over his freshly washed sheets.
“Or I can leave it up to you? If you find your lost voice somewhere along the way, that is,” he mocks you, full of irony– hinting at the obvious scratch of your voice.
“I’ll be fine,” you hum, “don’t worry.”
“I’ll have to edit your mic to be louder, you’re basically whispering.”
“Good thing that’s kind of your job,” you playfully kick him under the sheets.
You’re usually sitting on opposite sides of the bed– facing each other, each of you talking into your own microphone. This time, you’re nothing more than a blanket burrito at the head of his bed, the boy sitting cross-legged at your feet, sending you looks full of concern, but also playful reassurance. It’s a nice change– your back doesn’t hurt as much and you feel more relaxed, but still– you know this won’t pass next time you’re here, so you’re trying to enjoy it to the fullest.
“Okay, so,” he clears his throat, ignoring your jabbing comment, “what’s your recap of the days we haven’t seen each other? Have you been swimming in the Arctic, or…?”
“No,” you snicker, rolling your eyes at him. “I probably just didn’t dress warm enough when going to my morning lectures. And then it rained the day I forgot to bring an umbrella, so… here we are.”
“Should I text you the next time it rains? Since you seemingly don’t have the weather app,” he chuckles. “Can’t have my co-host dying. What would I talk about without your burning questions?”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“Probably not as interesting as your topics, though,” he shrugs, grinning. “So, what do we got on our plate today?” he asks, pointing his chin towards your phone in your lap.
A moment of silence falls over the two of you, the only thing resonating through the dimly-lit room being your sniffles and the occasional shuffling of sheets when Alex moves in his place on the other side of the bed. After scrolling through your phone and landing onto the document you need, you clear your throat and present him with the next question. “Do you have a hunch about how you’ll die?”
Your eyes meet as Alex looks for an answer in the depths of his brain, a softness behind them replaced with playful joking as he notes: “Well, I don’t know about me, but I think we both know what the cause of death will be for you.”
“Is it me forgetting my umbrella?”
“I don’t know how that’s deadly,” he laughs, “but I was hinting at your poor immune system. It looks like your worst enemy.”
“Oh, for sure,” you croak, agreeing with him. “Actually, you might not be that far off with that one.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. A very, very bad case of flu could definitely get me,” you joke. “That, or any other health issue you can think of, honestly. Heart problems run in the family, so it could very well be a heart attack.”
“Wait, really?” he asks, eyes widening in shock.
You nod in agreement, snickering. “My grandpa died of one. On mum’s side,” you hum, “my dad’s side? Both grandparents had them. And my uncle. My own father, fuck’s sake.” The more you continue, the more concerned Alex looks– bless him. “So, logically, I could be the next one.”
“Have you had that checked before? Like… your heart, I mean.”
Another nod. “They said it’s high blood rate, but they can’t do anything about it.”
“What? Why?” he asks, tone of voice so scared as if you were in the middle of a heart failure already, barely surviving in his bedsheets.
“Well, they said my blood pressure is too low, so if they gave me pills for one issue, it would kinda cancel each other out,” you laugh, taking in Alex’s genuinely concerned, frightened expression. “What? Don’t act like I’m already dying. One more word and you’ll be calling 911, it seems.”
“I don’t see how you don’t find that fucking scary, man.”
“You learn to live with it,” you shrug, shaking your head at his overly-worried state. “What about you? Any health issues daring to take you out? Dementia running in the family? Cancer…”
“No, thank god,” he cuts you off before you have a chance to finish the list, seemingly not really in favor of thinking about all the possibilities.
“You’re basically immortal, then,” you say, voice cracking a little due to the sickness. If Alex notices it, he doesn’t mention it– thankfully. You only hope he can fix it somehow in the postproduction.
“I actually almost died before, you know.”
“What?” Now is your chance to act bewildered.
“Got chased by a horse. My own horse, to be exact.”
“You have a horse?”
Alex nods, grinning. “Two of them. And a dog. And 13 cats.”
You just stare at him wordlessly, taking the new information in. “You have a whole ass petting ZOO!” you chirp, blinking away the surprise. “That’s fucking crazy.”
“It is,” he admits, laughing. “I barely remember all of their names.”
“Maybe that’s why your horse tried to kill you,” you joke, watching as Alex joins– his eyes crinkling into moon crescants, rosy cheeks on full display. Your heart skips a beat– damn the heart issues. Maybe you are going into cardiac arrest, who knows?
“Maybe,” he nods, “that, or it’s the horse just being a scaredy cat. It saw something in the bushes and bolted, I fell off its back, and then it circled around and almost bashed my head in with its leg.”
You stare at him in silence, mouth slightly ajar. You’re so glad he’s alive after that, a passing thought flashes in your brain, before you shake your head at him in disbelief. “That’s genuinely terrifying.”
“It is. I haven’t ridden a horse since.”
“Why do you have two of them, then?”
“It’s my family’s petting ZOO as much as it is mine,” he laughs, shrugging. “Can’t get rid of a horse my sister loves just because we’re scared of each other now.”
“Fair,” you hum. Noting the silence in between the two of you, you take it as your cue to read out the next question on your list. It’s not that the silence is uncomfortable– quite the opposite, really, it makes you unravel and sink deeper into his comfy sheets– but you don’t think his assignment would benefit much from sitting in the quiet. “Anyways. Next one says: Name three things you and your partner have in common.”
“Not yet, but we could have a Make a wish business,” Alex says.
Blinking in surprise, once again, but now due to the sheer randomness of Alex Albon’s answer– which, in 4 weeks, you should be used to the nature of his brain by now– you wait for him to explain, a mere confused comment escaping your lips. “I don’t think Make a wish is a business, Alex.”
“Okay, yeah, true,” he nods, snickering. “But, y’know. It makes sense– I have a petting ZOO back home, and you will end up deathly sick one day and you could apply for it. And then, you could say you want to pet a horse, and I’ll be like, I have the perfect solution for it–”
“I don’t have to be a Make a wish kid to pet a horse,” you say, laughter coating your words. “Or go to your house, if that’s your main aim–”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Alex laughs, shaking his head. “See? What do we have in common? Not much. I have a brilliant, creative brain, and you–”
“You’re insane, more like.”
“And you’re studying to deal with insane people. See? We kinda work.”
You must admit, the way his brain works is kind of endearing. It makes you audibly laugh out loud, completely forgetting about the ache in your bones or the sleep in your brain. “This isn’t how the question works, Alex!” you mourn, watching the brightly-eyed boy giggle to himself on the other side of the bed.
“Okay, okay,” he calms himself down, humming to himself. “Well, I dunno. I think we’re both kinda different. But that’s what makes this–” he gestures with his hands into the space around him, not specifying if it’s the podcast of the foundations of what seems to be a friendship, “work.”
You only hum, nodding.
“Maybe… hm. We’re both hard working and ambitious? That works. I mean, you turned up to do this even though you’re basically dying, so…”
“Yeah,” you agree.
“I think our humor is similar, though,” he says, locking his eyes with you. “There’s not many people that laugh at my jokes as much as you do.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks. Maybe you have a fever. “I’m easy to please.”
“Or maybe I’m just funny,” he shakes his head, chuckling. “And you as well, of course.”
“Okay, I won’t sell myself short. If you say so…”
“Unbelievable,” he scoffs. playfully rolling his eyes at you. “That’s three, no?”
“I’d say two, but I’ll count it as three for our sake.”
“Okay, boss,” he nods. “Do you have more?”
You hum, eyeing the next question. “If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?”
Another hit of silence– this time spent with you two sharing a knowing look, an amused smile tugging on both of your lips as you propose the answer. “You’d get rid of that horse?”
“Definitely.”
“Knew it.”
A fit of laughter slips over you like a glove and you hold onto it like a grudge. Somewhere in the unconscious part of your brain, you acknowledge just how grateful you are to share those moments with Alex. To him, this might be just a simple assignment– talking with a random girl he met through Facebook because he has to– but to you, those moments are close to everything you wished for when you enrolled into university.
Friendship. Ease. Conversations shared in a quiet room, over the smell of ginger tea.
Comfort.
“In all seriousness, I don’t think… I don’t think I’d change anything. I look back on my childhood very fondly and I think my mum raised me with all the right values in mind.”
You nod, agreeing. “Well, from what I’ve seen, she’s done a decent job so far.”
Alex offers you a heavy look– only a short one, cut off too fast to what you’re used to from him. “And you? What about you?”
You scratch the back of your neck, shrugging. “I think… I think I would’ve done better with a bit more freedom, if you know what I mean? Like… I wasn’t really allowed to go places alone, or do much of anything, because my parents were really strict growing up– obviously, for all the right reasons, they were looking out for me– but I think if I would’ve been more reckless back then, I’d be less scared of everything now.”
“Like what, for example?”
“People, maybe?” you huff, snickering. “Like, it sounds funny, but I think if I was pushed more into talking with other kids, or just, allowed to hang out and drink in my teens, it would make stuff much easier for me at uni.”
Alex hums, listening to you.
“I find it hard to make friends, since I was a bit sheltered. Which, in return, makes me more reckless now, but it also makes intimacy hard, and it’s… yeah. I dunno. We’re getting too deep now,” you chuckle, eyeing Alex’s expression.
He offers you nothing more than understanding, a soft nod of his head. “We can leave it at that, if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” you shrug.
“But like, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing pretty good at the ‘making friends’ part. I mean, I would know,” he says, tone of voice full of encouragement and silent empathy, making your heart swell with fondness and maybe a little bit of vulnerability.
“You’re just saying that to keep me on the pod.”
Alex shrugs, a smirk embedding his features. “You need this just as much as I do.”
And the truth is? He’s right– you do need this podcast just as much as he does– and not just for the obvious reasons.
EPISODE 5: US WHEN WE’RE IN A BRITISH BOYBAND MAKING THEIR MOST POPULAR SONG (STORY OF MY LIFE. HAHA. GET IT?)
By week five of working on your assignment, you’re already in your zone when you walk into Alex’s apartment, dressed up in comfortable clothes and with an energy drink in your hand to keep you through the night. You must admit that while you never really dreaded recording the podcast with him, the more you get to know him– both his quirks, flaws and differences– the more you look forward to spending the time with him, just conversing.
“Hello listeners, hello Y/N,” Alex says into the microphone as his long legs involuntarily tangle with yours, the newly found position from last week recurring after both of you realized it’s way more practical and comfortable, leaving both of you to record the podcast half-sitting, half-laying in his sheets instead of crouching over, cross-legged and all. “Welcome to the fifth episode of The Y/N and Alex show.”
“Hello, hello,” you hum, going with the easy flow of the conversation.
“Have you realized that even though you fought me on it at the start, you still let me keep the pod name?” he mentions, raising his brows at you in question.
“I don’t think I have a lot to say about the creative direction of the podcast, Alex,” you hum, “your grade depends on it, not mine.”
“Touché,” he nods, stretching a little in his place, tiredness already laying over him like a blanket. Your eyes take a glimpse of the sliver of tan skin peeking from below his shirt as he reaches his hands overhead, heat rising to your cheeks as you force yourself to peel the relentless focus away from it. “I just think the name’s really fitting.”
“It’s very… descriptive,” you agree.
“No false advertisement here,” he says. “You get exactly what you’re told you’re gonna get.”
“Exactly,” you hum. “Maybe it’s not so bad after all,” you joke. The reality is– you don’t think you could come up with a better name in the first place.
“Glad you agree,” Alex snickers. “Well, anyway. This is the time when I’d ask you how your week went, but uh, I don’t think I have to do that this time, since I know how it went.”
“You do,” you agree, “for everyone listening, me and Alex hung out outside of podcast duties for the first time last week.”
“We did,” Alex grins. “I took Y/N out to her first ever frat party.”
“And your first ever frat party.”
“Right. For anyone wondering, I am not in a frat. I would hate to be in a frat. But my roommate, Lando, knows people who know people, and suddenly, he’s DJ-ing Alpha Sigma’s party–”
“I don’t think Alpha Sigma was their name, Alex–”
“Well, that’s not the point. But I thought I’d share the experience with Y/N here. So tell us, how would you rate the experience on a scale of 1 to 10?”
Your brain flashes with the memories of the night, each one getting not only hazier as the night progresses, but also more painful to remember. See, it’s not every day you end up at a frat party– it’s also not every day you get to hang out with a new friend outside of the assignment duties. After learning that you and Alex have no problem with the flow of your conversation even outside of the walls of his dimly lit room, you decided to test your teamwork in a game or beer pong– with two other dudes named Carlos and Logan playing against the two of you.
Well, it’s safe to say that that part wasn’t your strongest suit. Alex had to walk you to your dorms, and while you’d argue you could walk just fine, your orientation skills were a bit off-set. Which is why he had to beg your dorm’s doorman to let him walk you to your room, too scared you’d end up lost and asleep somewhere in the hallway.
“A strong minus 2, I’d say,” you nod, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks.
“Dare to explain why?” he teases, a glint in his eye.
“No comment.”
“Alrighty, then,” he laughs, gesturing towards the phone in your lap. “Hit me with the questions, then.”
Glad that he dropped the topic, you reach for the device and scroll through the document, like you’ve done four times before already. It’s strange to think about how you’re already halfway done with the assignment– it feels like yesterday when you nervously messaged Alex on Facebook messenger, awaiting a positive reply.
“Okay, so. Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.”
It’s Alex Albon you’re speaking to, though– you should’ve known he wouldn’t drop the topic of your drunk escapade that easily.
“Do you maybe mind starting in reverse order? Like, latest events towards your birth?” he asks, earning himself a kick to his shin, making his laughter catch in his throat. “I’d really love to hear what you did on Friday night in detail–”
“Fuck you, dude,” you sigh, shaking your head with a defeated grin on your face.
“Hey! Don’t fucking swear, I’ll have to bleep it out.”
“Don’t fucking tell me not to fucking swear–”
“That’s gonna be a fine for breaking the policy.”
“Is that in our contract?” you ask, referring to the nonexistent piece of paper.
“Yes,” he nods, dead serious, “in the small ink at the very bottom of the page. I knew you wouldn’t read all of it…”
“I got tired after the part that said we can only record at 10pm because you play League of legends the rest of the day.”
Alex visibly cringes at the comment, shaking his head at you. “Okay, let’s stir away from exposing me to be a raging virgin in front of the whole class, thank you,” he mumbles, joking. “Let’s get back to the question.”
“Should I put a timer on?” you ask, already swiping through your apps to find the right one.
“Yeah, sure,” Alex nods, absent-mindedly pressing the microphone into his round cheek, squishing it and making him look like a hamster stashing his food. The sight is adorable, to say the least, making your heart clench with a newly found fondness for your co-host. “Who’s starting, though?”
Giving him no time to think, you press START on the timer app, counting 4 minutes. “You. Go!”
“Oh shit,” he swears, panic rising in his chest due to the time pressure. “Okay, so. I was born on March 23, which makes me an aries, I was told,” he adds the useless fact, “I grew up in Suffolk, alongside with my three sisters and a brother. My mum’s Thai, dad’s English. I did karting when I was little… My biggest role models were Michael Schumacher and Valentino Rossi, so… I really wanted to become an F1 driver. I was actually really good, to be honest, but then it didn’t end up happening and I went to high school… I graduated with decent grades, contrary to popular belief, and got into uni. And here we are, I guess.”
“You still have like, 3 more minutes to talk,” you state, nudging him with your foot. “This wasn’t detailed enough, I already knew all of this!”
“I don’t think my life story is that interesting,” he mourns, shrugging. “I dunno what else to tell you.”
“The question doesn’t say ‘Talk about the most interesting part of your life’, Alex. It just says ‘in detail’, so come on. I wanna know all the boring mundane stuff. How did you get your first cat?”
Alex grins at you, shaking his head at being asked. “We found her on the street. She was so small and so alone, and then it took me ages to convince my mum to keep her, but eventually, she complied. And then, turns out, she had 3 more siblings, we found them behind our shed– so we took them in as well. And since then, my mum turned from being okay with the idea of having cats into being obsessed with them, so she’d go volunteer at the shelter sometimes, and would come back with a new cat like, every other week. It’s crazy.”
“That’s how parents always are,” you laugh. “What about the dog?”
“Oh, it’s a childhood dog. He was the first animal we ever got. Which is also why my mum was worried about the cats, y’know, like, what if he’s aggressive with them? But no, they’re absolute besties.”
“That’s so sweet,” you hum, nodding with a soft smile on your face. You can only imagine Alex with the rest of his petting ZOO– cuddled up with the cats, playing with the dog. He showed you a picture of some of them before, mentioning vague names you never really remembered, but now you’re wondering what he looks like with the animals, doting on them and talking to them in a baby voice.
Alex continues the life story himself, without needing to be asked this time. “And the horses, well, my uncle wanted to get rid of one, but my mum had an emotional attachment to it, so she brought it home. Then he tried to kill me and I was strongly advocating for the same idea my uncle had, but it was no use, I lost the battle,” he grins, “and then my mum got another one from the farm downtown, ‘cause they were selling it, and she said the first one must feel lonely. So now we have two.”
“That’s a crazy amount, still.”
“Yeah. It’s a pain in the ass to take care of when I visit back home, I’ll tell you that,” he nods.
“At least they’re adorable,” you shrug.
“When they don’t bite, yes,” he grins, opening his mouth to say something else, but being cut off by the noise of your alarm going off in your lap, notifying you that four minutes have finally passed by and now it was your time to ramble on about your own experiences. “Your turn! Thank god.”
“Oh lord, oh jeez,” you sigh, watching as the boy reaches over and takes your phone into his hand and presses START on the timer, offering you a focused look, all ears. “So, I was born in April, which also makes me an aries, by the way. I had some health issues, so I only did one year of kindergarten, and then I joined school and was an absolute academic weapon,” you giggle, watching as Alex raises his brows at you in acknowledgement. “They called me a gifted kid, but that’s been slowly burning out as I enrolled in uni.”
“You’re selling yourself short.”
“No, it’s true. Had straight A’s even as I graduated from high school, but yeah. I’ve been slacking– which is fine, really, just something to mention. I was always a shy kid, spent most of my summer breaks and holidays at my grandma’s house with my brother, so I pretty much grew up in a village, you could say. Was feeding the chickens and gardening my whole summer, I’ll tell you that.”
“Child labor,” Alex jokes.
“I was paid in sweets, so it’s all good,” you giggle. “Yeah, I really don’t know what to say anymore. It was my dream to get into psychology, so I kinda went for it, even though my chances were low. Made it, enrolled, moved in with my roommate that I couldn’t be more different than– not a bad thing, I love you Laura, if you’re listening, it’s just… We don’t really have much in common. Then I got this assignment for my class, so I found this dumbass on Facebook–”
“You only have like, a minute and a half left, you’re sure you don’t wanna tell us about your Friday night instead?”
“Oh, I’d love to. So, my podcast co-host got me drunk in a game of beer pong, no big deal. Maybe I danced and giggled a lot more than usual, but over-all, I had a good time. Until I got sick at the smell of a Red Bull can, but I won’t talk about that part more, or else this episode’s gonna need a emetophobia trigger warning.”
Alex laughs, shaking his head at you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I should’ve looked after you better.”
“Well, that’s not really your job, but thanks,” you grin. “I’ll know better next time.”
“You’re trying to get into more frat parties?” Alex asks, turning off the alarm that’s gone off in the middle of you talking, ending the segment. He reaches towards you once more, fingers brushing yours when he hands you the telephone device.
“I’m not keen to go, but I also wouldn’t decline an invitation,” you shrug.
Alex takes the information in, nodding to himself. “Noted.”
His leg touches yours once more in encouragement, your digits swiping back into the document full of questions. “Okay. Next one… oh, this one’s deep. If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?”
A hum escapes your co-hosts throat, deep in thought. His eyes bear into yours with much intensity, almost daring you to not look away, but you do anyway– after a while, it gets too strong for you to engage in. “I think I’d like to care less.”
“Care less?” you ask, raising your brows at him.
“Mhm,” he nods, “like. About everything. Like, sometimes I anxiously overthink everything– what would happen if this and this, what I should’ve done differently, what I shouldn’t have done at all… About what other people think, I guess…?”
“Hm,” you muse, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Didn’t place you as a chronic overthinker.”
“Yeah,” he laughs, “I don’t really know when that happened.”
“Do you find anything that helps?”
Alex looks up to the ceiling, contemplating the answer. “Just… reassuring myself? Affirmations, I think you psych people call it. I just have to tell myself nothing is going on, and I’m fine, and all, and at the end of the day, no one cares and thinks about what I do just as much as I do.”
“Exactly,” you nod. “Everyone’s too worried about themselves to judge. And also, if they’re judging, they’re not worth your energy.”
“The right ones won’t judge,” he agrees.
“Yeah.”
“What about you?”
You avert eye contact as you speak the next words, perhaps too scared of the sudden vulnerability. It’s a very delicate thing to share, one that you rarely talk about. Telling Alex isn’t as hard as you’d think, the words daring, battling to drag out of your throat– making you forget about the people that might be listening. Something in you just wants to trust him with the information, to spill your guts out.
“It might sound funny, but… I think in general, I’d just like to be more likeable. Like, I don’t know what I’d have to change to achieve that, but I guess I’d love it if people warmed up to me more easily. I find that people don’t really like me at first when they meet me.”
“Oh?” he says. Not judging, not analysing– just surprised. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. I mean, from the people I know that have met you for the first time, everyone loved you instantly.”
You laugh airly, daring to look at him. The gaze he offers you breaks you and pieces you back together all at once, steady, easy. “You’re just saying that. They don’t know me.”
“And they already like you,” he follows. “I enjoyed your company instantly. I mean– of course, you can’t be everyone’s person, that’s not how it works, but I wouldn’t say you’re not likeable. At all, actually.”
A sigh escapes your throat. You lick your lips, shrugging, lost in thought. The words spill out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop them, before you have a chance to retrack and rethink if it’s the right time to say them. “I guess… you know that saying, like, in a room full of people, I’d choose you? I don’t– I don’t think anyone would choose me. I’m not really anyone’s favorite.”
Your hands shake a bit, your soul flying all around the silent room, fragile, but looking for a place to make its home, searching. You fear letting it down again, you fear breaking it, now all your fault. You should’ve stayed quiet.
“That just means you’re not in the right room,” Alex says.
Your eyes meet. You let out a shaky breath. The words sink in deep, making it a little hard to take in any oxygen. Something inside of you clicks.
All your life, you’ve tried to change and fit into the dynamic, change yourself for the narrative. Tried a bunch of makeup, trying to cover up your face, your flaws. You tried to keep up, to be what the world always wanted you to be– but pretty isn’t pretty enough, and good is never the best.
Turns out, you never had to change yourself to feel loved. Maybe you had to change the room all along.
You don’t think Alex would choose you in a room full of people– hell, you haven’t known each other for too long– but something inside of you foolishly thinks that maybe, his eyes would land on you in passing for a bit before he makes a choice, before he makes a run towards the one that deserves it.
Maybe you’d be at least considered.
Somehow, that feels like enough for now.
“Let’s move on,” you chuckle, trying to play it off. “Oh! A fun one. Is there something you’ve dreamt of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”
“Oh, easy. Bungee jumping.”
“Bungee jumping?” you gasp, shocked.
“Yeah. I think it would be fun. Why haven’t I done it? No opportunity to, honestly. Or money. I’m a broke university student,” Alex chuckles, making you shake your head.
“That’s crazy. I could never. Didn’t know you were an adrenaline junkie like that.”
“I literally wanted to be an F1 driver!” Alex laughs, making you join in.
“Okay, yeah, fair. But this is something completely different! What if the rope fails?”
“Then I die being a badass,” Alex shrugs. “No, but I’d do it over water. Bigger chance of survival,” he notes.
“Crazy…” you whisper.
“What would you say, then?”
You think for a bit, suddenly feeling silly. “I’ve always wanted to go to an amusement park. I love the rides, and all, so I think it would be fun.”
“And you call me an adrenaline junkie?”
“That’s something completely different. I am not actively jumping off a high place! I’m secured and stuff.”
“There’s zero to no logic in this statement,” Alex says, laughing. “Why haven’t you been to one before, though?”
“All my friends were always scared of the rides, so I had no one to bring with me. And I guess there was never one nearby, I dunno,” you shrug.
“There’s one close,” he says, raising his brows at you like it’s a challenge.
“Maybe one day.”
“One day,” Alex hums– but it sounds a bit ominous.
EPISODE 6: I CREATED Y/N’S FONDEST MEMORY (NO CLICKBAIT)
“Hello listeners,” Alex muses into the microphone, eyes watching you from under his eyelashes, making you swallow down the drink you’ve been sipping while he was setting up the equipment and pressing record, “welcome to episode 6– wow, we’re almost at the end already– of our humble, but flourishing podcast.”
“Have you considered getting into poetry before?” you tease, raising your brows at him in playfulness, referring to the way he says the introduction.
“No, actually. Have thought about narrating audio books, though. Reckon my voice is good for it?”
“Atmospheric,” you nod– and the thing is, you’re not even lying. There’s something about Alex’s voice that makes you believe you could listen to it all day– perhaps he could talk you to sleep. Or into jumping off a bridge, if he uses that sweet tone. It almost works like a siren’s call, if you’re being honest, and something about that makes you mildly concerned. Still, you can’t lie to him– he would be good at narrating audio books.
“Glad you agree. I was thinking of what genre it could be. Y’know, as much as I love children, I don’t think I could do all the funny voices in kids books. However, something like Twilight, or… I dunno, 50 shades, I could do great at.”
“Don’t make me imagine you reading smut out loud, Alex,” you grunt in disgust, making the boy laugh you in the face.
“Oh, don’t pretend you wouldn’t love it. Just imagine it, I could read that one line that goes–”
“We are swiftly moving on to the questions I have prepared for you today, thank you very much,” you yell into the microphone, desperate not to hear the dirty words from his mouth. If you did, you’re almost sure they’d repeat in your head like a mantra every night before going to sleep, and as much as you must admit that Alex Albon is an attractive male, this would be for all the wrong reasons.
He laughs at your outburst– maybe because he wasn’t actually going to say anything not safe for work, since he can’t recall a single line from that movie (since he didn’t read the book itself)– or because he just enjoys playing with you. Which one of those is true, you have a hard time telling– you’d rather not ask, though.
“Okay, let’s get right to it,” he nods.
“Lightning round!” you announce, startling the boy.
“I’m almost certain you said that’s not how this experiment works–”
“Shut up, I make the rules. Now tell me– what is your most treasured memory?”
Alex stares at you for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. You should be thinking of your own response, but there’s something captivating in the depth of his eyes, something wildly interesting in the softness of his forearms. It’s like he cursed you to watch him, and the sheer fact is mildly infuriating. The seconds of waiting stretch into tens, making you nudge the male with the sole of your foot to end your own misery.
“I don’t think you got what lightning round means, Alex. See, it’s called after the concept of lightning that strikes from the sky– it’s quick, fast, sudden. What you are doing, on the other hand, is quite the opposite–”
“I’d say visiting Thailand,” Alex cuts you off, finally offering you his response. “I’ve only been a few times, even though my extended family lives there, but the times I went were really the fondest. My mum was so happy, the culture is nice… yeah, just, great over-all,” he nods.
“Do you know the language?” you ask, suddenly curious.
Alex seems a bit guilty, shaking his head. “Not really,” he admits, voice wary, “I know a couple of words and phrases, and I could maybe understand half of what is said to me, but that’s it. Can’t really speak it.”
“That’s still good, though,” you say, tone of voice all encouraging, “better than nothing.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he hums, “but I wish I knew more Thai. I kinda wish my mum forced me to learn the language more, since it’s my heritage and all, but yeah. At the end of the day, I can only blame myself for not knowing.”
“Maybe you could try learning,” you say, “if you want to so badly, I’m sure even little progress would go a long way. There must be some online courses you could take.”
“True, true,” he nods, shrugging. “I guess I never really tried it, but I have to, at some point. What about you? What’s your most treasured memory?”
You press your head into your palm, tapping your finger onto your lips. You chew on your bottom lip as you search for a good answer, Alex’s voice not letting you think. “If you can’t think of anything, I have one moment we shared that surely has to be your most treasured memory.”
The moment the words escape his mouth, you have to grin at him, rolling your eyes. Of course he’d bring it up.
“Don’t think of yourself so highly, Albon.”
“Come on, I basically made your biggest dream come true!” he says, a little bit offended. “That has to be something!”
“Okay, sure, I enjoyed it,” you nod, your face betraying you maybe more than it should, “but I wouldn’t say it’s the top one.”
Alex sighs, shaking his head. “Ungrateful,” he murmurs. “To the unaware listeners of this podcast, I did make Y/N’s dream come true– I took her to an amusement park. Me, her, Lando, Max and Oscar from politology went. She’s saying it’s not her top memory, but I have video proof of her smiling like, most of the day, so I call bullshit.”
“Video proof?” you ask, brows furrowed, a deep crease indenting in the middle of them.
“I wanted to record you being scared,” Alex defends himself, “y’know, for blackmail. But instead, I just have videos and pictures of you smiling and kicking your feet like a kid! Which is cute, yeah, but not enough to blackmail.”
Your brain goes short-circuit at the mention of Alex having videos and pictures of perhaps one of the best days of your semester. And at being called cute. Why? You’re not really aware why, but that’s besides the point.
The point is, you did enjoy that day. Him and all his friends– even Oscar, the new guy– were all super nice to you and took turns getting on the rides with you. Alex even won a plushy and said you should keep it, because it’s too girly for his room– he even insisted after you said it would look great in the left corner of his bed, but after seeing how good it fits into your dorm (and how good it is to cuddle), you’re not really mad at it anymore. Lando shared his cotton candy with you. Max tried to make you scared with unnecessary comments about how the rides may be faulty before you got on– unsuccessfully. Over-all, you got to your dorm room with cheeks hurting from smiling too hard, and a huge teddy bear hanging off your hip like a child.
Still, you wouldn’t say this is your fondest memory.
“I’ll pretend it’s not creepy for the sake of this podcast.”
“I’ll send them over, I’m sure you’d love them for an Insta dump.”
“I actually wouldn’t! Thanks,” you smile, nodding in irony. (If he sends them, you’d consider it, though.)
“Okay, keep pretending you can think of something better than that day, then,” Alex shrugs, playing not interested as he twirls a loose thread on his hoodie around his finger.
You match his antics by twirling a loose strand of your hair, humming into the mic as you try to quickly think of something to say instead. You realize it’s you who said it’s lightning round, but after the trip down the memory lane of last week, it’s a little hard for you to battle the memory with something else.
Still, you say. “I think I’d say mine’s the time I saw my favorite band of all time live,” you admit. And truthfully, you’re not even lying. (The amusement park day might just take a place in the top 5, though.)
“Oh wow,” he says, “okay, I can’t fight you on that one. Who was that?”
“5 seconds of summer,” you say, holding back a nervous laugh as you brace to get judged for your choice of a favorite artist. You grew up with the 4 Australians, though, getting into their music at only 12 years old, so there’s something about them that makes their sheer existence a blessing to you.
“That’s cool,” Alex says, not a hint of belittlement in his voice– making you relax. You don’t know what you expected– for him to make fun of you? For him to bring your favorite thing down? That’s not like Alex Albon. “I can’t say I can recall a song by them, but that must’ve been magical.”
“They have that underwear song,” you say, “y’know, she looks so perfect standing there…” you sing– although a little out of tune– trying to make Alex remember.
He just stares at you a little confused, brows furrowed, trying to place it. “Hm… no. Send me the link for it on Spotify, I’ll listen to it later. I don’t think your cover is doing it justice,” he laughs.
Your heart skips a beat.
And it means nothing– but to you, it’s everything, because no one has ever asked to listen to your favorite songs before.
“Sure you will,” you clear your throat, masking the erratic hammering of your chest.
“I will!” he insists. “I’ll even send a review.”
“If you rate it lower than a 7, I’m quitting this podcast early.”
“I’ll make sure to remember that.”
You laugh, shaking your head at his antics. “Alright. Next one. If you knew that in one year, you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living and why?”
“The questions are just getting deeper and deeper,” Alex grunts, shifting a little in his position on the bed.
“I didn’t make them.”
“I know,” he nods, snickering, “I’m just saying.”
Another cloak of silence falls over the two of you as you think of your respective answers. You get lost in the way the orange hue of Alex’s lamp casts shadows over his face, gaze tangled up in the wrinkles of his loose shirt. Your eyes snap towards his Adam's apple when he swallows before he speaks, then they land on his chapped lips.
“I think I’d try to worry less about money,” he shrugs. “Like, if I’m dying in a year anyway, I’d just spend all my savings and try to complete my bucket list.”
“Oh, definitely,” you nod. “What’s on it?”
“A lot of travel, honestly,” he laughs, “Europe, Asia, maybe the east coast of America? I’d probably drop out of uni and go crazy with it. I’d buy everything in my Amazon wishlist too. Just… do everything I’ve been putting off as ‘one day’, y’know?”
“Would you get a tattoo?” you ask, referring to a common item in people’s bucket lists.
“Probably not,” he says, frowning. “I don’t think I’m one to get inked up.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think I have anything of significance I’d want on my body forever.”
“Well, only for a year, I guess.”
“My body’s still my body, though,” he laughs, “even if I die, my corpse will have that tattoo, Y/N.”
“Yeah, but you’d be dead,” you shrug. “So you wouldn’t really care how it looks in the casket, you feel me?”
“True,” he admits, squinting his eyes at you. A hum escapes his throat as he licks his lips, nodding. “Maybe you convinced me.”
“See? You only live once, you gotta try it.”
“Sure, why not?” he grins. “So yours would be to get a tattoo?”
“Oh, big time,” you laugh. “It’s a part of the big one– I guess I’d take more risks.”
Alex offers you a look that shows he’s impressed with your answer, searching for more behind your simple words. You take it as an invitation to tell him, preparing to spill out your heart on the record once again, but welcoming the intimacy of the four walls he’s managed to create with just… listening.
“Like, I tend to overthink all my life choices, in a way. I’m like, ‘no, I can’t do that, because what if it goes really bad?’, you know? But like, in this scenario, I could just go ‘well, it won’t matter in a year anyway, so what’s the worst that could happen?’, and I’d just do everything, even if it’s scary.”
“You have any examples?” he asks, genuine interest in his tone.
Your eyes scan his features, your breathing hitching in your throat.
“I…” you clear your throat, averting eye contact. “I dunno. Like, maybe speaking my mind more often? Taking more opportunities? Stuff like that.”
“You could just follow your own advice, though. Like, realistically, even if you’re not dead in a year, the thing still applies– it won’t matter in a year anyway.”
You blink at him, considering his words. There’s something eye-opening in them, something that was there all along, but you just refused to consider it. Alex has a way of showing you the best parts, in a way. He has a way of opening your eyes and your heart to new ways of thinking– ones that were within you already, you just didn’t really pay attention to them before.
There’s a risk at the tip of your tongue that is begging to be taken, begging to be released.
Still, when you avert your gaze from him, heat in your cheeks, you decide against it. It’s still too scary. Somehow, it feels like everything you have right now, and you’re not willing to lose it. What’s the worst that could happen?
Many things.
“I guess you’re right, in a way.”
“I always am.”
EPISODE 7: SUGGEST A FAN NAME IN THE COMMENTS..?
“Hello showstoppers and welcome to the seventh episode of our humble podcast,” Alex muses into the microphone, making you look up from your lap where your phone is, locking it and offering him a pointed look.
“Showstoppers?” you ask, a little in disbelief. What’s that about?
“The fan name is a work in progress,” he says, matter-of-factly, shrugging. The comment makes you stop in your tracks, snickering as you propose the next question.
“Fan name?” you let out. “So you’re suggesting we have fans?” you laugh– because at this point, you have to– watching as Alex helplessly opens his mouth and closes it, all the words escaping him and running for the hills.
“Look,” he finally gets out, sounding both a little defeated and also a little hopeful at the same time, “all I’m saying is, our podcast gets like, 1k listens on a regular per episode now. We even got a comment on the last one, so I think it’s time to move on a bit further with our audience. Make it feel special, y’know.”
“A comment?” you gasp, suddenly on board. “What did it say?”
“Uh…” Alex mumbles, averting his gaze from you, scratching his neck. You know this is the part where he pretends he doesn’t remember, but the words are painfully clear in his head– and you start to worry that maybe it was a hate comment, and maybe your friend took it to his heart. His next words shock you, though, sending a wave of uncontrollable heat through your body. “It said ‘stop flirting and get a room, you’re making us feel single’, or something.”
Your own heartbeat rings in your ears, your stomach turning into liquid gold as you contemplate how to react to the accusation. You have to be quick to avert any suspicion– you’d hate for the whole world to think you’re into Alex when clearly, quite the opposite is true. “Ew,” you say, scrunching your nose in disgust, yet not really meeting Alex’s eyes, “stop saying disgusting things in the comments, guys.”
“Exactly,” Alex nods, tone of voice light– like he’s caught in a lie. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable with the people shipping you. You don’t really blame him– since they’re all wrong, and deeply parasocial. “I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill than to get a room with Y/N. Besides, we do have a room. My room. We’re in it, alone, right now, so…”
The nervous babble makes you take a deep breath in, his words not really making the situation better, but also not really making it worse. “Let’s just move on to our topics now,” you mumble, “since we addressed all the fan comments now.”
“Exactly. Let’s get to it.”
The movement of your fingers against your phone screen, the scroll down the document– it’s all familiar to you now, you do it so automatically. You note down the answers after every episode, so the document has been slightly growing in size since you started on it, but you soon get to the questions with no answers and read out the next one in the queue.
“Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘we are both in this room feeling…’”
“We statements?” Now is Alex’s time to repeat the words after you, furrowing his brows in confusion. “That’s an odd question.”
“I literally gave you an example, Alex,” you point out, laughing at the male.
“I know, but it still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes it does…?”
“Okay, go first, then?”
“Okay. So… we are both in this room recording a podcast. See? Easy,” you say, shrugging. Alex meets you with a deadpan stare, blinking at you in response. (Or question?)
“That’s a stupid answer,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval. “That’s like saying we both have hair. We are both breathing. We are both sitting down. That’s all? I made three.”
“Alex! Take it seriously!” you mourn, sighing at his childishness.
“But you didn’t even say a good one..? Why am I the bad guy?”
“Let me do better, then. We are both big fans of Cars the movie,” you say, smiling to yourself in satisfaction. “And I’ll do two more, since you didn’t like the first one.”
“Go ahead.”
“We are both night owls, even though we like our sleep,” you propose, watching as Alex nods in agreement, “and we are both excited for the winter break.”
“Okay, true.”
“Your turn.”
“I already finished my turn,” he says, playing with you.
“Alex!”
“Okay, fine. We are both hard workers,” he says, being met with a quiet mhm of approval from you. “We are both funny,” a questionable sound escapes your throat at that, “and we are both into cycling.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m into it, I just do it because it’s convenient,” you muse, making the boy agree with you.
“Okay, same. Did I do it right now?”
“I think so,” you nod, grinning to yourself.
“Hit me with the next one, this was a bad question,” Alex complains, making you playfully shove him with your foot. He catches it and tugs you forward, playing with you as you move in your place on the bed– you didn’t know he was so strong before– making you gasp and send him a sharp glare.
“Stop!” you grunt as he tickles the bottom of your foot, trying to escape him. Alex laughs at you, and even though his hands stop the attack, you’re left with your feet in his lap, laying there aimlessly as his hands rest on your ankles, locking in your new position.
“Go on,” he motions for you to continue with his chin, the shit-eating grin never leaving his features. A dimple appears on his cheek, one that you recognise whenever he’s laughing really hard or failing to keep it in, making your heart skip a beat, the memory of it engraving into the back of your eyelids without your permission.
Swallowing down, you swiftly move on.
“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’” you say, voicing even the ‘dot dot dot’, making Alex snicker.
A moment of silence passes, one that’s filled with a thoughtful Hmm by the man in front of you, both of you thinking of your respective answers. His fingers absent-mindedly tap against the bare skin of your ankles, accidentally matching your heartbeat, your teeth chewing on the inside of your cheek.
“You know what? I wish I had someone with whom I could share the mundane things with. Like, I can’t just text anyone hey, I just made lunch or wow I just saw the cutest dog on the street, y’know?”
“Why couldn’t you?” you ask, furrowing your brows at him.
“I don’t wanna be annoying,” he shrugs. “I don’t think any of my friends would appreciate hearing all this random information. But sometimes I just have the urge to share everything, even the boring bits, and it would be nice to have a person that would listen.”
“I wouldn’t say any of that is boring. I think it’s nice when someone experiences something and goes, wow, I should tell this person. I’d be honored to be thought of like that,” you say, daring yourself not to shy away from his direct eye contact, “like, you saw a cute dog on the street and your instant thought was to tell me? That’s amazing, in my opinion.”
“George didn’t appreciate it the last time I spammed him about something like that,” Alex laughs, “it’s like, everyone has their own lives and is busy with their own stuff, so I feel like this boring, mundane stuff doesn’t have to be shared all the time.”
“Well, George is a bad friend, then,” you joke. “He doesn’t appreciate the thought behind it.”
“So you wouldn’t find it annoying if someone texted you in the middle of the night about how much they’re craving the Burger king fries?” he asks, tone of voice light, not really believing.
“Well, I wouldn’t find it annoying. Just odd. Because who the fuck likes Burger king fries? They’re always soggy.”
“Take that back.”
“Never,” you shake your head. “I can listen to any mundane information you want to tell me, but I draw the line at Burger king fries being good. Keep that shit to yourself.”
“I’ll start texting you about it daily just to piss you off, then,” Alex grins, making you sigh.
“Please don’t. Keep it at cute dogs. Actually, take pictures of the dogs you’re talking about so I can see for myself. That’s a way better deal,” you suggest, making Alex smile at you and nod, something about the implication that you can be that person for him hanging in the air.
“Noted. What about you?”
Already knowing the answer even before you read the question out loud, you purse your lips and say it. “I wish I had someone I could share everything with. Kinda like what you said, but for me, I have a bad time talking about my feelings, and I think it stems from me not really trusting people that deeply. And I wish… I wish there was someone in my life that would be patient enough with me to build that trust, and to eventually make me open up again.”
“I’m sorry you feel this way,” Alex says, “but you’re right. Trust, on that level, at least, takes time to build.”
“Of course,” you nod. “But I also feel like people never really ask me about my feelings. Or when they do, they don’t wanna hear the real answer. It’s just… asking to ask, not for the realness of it,” you mumble. In the midst of the honest stare he gives you, there’s a sense of understanding that in a way, this is you opening up.
Somewhere along the way, your brain realized Alex doesn’t ask just because it’s expected of him. You internalized that he is safe, that he cares. Maybe it’s not in the real depthness of it, not in the obvious, vulnerable way, but this is you talking about your feelings.
You have someone like that– or at least, partially. The realization makes you shy away from his gaze. You feel like he can see right through you, like he can see all the broken parts and doesn’t judge them, doesn’t pick them up, but guards you from the world as you hesitantly take them into your own hands and start slowly gluing them back together.
“Maybe more people care than you realize,” Alex says, tone of voice considerate, intimate. “I understand that there must’ve been people before that didn’t, and that’s why your brain tends to think this way, but I hope that you learn to let people in and shut your thoughts down when they try to tell you your friends don’t care.”
You’ve never been talked to like this before. No one has ever seen you and understood your stance. No one has ever voiced that your feelings are valid, even though your thoughts can sometimes get in the way. You never had to tell him anything, yet Alex gets it on a level you were scared to ever show someone.
You nod. You lick your lips, take a deep breath in. “Thank you,” you muse, your voice a little hoarse. You clear your throat, trying to get it back to normal. “I’ll try to remember that.”
EPISODE 8: THE VOICES..!!:!!@
“Hello listeners, hello Y/N,” Alex hums into the microphone after taking a sip of his energy drink, dark eye circles crowning his face. It’s a sight you don’t usually witness with your friend, which makes you a bit worried for him– you know Alex likes his sleep, and you also know he has a good enough sleep schedule to get his beloved sleep.
“Hello, Alex,” you greet, even though you’ve been at his flat for a bit now.
“Welcome to the last…? Episode of our show,” he says, eyeing you when he says the words, getting reassurance in his assumption. Alex only needed 8 episodes to get through his assignment, and you were at the end of yours as well, so really, there was no use in another part being recorded after this one.
“Yeah,” you hum, “kinda bittersweet, if you really think about it. It’s been eight weeks of us doing this every Monday,” you say, a pout appearing on your face.
“It is kind of sad,” he agrees, “but then again, aren’t you happy you’re done with your assignment?”
“I mean, kinda?” you shrug. “But I must admit you’ve made it really enjoyable for me to work on it,” you admit. The words escape you without thinking, almost like sincerity is second nature to you when you’re around Alex– to which he offers you a warm smile, one begging to unravel all the words you have in you left unsaid.
“That definitely goes both ways,” he hums. “Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else. But– before we get too sappy, speaking of assignments,” Alex rambles, not really leaving you a chance to react to his sentiments (which you’re truly happy about, since you think your nonchalant act would falter under his gaze), “how are you hanging on with the school load?”
Winter break is next week, which means you have to hand in all your assignments before you can go home for Christmas and enjoy the holidays (also read as: cry in front of the Christmas tree as you study for the finals waiting for you right after New Year’s). You’d be lying if you said you were enjoying the workload, and you’d also be a filthy liar if you said you were on time with all the deadlines you were given. So, to Alex’s question, you just offer a telling scowl.
“Yeah, not good,” you say, shaking your head. “I have two lab reports due like, yesterday, and I’m not even started on the essay I have to hand in at the end of this week,” you sigh, shaking your head at your poor time management. “You?”
“I’ve been pulling all-nighters for the last week to finish up on everything,” he grunts.
“I can see that,” you point out, examining his tired face. “You should get more sleep, Albono. The dark circles don’t suit you.”
“They really don’t, do they?” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Well, speaking of, I was gonna ask if you wanna stay over after this and work together.”
“Well, first of all, we don’t major in the same thing, so I don’t see how that’s beneficial,” you snicker, “and second of all, I just told you– you need some beauty sleep.”
“I thought mutual support would be enough help for both of us, but okay, I guess,” he acts playfully hurt, averting his gaze from you. “And when we get tired we can nap. It would be like, half-nighter. Sounds better?”
“Actually, no, it sounds fucking terrible.”
“So you hate me?”
“No! I’d just prefer it if we both get some sleep and then we can meet up and study together later,” you offer, watching Alex as he contemplates on your idea.
“I have work after class this week,” he says, tone of voice barely louder than a whisper– a hint at wanting to pursue you, but also desperate truth in his words telling you that not only does he have no other time to work on his school things, he’d also hate to do it alone.
And so you cave in.
Of course you do.
“Fine,” you grunt. “But you get me Monster energy. You know I hate those Red Bulls you keep drinking, they both smell and taste like vomit.”
“I’ll run to the gas station for you,” he says, his expression forming into one of pure relief and gratitude.
“And they say romance is dead.”
“Romance isn’t dead, most men are just assholes.”
“Thank you,” you nod at him, watching as the male tugs his corners up into a grin.
“Well, now that we’re done publicly scheduling a study date, we can move on to the interesting part of the podcast,” Alex says, motioning for you to take your phone into your hand and scroll to the few questions you have left– which you do, all while trying to ignore the almost painful thumping of your heart at the word ‘date’ escaping his mouth in relation to you, even though you know it was unserious.
Clearing your throat and ensuring your voice doesn’t wobble as you speak, you cross your legs in your position on his bed, suddenly too aware of your surroundings– his scent hitting you with force every time you settle a little too deep into his sheets, the comfy hoodie he let you borrow when you shivered in the kitchen as he fetched you water (while complaining about Lando never putting the heating on), the fact that you are so far in his space, everywhere and all at once, and how you never once questioned just how comfortable you fit into it.
And you wish the next question would divert your attention from the sheer fact, but it does just the opposite– it makes you focus on all the details, all the small things that just make your knees weak, that make you think of him during long days and between classes, like friends do, naturally.
“Tell your partner what you like about them,” you read out, cursing the list– couldn’t it be another question about something embarrassing? A casual question just thrown into the wind? “be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.”
“Oh wow,” Alex hums, snickering to himself, “a little ego boost. I like it.”
“Once again, I did not come up with these questions,” you defend yourself, hearing Alex laugh at your little bit.
“You wanna go first?”
You lick your lips, examining his face– as if taking a longer look at him might make the words come out easier, make them jump out of your throat more smoothly. For a second, you contemplate shaking your head and waiting for him to be over with his turn, but you figure that there’s no use pushing back the inevitable, so you nod.
Taking a deep breath in, you purse your lips and then finally start speaking. “I guess… I guess what I like about you the most is just how much of a comforting presence you are. Like, we haven’t known each other for too long, but it feels like we’ve known each other for ages, because you’re so… open about everything, and you share a lot with me, and you have something about you that just makes me feel like I could tell you anything, and you would listen and understand,” you say, the truth just spilling out.
“I also adore your humor and your way with people, but I think those are the obvious ones. I mean, over-all, you’re just very chill, down to earth, easy to adore person, Alex, and I think that’s a gift not a lot of people have,” you mention, watching as the boy locks his gaze with you, something behind his orbs shifting, his cheeks dusting with rose pink.
“Well, thank you,” he hums, “I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before,” he admits, letting out a nervous laugh as he scratches the back of his neck.
“They don’t tell you, ‘cause your ego would be too big,” you joke, trying to diffuse the terribly intimate atmosphere your words managed to create.
“You just said I’m down to earth?”
“Yeah, all because of the people around you. Look at you now– now imagine if we all start complimenting you on a daily basis,” you laugh, watching as the boy shakes his head in disbelief.
“It would only make me feel more appreciated,” he says.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you started your turn now, Alex.”
The male sighs, the grin staying on his face only for a second longer before he continues on with the question, now his turn to spill his guts out.
“Okay, so… what I like about you is how courageous you are– constantly battling what you said you struggle with, and doing it with so much grace. It makes me really proud of you, y’know? But like… I guess also how honest you are. I don’t second guess myself with you, or how you feel about me or things, and I think that’s a really good quality,” he says, catching you off-guard with the compliment. You, too, don’t think anyone’s ever appreciated this quality of yours. People never liked your bluntness or your blatant honesty and often mistook you for being rude, or too up in their business– when in reality, you just wanted to help.
“But I guess it’s the same thing you said for me, in a way I find myself really comfortable with you, because you are just a really caring person. You are really loyal and selfless when it comes to your loved ones, and I feel like they always know you have their back, and that’s wonderful,” he says, nodding his head at you. “Everyone would be blessed to have you in their room,” he finishes, the words hitting you like a truck.
It’s a mere reference to the conversation you had a couple of weeks ago– ‘I don’t think anyone would choose me in a room full of people’ ‘Well, then you aren’t in the right room.’– yet, it’s so much more than that. It’s him recognising your struggles, listening to you, and remembering it– all while showing you that there’s a different way of looking at things, that he sees you in a room full of people, and considers taking the walk over to you.
And the truth is, perhaps you’ve stood behind the doorstep of his room for a while now. And while you’ve been battling the thoughts asking whether anyone– whether he’d choose you out of everyone– the reality of the fact that if he sat in your room, you’d turn to him without hesitating slowly crept up on you, now fully catching up, not leaving you a chance to run away from it anymore.
“Wow,” you say, averting your gaze. Your heart suddenly feels too fragile– a muscle ready to be torn apart, sat naked in his palms. “Okay, sappy.”
“You’re the one to talk,” Alex mumbles, although his eyes don’t meet yours for a while, stuck to anything he can find in his room. He searches through it as if it’s foreign space, not one he’s lived in and memorized completely up to the point of knowing how to operate it blind. You mirror his actions– both of you too shy now to give each other full attention, even though you know how badly you’d want to just look at him and engrave his face into your system forever.
“Didn’t think you had such a way with words, Albono,” you try to joke through it all, feeling the familiar teasing kick to your side from him, an action worth more than a thousand words.
“They call me the modern Shakespeare.”
“Who is them in question?” you ask, snickering to yourself.
“Uhm…” he shrugs, scratching the back of his neck.
“The voices?” you say, earning yourself a deadpan look followed by a fit of laughter that makes your heart jump and your dopamine spike, your lips tugging into the warmest of smiles that you don’t think you could contain, even if you tried.
“Continue on with the segment, or else the voices are gonna tell me to kick you out, or something,” he says, his nose still scrunched up in that very endearing way that you fear lately, making you avert your gaze with the annoying thoughts once again entering your mind.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bite back, but follow his orders.
When your eyes land on the last question, however, the answer to it is ready in your mind before you even have a chance to read it out loud. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?
In that moment, your eyes finally meet with Alex’s. This time, you can’t bring yourself to look away, too enchanted with his siren-like gaze, too focused on everything that makes him him. Your brain flashes with countless memories of you and him in this room across the hall and outside of it, your ears almost hearing the sound of his laughter, your heart squeezing on itself as if you’re living the moments again and again, relishing in the sunshine his arrival to your life has brought.
The answer is clear as day, although you’d never admit it out loud.
Because it’s silly– it’s embarrassing, humiliating, almost theatrically ironic. The one thing you were trying to prove wrong with this assignment has turned out to be true, meaning you failed at everything you thought about, and somehow, it feels like your whole life is shaking in its foundations. And it might sound funny, or like you’re making it a much bigger deal than it is, but the truth is– if you had anything to regret, it would be not telling Alex Albon that somewhere along the way, during those eight episodes, you managed to completely mess up your own assignment and have hopelessly, deeply fallen for him.
EPISODE 9: WINTER BREAK RECAP AND FINAL GOODBYES
A clear of his throat, the low light of his cozy room, a candle lit in the corner of the nightstand. There’s tea waiting for you right next to it, a microphone in your hand, and after a look he sends you that’s met with a reassuring nod, he turns on the recording.
“Hello everyone,” he says, tone of voice familiar, light, “now, I know we said that the last episode would be the last, since we didn’t need any more and Y/N ran out of questions, but we figured… we didn’t wanna just end without a proper goodbye. So, here’s what we call our special winter edition of the pod, recorded during exam season, so you… you can thank us for blessing you in a moment of need, even though we’re absolutely dying over here.”
“I feel like those might be the last words I’ll ever get to say and tonight, I’ll die in my sleep out of stress and exhaustion,” you mumble, shaking your head at the thought of the finals that are awaiting you when you wake up tomorrow, bright and early (although very exhausted. Both physically and mentally).
“Good thing we’re recording this, then,” Alex says, laughing, “so your family and friends know what your last words were.”
“Exactly,” you hum, “make sure to send it to them through email.”
“I’ll forward the link,” Alex nods. “Will your mum be able to work out Soundcloud?”
“I don’t think so,” you say, a hint of doubt in your voice. “Maybe try to send it as an audio file.”
Alex looks like he is seriously thinking about it for a moment, eyes squinted and the microphone once more pressed deep into his cheek, before he sighs and shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’ll figure it out.”
“Right,” you nod, laughing. “Well, anyway, since we have no questions prepared for today, let’s just start leisurely… How did your winter break go?”
“Oh, right. Let me start off by saying happy new year everyone,” Alex says, making a pause for you to join in and wish the listeners as well, “we didn’t think of wishing you all merry Christmas before we went on break, ‘cause we’re stupid, but I hope you all had amazing Christmas and got lots of amazing gifts, because we all know that’s what the holidays are really about.”
“Did you get lots of amazing gifts, Alex?” you ask, a grin already tugging on your face.
“I did,” he nods, not really paying attention to your suspicious look, completely ignoring what you’re trying to suggest he mentions. “I got socks, and I got a book– Subtle art of not giving a fuck, was it? My sister gave it to me. Uh… I also got a sweater and some lego. What about you?” he asks, smiling at you in irony– of course he knows what he’s doing.
“That’s all you got?” you ask, faking innocence.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Great, okay, well,” you shrug, trying to not seem offended at the fact that he doesn’t wanna tell anyone what you gave him for Christmas– which, just for the record, you believe was the greatest, most thoughtful gift Alex Albon has received in years. “Should I say mine then, or–”
“Okay, no, I’m just playing with you,” Alex says, nudging you with his foot, his hand squeezing on the flesh of your ankle in reassurance. “Dear listeners, Y/N…” he shakes his head in disbelief, an honest, warm grin playing with his features. “You wouldn’t believe it. My dear co-host here, she remembered me rambling all about how I wish I could’ve gone karting again, and how fun it was when I was younger, so she hit up all my friends– yes, even George Russell from back home, the stalker she is– and she brought them all to the indoor karting arena just like, 40? 45 minutes away from the campus?”
“Like, 42 I’d say.”
“Yeah, so she brought them all up here and set up a race. Paid for everything and everyone too– insane. Batshit crazy. I had so much fun.”
“Yeah?” you ask, beaming in your glory.
“I did. I loved it, like– I didn’t even win, by the way. I was second, and Y/N was last–”
“Hey!”
“And she was sulking so hard, being like ‘I paid for all this shit and I don’t even get a podium?” Alex imitates your voice, high-pitched and a little scratchy. “But no, to be honest, I’d be mad angry too. Like, you even got us trophies and everything, that’s crazy.”
“It took so long to plan, you can’t even imagine…” you sigh, recalling the endless texts in secret group chats, online orders and arrangements with people you haven’t even met before, but heard of from Alex’s talking.
“No, it was, seriously… I loved it. Best gift I’ve ever gotten, honestly. Thank you,” he says, reaching over and shuffling in his sheets, arms stretched out to accommodate you in a warm hug. His arms around you feel familiar, they feel safe– like you’ve made a home in his hold, deemed it your own place and no one else's. The hug reminds you of the one he shared with you after he won second place in the race, childlike joy and happiness reeking off his shaking body.
“You’re welcome,” you mumble, dragging a hand along his back. “Anything for my podcast co-host,” you half-joke, because in the back of your mind, you know there’s reality behind your claims. Maybe you would do anything for Alex Albon, if it was in your competence.
“But now I feel shitty because I got you such a bad gift,” he pouts after he finally breaks away from you, his cheeks rosy and expression full of regret.
“Why? I loved it,” you coo, remembering the bundle of things he got you– a simple gift-box containing chamomile tea (‘Because you always drink it at mine and you said it’s your favorite’), fuzzy socks with sausage dogs on them (‘Because you’re always cold and love sausage dogs.’ ‘How’d you know that?’ ‘They’re your lockscreen, Y/N.), a personalized build-a-bear that screams in Alex’s voice when you squeeze it (‘Just thought it would be funny…’), a mug that reads ‘Co-host of the #1 Podcast in the UK (don’t fact-check it)’, and a friendship bracelet he made himself (‘Because I know you’re sappy like that.’).
And you’re being serious– you did love it. It was made of all the smallest fragments of your friendship, crafted with care and attention. Sometimes, you accidentally sit on the bear and it screams, which scares you, but then makes you topple over with laughter– a sign of your mutual sense of humor that you’ve relied on so much over the past episodes of your podcast. The bracelet doesn’t come off your arm even when you shower and you drink the tea when you want to calm down– every single thing he’s gifted you went to good use, just a sign of how much your friend really managed to get to know you over the last couple of months.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No,” you shake your head, “I’m being real. Don’t downplay yourself, Albono.”
“Well, alright,” he says, sighing. “I’ll have to step up my game next year, though.”
“I mean, I don’t think you can outdo me, but sure.”
“I would kick you, but the truth is, I unfortunately agree with you, y’know?” Alex snickers, shaking his head at you. “Like, what do I do? Send you to space?”
“Oh, I’d hate that.”
“Well, you ruined the only possible thing that’s better than this, thank you very much, Y/N...”
“You’re saying it like you won the lottery,” you laugh. “Maybe you’re just easy to please.”
“It felt like I won the lottery,” he says, laughing in disbelief. “You don’t even know– you can’t even– fuck it, you wouldn’t understand. Anyways, can we now talk about what your mysterious assignment was?” he asks, cutting off his own train of thought, making you almost choke on your own spit at the curiosity.
Your breathing hitches, your eyebrows shooting up close to your hairline. The truth is, you should’ve expected Alex to ask– he was always very curious to know about your major and what you’re doing in your everyday life, and this was no different. Somehow, in your deepest fantasies, however, you imagined outrunning this conversation. You always desired to never have it, to never have to talk about it, even though you brought yourself into this in the first place and you have no one else to blame.
Still, you take a sip of your tea, nose filling with cinnamon. Swallowing down, you nod, tone of voice lighter than you’d expect it to come out. “Sure. Yeah.”
“So?” he asks, expecting. “What was it on? What was it about? Did you find out anything…? Was this all deep psychoanalysis of me, or…?”
The questions make you chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “No, not at all…” you snicker. “It was actually on the replication crisis,” you say, eyeing Alex as he nods at you, waiting for a proper explanation. “So, in like the 2010s, a lot of psychological data were proven to be false, or better said– couldn’t be replicated. So like, that means the scientists messed with the data, or didn’t do the stats right, or just, y’know, there used to be– and still is, to be fair– a big publication bias, so they just pretended their research went a certain way and got certain results, even though it didn’t. And people tried to replicate those, and found out they couldn’t get the same data and results, eventually finding out most of it was heavily unreliable.”
“Right.”
“So, our assignment was basically based on that, in which we had to choose a certain significant research and try to replicate the results to the best of our abilities with the resources available to us. Which, yeah, it won’t be the same as doing it in a lab, or like, with professionals, or anything, but it still kind of revolves around the same concept…”
“Mhm,” Alex nods, “so, what did you choose?”
“So,” you nervously clear your throat, scratching your neck, “in 1997, a man named Arthur Aron made an experiment on generating interpersonal closeness..? I probably sound insane.”
“No, go on,” Alex reassures you, his eye contact suddenly feeling over-bearing.
“So,” you sigh, dreading the conversation. “He made this experiment where he wrote down 36 questions that are meant to fabricate interpersonal closeness. Basically, they get more and more intimate– as I’m sure you’ve noticed– which generates a strong mutual connection,” you finish explaining.
“Right,” he nods. He waits, knowing there’s more to fill the silence on your end.
“Uhm… I was scared you’d know it, but I don’t think you’ve caught on– it’s kind of a famous one, this experiment. They often call it 36 questions to fall in love,” you say, your voice weavering, sweat suddenly forming in beads at your upper lip, making you hesitantly wipe it off with the back of your hand.
“Oh,” Alex lets out, tone of voice a mix of surprise and something else you can’t quite put your finger on.
“Yeah.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence shared between the two of you, only filled by the sounds of you breathing. You don’t dare to meet his eye. You’re sure that whatever you two shared, whatever bond you managed to create, is now gone. Lost in the wind– because realistically, what were you thinking?
In your defense, you didn’t expect to fall for Alex. You didn’t expect to even get close to him– that’s the main issue. You tried hard to prove to everyone that his experiment is bullshit, that the data can’t be replicated, and here you are– a fool, falling for your own trap. And now, Alex must think you’re a psychopath– that you tried to make him fall for you, that you tried to trip him into this.
You open your mouth, ready to tell him your defense, ready to prove to him that you’re not a total weirdo, even though your confession might prove otherwise– when his hesitant words cut through the space, making you feel like you were just sat in the electric chair, a current washing over you.
“Did it work, then? Did you replicate it?”
“Well, obviously no,” you say, almost a little too quick.
Alex hums, a sound you can’t quite place, can’t quite explain to yourself. For a moment, you wish you could see his face– even though you’re too scared to face him, opting to just stare at the ceiling instead– to try to read it, to see in between the lines. Maybe you could sense what he was thinking, what he was feeling if you’d look into his eyes. Maybe you know him well enough to.
“So you’re saying we didn’t fall in love?” he says, almost tentatively.
“Well, no. ‘Cause it’s bullshit. The experiment, it’s bullshit. You can’t just make people fall in love by asking 36 simple questions,” you say, trying to get out of the conversation. For a moment, you believed your claims– it seemed far too easy. Far too obvious. You deemed it bullshit– it couldn’t have been true.
But you lived it. You lived through it, experienced it. Because the truth is, it’s way more than just the 36 questions– it’s also the intimacy it creates. The sincerity you facilitate.
“Do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe it could work, or do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe it could work on us?” Alex asks, stealing the oxygen out of your lungs.
“I– Alex–”
“Do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe in it, or do you just not believe anyone could fall in love with you?” he doubles down, his words having the same impact as a punch to your gut would, leaving you speechless and chewing on your bottom lip.
You finally dare to look at him. His face is almost blank, but his eyes are soaring with something distant, yet strong enough to take away your breath and all the words from the tip of your tongue. “You don’t know what–”
“Because, yeah, on a certain degree, I agree with you,” Alex starts, offering you a gentle look, checking in with your current state. “Like, of course it’s not gonna be universal. I don’t think it’s gonna work on everyone, like, every single random pairing you could take from the street. But as you said, it promotes intimacy and sincerity, and I don’t think you could build that trust with just anyone.”
You swallow down, nodding.
“But that being said, I think… I think it works on certain people. I’m not saying they lead to love, but they definitely help to that. So like, sure, it may be bullshit to some, but– I mean– I think I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work here,” he says, his tone a little hesitant, his lips lacking the usual playful smile, “on me, I mean.”
His words reach your ears, but you’re not quite certain they reach your brain. For a moment, you just stare at him– taking him fully in, trying to make sense of it all.
You shake your head. “No.”
“No?” he asks, dumbfounded.
“No–”
“I mean– fuck,” he says, snickering. He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I… Well, it’s fine if you don’t feel the same. Just– just thought I’d tell you true info, so you have it right in your report–”
“Wait– Alex–”
“Maybe we can cut this part out of the episode, I don’t need my humiliation ritual to be public–”
“Oh my god, Alex, shut up for a sec,” you sigh, finally getting back a taste of the old Alex you know– the one that cracks jokes and makes you laugh, the one that doesn’t take anything too seriously– and it comforts you, bringing you back to your senses. “Jesus, I– I just didn’t expect to hear that. I– It’s… I thought you were gonna think I’m crazy and this whole thing was insane and I tried to trap you, or something–”
“Trap me?” he laughs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re saying it like you tried to trick me. And look, I know I’m handsome, but I also know that this… it was all real. A random 90s experiment doesn’t change any of it in my eyes.”
“Every time you call yourself handsome, I regret most of my life choices.”
“Bet you don’t regret doing the podcast with me,” he smiles cheekily, bringing back the usual warmth to your chest.
How could you have ever feared telling him?
This is Alex, after all. The first friend you made at university. The boy that brought you to his circle just because he knew you were lonely. Alex, your co-host that always intently listened and asked questions, the man that made you feel seen and always had something to say to your concerns and deepest doubts. Everything with him has been easy, like falling asleep and experiencing your most exciting dream. You fell for him slowly, then suddenly, all at once– and none of it has ever proved to be difficult, so why did you expect this conversation to go any different?
“Eh, someone had to do it,” you joke.
You doubt any of this is staying in the episode– not after Alex throws the microphone to the far end of the bed and launches himself at you, attacking you with tickles. The giggles escaping you sound somewhere between joyful and like you’re dying, your arms faintly trying to get the male off so you can breathe.
His scent fills your nose, unarming you, the softness of his hair brushing against your cheek as he works his fingers on your lower stomach, tears filling your eyes. “Get off, Albon! You’re heavy!”
“Take back what you said, then!”
“Never.”
“Okay,” he shrugs, only further strengthening his attack on you. Somehow, you manage to run your fingertips over the exposed skin off his stomach, where his shirt has raised up, making his composure falter enough for you to roll the both of you over and hold his arms above his head, encapsulated in a way that lets you know he surrendered, even though he would be able to get out of your hold with no issue, if he dared to try.
He is left breathless under you, eyes glimmering like the night sky, blown-out like last week’s fireworks. His lips are still outstretched in a soft grin, one you’d now call lovesick, and suddenly, you’re hit with the realization that’s bigger than you, exploding all around the room– you don’t know how you got so lucky.
“So you admit the old guy was right? What was his name again…”
“Aron,” you mumble, snickering.
“Aron’t you in love with me?” he asks, his laughter at his own joke almost swallowing the last words that come out of his mouth before you slap a hand over his lips, not wanting to hear more of his terrifying puns.
Not in a situation like this. “Oh, shut up.”
Alex mutters against your skin, glistening lips brushing against the inside of your palm. It’s an old one, but it does the job: “Make me,” he teases, having you break out into a grin.
He doesn’t have to ask you twice.
Now, you’re sure the part of the podcast where you lean in and capture his lips with yours– something you’ve wanted to do every time he rambled for too long in the past few episodes– is going to be cut out of the podcast. You’re also sure that it won’t ever be cut out of your memory.
That, and all the things you’ve shared– an experiment, or not.
There will be much more experimenting to be done now– you hate how Alex’s inner voice has somehow infiltrated your mind.
You battle it away, focusing on the way he feels when he shifts under you, his palms covering your hips, steadying you in place. He holds you like you belong there, like there’s nowhere you’d rather be. And you believe him–
because you don’t have it in you to doubt him.
And it’s funny– how even after going to parties together, hanging out with mutual friends and having lunches at the cafeteria during busy school days– from the beginning, everything major always started here, in the comfort of his room, right across the hall.
Summary: you and oscar have been ballet rivals for as long as you can remember; you hate him, he hates you but you both happen to get cast as the lead roles in romeo and juliet …
Author’s note: im so swamped with assignments rn i barely even had time to make this smau so no written fics for now sorry !
even if you know nothing about ballet pleaseeee watch THIS pas de deux from romeo and juliet ! it’s one of my favs plus it gives you an idea of what oscar & reader are working on
youruser
Liked by lando, yourbsf, royalballetandopera and others
youruser rehearsals rehearsals rehearsals !
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yourbff break a leg (literally)
youruser kys
user1 good luck
lilymhe you’re def getting the part!!! #thebest
youruser thank you babe
oscarpiastri she won’t hope this helps
balletfriend you got this TRUST
lando i hope you get juliet! …and oscar gets romeo 🥰
oscarpiastri i’d rather choke
youruser i’d rather gouge my eyes out… with a fucking fork
oscarpiastri
Liked by lando, charles_leclerc, yourbsf, royalballetandopera and others
oscarpiastri thrilled to be cast as the lead for royalballetandopera’s production of “Romeo and Juliet” this season. hard work pays off.
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logansargeant congrats mate that’s mega
lando AND YN GOT JULIET THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE
yourbsf our ship is sailing
youruser yourbsf ??????
oscarpiastri yourbsf ??????
youruser must’ve been a very generous casting committee.
oscarpiastri you were literally selected by the same fucking committee
youruser wait…
oscarpiastri whatever… you’ll thank them when you don’t have to trust anyone else to lift you
lando 👀
royalballetandopera our pleasure to have you
royalballetandopera
Liked by oscarpiastri, youruser, yourbsf, logansargeant and others
royalballetandopera The Royal Ballet welcomes our newest duo oscarpiastri and youruser as the leads in this season’s Romeo & Juliet! ✨Rehearsals have begun. We can’t wait to see the chemistry unfold on stage. 🩰❤️ #RomeoAndJuliet #RoyalBallet #NewSeason
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yourbsf enemies to lovers
lando even the official royal ballet account ships it
oscarpiastri what chemistry… we were literally fighting the entire time
youruser and you were wrong btw
oscarpiastri you literally hit me with your leg
youruser that was intentional
alex_albon who knew oscar could be so romantic 🥹
oscarpiastri you’re just projecting
user2 omg the tension is real 😭 they’re totally gonna fall in love
lando i bet you they already are
youruser tf ?
user3 these two are giving romeo and juliet but like… if juliet threatened to kill him during warmups
youruser inaccurate, i threatened him after warmups 💋
oscarpiastri can confirm unfortunately
youruser
Liked by oscarpiastri, yourbsf, lando, royalballetandopera and others
youruser i can’t believe he hasn’t dropped me yet
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oscarpiastri i seriously can’t believe you drink black coffee trying to be mysterious and shit
youruser you literally begged for OAT MILK in your MATCHA
lando YOU WENT ON A COFFEE DATE????
user4 rivals sharing coffee is craaaazy
yourbsf they’ll be soon sharing more than coffee … 😏
oscarpiastri yourbsf delete this
youruser oscarpiastri no
oscarpiastri
Liked by youruser, alexandrasaintmleux, lando, yourbsf, royalballetandopera and others
oscarpiastri someone said we’re getting along now… don’t spread rumours
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youruser you took a picture of me sleeping?? stalker much…
oscarpiastri documentation for HR
user5 they bicker all the time but look like a couple
yourbsf that’s why they’re meant to be
user5 frrrr
youruser i hate everyone in these comments
oscarpiastri same tbh
youruser
Liked by nicolepiastri, loganseargent, kimi.antonelli, royalballetandopera and others
youruser happy birthday to my least favorite pas de deux partner (yes i baked it no you can’t complain)
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oscarpiastri it’s actually good. i’m concerned.
youruser don’t get used to it.
nicolepiastri this is so domesticated of you
oscarpiastri MOM????
lando way to go mrs piastri !!!
royalballetandopera true love in a bday cake 🎂
oscarpiastri liked this comment
youruser blocked.
royalballetandopera
Liked by youruser, oscarpiastri, lando, olliebearman and others
royalballetandopera Rehearsals are coming to an end. Witness the new generation take on the timeless tragedy. (+ some behind the scenes)
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lando OH DONT PLAY WITH ME RN!!! that last photo!!!!!!!!!!!!!
yourbsf the lovebirds have some explaining to do
youruser they had to chose THE ONE photo i look bad in
oscarpiastri i don’t think you could ever look bad in a photo
youruser oh
hattiepiastri imagine getting paid to spend time with your crush
oscarpiastri ????????????
user6 did they not use to argue all the time?
yourbsf they’ve been arguing since age 8 it’s long story tbh
royalballetandopera love manifests in mysterious ways ❤️
royalballetandopera
Liked by youruser, yourbsf, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri and others
royalballetandopera A breathtaking debut. Congratulations to our new Romeo & Juliet - oscarpiastri & youruser
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youruser thanks oscarpiastri for not dropping me 😇
oscarpiastri you’re welcome mostly because there were witnesses
lando SHE HUGGED HIM GUYS SHE HUGGED HIM
yourbsf EEK I FEEL LIKE A PROUD MOTHER
nicolepiastri chemistry off the charts
oscarpiastri and youruser liked this comment
royalballetandopera we’ll be accepting fanfiction submissions shortly
oscarpiastri
♫ Lover, You Should’ve Come Over — Jeff Buckley
Liked by youruser, lando, yourbsf, hattiepiastri, royalballetandopera and others
Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too
Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays
The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.
And then you walk in.
“Is that-”
“No way.”
“Schumacher?”
You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.
Christian sees you first.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.
You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”
“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”
“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”
Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”
“Flattering.”
You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.
And then-
“Y/N?”
His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.
He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.
“Max, we’re still-”
“Later.”
He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.
You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.
“Hey yourself,” you say.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.
And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.
“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”
He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.
“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”
He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”
“Debatable.”
He grins. “Liar.”
And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.
You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”
That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.
“She called him Uncle Jos.”
“Did she just-”
“Holy shit.”
He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.
“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.
“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.
“You’re your father’s daughter.”
You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”
Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.
“Good to have you back.”
Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.
“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.
“You were already soft,” you reply.
He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.
Because you do.
“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”
“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”
“Close enough,” Max says.
“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.
You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”
“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”
“Max.”
“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”
You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”
“We were always the main act, anyway.”
It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.
And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.
A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”
“Perfect,” you say.
Max doesn’t move.
“Max,” Christian warns.
“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.
You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”
“Try and stop me.”
And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.
And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.
Phones are out. Whispers spiral.
Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.
Max Verstappen is in love.
You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.
“You used to like that about me.”
You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”
And Max?
He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.
***
When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”
He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.
“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”
“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.
“You sound like my dad.”
Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”
You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”
“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”
You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
“I’ll fix that.”
“You’re not a sleep aid.”
He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”
You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.
“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.
Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”
“In your apartment.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”
You tilt your head. “Do I?”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”
You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”
“You didn’t argue.”
“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”
He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”
You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.
“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.
“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”
Oh.
The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.
***
You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.
Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.
Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.
“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
“I’m not crying,” you snap.
“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”
Then he takes your hand.
And doesn’t let go.
He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.
“She’s fine,” Jos said.
But Michael just smiled.
“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”
***
Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.
“That’s why you left the box?”
He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”
You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.
“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”
“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”
“Next to your helmets?”
He nods. “Next to your letters.”
Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”
Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”
“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”
“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”
You do. God, you do.
***
Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.
You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.
Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.
“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.
You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re not serious.”
He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”
Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.
“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”
***
Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”
Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”
“What?”
“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”
You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.
“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”
You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You were twelve.”
“Still could’ve scared you off.”
You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”
You do.
You really, really do.
***
Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.
Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”
You glance at him. “Who?”
“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”
You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”
“Because I let them see it.”
You frown. “Do you regret that?”
Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”
Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”
You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.
“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”
He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”
“Let them.”
“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”
You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”
“I want to.”
“You do.”
He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”
You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”
***
You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.
The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.
“You’ve always been mine.”
And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.
***
Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.
But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.
Not to Lando, at least.
He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.
“Wait, no fucking way.”
Oscar glances at him. “What?”
Lando squints.
“No way.”
At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.
But then he sees you.
You’re laughing.
Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.
And Max-
Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.
“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”
Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”
Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.
Lando keeps staring.
“Are they-”
“Looks like.”
“When did-”
Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”
He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.
Max, being gentle.
“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.
Oscar blinks. “Why?”
“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”
And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.
***
You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.
“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.
Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”
You look up, grinning. “Hey.”
Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!
“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.
Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And you’re touching her. In public.”
“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”
Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”
“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.
“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”
Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.
Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”
“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.
“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.
“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.
Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”
Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.
“When did this happen?”
You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”
Lando blinks. “Letters?”
“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.
“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”
“Every week,” you say.
“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.
“And you kept them?”
Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”
Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”
“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”
Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”
A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.
Then-
“Wait. Does Jos know?”
“Of course he knows,” Max says.
Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”
You sip your wine.
“Jos adores her,” Max says.
And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.
Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.
“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.
Lando drops his fork.
“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.
“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”
“Perfectly,” Max replies.
Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.
Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.
Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”
***
After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.
“You okay?” He asks.
You glance up. “More than.”
“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”
You smile. “It was kind of funny.”
He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”
His voice is low. Serious.
“Especially that part.”
You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”
“Always have been.”
The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.
And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.
***
It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.
One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.
Jos Verstappen.
Yuki stills.
“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”
There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.
But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”
Yuki blinks. A bet?
“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”
Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”
There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”
Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.
“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.
Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.
“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”
There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”
Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.
Ten.
Ten years old.
***
It’s impossible to unhear.
That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.
Except … not.
Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.
And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.
“Give me five.”
The room stills.
The engineer frowns. “You want-”
“Five minutes.”
“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”
Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.
Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.
He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.
“Hey. Did you eat?”
There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.
“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”
“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.
“I’m working.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”
“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”
Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.
Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”
“You are such a-”
“Did. You. Drink.”
You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”
There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”
Yuki practically blacks out.
***
When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.
Except Yuki.
He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.
Then, “So … ring pop?”
Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.
“Where did you hear that?”
Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”
Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
“She still has it,” he mutters.
“No way.”
“In a box.”
“Oh my God, Max.”
Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”
Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”
Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”
***
Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.
He always does.
“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.
You give him a look. “You checked?”
“I check everything.”
He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.
“I had coffee,” you offer.
“Not food.”
“Coffee is made of beans.”
“Y/N.”
You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”
Max smirks. “About that …”
You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. He just overheard something.”
“Max.”
He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”
“Define fine.”
“He found out about the ring pop.”
Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”
“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”
“Oh my God.”
Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”
You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.
You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.
“You have kept it.”
He nods, solemn. “Every day.”
***
Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Yuki sidles up next to him.
“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.
Jos glances at him.
“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.
Then he smiles.
Again.
Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”
***
The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.
Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.
He’s not moving.
“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”
GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.
“Talk to me, Max.”
Nothing.
Then-
“I’m fine.”
The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.
“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”
You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.
***
The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.
He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.
And he’s angry.
“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”
“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”
“I said I’m fine-”
“Max.”
Your voice.
Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.
He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.
“Schatje.”
You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.
You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.
“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.
“I don’t want-”
“It’s not about what you want right now.”
He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”
“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”
He opens his eyes again, searching yours.
“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”
You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”
The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.
Max doesn’t argue again.
GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.
“That was witchcraft.”
You shrug. “It’s just Max.”
“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”
You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”
***
Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.
You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.
He stops just behind you.
“Is he hurt?” He asks.
“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”
Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.
“You got him to agree to scans?”
You nod. “He was being Max.”
“That sounds right.”
GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.
Jos Verstappen. Smiling.
Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.
You rise. “All clear?”
“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”
You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”
Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”
Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”
Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”
“You’ll get it tomorrow.”
Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”
Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”
Everyone in the room hears it.
GP actually drops his cup.
**
Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.
“It’s not tight, is it?”
“No.”
“You’ll tell me if it is?”
“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”
You smile. “True.”
Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”
You nod. “Let them.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”
“You were being impossible.”
“You love it.”
You grin. “I do.”
***
Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.
Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.
And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.
***
Max is late.
Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.
The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.
The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.
You weren’t expecting the letter.
It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.
Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.
But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.
When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.
Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.
And read.
March 5th, 2014
Y/N,
I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.
You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.
You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.
I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.
Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.
Your Max
***
By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.
The kind that were never just about the letter.
***
Max finds you like that.
The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.
When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.
And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.
“Hey-”
He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.
“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”
You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.
He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.
His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.
You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.
Then he looks back at you.
“You found this?”
You nod. “It was in the book.”
He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.
“You kept it,” you whisper.
“Of course I did.”
“I didn’t know-”
“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”
You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.
“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”
Your breath hitches.
“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”
You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”
He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”
A pause. Then-
“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”
You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”
He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.
“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”
Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.
“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”
He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”
You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”
“The letter?”
“Yeah.”
He holds your gaze, unwavering.
“I still mean it.”
You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”
“And I drive like I used to.”
“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”
He grins. “Because you’re here.”
“Because I’m home.”
***
Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.
“I want it close,” he says.
You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”
Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:
“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”
You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”
He smiles.
“Deal.”
***
You don’t notice it right away.
The photo.
You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.
Once.
Twice.
Then nonstop.
Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”
You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.
It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:
So … it’s out.
Your stomach twists.
“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.
You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.
A photo.
Of you.
And Max.
It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.
He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.
It’s not yours anymore.
The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?
Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.
You murmur, “Max …“
He doesn’t speak.
You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.
Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.
That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.
His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.
Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?
Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”
Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.
“Max …“
“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”
You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”
He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”
***
You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.
But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.
By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”
Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.
You reply. I’m sorry.
His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
You almost cry again.
***
But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.
You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”
“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.
Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.
Max raises a brow. “What about him?”
“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”
You frown, inching closer to see.
The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:
@josverstappen7 About time.
There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.
Then-
Max snorts. Actually snorts.
You blink. “He what?”
“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”
Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.
“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.
You blink. “He’s always liked me.”
“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”
***
The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.
Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.
But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.
***
You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.
The moment.
The question.
The quote that breaks the internet again.
Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.
And then-
A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.
“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”
There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.
Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.
He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.
“She’s not new.”
A pause.
“She’s always been there.”
***
When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.
You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.
The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.
He just tells the truth.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
***
You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.
He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.
“You saw it?”
You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”
“I meant it.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.
“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.
“Let them.”
You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”
“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”
You press your forehead to his.
“They’re going to write stories.”
“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.
***
On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.
Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.
You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.
“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.
You grin. “Then be nice to me.”
“I’m nice to you every morning.”
You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”
“That’s foreplay.”
You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.
And this time, you don’t care who hears it.
***
The drive is quiet.
Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.
Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.
He probably has.
You definitely have.
You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.
Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.
But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.
“I’m nervous,” you say softly.
“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.
You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
You glance over at him. “Do you?”
Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”
A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.
He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”
You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”
“He knows.”
“Max-”
“He always knew.”
***
The estate hasn’t changed much.
The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.
You hesitate before getting out.
He doesn’t rush you.
Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.
***
Your mother meets you at the door.
She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.
Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.
He hugs back.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.
Max only nods.
She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”
***
You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)
The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.
And then, you see him.
He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.
His eyes are open. Alert.
Your breath catches.
Max is silent beside you.
You step forward first.
“Hi, Papa.”
His eyes flick to yours.
Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”
Max takes a slow step closer.
Michael’s gaze moves to him.
There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.
Just … calm recognition.
As if he knew you were coming all along.
“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”
There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.
You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”
He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.
But his hands are warm.
You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.
“I missed you.”
Max kneels beside you.
He doesn’t say much at first.
Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.
Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”
There’s a pause.
“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”
You let out a breath that trembles.
Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”
Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.
Still no words.
But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.
You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.
“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”
You choke on a sob.
Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.
You don’t resist.
You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”
He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”
“He doesn’t even …“
“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”
You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.
And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:
“I love you.”
Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”
Michael’s hand twitches.
You freeze.
Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.
Max sees it too.
His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”
***
You stay in the garden for hours.
Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.
Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.
You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.
You don’t ask what he said.
Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.
You press a final kiss to his cheek.
Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.
The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.
“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad we came.”
“I am too.”
You pause.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.
“You were all I ever imagined.”
***
Victoria doesn’t knock.
She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”
But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.
It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.
And then stops dead in the hallway.
Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.
She recognizes you instantly.
As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.
The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.
You.
Y/N Schumacher.
And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.
Victoria blinks.
Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.
Because it looks like he’s home.
She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.
“Hey, Vic.”
You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.
“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”
“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”
“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.
Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.
“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.
“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.
You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”
He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”
Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.
Max is … soft.
Not weak. Never that.
But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.
She pulls out a stool at the counter.
“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”
Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”
You blink. “You what?”
Victoria smirks. “You what?”
Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”
“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”
He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”
You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.
Victoria watches with something like awe.
“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”
“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.
“You did. Like the noise stopped.”
He doesn’t argue.
You glance at him, puzzled.
Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”
“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”
You go quiet.
He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.
Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”
Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”
You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”
“I built you a desk,” Max adds.
Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”
“I made GP help.”
You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”
“They were wrong,” Max mutters.
Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.
“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”
You glance at him.
Max is already looking at you.
“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”
You press your lips together.
He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.
Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”
Max smiles. “I know.”
But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.
You’ve been through everything.
Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.
But this?
This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.
Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.
OP81 The Hunger Games AU , district 2!oscar x district 12!reader , platonic IH6 & AA23 , READ PART 2 HERE
➷ not proofread !
"Here's some advice. Stay alive."
To say you hate the Capitol would be an understatement. You want it to burn.
Ever since you could remember yourself, you have fantasized about watching those insufferable, privileged fuckers die a slow, agonizing death just like the ones they so enjoy watching on their TVs every year. You have dreamed about watching those ridiculously expensive and weirdly shaped buildings fall to the ground.
But that, unfortunately, was impossible. Except if...
“Get ready we're leaving soon”
You snap back to reality. Isack.
“You look like you want to kill someone.” He says it like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Aren't I always?” you laugh softly, rolling your eyes.
The nature is so peaceful you wished you could lay on the grass forever and just listen to the calming chirp of the birds. It's almost funny how there's so much beauty in the outer part of the fence while on the other side people are either starving or dying in the coal mines.
You sit for a moment longer just to hear the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
“You should feel lucky you know,” Isack pleads. “It's your last year in this hell.”
You sigh frustratedly yet softly. “I'm anything but lucky Hadjar. With all the extra rations I took, I have high chances of getting picked. And besides, just because I won't have a chance of getting reapped next year does not mean I won't be concerned to death about you. Do you think Alex has, even for a second, stopped worrying about us?”
“Yeah, you're right I'm sorry.” He quickly apologizes as you two get up to start heading back to the fence and in District 12.
Sneaking out the fence was the only way you could truly be yourself, away from the Peacekeepers, away from the poverty and away of the terrifying memories.
Isack and Alex are a bit hesitant and so they rarely joined. You don’t blame them, it was risky. However, you like the way your whole body is on fire every time you break away; being undaunted is in your nature.
As soon as you get back, Alex grabs your arm and pulls you aside, signaling Isack to leave you two alone.
“Don't do anything stupid today”
You don’t need to ask for a clarification. You know what he means. Don't volunteer.
As much as you wanted to, you could never have the guts. Not for something like this.
You get ready for the Reaping. Reaping number eighty one.
Everything is depressing— lot more than usual that is. Parents and children crying in each others arms surrounded by the coal dust. It is laughable how these people have to get all dolled up, wear the best pieces of fabric they own, just so they can send a teenager away to their death.
You told yourself you weren't scared, that this didn't matter anymore. Nevertheless, you find yourself wondering how many times your name was in that bowl, you calculate the chances of getting picked or the chances of making it through this last year alive.
You dig your nails in your bicep hard enough that you almost bleed.
The screeching sound of the microphone snaps you out of your thoughts immediately.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” an absurdly excited woman greets. “Happy 81st annual Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor. Before we begin allow me to introduced one of District 12's previous victors or uhm i should say victor.”
You stop listening after that. It doesn't matter, you've heard this pre-rehearsed speech every year of your life.
“And now,” the weirdly dressed lady announces, “let's get started. Ladies first!”
As she makes her way to the Reaping bowl the only sound that can be heard is the one of her heels against the wooden stage. You sigh and prepare yourself to step out of the eligible reaping area and never look back once this is over.
“And for the female tribute we have,” she drags out the last word as she unfolds the small piece of paper in her hands.
She calls a name. But it's not just a name, it's your name.
“This is your last chance to say goodbye to your families.”
You scoff. You didn't have a family to bid farewell, not anymore at least.
As the male tribute's family sobs, you awkwardly sit by yourself in the corner until your eyes glance up from the ground and meet Alex and Isack.
“You fucker,” Isack cries out as he hugs you. Although physical affection is not really your thing you hug him back tightly. How could you not?
Alex stands still and completely shocked. “I didn't do anything stupid,” you recall back to his warning and before you can finish your sentence he is hugging you too.
“I guess this is goodbye”
“Don't say that! You.. you could win! Like actually! You know how to hunt and you are an outstanding shooter! Please...” your younger friend begs.
Alex doesn't say anything. He knows. Technically you could win but being from District 12 is not working in your favor. The Capitol was going to hate you and your smug smirk.
“I love you guys. Don't miss me too much.”
Earlier in district 2...
“I volunteer as tribute,” Oscar announces calmly. He had been preparing his whole life for this. A Career tribute.
In District 2, although technically against the rules, children were trained to prepare for the combat and challenges in the arena. It was sort of like a life mission for those who were deemed capable enough.
He’d been raised to be the face the Capitol wanted; he learned to appear eager, lethal, photogenic. He learned to smile with one part of his mouth and keep the other part cold.
When they’d filmed his volunteer declaration earlier that day, the crowd roared. Cameras zoomed in on his calm expression, on the line of his jaw, on the clean way he said the words. The Capitol ate it up. He wanted to vomit.
Later that evening he watches the mandatory Reaping screenings, his jaw tightening at every one. When the camera shows District 12 tonight, he hardly breathes when he sees you. A sharp little tilt of the head, eyes like someone who’d already worked out how to burn something down with a look. Hatred, carefully folded and ready. He knew that look. He’d practiced against that look. He had a strange, heavy thought settle in his chest: you might not be the sort of girl the Capitol expected. That made you dangerous. That made you someone to watch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The train is too fast. Rattling through countryside you’ve never seen before: rolling green hills, bright rivers, villages that don’t know hunger, pain. You sit firmly in your seat, staring at the silver cutlery laid out like a trap. Food everywhere: meat glistening in a sauce you can’t name, potatoes warm enough to steam when you tear them open. You force yourself not to eat like a starved animal, even though every part of you wants to.
This is more luxury then you’ve ever even dreamed of.
“They’ll be watching already,” your escort chirps. Her painted lips stretch wide, her Capitol accent is worse than nails on a blackboard. “Smile when you try the dessert! It’ll do wonders for sponsors.”
You clench your jaw and try not to laugh as she instructs you like you’re some sort of advertisement. You don’t want them to see you grateful.
The Capitol itself is somehow even more luxurious. It gleams too bright, every building reaching like it wants to pierce the sky. People drip jewels and feathers, laughing at nothing, their faces stretched with surgery. It’s uncanny. They cheer when you roll in on the tribute parade train. Children wave like this is a movie. You can feel your eye twitch before you can stop it.
By the time you’re dragged to the Training Center, your whole body feels raw. The building is glass and steel, polished floors, guards with rifles. They separate tributes by district, locking you in whitewashed quarters that smell too clean, too fake.
You don’t sleep much that night.
Oscar doesn’t dream. He lies flat on the suspiciously comfortable attress, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant buzz of hovercraft outside.
He should be excited. This is what he was raised for. He knows how to throw a knife, how to use a sword, how to kill without thinking twice about it. His trainers used to whisper he was efficient, sharp, cold. Their hope.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The training floor is vast with a variety of stations: hand-to-hand combat, archery, snares, plants and the list goes on. The Careers swarm instantly, like it’s their home. Tributes from weaker districts hover around the edges, wide-eyed, pretending not to be terrified.
You keep your head down. Survival, that’s the only thing that matters. You drift toward the knot-tying station, fingers quick from years of mending nets and binding rabbit snares. The trainer raises their brows, surprised at how fast you work.
When you glance up, you catch him watching. District 2’s boy. Tall, dark-eyed, posture sharp like he knows he’s being filmed. He doesn’t smirk like the other tributes. Instead, he is just watching, carefully. At you. It makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.
You know his name; Oscar Piastri. You’d heard whispers even in 12, that he was one of those Career kids, molded for the battle, fast and ruthless, a favorite before the the Games even started.
You square your shoulders and meet his stare, daring him to look away. He doesn’t. He just tilts his head, unreadable, cold.
“You got a problem?” you snap, louder than you mean to. A couple of tributes glance over.
His expression doesn’t change. “No,” he says simply, before turning back to the knife rack.
It’s just a word. But it unsettles you. You’d expected arrogance, maybe a smirk. Not… calm.
By the third day, the Capitol has already decided their favorites. The Careers shine under the lights, cheered for their lethal precision. You are ignored, the cameras passing over you too quickly, too disinterested. It stings. Not because you want them to love you, but because without sponsors, you’ll starve before the arena even kills you.
You’re crouched at the fire-making station when you feel someone behind you.
“You’re wasting your energy,” a low voice says.
You turn, ready to snap, but it’s him, District 2. Oscar. He nods at your flint, the sparks fizzling uselessly on damp tinder.
“They soaked that batch,” he explains quietly. “Capitol wants to see who notices.”
Your lips part. A trap. You glance at the trainer. Sure enough, he’s hiding a smirk, scribbling on a clipboard.
“Why are you telling me?” you whisper.
Oscar shrugs. “Because they don’t deserve the satisfaction.”
For a moment, your hatred falters. Just a moment.
That night, in the dining hall, the Careers sit at one end of the long table, laughing about weapons, techniques and tossing bread rolls at each other like spoiled toddlers. Oscar sits with them, but he doesn’t laugh. He picks at his food, shoulders tight.
You sit across the room with your own plate, pretending not to notice when he looks up. Pretending not to wonder what it means.
By the time private sessions come around, you’ve decided you want them to be scared. If the Capitol wants a weak little 12 tribute, they won’t get one.
Oscar’s turn comes, and you hear whispers from the other tributes when he steps out of his session. They say he went all out: blade work, hand-to-hand, no wasted movement. Efficient, merciless, everything the Capitol wants to see.
When they call your name, your stomach knots but you walk out steadily, chin high. The hall reeks of Capitol indulgence: wine, roasted meat, silk cushions. The Gamemakers glance at you like you’re dead meat.
Good. Let them.
You fire three quick arrows into the target’s heart: dead center, clean and sharp. But you don’t stop there. You send the next arrows flying into anything but the targets:
One hits a glass straight through its stem, spilling red wine like blood across the marble. One splits the Capitol flag hanging on the far wall, tearing a hole through its seal. One pins one of their roasted apples to the wall.
The room goes still.
You lower the bow and meet their horrified faces. “That’s how I hunt,” you say flatly. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like. If it bleeds, I don’t miss.”
Then you set the bow down, turn your back on them, and walk out before they can dismiss you.
Your escort nearly faints when the scores are posted that night. Eight. Respectable for 12, enough to make the Capitol mutter.
Oscar’s flashes across the screen, your chest tightens despite yourself. Ten.
He’s exactly who the rumors said he was.
You clench your fists under the table, forcing yourself to remember what District 2 tributes are made for: to win the Games and to kill people like you. Even if he doesn’t brag, even if he’s quieter than the others, he’s still a Career.
And yet, when you glance across the dining hall, you find him watching you again. Not smirking. Just watching, like he’s trying to figure you out.
You look away first.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The president sat behind his desk, surrounded by the glow of countless television screens, each one displaying the faces of tributes in training.
But his eyes lingered on only one.
You.
He couldn’t shake the memory of your stare—the scorching look you had thrown at him during the parade from your chariot far below his podium. Even at that distance, the fury in your eyes had crawled beneath his skin, left him shivering with goosebumps. And again, during your private session, that same dark, unflinching glare.
He hated it. Hated the way you looked at him.
He pressed a button, summoning one of the assistants. She hurried into the room, bowing her head.
“Find out everything about her,” he ordered, his voice sharp.
The assistant followed his gaze toward the screen, then quickly fetched a tablet from the side table. Her fingers danced across the glass, pausing only when she needed to glance up at your image again to be certain.
“Eighteen years old, District Twelve,” she read aloud. “Parents deceased. Only surviving family was an older brother but…” her voice faltered. “Oh. Oh, dear.”
The president leaned forward. “What is it?”
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the tablet tighter. “The brother was executed after a trial. Six, seven years ago. Convicted of repeated thefts from Peacekeepers.” She swallowed, face paling. “The records say his death… it was not clean.”
His expression sharpened. “And did she witness it?”
“Sir?”
He gestured toward the screen, toward you. “Was she there?”
The assistant scrolled quickly, her hands trembling. At last, she nodded. “Yes. The report confirms she attended the trial.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The morning air is thick with the Capitol’s various scents: flowers imported from other districts, the scent of baked goods, and something metallic underneath that reminds you of blood. You adjust the hem of your dress and check your reflection, even though you hate it. They want you pretty. They want you fragile.
Not today.
You run through your plan in your head: don’t cry, don’t beg, don’t fall into the pity trap. Be sharp. Be clever. Make them see you as a force they can’t ignore. And, if you can, make them just uncomfortable enough to notice that you’re not theirs to control.
You glance at the other tributes. Some tremble. Some try to smile. Some, like the Careers, radiate confidence so sharp it cuts the room in half. You meet Oscar’s eyes across the hall. He’s tall, his posture perfect, expression calm. District 2’s golden boy after all. And yet, in that moment, you notice the tension behind his calm. He hates this as much as you do. You just don’t know it yet.
When it’s Oscar’s turn for the interviews, the Capitol cheers. Every move is polished. Every word measured. Ten in training, of course — the perfect Career. He looks at you briefly, that same calculating gaze, and you flinch. He knows. He knows you’re bold. He knows you’re a threat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host announces after what felt an eternity. “Please welcome the female tribute from District Twelve!”
You step into the spotlight. The crowd erupts in cheers. Fake or genuine, you can’t tell. You set your shoulders, let your eyes cut across the glittering faces. They expect fear. They expect tears. You give them none.
“How does it feel to be here in our beautiful Capitol?” the host asks, voice overly sweet.
You smile, just enough to tilt the corners of your mouth. “Like walking into a cage decorated with roses.”
A pause. A gasp. Laughter. The host waves a hand. “Delightful! And do you have a strategy?”
“Stay alive. Shoot straight. Make them regret ever looking at me.”
The Gamemakers blink. The audience murmurs. Perfect. They’ll remember that.
You catch Oscar’s eyes in the crowd. He’s calm, collected. It doesn’t scare you. It irritates you. He looks… capable. Dangerous. And you hate that you’re thinking about him at all.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The cannon booms. The sound rips through your chest like a hammer. Heart hammering, adrenaline flaring, you lunge forward. The ground is uneven, littered with jagged roots and leaves slick with dew. Every muscle screams to run, but your mind moves faster. You know the Games start with chaos; the Careers will rush the Cornucopia first.
And the Cornucopia isn’t just a pile of supplies. It’s a weapon. Food. Armor. Everything that can tip the scales between life and death in these first crucial moments.
You dart to the side, weaving between tributes who are already colliding, screaming, shoving. One boy from District 7 trips, smacking the dirt as a Career shoves him aside without a second thought. You roll, slide, grab a sturdy pack of supplies — a knife, some rations, a water flask — then snap it into your belt.
A scream draws your attention. A girl from District 4 is pinned under a Career boy from 1, his fists raised. Without thinking, you notch an arrow and fire just enough to make him flinch, drop the girl. She scrambles free, and you pivot, nocking another arrow. This one lodges in a shield by the Cornucopia, sending a clang echoing through the clearing. Some Careers glance your way, annoyance flickering in their eyes. You smirk under your breath. Let them think you’re crazy. Let them underestimate you.
And then you see him. Oscar. Standing at the edge of the chaos, calculating. He’s calm, eyes scanning the Cornucopia like a predator sizing prey. Not the same rush as the others. Not reckless. You notice immediately: he’s different. You’ve heard stories, rumors and now you see it firsthand. He doesn’t charge like a Career. He watches, waits.
The Cornucopia fight finishes almost as quickly as it started. Some tributes are down, some are injured, and others,like you, have managed to snag supplies without drawing too much blood. You step back into the forest, pulling your pack tight.
You move quickly into the trees, heart still hammering. Each step is careful, deliberate. You scan for signs of Careers, for traps, for any danger. Your hands graze leaves and bark; your bow is ready.
Hours pass. You find a small stream and crouch to drink, listening to the forest around you. Birds chirp, distant screams echo, and the hum of the Capitol’s invisible cameras buzz in your mind. You don’t have time to rest properly, not yet. You can’t.
But you notice something else. Shadows moving in the distance, purposeful. Not chasing you, circling, observing. You freeze. Then, a figure steps into the light. Oscar. Alone.
You instinctively nock an arrow. “Don’t come closer,” you warn, voice low but sharp.
He raises his hands slightly, slow, deliberate. “I’m not here to fight you,” he says. Calm, even, almost casual.
You hesitate. You want to attack anyway. This is District 2. Careers are trained to kill on sight. But something in his eyes, a hint of disdain for the Capitol, a recognition, makes you pause.
“Why should I trust you?” you snap.
“Because if we don’t watch each other’s backs, one of us dies,” he replies. “I don’t want to die today. And I’d rather not have to kill you.”
The words sting because they’re true. You’re still wary, but you recognize the reality: survival sometimes requires compromise.
You settle a cautious distance between you, each moving through the forest with silent efficiency. He takes the left flank; you take the right, eyes constantly scanning. When you stumble upon a small food cache left by the Cornucopia, you glance at him.
He nods. Permission, not trust. You each take what you can carry without speaking. Then, moving separately through the underbrush, you notice the others. Careers hunting in pairs, lone tributes panicked, some already injured.
The forest is alive with danger: traps, sounds, signs of muttation creatures hiding in the shadows. Every step is a calculation.
By midday, you find a hollow under an ancient tree and duck in to rest. Oscar crouches a few feet away, keeping watch. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. The quiet is mutual — a truce forged in the unspoken necessity of survival.
When you do speak, it’s sparse, careful.
“Why are you helping me?” you ask after a long pause, barely above a whisper.
He shrugs. “Because the Capitol doesn’t get to decide who lives. And neither do you.”
The words make your stomach twist. You still don’t trust him fully; Careers are trained killers, after all, but you sense he means it. That he isn’t the boy you’ve been warned about. Not entirely.
The alliance isn’t declared, isn’t formal. But it exists in that shared silence, in the way he moves when a branch snaps, in the way you step aside when a trap might be triggered. Two predators, wary of each other, realizing that cooperation is temporary but necessary.
By evening, you’ve set a small perimeter together, sharing rations at a distance, marking territory quietly. The forest darkens, but neither of you rests fully. Vigilance is survival. Every shadow could be a Career, a trap, or worse.
And in the quiet, unspoken, you start to wonder: maybe you don’t hate him as much as you thought you would.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A few days have passed.
The first light of dawn slices through the canopy. Mist curls above the forest floor, carrying the scent of wet earth and decay. You shift in the hollow under the ancient oak, muscles stiff, body screaming from the past days’ adrenaline. Beside you, Oscar moves with the same quiet precision that has become normal: always alert, always scanning.
You adjust your pack, checking the few supplies you managed to salvage from the Cornucopia. Food is scarce; water even scarcer. Every rustle could be a Career, a trap, or worse. And yet, being next to him, a Career, brings an odd sense of security.
“Ready?” he whispers, eyes sweeping the trees.
You nod, gripping your bow. “Always.”
The two of you move through the underbrush like shadows, keeping low. The forest feels alive: snapping branches, distant screeches, birds flying off in alarm. You notice his methodical pattern: he keeps left, you keep right, and the two of you silently communicate through glances, nods, and small hand gestures.
Hours pass in this tense rhythm. Scouting for food, checking traps, marking paths. You find a small clearing with edible roots and berries. Oscar crouches beside you, pointing out which are safe to eat. Your fingers brush briefly as you pick berries, and for a moment, your stomach twists and something more than survival flares inside you. You glance at him; he’s staring at the ground, expression neutral, but you catch the faintest trace of awareness in his eyes.
That night, under a hollow tree for shelter, you share the rations you salvaged. No words are needed, survival is enough conversation. But when the forest goes quiet, you finally speak.
“You’re… not like the others,” you say softly, almost a question.
He meets your gaze, eyes dark. “Neither are you,” he admits.
It’s late afternoon when he finally opens up. You’re crouched behind a fallen log, watching a pair of Careers in the distance, debating whether to engage or retreat.
“You’ve been watching me,” you whisper.
He hesitates, then nods. “I can’t let you die. Not just because it would ruin my strategy, because you… you’re different.”
“Different how?”
He exhales, lowering his knife slowly. “I hate the Capitol. Every part of this. The training, the Games… It’s all a lie. I’ve spent my life pretending to want this, to be what they expect. But I don’t. I want them all to burn.”
You swallow hard, aware of the danger in even acknowledging this. If anyone overheard… but seeing him this way, raw and honest, human, cracks the wall you’ve kept around yourself.
“I hate it too,” you whisper.
He glances at you, not surprised, then lets a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips. Walls begin to shift. The alliance is no longer just for survival; it’s personal now.
The forest becomes your world. You move in tandem, each learning the other’s rhythm. You share small victories: catching fish from the stream, taking down small muttations, scavenging supplies. Each moment builds trust.
Oscar teases you occasionally. Small jabs when you fumble with a trap or overestimate your range with a bow. You snap back, smirk, argue, playful friction that brings a fleeting normalcy to the horror around you.
One night, you find a patch of wildflowers, and he pauses, picking one for himself. Without thinking, you pluck one and press it to your hair. He notices, raises an eyebrow.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“You love it,” you tease.
“I do not,” he insists, though the corner of his mouth betrays him.
Moments like this make your chest ache. You’re in the middle of the Hunger Games, but here, with him, you feel something other than fear and survival. You feel… connection. It almost feels like home. Ridiculous, really, given the circumstances.
By the seventh day, the arena begins to close in. Traps become more sophisticated, resources scarcer. You step on a concealed snare one afternoon; it snaps, jerking you violently. Oscar is there instantly, cutting the cords, pulling you free.
“You could’ve been dead,” he mutters, eyes scanning the surrounding trees.
“I could’ve handled it,” you snap, though your chest still burns from the fall.
“You would’ve been,” he says, tone softening. There’s no accusation in it, just truth.
Every shared danger strengthens your bond. Every narrow escape, every silent patrol in the forest, every whispered plan solidifies the unspoken trust between you. You’ve stopped asking whether you can rely on him. You know the answer.
By the ninth day, you realize the Capitol’s manipulation is more obvious. Most non-Careers have been eliminated, muttations appear more frequently, and the corners of the arena seem designed to funnel you toward danger. Your talks of escaping have become more serious, intense.
The forest is unnervingly silent as the first light of day creeps over the horizon. Every leaf, every rustle, every glint of dew feels like a signal, a warning. You crouch behind a fallen tree, muscles taut, arrow nocked, heart hammering. Beside you, Oscar scans the terrain, calm, precise, but there’s tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers brush against his knife.
“I need you to know something,” he says quietly, voice almost swallowed by the mist.
You raise an eyebrow. “About what? Did you eat the last of our berries? Im going to kill you Piast—”
He shakes his head. “About me.”
You glance at him, curious but wary. He’s been quieter than usual. That unease has been gnawing at you.
“I’m part of the Rebellion,” he says finally, voice low. “Not just here to survive these Games. I’ve been working with… others. People you’d never suspect. Everything I do here, every move I make, is to give us a chance. To strike a real blow at the Capitol. We needed someone else though to distract them at first and to join become the face of the organisation. Someone brave, strategic, smart. That person is you.”
Your stomach twists. You gape at him, stunned. “…You’re using me?”
He flinches. “What? No— God, no. I didn’t— I wouldn’—”
But the words don’t land. All you can feel is betrayal, the sharp sting of being a pawn. You shove him back, your bow trembling in your hands. “You told me we were allies. That this was about survival. And you’ve been… planning this the whole time? Using me to help some… some plan I wasn’t even aware of?”
He calls our your name. His voice cracks, urgent. “It’s not like that! I need you alive. I need you with me. But I couldn’t risk telling you too early. You would have been a target!”
You shake your head. “I can’t believe this.” You turn, sprinting into the trees without a word. Adrenaline propels you, but every step feels like betrayal, every heartbeat like fire.
He hesitates, watching you disappear.
He calls you again, but you don’t stop.
… To be continued
Sorry if this is ass ! I kinda rushed it AND i was too lazy to proofread oops.. also yes that “six, seven years ago” was on purpose duh
jack has loved you for as long as he’s known you. this summer, he decides to take his friends’ advice on how to (finally) win you over.
ꔮ starring: surf instructor!jack doohan x childhood best friend!reader.
ꔮ social media au.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack. alternate universe: non-f1. profanity. best friends to lovers, idiots in love, 2025 rookies (typical all-boys group chat behavior & bad advice), reader is moderately petty, down bad!jack.
ꔮ commentary box: this is me coming out as a shooter for jack doohan 😔 i miss my shayla!!! shoutout to @cinnamorussell for enabling my jack infatuation. testing out a new smau format for this one ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
doohanokay
♫ Surf - Mac Miller
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doohanokay That time of the year again (: DM for more info on surfing lessons! I’ve caught waves at Quiksilver Pro Gold Coast, Surfest, and Rip Curl Pro. Open to beginners and intermediate surfers.
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bortoletog is the instructor single 🫦
user1 Omg I ran out of slots last year!! Will def be signing up this year
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heyitskimi Whoring it out on the main…
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yourusername slay as always bestie 🫶
↳ doohanokay :) See you soon
↳ yourusername counting down the days!! xo ♥ Liked by author
yourusername
♫ Every Summertime - NIKI
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yourusername nothing beats a jet2 holiday
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user1 nawt the caption
user2 YOU’RE BACK IN TOWN! MY QUEEN
thrugoeshadjar last slide woah doohanokay
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fcolapinto doohanokay i can cook i can clean
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olliebeardude replied: Good for you 👍
heyitskimi replied: LMAOOO
pierregaslyyy replied: Pretty sure this method has been patched. Good luck though ! 💪
yourusername
♫ Mamma Mia - Meryl Streep
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yourusername does it show again my my just how much i missed ya
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user1 when will this life find me
user2 Finally learning how to surf this summer ? 😆
↳ yourusername after yearssssss of putting it off
user3 that last snap ooof 🔥
doohanokay Cropped? lol
↳ yourusername mystery ;)
↳ user4 STOP GATEKEEPING YOUR HOT BEST FRIEND!! SHARE WITH THE CLASS
doohanokay
♫ Wasted Summers - juju<3
Liked by olliebeardude, fcolapinto, and others
doohanokay Summer so far 🏄
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thrugoeshadjar oooh la la
bortoletog Our boy’s all grown up 💔
↳ fcolapinto if you love them ,, u have to let them go
heyitskimi 👀
user1 no credits for the first pic? 🙄
↳ doohanokay Haha credits to you :)
user2 who that in the back
user3 Yo so does this mean yourusername is single 😏 ♥ Liked by yourusername
↳ doohanokay Why’d you like this but not my post yourusername
↳ doohanokay No seriously hey yourusername
yourusername
♫ Best Friend - Rex Orange County
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yourusername long time coming tbh
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user1 do i want you or do i want to be you fawk
user2 we been knew #doohinatorsincedayone
thrugoeshadjar 👏 time to stop being pathetic doohanokay
↳ heyitskimi Nice guys don’t finish last for once 😁
↳ doohanokay 🖕
fcolapinto sooo happy for you (i have a rock in my clenched fist)
bortoletog yourusername are you #doohanthat ♥ Liked by doohanokay
↳ yourusername yes 😄
↳ doohanokay Oh m yGod
bortoletog replied: JUST FELL TO MY KNEES
thrugoeshadjar replied: 🤷what can i say ? top tier advice from me
heyitskimi replied: Weird flex but okay.
liam.lawson replied: Saw Gabi fall to his knees and he told me to check your stories hahahahaha
yourusername replied: never try to make me jealous ever again if you know what’s good for you
↳ doohanokay replied to yourusername: You’re so hot when you boss me around 🩷
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
includes: friends to lovers, childhood bestfriends, soulmate au if you squint, heavy pining, and angst
summary: follows charles and the reader through childhood all the way to present day. based off of 'birds of a feather' by billie eilish.
masterlist
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five and eight
It's a hot summer day in Monaco the first time Charles meets you.
The evening sun cascaded through the windows, golden rays bouncing off the walls as the smell of his Mother's baking wafted through the house. Charles' legs soon carried him into the kitchen and to his delight he found her oven-mitt clad hand pulling out a tray from the oven. His eyes widen when he sees what it is, it's one of his favorite sweet treats; cookies. His Mother spots him as she turns to set them on the counter. "Bonjour chéri!"
Charles doesn't answer, he's too focused on the cookies. He knows she won't let him have one, it's too close to dinner time, but he could probably sneak one when she had her back turned. So when she goes to put something back in the fridge he knows this is his chance, but he's not fast enough. His little hand barely hovers over one of the cookies before his Mother is gently smacking it away.
"No Charles! They are for the Y/L/N's." She hands him a stack of plates, motioning towards the table. "Now go set the table, s'il te plaît." Charles whines about it not being fair before stomping towards the table.
All day the only topic of conversation in the Leclerc household was about how an old family friend was to be moving back to Monaco today. Charles and Arthur had no idea who the man their Father spoke so highly about was, but Lorenzo mentioned something about him being their "uncle", but not really their uncle. Something that at only eight years old, confused Charles.
Even during dinner it seems like his Father mentions their "uncle" somehow during every conversation. Between the constant talk of this mystery man and the cookies sitting feet away from him Charles thinks tonight's dinner is the longest dinner of his life. He can see them sitting there, the cookies taunting him the whole time he tries to eat the unpleasant brussel sprouts on his plate. He hears his Father mention their "uncle" again and his attention is brought back to the conversation. "Papa. Is he really our uncle?" Charles asks as he shoves around the food on his plate with his fork.
"Ah, no. I mean he practically is, but not by blood. He is a very old friend of mine. We grew up together, but he moved to America around nine years ago." He pauses for a moment, eyes flickering between Charles and Arthur. "I hate that Arthur and you don't know him, but he's back now, so hopefully you boys will see him as an uncle like Lorenzo does. Plus, their house is just down the street, so I'm sure we will be spending lots of time with each other."
All Charles can do is nod at him, he isn't sure that he can call this random man "uncle", but for his Father he will try to like him as much as he clearly does.
Dinner is over shortly after their conversation, with a little help from his Father's impatience to go see his old friend. And before Charles can try and sneak a cookie again they are out the door, the cookies held securely in his Mother's hands, heading to their "uncles" house.
Charles realizes his Father wasn't lying when he said their house was just down the street, in fact it's only a block away. He's surprised his Father wasn't dragging them here earlier today with how close it is.
His Father knocks on the door and after a moment a man answers."Hervé!”
"Y/D/N!"
The two men embrace each other, big smiles plastered on both of their faces. "If it was up to me we would have been over as soon as you guys arrived earlier today, but Pascale insisted we give you guys a little time to settle in."
"Oh nonsense. You're fine." The man steps aside, motioning for everyone to come in. "Come on in. Don't mind the million boxes scattered around."
"It's a beautiful home." Pascale states as she glances around.
"Merci."
The man's eyes wander to Charles and his brothers. His arms extend towards Lorenzo and the two of them hug, the man tousling Lorenzo's hair as they pull away. "Dieu te regarde! You're practically a man!"
Lorenzo can only laugh at the man, whose attention is now on the two youngest Leclerc boys. He crouches down so he's at eye level with them. "Bonjour. I don't think we have met yet. I'm Y/D/N, a very old friend of your Papa's." His hand reaches out for Charles to shake. "You must be Charles."
Charles gently takes Y/D/N's hand and shakes it, something he's seen his Father do hundreds of times. "I am. How did you know?"
A smirk plays at Y/D/N's lips. "When your Papa and I speak, he loves to talk about his boys. Even the ones I didn't get the pleasure of meeting until now." His attention now moved to the youngest Leclerc. "Like you little Arthur." Little giggles came from Arthur as the man pinched his cheek.
"Are we going to get to meet the other members of your family Y/D/N?" Pascale asks.
"Patience still isn't your strong suit, is it Pascale?" The man teases as he leads them towards the kitchen.
As they enter the kitchen they find a woman with an American accent putting away dishes into the cabinets. From what Charles can gather from the conversation the adults are having is that their "uncle" met his wife while on business in America. They fell in love and he ended up moving there to be with her. They got married and had a daughter. He wanted to raise her here so they decided to move back to Monaco.
"Guess you should all meet the reason we moved huh? Y/N! Ma chérie come here!" Y/D/N yells.
And here you came, barreling into the kitchen, not knowing that there were five strangers standing there until it was too late. Cheeks turning pink as you hid behind your Mom's legs. "This shy little thing is our daughter, Y/N."
Pascale's face lit up at the sight of you. "Oh tu n'es pas une poupée? She's beautiful you two!" She glances over at your parents then back to you. "You look to be around the age of my two youngest boys, no?" She squats down so the two of you are eye level as you peak around your Mom's legs. "How old are you?" As you lifted your hand, little fingers all stood up straight indicating that you were five, Pascale smiled.
"Oh, that's the same age as my Arthur." She points towards the smallest boy, who's dirty blonde hair almost covered his eyes. She then points to the slightly taller boy in the middle, his soft blue eyes watching his Mom intently. "That is Charles, he's a little older than Arthur and you. He's eight." Then she finally points to the obviously very older son. "And that is Lorenzo, he's a lot older. It makes me feel old to say this but he's eighteen!"
Your shyness somehow slowly got chipped away by Pascale and you were now standing beside your Mom, not behind her. "Go on baby. Say hi to them." You Mom encouraged as she brushed your hair out of your face.
Even if you had braved coming out from behind your Mom's legs, the idea of talking to these strangers still scared you. You looked over to your Dad who stared back at you, a smile on his face and a slight nod in your direction told you everything was going to be okay.
"Hi." You said meekly.
The two younger boys gave you a small wave in return.
The adults had started to converse, leaving the kids to stand there awkwardly. Not knowing each other well to be the one to initiate conversation or play.
Your Mom had noticed the quietness between you and the boys, and your constant presence by her legs. "Why don't you kids go play out back? The house luckily came with a playset that is begging to be played on." She pulled open the sliding door, motioning for the kids to go outside.
Arthur was the first to run outside, he was practically already at the door when he heard the word playset. His little legs were already running up the slide by the time Charles and you had exited the house.
You watched your feet drag across the grass as you swung back and forth on the swing. Your Dad's voice playing in your head as you heard Charles and Arthur's laughter echo through the hot summer air.
"I know this is a big change for you mon amour. But I promise, we wouldn't have made this big move if your Maman and I didn't think it wouldn't have been a good idea. It may take some time for you to adjust, but knowing you, in a couple weeks you'll probably be more of a Monégasque than me!"
"I'm only half though. How could I be more than you Papa?" Tiny giggles escaping you as you gave your Father a questioning look.
"Anything is possible chérie! Plus you remember me talking about your uncle Hervé? Well, he has two boys that are around the same age as you. And I'm positive you three will become the bestest of friends like we were at that age in no time. When your Uncle Hervé and I were younger people would always say "Wherever there is a Y/L/N there is a Leclerc" and I'm sure it will live on through you three."
As you watched the two Leclerc boys chase each other through the yard, you knew your Dad would want you to get up and go join them. He seemed so excited at the idea of you and the boys being friends and you didn't want to disappoint him, but at only five years old, your shyness overruled the majority of your decisions.
Charles, even though he was playing with his brother, had noticed how you hadn't left the swing since coming outside. He tried to put himself in your shoes, he couldn't even imagine what it would be like to move halfway across the world.
What it would be like to leave everything you've ever known behind and move to a country that is nothing like the one you'd spent your whole life in so far. Even if your Father was from here and technically Monaco is as much of your home as America ever was, he knows that at least right now, this place means nothing to you.
So, being the empath that he is, Charles decides that it's his mission to make you feel at home. To make you realize that Monaco has been your home all along. That if he was you right now, all he would want is for someone to befriend him, make him feel less alone. His first step; asking you to play.
His skinny frame soon occupies the empty swing next to you, hands gripping the chains as he barely moves back and forth. His feet mimicked yours, dirt and grass staining his white sneakers.
"Hi." Charles watched as your head perked up at his voice. Your doe eyes timidly looking over at him like you weren't sure if he was speaking to you.
"Hi."
"Do you wanna play with Arthur and me?" Charles hopes you don't run back inside after hearing his question, but when your face lights up, head nodding enthusiastically, his worries dissipate. You were just so glad that he had come over and asked you, because you would have sat there on that swing all evening if he hadn't.
In a matter of minutes your shyness and worries about upsetting your Father were replaced with bouts of laughter as Arthur and you ran from Charles. Gleeful screams and giggles filled the evening air as the three of you played and for the first time since getting told you were moving you felt carefree.
The loud laughter and yelling had gotten the attention of the adults and as they watched their children play through the sliding glass door they couldn't wipe the smiles off their faces.
"That didn't take long did it?" Your Mom felt a relief wash over her. At only five years old she knew this move was going to be hard on you, and she wished they could have just stayed in America. But who was she to deprive you of experiencing the life that was quite literally half of you. Deprive her husband of seeing his little girl experience the same things he did as a child.
And as she watched the way the three kids played together she knew it was the right decision. For you to come out of your shell so quickly meant that maybe things weren't going to be so bad here after all.
"Of course it didn't." Your Dad stood behind your Mom, his hand on her shoulder as he watched his little girl laugh and run around. "Because wherever there is a Y/L/N-"
"there is a Leclerc." Hervé finished, an equally big smile on his face.
The painting of orange and pink hues that filled the evening sky told everyone that the sun was making her farewell for the day. Though, that didn't stop you and the boys from still playing and eventually as the colorful painting turned to a star filled sky you all were called inside.
Rosy cheeks and sweaty foreheads adorned all three of your faces as you clambered into the kitchen. "Looks like you kids had fun." Pascale had grabbed the cookies off the counter, but as she opened the lid to offer the kids one, she had a better idea. "How about some ice cream?" Charles' eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream. He loved cookies, but his one true love was ice cream. "I think the place down the road is still open."
And with an unspoken agreement, they are all out the door and headed towards the ice cream shop. Charles and you walk side by side with Arthur trailing behind the two of you. His complaints about being left out falling on deaf ears as Charles tells you about how good the ice cream place is.
The walk isn't a long one and before you realize it, you've arrived. The sickeningly sweet smell hits you as soon as you walk through the door, and your short legs carry you towards the counter, not paying mind to any sort of line that was already formed. Your face was practically pressed against the glass as you looked at all the flavors to choose from. But even with flavors like triple chocolate or strawberry or peanut butter cup. You always go with your tried and true; vanilla.
Charles and Arthur had joined you, faces as equally as close to the glass as yours.
"You think Maman will let me try them all?" Arthur asks, mouth practically watering at the sight in front of him.
"I don't know about that." You recognize your Dad's voice behind you. "You guys tell me what you want and then go wait at the table outside with Lorenzo." The three of you reluctantly turn away from the ice cream and when Arthur tells your Dad he wants mint, Charles and you share a disgusted look. "Ok mint for Arthur, what about you two?"
"Vanilla!" Comes out of both Charles and your mouth. Big smiles spread across your faces as you realize you both said the same thing.
"No way that's my favorite flavor!" Charles exclaims.
"Mine too!"
By the time your Dad comes outside with the ice cream Charles and you had established that; vanilla was the best flavor of ice cream ever, blue was your favorite color, red was his, you both loved dogs, and that he wanted to be a Formula 1 driver when he grew up. You didn't really know what that was, you think you had heard your Dad talking about it or watching it before, but the way Charles talked about it, it seemed like it was something big.
After many brain freezes and Arthur trying to make Charles and you try his mint ice cream, the night was coming to an end. The walk back home was filled with talks of things that you guys had to do this summer, according to Charles, and about how tonight would not be the last trip to the ice cream shop.
As you arrived at your house the grownups said their farewells and goodnights, while you gave everyone a simple wave goodbye. "I'll see you tomorrow!" Charles yelled as you entered the front door, and all you could do was yell back.
"Ok!"
And Charles wasn't lying, you did see him the next day, and the day after that. In fact, any free day that you or the youngest Leclerc boys had were spent in each other's company that summer. By the time school started back up the three of you were inseparable.
The idea of starting at a new school in a different country while knowing no one scared you, so you were glad to have Arthur with you in class and just knowing Charles was in the building made you feel more at ease. Any worries you had about moving to Monaco had dissipated and Charles had just somehow knew that he had accomplished his mission of making you feel at home. It may have taken him all summer, but you were practically family at this point to him.
So when he heard from Arthur about a couple boys in your class not being the friendliest towards you, something about you being an annoying American, he knew he had to defend you.
Charles fortunately had caught them in the act one day. Your cheeks slightly damp and eyes red told Charles it wasn't just them saying you were annoying. You wouldn't tell him what they said to you, but that didn't stop him from telling the boys off. It didn't take much for them to run off, heck Charles could have just stared at them and they probably would have darted, him somewhat forgetting they were probably only five or six, but still there was no reason for them to be mean to you.
Charles wiped away your tears before pulling you in for a hug. "They shouldn't bother you anymore, but if they ever do come tell me. You know you've always got me and Arthur and if it gets bad enough I guess we could tell Lorenzo." The mention of the oldest Leclerc boy made you giggle and Charles was so happy to see a smile on your face again. "You've always got me Y/N, we've got each other. I promise." He held out his pinky finger towards you and you hooked yours around his, officially sealing the promise
And from that moment on, you two always did have each other.
ten and thirteen
Five years had passed since you first met Charles, and in those five years your bond only grew stronger. Not only with each other, but with each other's families too. To Pascale you were the daughter she always wanted and your Dad treated the Leclerc boys like his sons. It was like you guys filled in the missing pieces in each other's families.
Multiple scrapbooks were filled over the years with memories that would last a lifetime. Pictures of the joint family vacations that were taken every year, first and last day of school pictures, birthdays, and major milestones all filled the pages.
Looking back now your Mom could have kicked herself for ever second guessing the decision to move. Clearly this was where you guys were supposed to be, where you were supposed to be. Everything just felt right. It felt like home.
A new thing that had become a part of your life in the past five years was karting. No, you didn't drive them, but Charles and Arthur did. So, that meant it was now a part of you. Multiple weekends were spent going to watch them race, the smell of exhaust and the sound of the engines were ingrained into your brain, but you had grown fond of it.
Although, in the last couple years Charles had started to take karting very seriously. You knew his dream was to be an F1 driver, and you knew (from him teaching you everything about it one day) how much dedication it took from a young age to get to the top. So, over the last year, when almost every weekend he was busy, you tried not to take it to heart.
Unfortunately for Arthur, this year his family had decided to focus solely on Charles' career for the time being, as karting was expensive, and having two boys doing it was just not something they could swing. But with Charles busy and Arthur now free it was almost like the boys had flip flopped positions in your life.
Between the two youngest Leclerc boys it was always very obvious that you gravitated more towards Charles, the two of you having a bond that many didn't understand, especially considering your age gap.
Three years isn't crazy per say, but at the age you two are right now it's a little different. Charles is thirteen, officially a teenager, while you're still only ten. Two very different stages in kids' lives, and sometimes recently it seemed like Charles was moving on, or growing up, and you worried that he wouldn't want to spend time with you anymore. Because really what thirteen year old wants to willingly hang out with a ten year old? You know you wouldn't want to hang out with a seven year old.
But the slight gap that Charles was currently leaving in your life, Arthur had no problem filling it in.
During the school year you spent basically all your time with Arthur, being in the same grade and him not dedicating all his time to karting at the moment was a big contributing factor. You still saw Charles, but nearly as much as you used to. He had moved up to secondary school a year or so ago and unfortunately Arthur and you were still in your last year of primary school. So your time to see Charles was limited to his rare free weekends and sometimes after school.
You had thought come summer time you would be able to see him more and were banking on your annual family vacation, but you were wrong. In fact, you barely even saw Arthur this summer. They were so busy with Charles karting it was like they didn't even live in their home. And when they were home your family was busy doing something.
The annual family vacation had to be canceled and you had basically gone the whole summer without seeing them. That was until today, two weeks before school started, when you came downstairs to see Charles and Arthur sitting on your couch talking to your Dad, who was sitting in a chair opposite of them.
"Ah, there she is." Your Dad had spotted you from the doorway. "They've come to steal you."
Rounding the side of the couch you were now stood in front of the two boys. Arthur was the first to jump up from the couch, his arms squeezing you into him, the two of you slightly swaying back and forth as giggles escaped past your lips. "Tu m'as manqué aussi Arthur."
As Arthur finally let you go your eyes fell on the middle Leclerc boy, who was still sat on the couch. "Charlie." The nickname you had given him that first summer had still stuck around five years later. It fell off your tongue with ease, basically second nature for you at this point. He never minded when you called him that, in fact sometimes he preferred it, but god forbid anyone else call him that.
You could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, dimples peaking out as he tried to resist it more. As he stood up from the couch he finally let it free, the corners of his eyes crinkled and dimples on full display as he wrapped his arms around you. You noticed you guys weren't almost the same height anymore, your head hit at about his shoulder now. Had he gotten taller since the last time you saw him? There was no way he had grown that much in almost two months, but yet the proof was standing right infront of you.
"Tu m'as manqué." Charles stated as he pulled away from the hug.
"I figured you'd have your kart seat stuck to you when I saw you again."
"Well when that seat becomes an F1 seat, I know who will be the last person I invite to a race."
You wedged yourself between the two brothers on the couch as you rolled your eyes at Charles. "Yeah I won't need an invite because I'll have a permanent paddock pass." You weren't even sure if such a thing as a permanent paddock pass existed, but when Charles makes it into Formula 1, you had better have one.
"No doubt about it." Charles states, which gets him a smile from you in return.
"So what was Papa talking about? You guys are stealing me?"
"We've got something fun planned." Charles had a small smile on his face as he made eye contact with you. And as you stared back at him you noticed something else that had changed in the past two months, his hair. It was shaggy and almost covered his eyes if he didn't have it pushed to the side. You were surprised Pascale hadn't made him cut it yet, or that she hadn't snuck into his room at night and at least trimmed the hair around his face. It was just another sign of how long it had been since you'd seen each other.
You glanced over at your Dad, unsure of what "fun" they had planned, but he was no help. "What is it?"
"It's a surprise." Charles had stood up from the couch, eyes staring back down at you. "Well come on. We don't have all day."
"Be careful! Je t'aime!" Your Dad hollered as the three of you walked out the door.
"Je t'aime aussi!" You hollered back.
The warm sun beat down on you as you walked the familiar streets of Monaco, following the two boys in front of you. Your insistent pleas of wanting to know where you were going were ignored. And it didn't take long for you to just start guessing random places, which were all met with groaned no's from the boys.
Thankfully you guys had arrived at your destination because you were running out of places to name, but the place you were standing in front of was not where you had expected to end up. Though truly you should have known better.
"Did you guys really just bring me here to watch you two drive go-karts?" Of course they brought you to the track. It wasn't like you didn't like watching them race or even just screw around on the karts, but as of recently it was the one thing that was keeping Charles away from you. It just would have been nice to do something that didn't involve karting.
"We aren't the ones who are going to be driving them." Arthur's devious little smile on his face tells you everything you need to know.
"I don't think that's safe, and don't we need an adult with us?" So perhaps you were slightly scared at the idea of driving – no you were actually more worried than scared. You didn't want to seem like an idiot because you didn't know what to do or wreck and make a fool of yourself. That little shy five year old girl was slowly creeping back in as Arthur and Charles practically dragged you inside.
"The adult is already here." Charles points at Lorenzo who's filling out paperwork at the front counter. "I think it's time for you to learn, no?" Your eyes focus on Lorenzo, praying as an adult he has enough sense to not let this happen. But it was no use, he had already handed the worker the paperwork and was walking towards you with a bunch of gear in his hands.
"No chickening out this time petite soeur. Today is the day." Lorenzo stated.
Before you can even protest anymore Lorenzo is handing you all this stuff to put on, arms overflowing as you stare at him wide-eyed. "Do I really need all of this for" you glance over at the track then back at Charles "an indoor track?"
"Safety first Y/N. Plus you need to have the full karting experience." His dimples on display as he gives you a reassuring smile, that somehow works wonders on you, because you're putting on all the gear without him even asking. "Oh wait you're gonna need this." He slides a hair tie off his wrist and hands it over to you. His action put a smile on your face as you quickly tied your hair back.
It was something Charles had done for a couple years now, always having a hair tie on him. You were always pushing your hair out of your face or complaining about it being hot and of course you never had a hair tie with you. So, he just started wearing one on his wrist, so when you eventually needed one, he was there to provide.
With your gear on you guys walked over towards one of the karts and you made sure to listen intently as Charles explained how to work everything.
You slipped the helmet on and sat down in the kart, praying that you could remember what Charles had told you. "You've got this. Just remember what I said and we will be right here if you need us. I’ll be right here. I promise." Charles holds out his pinky finger, the familiar gesture between the two of you meant much more than just a simple promise. And as you hook your finger around his, you know it's going to be okay. "Please be careful. I think your Papa will have my head if you come back with even just a scratch." Lorenzo says as he double checks that you're strapped in well enough.
"I'll be fine."
You gave Charles one last final glance, who stood there giving you a thumbs up, before pressing your foot down on the accelerator. At first you were going so slow, scared that if you went too fast you were gonna wreck. But as you completed a couple laps you started to feel more comfortable and the cheers from the boys helped you out too.
"Floor it!" Arthur yells as you pass by on another lap.
You were really starting to have fun, so you listened to Arthur and pressed the pedal all the way down on the next straightaway. You felt like you were flying, but what you didn't know was that they had put you in the slowest kart, so you really weren't going as fast as you thought you were.
After a couple more laps Charles stood by the starting line, waving the checkered flag, a cheesy grin on his face as you passed by him. As the kart came to a stop you understood why they loved karting so much, it wasn't just fun, it was exhilarating, addicting, you already wanted to go again.
The boys surrounded the kart as you undid the straps and climbed out. As you took off the helmet you couldn't wipe the grin off your face. "Looks like you might have some competition Charles." Lorenzo teases.
Charles ignored his big brother's teasing and shifted his focus back to you. He had felt bad about not seeing you all summer and in all honesty not that much over this past year. But things in his life were changing, karting was becoming a much bigger deal, and he was winning, like a lot. He knew things were only going to go up from here. And as much as he loved racing, and god did he love it, he breathed it he dreamt it, racing was in his blood. There just weren't many times anymore where he felt like a thirteen year old, like a kid. It sometimes felt like he was missing out on things.
But Charles knew that when he came home from a busy weekend or practically a whole summer filled with racing, that things would always be the same at home. His Mom would always make spaghetti on Tuesday nights, you had to jiggle the handle on the gate to the backyard to get it to open, if you went into the ice cream shop on a Thursday night when the owner wasn't there you'd get extra ice cream, the lady across the street will yell at your for playing in the street, and you will always be a couple houses down.
He knew that when he was around you that he could feel like a kid again. Sure, he had made plenty of friends through racing, but it seemed like all their conversations always somehow revolved or ended up referring to racing. Which wasn't a bad thing, because of course Charles loved racing. But sometimes he just wanted to talk about video games or other sports, or just something random. And he could do that with you.
Now granted, for someone who wanted to have a little break from racing before school started, you'd think he wouldn't be back at a track the first chance he got. But Charles had wanted to teach you how to kart for years, but each time he had mentioned it you chickened out. So he had finally gotten the nerve, with a little help from Lorenzo and Arthur, to just force you to learn.
He knew you'd do a good job, he never had a doubt. It was just your worries that prevented you from learning earlier. He knew you had grown to love the sport, from tagging along to some of his races, or how you can't wait for the Monaco grand prix every year, not to mention how glued you are to the TV when his free weekends and the F1 schedule line up. So, somehow in his own weird way, Charles knew you'd be a natural.
"You did do a good job, I'm proud of you." Charles flashes you a smile as you guys exit the track.
"Merci Charlie." You quickly shed all the gear and handed it back to Lorenzo. "I don't know why you guys didn't teach me earlier. That was so much fun. I see why you guys love it so much."
"Don't act like we haven't tried for years to get you to learn." Charles teases. "We basically just had to force you today."
Memories of all the past failed attempts at teaching you how to kart flooded your mind. The one time you hid in the bathroom claiming to be throwing up, the time you 'tripped' on your way into the building and said you sprained your ankle, or the many times you just flat out refused. So maybe them forcing you was for the better, because you wouldn't have taken the initiative on your own to learn.
"Whatever. At least I finally learned."
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The walk back to your house was filled with Charles filling you in on his exciting karting filled summer. From the new friends he had made to the races he had won, he didn't spare any detail. And you just walked beside him, listening to his every word, grateful to just have him back around. Arthur would pipe in occasionally to contradict something Charles had said, fulfilling his little brother duties. And as the three of you traveled through the principality, the summer sun high in the sky, you wished every day could be like this.
The fragrant jasmine shrubs that lined the sidewalk told you guys that you were close to home. "You guys wanna stay for dinner? It's Friday which means Mom's making something pasta related."
Charles would never turn down a Friday night dinner at your house and so he had no trouble in accepting your invitation. Arthur declined, stating that he was going to hang out with some of his other friends, and Lorenzo had split from you guys at the track. Which meant it was just Charles and you, which was fine with you.
The smell of your Mom's famous red sauce, that she swore had to cook for at least half the day, filled your nostrils as you walked through the door. "Mom! Papa! I’m home!"
"In the kitchen!" You heard your Mom shout.
You found your Mom furiously stirring something on the stove as Charles and you sat at the island counter directly in front of her. She tore her attention away from her cooking just long enough to notice Charles was with you. "Well look who's back! I hope you're staying for dinner?" A big smile accompanied her words as she spoke to Charles.
"Of course, you know I love Friday pasta nights."
"Well it's still gonna be a little bit until everything is ready, so if you kids are hungry grab a little snack or something." Her attention was already back to the bubbling pot in front of her before she had finished speaking.
Charles' stomach had been growling the whole walk home, and now sitting here smelling your Mom's cooking had it growling even more. So, he took up her offer and grabbed two tangerines from the bowl of fruit on the counter. Without even thinking about it, he peeled the first one and handed it over to you.
"You're spoiling her by peeling that for her Charles." Your Dad stated as he walked into the kitchen.
Charles shrugged at your Dad's comment as he continued to peel his own tangerine. "I don't mind it. I know she doesn't like to peel them and it's really not a big deal to me. So I guess as long as I'm around she won't have to."
You never gave a second thought about Charles peeling your fruit for you. He's done it ever since you expressed your dislike for peeling them years ago. To you it wasn't you being spoiled, it was just your best friend doing something nice for you. You gave Charles a smile as you popped another piece of the tangerine in your mouth. "Merci Charles." As you looked back towards your parents, you caught them staring at each other, eyebrows slightly raised, and smiles on their faces. "What?" You questioned.
"Oh nothing sweetie." Your Mom answered, attention turning back to the food. She knew you'd figure it out eventually.
The topic of conversation during dinner was all about karting. Your parents wanted to know all about Charles' wins and if anything exciting had happened during any of his races. Charles truly was like a son to them, granted all three of the Leclerc boys were, but you knew Charles was their favorite. They sat there listening intently as he told them everything and your Dad gave him nothing but praises back.
"You're gonna do great things Charles. I just know it."
And finally when Charles changed the conversation to how he finally taught you how to kart, your Dad though first worried at the idea of you getting hurt, was ecstatic to hear that you were quite good and that you enjoyed it. Your Mom didn't like the idea at all, the sour look on her face told you everything. "I can barely handle watching Charles, let alone my baby."
"I was the only one on the track, Mom. Plus it was just for fun, you don't have to worry about me doing the real thing. I really was not as good as Charles says I was." You tried to reassure her, but she still didn't seem pleased.
"Maybe it will help to know that we put her in the slowest kart." Charles chimed in.
Your head whipped to the right of you, where Charles was sat. "You put me in the slowest one?! You really thought I’d be that bad?"
"It was your first time! You were nervous as is, let alone putting you in a fast one."
A scoff came from you. "I feel cheated out of a real experience."
"Well, the slowest is fine with me. In fact, how do we find one slower than the slowest?" Your Mom inquired, nothing shy of a serious look on her face.
As dinner came to an end Charles and you helped clean up and then ventured out back. The sun had just set, allowing for dusk to settle in, the remnants of the sunset still lingering in the sky. The two of you found yourselves on familiar territory, the swings. The metal chains had slightly rusted over the years, but still held strong as the two of you swayed back and forth on them.
Silence fell between the two of you as you tried to figure out how to talk to Charles about the thing that had been subconsciously bothering you for a while.
Him forgetting about you.
He had his head down, staring at his feet as he slowly swung back and forth on the swing. "Charles?" He lifted his head at the sound of your voice, blue eyes slightly covered by his shaggy hair.
"Yeah?"
Your hands gripped the chains tighter as you stilled your movements, feet planted firmly in the worn patch of grass. "I need you to make me a promise."
He had copied your actions, even going as far as turning slightly to face you as he spoke. "For what?"
"I need you to promise that you won't forget about me. That when you make it into F1 and become super famous that you won't think I'm some loser. Or even when you move up to F3, just please promise me you won't forget about me."
Charles frowned at your words, never in a million years would he forget about you, or think you were a loser. He didn't want to get into F1 to become famous, yeah it was a perk of the job, but he wanted a seat in F1 because he loved racing, and it meant that he was one of the best in the world.
He held out his pinky finger towards you. "Do you remember what I said to you when those boys were teasing you during your first year here?" You shook your head, the memory replaying in your mind. "That you’ve always got me and I’ve always got you. So that means I don't think I could ever forget about you Y/N, whether I make it into F1 or not. And If I do, I'm gonna need my number one supporter there by my side aren't I? So I promise I won’t forget you."
A big smile spread across your face at his words and as you hooked your pinky finger around his, you knew the promise was true.
But what you didn't know was that sometimes promises are broken.
thirteen and sixteen
Thirteen is a very weird year for you.
It’s not puberty or the ever revolving drama that comes with being thirteen that is making it a weird year. It’s the embarrassingly painful crush you’ve got on Charles.
It’s a cliche really, having a crush on the cute older boy you’ve grown up with.
And one might ask why is it embarrassing? For starters, you can’t be around him for more than five minutes without turning into a blushing mess. He stares at you for longer than a second? Game over. He smiles at you? Done for. He laughs at something you said? You’re dead.
He doesn’t know he’s turning your thirteen year old brain into mush just by simply existing and it’s embarrassing to even think about him knowing that.
On the other hand, it’s painful. You’re thirteen and he’s sixteen, once again at very different stages in life. And you know that he doesn’t like you back, that he only sees you as a little sister, but it still hurts. It hurts because you’re thirteen and you think that you’re mature for your age and you honestly think why wouldn’t he like you back. It’s something almost every young girl goes through, and unfortunately it’s happening to you with someone you are very close with.
Yes, you had always thought he was cute, but that's because he was. That fluffy brown hair, long thick eyelashes that adorned his pretty eyes, his dimples, the little crinkles by his eyes when he smiled. Okay– so maybe that's how you would describe him now, but still, he was a cute kid also, there was no denying that.
But if you really had to figure out when you realized you had a crush on Charles it had to have been this past Christmas.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The holidays in Monaco were somewhat different than the few years you remembered back in America. You had stopped celebrating Thanksgiving after your Mom’s failed attempt at trying to make a Thanksgiving dinner your first year here. It wasn’t that your Mom was a bad cook, it was that it was somewhat hard to find everything needed for a Thanksgiving dinner in Monaco. And as hard as your Mom tried to make it work, it just wasn’t the same without that damn Ocean Spray cranberry sauce.
So to make up for not celebrating Thanksgiving your family truly went all out for Christmas. The couple Christmases that you could remember back in America were nothing shy of magical, but ever since moving to Monaco, your family took Christmas very seriously. There was no denying that part of your household was American, because every year your house looked like it came straight out of a cult classic Christmas movie. Like Kevin McCallister or Clark Griswold had taken up residence in Monaco for the holidays.
It wasn’t just the outside that was decorated, the inside was just as festive and of course the tree was the main focal point. It was a busy tree, your Mom never liked an aesthetically pleasing tree, it was sentimental or nothing to her. Ornaments that were passed down on her side of the family, ones you had made in school, and some you had gotten after moving all had a home on the tree.
And as if decorating wasn’t enough for your family, your traditions were even more of a big deal. The most important one to you though was making cookies on Christmas Eve. Mainly because Arthur and Charles had been doing it with you since your first Christmas in Monaco.
Christmas music played on the record player in the living room, the sound traveling into the kitchen as your Mom and you made sure you had everything ready to bake. You were in your own little world, picking out your favorite cookie cutters and humming along to Wham!’s Last Christmas when you heard your Mom speak up. “You’re just in time Charles.”
Your eyes moved away from the pile of cookie cutters up to the garland decorated doorway where Charles was standing. A smile slowly crept its way onto your face as the two of you made eye contact. He looked cozy, the sweater he had on was slightly oversized and his hair had a messy fluffy look to it.
You watched as he talked to your Mom, she was surely talking to him about racing, and he would always gladly answer her questions, as she was nothing shy of a second Mom to him. The longer you stared at him, you could feel your heartbeat quickening. And a feeling was arising in you that you had only ever experienced with a boy in your class a year or so ago. Though, the feeling didn’t last long, you had caught him picking his nose, and with that went away any feelings you had towards him.
You didn’t even want to think about the word that was happening right now, the idea of it only making your heart race even faster. You tore your eyes away from Charles and noticed that the youngest Leclerc brother was missing, so you blamed your rapid heart beat and surely pink cheeks on that.
You cleared your throat and tried to gather yourself before speaking. “Where’s Arthur?”
Charles' attention was torn away from your Mom over to you. He pursed his lips, he didn’t know how to say nicely that Arthur said that baking Christmas cookies was for little kids, and he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He let out a sigh before speaking. “He’s not coming, he said he’s too old to be baking cookies.”
“But its-”
“I know. I told him that it’s tradition and that you would be upset, but he wasn’t budging. So you’re stuck with just me.”
It annoyed you that Arthur had bailed on you. There was no such thing as being too old to bake cookies, he was just being a jerk. And as far as you were concerned, he’s not allowed any of the cookies when your families have Christmas together tomorrow evening.
On the bright side you get to have some one on one time with Charles, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise– Arthur bailing on you. You picked up the recipe card from the counter, waving it around in the air. “Well let’s get to work then.”
Charles is at your side in an instant, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as he waits for further instruction.
“Do you think you kids can handle doing it by yourselves this year? I’ve got some last minute gifts that need to be wrapped.” Your Mom inquired, hopeful that you wouldn’t burn the house down on Christmas Eve.
You didn’t even look up at her, eyes focused on the recipe in front of you, this was clearly something you took seriously. “Yes Mom.”
Without a word she was gone, leaving Charles and you to your own devices.
You can feel Charles peering over your shoulder. He’s practically right up against your side and you can feel the soft material of his sweater on your arm. All you can smell is his cologne, something he had started to use within the last year or two, thankfully moving on from the Axe body spray phase. And you’re trying not to make this seem like a big deal, because it’s truly not, but something has shifted in your thirteen year old brain. The same brain being scrambled by him right now, and you think you’ve read the damn recipe card at least ten times now.
“Did you forget that the recipe is in American measuring terms?” Charles asks. The recipe was your Grandma’s and your Mom had never been bothered to convert it to the metric system.
“Nope, just double checking everything.” You force a smile as you set down the recipe card and grab a mixing bowl. You added all the ingredients and made Charles do all the labor, which meant he had to mix it and then roll out the dough.
You dug through the pile of cookie cutters looking for Charles favorite one. “Herree it isss.” You spoke in a sing songy voice as you held up the cookie cutter to Charles. His favorite in question? A penguin with a Santa hat on. Without fail, every Christmas, for the past eight years. Charles made an excessive amount of Santa hat penguin cookies.
A grin spread across his face as you placed it in his hand. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without this guy.” He wasted no time in pressing the cutter down into the dough and before you guys knew it the first batch was done and in the oven.
As you started on the next batch Charles kept a close eye on the baking cookies. The two of you allowed for Michael Buble to fill silence in the air and the mouthwatering smell of the cookies soon filled your nostrils. “You know you still call her Mom?”
Your eyebrows furrowed at Charles' random statement. “Huh?”
He walked away from the oven and back to his original spot next to you. “You still call your Maman Mom.”
“Yes?” You weren’t really sure where he was going with this, it was nothing new to either of you.
“I just figured by now you would have made the switch. You speak French with everyone else.”
You shrugged your shoulders at him, you had never really considered it, the idea felt weird even just thinking about it now. “I’ve always spoken English with my Mom and French with Papa. It would feel weird to switch stuff around now.” You stirred in the flour as you continued the conversation. “You know I could give you some English lessons if you’d like. I think that might have been what you were hinting at.” You teased.
Charles' eyes widened at your words. “Are you saying my English is not good? I think I speak English very good!”
“Well.” You didn’t skip a beat.
“What?”
“You think you speak English very w-”
In an instant there is flour all over the upper part of your body, your movements stilled as you’re processing what Charles had just done. You’re mad at first, actually seething because your hair looked so good today and now it’s covered in flour. And you can’t see Charles because you haven’t moved an inch since he threw the flour at you, but he went from having a shit eating grin on his face to a oh shit expression. Your quietness has him worried that you’re actually really pissed at him, but when he hears his nickname come past your lips he knows you're not that mad at him.
“Charlie. You better run.”
He isn’t sure he’s heard you right, but when he sees you pick up the whole bag of flour his sock clad feet are sliding on the floor as he runs around the other side of the kitchen island. You're playing cat and mouse around the island for quite some time. The beeping from the oven time ignored multiple times as giggles from both of you filled the room.
As Charles rounds the corner again his foot catches on one of the barstool legs and you know you’ve finally got him. He doesn’t fall, but he slips just enough to allow you to fully catch up to him. And you may or may not have thrown the whole bag of flour at him, but him being covered head to toe in flour says it was the whole bag. You definitely got him 10x worse than he did you and from that gleam in his eye you know what he’s going to do, but you can’t get away fast enough and his arms are around you in an instant. He shakes his head trying to get as much of the flour off of him and onto you and by you trying to free yourself from his grip he’s transferred a good amount from his clothes onto yours. “Charles! Let me go!” Your pleas are pitiful, laughter dripping off every word.
“Oh my god!”
Both of your eyes widen, bodies frozen at the sound of your Mom’s less than pleased voice. The two of you sheepishly stood there as your Mom looks like she’s about ready to cry and cuss you out at the same time. “I can’t leave you two alone for an hour?!” Her eyes shift to behind the two of you, panic written across her face. She’s practically running towards the oven and that’s when you realize the burning smell. And when she not so softly sets the cookie sheet onto the counter you know she’s really not happy. The cookies were burnt to a crisp, the poor Santa hat penguin never stood a chance. “I’m sorry Y/M/N. It was my fault, I started it.” Charles rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed.
“I don’t care who started it because you’re both cleaning up this mess.” A deep sigh came from you Mom as she really took in just how big of a mess the two of you had made, her head shaking in disapproval as she left the two of you to clean up.
When you knew she was out of earshot you couldn’t but let out a little giggle, it was like in school when you weren’t supposed to be laughing, but everything is just so funny, and Charles follows your actions seconds later. The two of you fools, covered in flour, cookies burnt, and in trouble as you stood there laughing.
That night you couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in your bed, your brain would not shut off. And it wasn’t because you were excited for Christmas morning, you only wished that was the reason. You couldn’t get how good it felt to have Charles arms wrapped around you out of your mind, or how that stupid sweater made him look even more attractive than he already was.
As you stared up at the ceiling, you knew you were screwed. You had a big fat crush on Charles and it was going to ruin your life. You knew he only saw you as a little sister and that made everything so much more worse to you. Why did you have to develop feelings for him of all people?
Christmas morning came and went and before you knew it evening had arrived, meaning the Leclerc’s would be arriving soon. You were in charge of setting the table, a task you didn’t mind, considering being in the kitchen with your Mom on any holiday was like asking to get yelled at. As you folded the last napkin neatly and placed it in its rightful spot you heard commotion coming from the front door, undoubtedly the Leclerc’s arriving. You spotted Pascale struggling to juggle all the presents and you hurried towards her, quick to offer a hand. “Merci chéri.” A grateful smile painted across her face.
The pile of presents grows as you place them under the tree and you’d think your family hadn’t already opened some this morning. Everyone settles into their usual spots in the living room, but your usual spot by Charles is left empty, as you’ve scurried into the kitchen. You’d rather face the unwarranted wrath from your Mom than be unable to compose yourself around Charles. But you don’t get to hide in the kitchen for very long because she’s practically done with everything, so you help her bring in all the food to the table, and admire your table setting skills as you do so.
Dinner is pretty uneventful and luckily your Dad has Charles preoccupied with racing talk for most of the time. But you can’t help but catch his eye from across the table every once in a while and every time you do your heart skips a beat. By the time presents start getting passed around you had successfully avoided Charles for most of the day, but that is ruined when he plops down next to you on the floor, shoulders brushing as he gets situated.
“Are you mad at me for yesterday?” Charles' voice is low, like he didn’t want anyone to hear, but he could have talked at full volume, no one would have heard him over how loud your Dads were being.
You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“You’ve been avoiding me all day.”
Your fingers toyed with the lifted corner of wrapping paper on the present in front of you, your brain trying to figure out what to say. Yes, you had been avoiding him, but it wasn’t because you were mad. It was actually the opposite, but you couldn’t tell him that. “I’m not mad at you. Just didn’t want there to be another flour fiasco today. You thought she was mad yesterday, now imagine that while she’s in her holiday cooking zone.” You give him a reassuring smile, hoping that he’s bought what you’ve told him. But he doesn’t get the chance to respond as your Mom’s voice fills the room.
“Ok does everyone have all their presents? Our Santa this year was less than enthusiastic about handing out the presents.” Your Mom shoots Arthur a look as he sits down on the floor across from Charles and you.
“There is nothing left under the tree. I promise.” Arthur states.
“Alright then everyone get after it!”
Piles of wrapping paper fill the empty spots on the floor in no time and excited gasps fill the room as everyone unwraps their gifts. You’re always so grateful for everything the Leclerc’s get you for Christmas, they treat you like one of their own, and sometimes you feel they spoil you a little too much.
With each present that you unwrapped that wasn’t from Charles, you start to get a little worried. You guys exchanged presents every year and if he didn’t get you something this year, you think you might die. So when you come to your last present and it says it’s from his parents, you try to hide your disappointment, especially because it’s an amazing gift. You hop up from your spot on the floor and make sure to go thank them personally, hugs and all. And you’re pretty sure you hear them say something about how you’re their daughter too and how you deserve it, but your brain is still thinking about how Charles didn’t get you anything.
When you go back to your spot a little perfectly wrapped box with a bow on it is sitting there. You know you weren’t sitting on that, so it had to be placed there after you got up. You think it’s one of Charles that he forgot about, but when you bend over to pick it up you see Charles sloppy handwriting on it. A smile spreads across your face as you look over at Charles who has an equally big one on his. You quickly sit down, eager to know what’s inside.
“Did you think I didn’t get you anything?” Charles questions, a smirk toying at his lips.
“Maybe.” Yes.
“I would never.” He bumps his shoulder into yours, motioning for you to open it. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”
You don’t want to seem like you're absolutely ripping into the present, but it probably looks like you are. It’s a tiny box, like one used for jewelry, and you really aren’t expecting Charles to have gotten you jewelry. But when you open the box, nestled in the velvet cushion, is a ring. You glance over at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then back to the ring. It’s just a simple sterling silver ring and somewhat on the smaller side. To be honest Charles could have gotten you a bag of candy and you would have been happy to have just gotten something from him, let alone a ring.
But when you pick the ring up from the box you see exactly why it’s smaller, and it makes your heart swell. On the inside of the ring you see the words pinky promise engraved into it and as you look over at Charles, he’s holding out his pinky finger, a matching ring adorning it. Your cheeks are hurting from how hard you're smiling, but you don’t care. It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever gotten you and as you slide it onto your pinky finger you feel yourself smiling even more, if that’s possible. Your arms are around Charles instantly, pulling him in towards you, thank you’s tumbling out of your mouth as he giggles in response.
“I’m glad you like it.” He pauses, trying to figure out the right words to say. “Things are changing. I’m moving up from karting and hopefully into Formula 3 within the next year. It’s just a reminder that we’ve always got each other, even if I’m gone racing or you’re off doing something, we can look at the rings and know we’ve got a piece of each other with us, always.”
You can’t stop smiling at him, and that crush you’ve got has tripled in size in a few short hours. Your teenage brain over exaggerates everything and you basically think this means you’re gonna be together forever, even though you aren’t even together.
While you’re in make believe land, your parents are observing the two of you. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged, between them and your Moms can’t help but think it’s cute how close the two of you are. While your Dad in particular, no matter how he feels about Charles, thinks no boy is good enough for his little girl, let alone some sixteen year old boy.
Perhaps you may be a little dramatic when you say that this Christmas was the best one you’d had so far, but honestly it was the truth. Sure you realized you had a huge crush on Charles that will probably end in tears, but you also got the most thoughtful gift ever, that you will cherish forever. So yeah, this was a good Christmas, crush aside.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
And so you lived with admiring Charles from afar for months. Enjoying what time you got together and just holding out hope that maybe one day he wouldn’t see you as his little sister. But life had a funny way of hitting you in the face with reality, especially at thirteen.
When Charles shows up to a joint family dinner one night with a girl around his arm you feel like all the air has escaped your lungs. And when he introduces her to everyone as his girlfriend you plaster on a smile even though you feel like someone has pulled your heart out of your chest and ran it over multiple times.
It’s the longest dinner of your life and while everyone gushes over his girlfriend, asking her all about her life and interests, you poke your food around with your fork. It’s not like you have an appetite anyways, getting your heart broken will do that to you. And it sucks even more because she’s so nice, like insanely nice, you couldn’t even hate her if you wanted to. Not to mention how pretty she was, she was everything, and you were some pimple faced, awkward bodied thirteen year old.
You fidget with the ring on your finger and your heart races at the idea of Charles not wearing his anymore, your eyes glance over at him and when you spot the ring still on his finger it calms you a little. But that still means nothing, just that he clearly still sees you as a little sister. What you don’t see is how your Mom has been watching you the whole night. You’ve never told her about your feelings towards Charles, but she’s your Mom, she just knows things. And she knows you're hurting right now, so when she changes the topic of conversation at the table you’re eternally grateful.
It’s an early night for you that night, not bothering to join everyone for a game of UNO, claiming that you aren’t feeling well. When really you couldn’t wait to go upstairs and just cry it out. What did you do to deserve something like this? It hurt so bad, but you knew there was nothing you could do about it. And as you laid in bed that night all you could think about was how are you going to live without him liking you back?
sixteen and nineteen
Newsflash you do live without Charles liking you back. In fact your crush goes away by the end of that year, no thanks to the new boy in your grade, who eventually ends up being your boyfriend. But it was safe to say you were over Charles, at least you think you are.
Charles, on the other hand, stayed with the girl who made you go crazy at age thirteen for over a year, but they broke up over text. And to your disappointment, Charles never told you the reason why. Ever since then it’s been somewhat of a revolving door of girls in Charles' life. Okay – maybe not a revolving door, but at least three different girls in the past two years. None of them lasted for more than a couple months though, and it was getting to the point where no one in either of your families got to know the girls.
Everyone knew that they would be gone sooner than later. After his last “breakup” a couple months ago, he hadn’t brought around a new one, he claimed that he needed to focus on racing, that F1 seat was almost in his grasp and that was all that mattered to him right now, but you knew there was something else going on.
While Charles was having issues in the relationship department, you were actually flourishing. You had met your now boyfriend Lucas, when he was the new kid your eighth grade year. You thought he was cute from the moment he walked into your History class the first day back from winter break. And when the seat next to you was the only open desk you tried to hide your excitement as he sat down, but when he smiled at you first, it was hard to hide the blush creeping onto your cheeks. He was the first to speak, asking if you had a pencil. But his accent made your ears perk up – he was Spanish. The big brown doe eyes and dark hair fit him, now that you realized he was Spanish.
“Do all Spaniards come unprepared on their first day?” You teased as you handed him a pencil. It was his turn to be the one blushing as he stifled a smile.
“No, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
So he was a flirt – noted.
The two of you became good friends rather quickly, but per your parents rules, you couldn’t date until you were fifteen. So, you played the long game and prayed that no one else peaked his interest. Luckily for you, he was so infatuated with you that he was willing to wait, and on your fifteenth birthday you went on your first date. He was nothing shy of a gentleman, even going as far as asking your parents permission to take you out, something your Dad was very fond of. And as your parents watched their little girl walk out the door hand in hand with a boy, they couldn’t help but feel a little sad.
“Our little girl is growing up.”
Your Mom wrapped a comforting arm around your Dad. “I know. I’m glad though, I figured she would waste her teenage years waiting on Charles.”
A questioning look washed across your Dad’s face. “What?”
“Oh honey. Don’t act like you’ve been blind these past ten years. They’ve always been drawn to each other, her more than him. She was absolutely heartbroken when he brought his first girlfriend to dinner that one time.”
“Guess I do remember being less than thrilled at Charles getting her that ring for Christmas that one year.” Your Dad huffed.
“Hmm,” she rests her head on his shoulder, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his abdomen as they still stand there, staring at the door. “You know Pascale has always said that Y/N would end up with Charles.”
Your Dad scoffs at your Mom’s words. “And what do you think of that?”
“I think only time will tell.”
While your parents were discussing your love life back at home, you were having a grand time on your date. The pizza place Lucas had taken you to was cute, a fitting place for two fifteen year olds to be on a first date. Thankfully it wasn’t awkward or tense, and you had to thank the two of you for being friends for a year before your date for that. It was just like the two of you hanging out.
On the walk back to your house your hands never separate, even when they start to become sweaty. And when he pulls you closer to him, so you're basically hugging his arm, you realize you could get used to this.The way his brown eyes look like pools of honey when the sun hits them just right as he looks down at you, the feeling of his thumb gently rubbing circles on your hand, and the way your name rolls of his tongue when he talks to you, especially with that accent of his. All of it has that all too familiar warm fuzzy feeling appearing in your stomach.
When he stops in front of the ice cream shop near your house he doesn’t even have to ask you if you want any, you’re already dragging him towards the entrance. The little bell on the door rings as the two of you walk inside and the all too familiar sugary sweet smell hits your nostrils.
“Ah! Chérie!”
The owner Mr. Martin – a short older man, probably in his sixties, with what you would call haystacks for eyebrows was beaming at you from behind the counter. He had grown fond of you and the Leclerc boys over the years, claiming that he loved seeing the three of you grow up, as he never had any grandchildren of his own. Though, when his eyes shifted to the right and saw Lucas standing next to you his smile fell briefly, if you hadn’t been staring at him you wouldn’t have caught it.
“Who is this handsome young man?” He asks as the two of you walk towards him..
You introduce Lucas to Mr. Martin and it’s at that moment that you realize that this is the first time you’ve brought him here. Something that didn’t seem possible to you because you were here so often that you had to have brought Lucas here at least once, but you can’t recall a time.
Only when a vanilla cone is in front of your face are you brought out of your thoughts. Of course Mr. Martin didn’t need to ask you what you wanted, it’s been the same thing every time for the past ten years. Lucas had already sat down at one of the little tables, chocolate cone in hand, while he waited for you.
“I was surprised to see you with a boy other than Charles.” Mr. Martin states as he wipes down the counter. “He must be special because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here with anyone other than your family or Charles.”
His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Yes, this was your first time you had brought Lucas here, but you know you’ve brought other friends here. There was no way in your ten years here that you hadn’t, but once again your mind was drawing a blank. As you glance back over at Lucas a knot forms in your stomach, it suddenly feels wrong to have brought him here. Like in some way you were tainting this place with his presence. Ruining whatever special hold this place has on your relationship with your family– with Charles.
You completely ignore Mr. Martin’s statements and just give him a smile and thanks before making up an excuse as to why Lucas and you need to leave. He doesn’t take much convincing when you claim to want to see the sunset. His hand is back in yours as you hear the bell ring once more as the two of you leave. And it’s like as soon as you guys are back on the sidewalk walking towards your house, the gut wrenching feeling is gone. The only evidence of it is left in the ice cream and by the time you’re standing on your front porch step it’s all gone.
Lucas has a lopsided grin on his face, one you’ve grown to love, as the two of you stand facing each other. “You know we are missing the sunset you wanted to see.” His fingers lightly toy with yours, before finally intertwining them again.
“Mmh. It’s okay.” You were getting lost in those big brown eyes of his, the sunset the last thing on your mind.
“I’d rather stare at you anyways, you’re much prettier.”
His words make you practically putty in his hands and before you know it you’re having your first kiss. It’s sweet, metaphorically and literally, the taste of ice cream still on both of your lips. His hand cups your cheek and you have to wonder if he’s done this before. But when he pulls away he only has you craving more, so you lean up and steal on more from him. Giggles escaping past your lips as you see the light blush on his cheeks, you were sure yours were bright red. “Guess this is where I ask you to be my girlfriend huh? Not like I’ve been obsessed with you since my first day of school, been waiting all year or anything.”
You raise an eyebrow at him with a smirk on your face. “Are you going to properly ask me?”
By the end of the night when you’re laying in bed, you had officially gone on your first date, had your first kiss, and obtained a boyfriend all in a matter of hours that day. You were a giddy mess, excitement coursed through your veins, and you couldn’t help but repeatedly feel your lips, the feeling of Lucas’ still fresh in your mind the whole night. You couldn’t wait to feel them on yours again. And when he texts you that he wants to hang out tomorrow you think your heart just might leap out of your chest.
Being with Lucas was like living on cloud nine, you truly couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. As the year progressed you really wondered how you had snagged someone like him– tall, dark, and handsome. You felt like the luckiest girl in the world, and he made you feel like it too, until he didn’t.
That’s the funny thing about first loves, you really think nothing could ever come between you, that it’s going to last forever. But the only thing that lasts forever is the damage they leave when they’re gone.
You aren’t really sure what switched in Lucas, but after a year of being together he turned into someone who was never happy with what you did, always picking fights over stupid little things. And you know you should have left him already, but you love him, and you think you guys can make it work. You’re only sixteen and your Mom tells you relationships shouldn’t be like this at this age, shouldn’t be mentally draining, but unfortunately this one is.
All your arguments as of lately had been about Charles. Lucas, though denying it every time you brought it up, had become jealous of him. You weren’t even sure where the jealousy had come from, you barely saw Charles like you used to. He was in F2 on the cusp of getting that F1 seat and you were busy with school and spending time with Lucas. You had even gone as far as rejecting invites to hang out with your other friends to spend time with Lucas, something now you regret very deeply.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
It’s a chilly Friday night in February when everything comes crashing down. The argument started over Charles texting you asking if you wanted to hang out. You were already with Lucas, but you hadn’t seen Charles in a couple weeks and you knew once the season started seeing him would be even more scarce. So, you make the big mistake of asking Lucas if he wanted to hang out with Charles.
“Why would I want to hang out with him?” His back was turned to you, but you already knew from his tone that this was going to turn into an argument.
“Well I haven’t seen him in awhile and he texted me asking to hang out, I thought we all could hang out.” You thought maybe by including Lucas in the plans that it would make the situation better. Wrong.
He turns to face you, walking towards your bed where you’re currently sat. “Did he mention me in the text?”
“Well no but-”
“Exactly,” Lucas scoffs at you, his expression sour as he looms over you. “He doesn’t want me to come. I would get in his way.”
You roll your eyes at his dramatics, Charles was not the guy Lucas made him out to be. “Don’t know what you mean by you getting in his way.”
“Oh don’t act cute about it Y/N.” Hearing your name roll off his tongue no longer sounded like music to your ears, it now more resembled nails on a chalkboard, like each time he spoke your name it was venom coming out his mouth. “Bet if I gave him the chance he’d try to get in your pants at the first opportunity.”
Your eyes widened, cheeks getting hot at his accusations. “What kind of girl do you think I am Lucas?”
“All I’m saying is your friendship with him isn’t normal, and it makes a guy wonder.”
You were up off of your bed now, the two of you standing in the middle of your room. “This is getting old. I’ve told you, you have nothing to be jealous of.” You had started to twist the ring on your pinky finger, a nervous habit you had developed over the past couple years.
“That is why your friendship isn’t normal.” Lucas grabs your hand, his fingers twisting at the ring trying to pull it off your finger. “What kind of girl wears a ring another guy got her while in a relationship? Huh? Even worse that you’ve got matching ones.”
Yanking your hand free from his grasp you can feel your blood starting to boil, and you’re thankful your parents aren’t home tonight because you can tell this is going to get ugly. “We fucking grew up together! He’s like a brother Lucas!” You were the first one to yell and you had unfortunately opened the floodgates because now Lucas is yelling.
“Who hasn’t heard that before?! He’s like a brother. Give me a fucking break. You’re telling me you’ve never had feelings for him? Not once in your life?”
The accusations and ideas he was throwing around tonight were beyond ridiculous.
“I’m not thirteen anymore Lucas. You know I only love you.” And you don’t realize what you’ve basically admitted until it leaves your mouth and you hear Lucas let out a dry laugh.
“Ah. There it is. I think that last part may have been a lie, because you still wouldn’t be wearing that ring if you didn’t still feel something for him.”
You shake your head at him, why couldn’t he get what you were saying though his thick skull. “I only have platonic love for Charles. It’s nothing like what you and I have.”
He clicks his tongue, and you can hear the gears turning in his head. “Prove it.” You furrow your eyebrows at him, confused as to how you are supposed to prove that you love only him. “Take the ring off and give it back to Charles.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, afraid he’ll try and rip it off your finger again. “No. It’s just a ring Lucas. You’re giving it more power than it has.”
“If it’s just a ring then take it off.” You shake your head no at him. “Take it off Y/N.” You shake your head no again and he stalks towards you, causing you to back up until the backs of your knees hit your bed. “Take off the fucking ring!” He’s yelling and you can feel the tears starting to pool in your eyes. He’s never gotten this crazy before and you can tell that this is the end of the two of you.
“Lucas just go.” You're trying to hold back your tears, but when he tries to reach around to grab your hand you let out a sob. “Lucas, leave! Now!”
He backs up, and for the first time that night you get a good look at his eyes. They are no longer the pools of honey you once found yourself getting lost in, their dark, like a black void, and he almost looks unrecognizable as he stands there. “You never truly loved me did you?.”
His words cut through you, because you really did love him, and you thought he loved you. But someone who loves you would never treat you like he has you. “I loved you more than you’ll ever know, but clearly you’ve got some shit mixed up in your head to think that I didn’t.”
“But you are always going to love Charles more Y/N. You can tell yourself it’s only platonic love, but we both know it’s not.”
You wipe away your tears as you sit back down on the side of your bed, this was getting old. “I can’t do this anymore. Truly. I’ve tried to tell you how much you mean to me, but Charles is a part of my life and if you can’t deal with that,” You take a deep breath, scared for what's about to come out of your mouth. “Then maybe we should break up.”
And for the first time that night Lucas doesn’t respond and you’re actually surprised that he doesn’t put up a fight. “Alright then I guess we are done.” When he doesn’t immediately leave and decides to squat down in front of you, you're confused. Especially when he wipes away your tears as his hand cups your cheek. “I never wanted us to end up like this, but I can’t share your heart with someone else.”
He should be screaming and instigating more arguing, not being gentle and loving. More tears fall down your cheeks as he presses a final kiss on your forehead before walking out your bedroom door. You can hear your parents greet him downstairs, what great timing for them to arrive home, and when the front door slams you’re surprised your Dad isn’t going after him.
You’re immediately calling Charles and you don’t even have to speak, your sniffles and ragged breathing lets him know that you need him. As you hang up the phone you hear a gentle knock on your door and you see your Mom peek her head in, her heart breaking when she sees the state you’re in. “Oh my sweet girl.”
“It’s over Mom.” You choke out between sobs.
She does the only thing that she knows you need right now and just holds you, lets you get it all out as she runs her fingers through your hair.
But seconds later you’re both greeted with an out of breath Charles standing in the middle of your room. Your tears subside for a moment, as you see him doubled over trying to catch his breath.
“Alright, I’m gonna leave you two be.” Your Mom gives you a reassuring kiss on the head before exiting your bedroom.
Charles takes her spot next to you on your bed, his arm immediately pulling you into him. “Did you run here?” You ask as you rest your head on his shoulder.
“Did you expect anything less when you called me crying?” He’s deadly serious when he says it, and you don’t know it, but he’d drop everything to come to your aid, no matter if you asked or not. You don’t answer him, but when you wrap your arms around his waist and basically tuck yourself into his side, he knows you appreciate him being here. “Am I wrong for thinking this has something to do with Lucas?”
The tears start to fall again as the fight replays in your head. “We broke up.” Your words barely above a whisper, but Charles has no trouble hearing them, even over your sniffles.
“Never liked that asshole anyways.”
You rolled your eyes at Charles' statement, lightly laughing because he was totally lying. “Don’t lie, you liked him, hell everyone liked him.”
“Ever thought I am just a very good actor? He made you happy, so I just pretended to like him, for your sake.”
“Wish you would have made your dislike of him known, maybe I wouldn’t be a hot mess on a Friday night right now.” A sigh escapes past your lips, the feeling of Charles gently rubbing circles on your side had started to soothe you. And you wished you could stay like this forever, wrapped up in his embrace.
Charles doesn’t mean to pry, he knows you’ll tell him when you're ready, but he’s curious as to why the two of you had broken up, as far as he was concerned the two of you seemed happier than ever. But he wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t happy about the two of you breaking up, for reasons unknown to him yet.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
Your grip on him tightens and he thinks if he let you, you’d be under his skin if it was possible. “He was jealous of you.”
Charles feels his heartbeat quicken and he’s not sure why, but he does know he wants to hear the whole story. “And?”
You know you’re going to start crying again, but it's Charles, you can tell him anything. So you take a deep breath and spill the beans. “It started a couple months ago. He’d pick fights over stupid stuff at first and then it turned into stuff concerning you. I tried to just let it go and make sure he knew he was my number one priority. But tonight’s fight was the worst one yet and I just couldn’t handle it anymore. He was basically insulating that I loved you more than him and I tried to tell him it was only platonic love that I had for you, but he wasn’t convinced.”
There’s a strange feeling that blooms in Charles' chest as your words hit his ears and it clouds his mind because he’s never had a feeling like this when he’s been around you. It’s foreign and it scares the shit out of him.
You hold back some information from Charles, mainly because you were still processing how you really feel about him. Trying to sort through what Lucas had planted into your brain and what might have already been there, left over from thirteen year old you. But your ring clad finger searches for his and when you feel the cool contrast of his ring, you wrap your pinky fingers together. “Do you think our friendship is normal Charlie?”
He cocks an eyebrow at you, confused as to what you meant. “Where’s this coming from?”
Your eyes never break away from your intertwined fingers, matching rings staring back at you. “Lucas said our friendship isn’t normal and basically the fact that we have matching rings isn’t normal either.”
Now Charles' gaze is also on your rings and for a moment he thinks maybe it isn’t normal, but then he realizes this is your guys normal. So fuck what anyone else or Lucas thought about his friendship with you. “Think he might have been just pulling shit out of his ass at that point. Jealous that he doesn’t have anyone in his life like we do each other.”
Charles' words do make you feel a little better, because you know no matter what you’ll always have each other and tonight is proof of that, but that doesn’t stop your still broken heart from showing.
“Still kind of made me feel like shit though, like he made it seem like I didn’t love him at all, when I clearly did. I mean god Charles he was my first date, first kiss, first everything. Even with how badly he had treated me these last couple months, we’re always gonna have that connection. How am I supposed to find someone like that again? Fuck. I mean he literally has a part of me that I’ll never get back.”
And Charles can feel his heart tightening at your words, because you’re truly the most amazing girl he knows, and to know that Lucas treated you badly when all you deserve is the best awakens something in him.
“I wish you could see how you look to me, how amazing you are. Yes, you have those connections with Lucas, but believe me when I say you aren’t going to have a problem finding someone else.”
A small smile finds its way onto your face as you hear Charles speak. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You’re funny, kind, the best listener, and you’re so beautiful. Truly Y/N, anyone would be lucky to have you. And Lucas is clearly stupid for letting you go.”
The blush on your cheeks probably looked like a bad sunburn with how much you were blushing and as you made eye contact with Charles you suddenly felt like that thirteen year old girl again. His blue eyes burning into yours and when he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear you can’t help the butterflies that erupt in your stomach. And for a brief moment Charles had pushed your thoughts about Lucas to the back of your mind.
He pulls you into a hug and if there is one place you feel the safest in the world, it’s in Charles arms. And when he whispers into your ear that everything is gonna be fine, you know it’s going to be, as long as you’ve got Charles in your life.
seventeen and twenty
He had done it.
Charles had finally gotten into Formula 1. The thing he had only dreamt of since childhood had finally come true. The long weekends away from home, the training, the tiredness, the stress, it was all worth it in the end. That seat was finally his and you couldn’t have been more proud. He had been in talks with a couple of the teams for a while and he always kept you updated on the possibilities, some weeks it sounded like he would sign with one team, and then the next another. The whole situation was beyond stressful to you, so you could only imagine how Charles felt about it all.
The day you found out that he signed with Suaber was one you’ll never forget.
Charles had tried to plan some elaborate thing to announce the big news to you, but that meant he would have to keep it a secret from you for at least a day or two. Something he found to be rather difficult once he got home, because the only thing he wanted to do was tell you.
It didn’t matter to him that it was almost midnight by the time he had gotten home from the airport, he was going to tell you tonight no matter what. He pulled his phone out of his pocket– thumbs moving rapidly as he texted you.
After dozing off multiple times in the last half hour you had decided to call it quits on your binge session of The Office for the night. You had switched the TV to something random to actually fall asleep to and it didn’t take long for you to be on the cusp of actual sleep until–
DING
A groan escaped past your lips and you contemplated ignoring it, but when the second alert went off you snatched your phone off the nightstand. It felt like you were staring directly into the sun as your eyes struggled to read the text notification.
Charlie: come out back
Your eyes glanced at the time – 12:15. What the hell could he possibly want this late? But you begrudgingly got out of bed, slipping on some shoes and a sweatshirt before quietly going downstairs.
The light on the back patio illuminated the backyard just enough for you to see Charles sitting on the swings waiting for you. And If you were even thinking about sneaking up on Charles that would have been impossible with the sliding door to the backyard. The thing screeched like nails on a chalkboard even with you opening it just enough to slide through it. His gaze now locked onto you as you scurried off the porch and towards the swings.
The smile that he greeted you with was one beyond measure. He was clearly happy about something and you could tell just by the crinkles around his eyes and those dimples that right now looked to be deeper than canyons.
“What’s got you so happy, Leclerc?”
Your eyes focused on Charles' frame as he swayed back and forth slowly on the swing. He was clearly too big for it – his legs were bent awkwardly and his swing creaked everytime he moved. You could feel the sides of the swing digging into your hips and you realized you probably looked as ridiculous as him.
“Just happy to see you. Missed you.” His smile still ever prominent.
You scoffed at his words, he had just seen you a couple days ago. “Yeah right. You wouldn’t have texted me at midnight if there wasn’t something going on. In fact, how did you know I was up or even home? It’s a Friday night you know.”
“Because I know you Y/N. Your Friday nights are usually spent at home watching some show until you can’t stay up any longer.”
A grimace finds its way onto your face, what an amazing life you live. “Okay when you say it outloud it makes me sound like a loser.”
His eyes had softened as the two of you made eye contact. “Nothing wrong with how you spend your Friday nights.”
You wanted to get off the topic of your nonexistent social life and onto the pressing matter at hand tonight – what had Charles so giddy? “So are you gonna tell me what is actually going on or what?”
He took a deep breath, he couldn’t believe he was finally getting to say these words out loud. “I’ve got a Formula 1 seat next year.”
A blank expression is all that is staring back at Charles and he’s worried that you’re somehow mad or upset, but that’s far from the truth. You aren’t sure if you’ve heard him right, because you think you heard him say he’s going to be racing in Formula 1 next year, but your brain has seemed to have short circuited– your heart beating a mile a minute.
You’re able to get out, “Sorry – what?!” and when you hear those words come from him once again you’re practically leaping out of the swing and into his arms. The fact that it’s nighttime and people are sleeping is the last thing on your mind as you're shouting excited nonsense at him.
His laughter filled your ears as he stood up from the swing with you still wrapped up in his arms. You just couldn’t believe it, something he had worked so hard for, dreamt about since childhood, had finally come true. If anyone was deserving of it – it was him.
“Putain de merde Charles! When did you sign and with who?” You asked once you had finally peeled yourself away from him and were able to form a coherent sentence.
“Sauber – I just signed yesterday. I know it’s not Ferrari like we had hoped-”
Your jaw dropped and you lightly smacked his arm. “Ferrari will always be there, I promise. And maybe after they see how good you do this upcoming season they’ll regret not signing you. But what I’m really wondering is why you told me you were going to do testing for one of the teams instead of telling me you were going to sign with them!”
He put his hands up in defense, but the cheesy grin on his face still remained. “I wanted to surprise you! But then as soon as I signed that contract all I wanted to do was tell you. I literally just got home from the airport when I texted you!”
The fact that Charles wanted you to be the first person he told had you melting and the butterflies in your stomach had you thinking about those unresolved feelings you had towards him. But you pushed it aside because tonight was not the night for that to be lingering in your mind.
You reached down to his hand and linked your pinky fingers together. The gesture no longer just meant for a promise, but also one of comfort and reassurance. “I do hope you know though how immensely proud I am of you. How proud your Papa would be of you. I knew from that first time you ever mentioned something about becoming a F1 driver when we were kids that you would accomplish it and now look at you.”
Charles' eyes soften at your words and when he looks into your eyes he feels that funny foreign feeling. The one that blooms in his chest and travels down to his stomach, the same feeling from last year when he held you after Lucas broke your heart. The feeling he chooses to ignore as he pulls you back into his arms, hugging you tightly, like someone might take you from him. He knows his life wouldn’t be the same without you and that he owes some of this success to you– for constantly believing in him even when he didn’t, for dreaming with him, and for being the light on even his darkest days.
“And I hope you know that I wouldn’t have made it without you. You’ve been my biggest supporter since we were kids, always believing in me, pushing me, coming to support me when you could, and I can’t imagine you not being at my first race.”
“Oh do you not remember what I said when we were younger? Think I said I’d have a permanent paddock pass, so you bet your ass I’m gonna be there.”
A small laugh escapes past his lips and his dimples are back out in full force for what seems like the millionth time tonight. “Truly Y/N. Merci, I couldn’t have done it without you. Je t'aime.”
“Je t'aime aussi Charlie.”
His pinky finger finds yours once again and when he curls his finger around yours a wave of deja vu washes over you. And that’s when you remembered the last time the two were out here together. You were still kids, but you had made him promise not to forget you once he got into Formula 1.
Now here the two of you stood, high on the exciting news of him achieving that goal. You can’t help that pit that starts to form in your stomach as you think of what you feared at age ten coming true. You try to hide it, not wanting to dampen the mood, and you know all you can do is pray that he keeps his promise.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
That following March you make the trip to Australia with the Leclerc’s and your family and it’s everything you could have ever dreamed of. Sure you had attended the Monaco Grand Prix every year, and some of Charles F2 races, but you had never been really in the thick of it like this. Maybe it was because it was Charles' first ever F1 race, but the feeling in the air was indescribable. The roar of the engines, the cheers from the crowd, it was something you could get used to experiencing.
It’s surreal to see him in the car, see him flying around the circuit like it’s nothing, because all you can imagine is eight year old Charles saying he wants to be an F1 driver when he grows up in that car. He ends up placing P13 and for his first ever F1 race you couldn't have been more proud. And you aren’t afraid to admit that you shed a few tears, honestly you think everyone shed a few tears seeing him finally accomplish that lifetime dream of his.
When you see him after the race he’s beaming like he’d won the thing and you could only imagine what he will be like when he actually wins his first race. You can practically feel the adrenaline radiating off of him when he wraps you up in his embrace.
“You did so good Charles. You did it, you made it.” Your words slightly mumbled against his shoulder, but he hears you just fine.
“I’m glad you were able to come. Wouldn’t have been as special if you didn’t.” You don’t think he’s wiped that smile off his face ever since he got out of the car and it only intensified as he spoke to you.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” And it’s true because there’s no other place you’d want to be right now.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The next time you see him is for the Monaco Grand Prix and he’s nearly shitting himself the whole week before. You would have thought this was his first ever time in a F1 car with how nervous he was. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, knows this circuit like the back of his hand, but he still spends an unnecessary amount of time on the sim, trying to perfect every little thing.
With what little amount of time you see him between practice sessions and qualifying before the actual race you try and reassure him, let him know that he’s still an amazing person and driver no matter the outcome on Sunday. And it seems to have worked because by Sunday his spirits seem to be much higher and he’s got a good feeling about the race, hoping to score some points, and maybe win his home race.
But when his brakes fail and he ends up crashing into the back of another car resulting in a DNF you’re heartbroken, but you know he’s even more upset. You know he’s going to be so hard on himself and overanalyze the whole situation, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to try and make things a little better.
When you find him he’s pacing back and forth in what little space he has in his drivers room. Helmet still strapped onto his head and his race suit still done up. You spot one of his gloves on the physio table and the other on the ground — evidence that he had thrown them. He’s so in his head that he doesn’t even see you standing in the doorway as he paces.
“Charlie.” Your voice is soft and you hope by using his nickname that it may calm him a little.
His movements stop when he hears your voice and when he finally sees you standing there in the doorway all he wants to do is crawl into a hole and die. What an embarrassment to have his first DNF at his first home race. It’s like the gods wanted to punish him for reasons unbestowed to him.
Your reflection stares back at you through his visor as you approach him, his shoulders relaxing slightly as your hands find their home on them. You finally work up the courage to flip up his visor so you can actually look at him and when you see red puffy eyes staring back at you your heart breaks a little more.
“Let’s get this helmet off, yeah?”
With a small nod given from him as permission you reach your hands up to undo the strap. You’re trying to be delicate with your actions, but when it comes to taking off his helmet there really isn’t a way to be nice about it. And Charles knows because he’s got his hands over yours, aiding you in taking it off.
You couldn’t help but stare at him as he practically tore off his balaclava and threw it haphazardly somewhere in the room. As silly as it seemed, the indentions that it left behind on his face somehow made him more attractive. Combine that with his hair being a tousled mess and his skin glistening from the sweat (and tears) and post race Charles may be your favorite Charles. You watched even more intently as he unzipped his race suit, letting the upper half fall at his hips, exposing the tight fireproofs that you loved more than you should.
Those unresolved feelings that you’ve tried to shove deep down for years had seemed to be crawling their way back up recently. But for today you pushed them back down because you were here to comfort Charles, not ogle at him, no matter how good he looked at the moment.
He sat down on his physio table with a defeated sigh, hand running through his already messy hair. “I’ve let everyone down – the team, my family, myself, you. Maybe if I wouldn’t have braked too hard at turn seven or didn’t push as hard in the tunnel-”
You moved to stand in between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders. He was on the edge of spiraling and you knew if you didn’t take him back from that ledge he’d be in his head about it for weeks.
“Charles. There was nothing that you could have done differently, it was an issue with the car. Which means it had nothing to do with you as a person, as a driver, or your talent.” Your hand subconsciously searches for his, and like it’s muscle memory your pinkies link seconds later. “I promise.”
“A ‘once in a generation driver’ would have avoided crashing.”
Ugh. The phrases that the media used to describe Charles were – yes very flattering, but they came at a price. He took them personally and the idea of being anything less than what they claimed him to be took a serious mental toll on him.
“You had no brakes Charles. What were you supposed to do? Bust your feet through the floor and Fred Flintstone it?” You could see the corners of his mouth turn up slightly at your comment and you knew he was backing away from the edge. His hands find their way around your waist and he’s pulling you into him, your head finding a home on his shoulder.
“I’m still immensely proud of you. Hell, you could finish dead last in every race and I’d still be your number one fan.” This time there is an actual smile that washes across Charles face, but you don’t get to see it, your head is still resting on his shoulder. “ And I know it’s easier said than done, but please try not to be so hard on yourself, especially when it comes to things out of your control.”
“What would I do without you?” It’s a serious question that Charles asks himself often. You’ve been each other's rocks for twelve years now. Through the amazing times and the horrible times. No one knows either of you like you do each other.
You’ve pulled away from his embrace now, your eyes staring back at his. “Hmmm. I don’t know. You’d probably be absolutely miserable without me.”
And when you finally see that pretty smile of his, dimples and all, you know you’ve accomplished your mission.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Although after Monaco– things changed.
The first thing and probably the most inevitable was Charles moving out. Honestly, you were surprised he hadn’t done it sooner, but in between the Monaco GP and Canadian GP he moved into his own place. Which in theory wasn’t a big deal, but that meant he wasn’t just right down the street from you anymore. He had gotten an apartment further into the city, which in Monaco that’s not that far, but you knew it would make a difference.
The days of popping into his house and expecting him to be there were long gone. The whole thing really shouldn’t have been such a big deal to you, but you couldn’t help but think that him moving out was only going to aid in your worries of him forgetting about you to come true.
After Monaco your communication with Charles started to slowly lessen.Texts that once were answered in minutes now went hours without an answer or sometimes no response at all. You blamed it on his busy schedule, trying not to think too much about it. But much to your dismay, your worries do come true.
It’s inevitable to you that you are drifting apart when you realize it’s been three months since you’ve seen him, almost a month since you’ve talked to him. And when you see him make it official with some girl you hadn’t even heard mention of after the British GP you feel like it’s just another nail in the coffin.
You don’t even make the effort to reach out anymore, in fact you make sure not to after seeing that he’s got a new girlfriend. You’d just be wasting your time and energy. And it may seem like you're giving up on keeping Charles in your life, but really what else could you do? It truly hurts like hell to see the person you care about the most not seem to care about you, but you can’t force someone to talk to you or see you.
He’s living his dream, traveling the world, partying, surrounded by stunning women. You’re still in school, still only seventeen, and not sure what you want your life to look like. It was inevitable really, for the two of you to drift apart, but that little part of you that ten year old you still holds on to, hopes that Charles remembers that promise he made and eventually comes to his senses. Because you know and you know he knows that you two are always going to have that special bond, the ring on your finger a constant reminder of it. And you wonder if he still wears his, but you don’t hold on to much hope that he does.
Even though Charles and you aren’t exactly the closest at the moment you do want to try and attend another race before you start your final year of school and are forced to give that all of your attention. So when Arthur texts you asking if you want to go to Monza with Pascale and him you don’t pass up the opportunity.
Arthur filled you in on stuff regarding Charles during the flight, not that you asked, but he knew the two of you hadn’t really been talking. And you don’t mean to ask about his girlfriend, but you do, and you can see Arthur tip-toeing around his words. “She’s… nice. I’ve only met her once so I really couldn’t tell you much. You haven’t met her yet though, right?”
You shook your head at him. “I haven’t even seen Charles since the home race. So no, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her.”
“Merde. I didn’t think it had been that long.”
What Arthur doesn’t tell you is that Charles doesn’t know their Mom and him are coming, not to mention you. You only figure it out when Arthur says something about making sure Charles doesn’t know to the Sauber team member who gives him three VIP passes. Arthur claims you guys are here to surprise Charles, give him a little pick me up after his last two races were DNF’s.
The idea of seeing Charles again after so long already had your stomach in knots, but now knowing he doesn’t even know you’re coming makes it even worse. You were under the impression that he knew you were tagging along with Arthur. And everyone knows Charles is horrible at hiding his emotions, what if he sees you and can’t hide the fact that he doesn’t want you here? A million possibilities ran through your brain as Arthur dragged you towards the Sauber garage, while Pascale went to hospitality.
Qualifying had just started and you were thankful for the extra time to mentally prepare yourself to see Charles again. With the way you were acting you would have thought you hadn’t seen him in years, but truthfully these three months had felt like years.
The roar of engines were slightly muffled as you put on a headset, eyes focused on the monitor in front of you. Even with your nerves through the roof, it felt good to be back at a race. The atmosphere was intoxicating, you loved the hustle and bustle of it all, the adrenaline you got from just being here was crazy.
You were so engrossed in watching Charles that you didn’t even notice someone come up behind Arthur and you until you felt him tap your shoulder. When you turn around the person standing there is the last person you expected to be seeing.
Leah— Charles' girlfriend.
Her lips are moving, but you aren’t hearing a word, and that’s when you realize you’ve still got your headset on. You quickly pull them down around your neck just in time to hear her say. “You must be Y/N?” You're shocked she knows who you are and from the look on your face she knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Charles has mentioned you before. It’s nice to finally meet you!”
It’s sad to say that you had a hard time believing that Charles talked about you to her, but you put on a fake smile and accepted her invitation for a hug. “It’s nice to meet you too!” While Arthur and her spoke you tried to get a good read on her, but it was hard to tell if she was naturally this friendly or if it was all just an act.
Time slipped away as the three of you chatted and you hadn’t realized Q1 was over and that Charles hadn’t made it into Q2 until you saw Leah’s eyes widened at something behind you. That something turned out to be someone and that someone turned out to be Charles. Leah’s practically hanging off of him while she’s trying to take a million photos and videos. And that’s when you know why Arthur tiptoed around his words about her earlier. Yes she was ‘nice’, but she was clearly using Charles for her own benefit.
Charles on the other hand was oblivious to Leah shoving her phone in his face. His vision had zeroed in on you from the moment he entered the garage, even with your back turned to him he could spot you in a crowd of hundreds. When you finally turned around he felt like his feet had been cemented to the ground. His body felt hot, like a fever was running through his veins, and it wasn’t from being in the car moments ago.
Arthur wasn’t supposed to be here and you weren’t either– especially talking to his girlfriend. It throws him for a loop and he can’t seem to get his brain and mouth to work together to even greet you, so he stands there while Leah makes sure everyone knows she’s dating a Formula 1 driver.
The tight lipped smile you throw his direction doesn’t help how he’s feeling. You should be beaming at him, in his personal space (preferably in his arms), laughing at something dumb he said, anything other than how you were right now. And he knows it's no fault but his own, but it still hurts to see you stand there and act like you don’t like him, like you haven’t known each other for twelve years.
Charles could blame his absence in your life on his career, but that wasn’t the whole truth.
He had seen your texts and truthfully sometimes he was so busy that he would forget to text you back. But those times when he could give you his full attention over text or the occasional facetime were times he never took for granted. He loved hearing your laughter, seeing your smile, or even just having you send him a text about your day. But with those things he loved so dearly came that funny feeling in his chest.
The same feeling that he first felt last year when Lucas broke up with you, the night he told you he made it into F1, at his home race, and sprinkled in occasionally at other times. He had realized what it was not too long after the Monaco GP and at first he denied it, he thought there was no way it was possible. But then when that feeling would happen just from getting a text from you he knew he was fucked. He wasn’t even going to say the word out loud, not even think it, afraid of what might come if he even allowed the universe the satisfaction of him accepting what he was feeling. You were supposed to be his best friend and not someone he had feelings for.
So what did he do to combat this insane revelation he had found out about himself?
Distance himself.
If he wasn’t in contact with you or seeing you, then surely this silly little thing, that he once again would not acknowledge by its government name, would go away. Plus his ever so busy career was the perfect excuse for him to use in case his Mother or you questioned him.
And at first it wasn’t hard at all, he had gradually weaned himself off from facetiming you and then texting. And it wasn’t that bad because he had racing and training and media duties and parties– all the stuff that his life involved now to distract him. But then your texts became less and less and then on one off week he realized just how badly he missed having your stupid contact photo pop up on his phone and how he may have fucked everything up.
But then he met Leah through another driver’s girlfriend and he had her to distract him even more. He knew what kind of person she was from the get go, but he was basically using her too, so if she wanted to make her whole instagram about him then so be it as long as his brain was free of that thing that must not be named about you. And Leah worked for awhile, she was relatively nice and it helped that she was pretty, but she wasn’t you.
There was no real connection between them and sometimes Charles would rather watch paint dry than have a conversation with her. And most of the time he just let her sit there and talk while he scrolled on his phone, trying not to act like his heart didn’t skip a beat when a post of yours would pop up on Instagram.
He wanted to contact you so badly, but what was he supposed to say? Hey, I've been so busy that I haven't even picked up my phone to text you hi.
He knew he had caused some damage to your relationship when his Mom asked why he wasn’t coming home to see you anymore and that you weren’t yourself. He feels like shit about it, the idea of him making you upset is practically nightmare fuel for Charles and he doesn’t know why he thought distancing himself would make things better, they had just made things worse. Made him miss you even more without even realizing it.
Clearly Charles had never heard the saying distance makes the heart grow fonder because if he had then maybe he wouldn’t have been stood there like a fool in the Sauber garage right now. Heart racing faster than the car he just got out of at the sight of you standing here in front of him for the first time in three months.
What the hell was happening to him? What was this sudden effect you had on him? Had it always been there and he hadn’t realized it until now? He couldn’t think straight – it was clearly not a good idea to have tried to ignore these realizations (feelings) he had about you. A bad idea to not see you for months because now that you are here everything is rushing back up to the surface 10x worse than before.
“Long time no see stranger.” Your voice brings him back to reality, but your closer proximity has him searching for an out. His head glancing in every direction for someone– his race engineer, one of the mechanics, Leah, anybody to distract him from you.
When his search comes up short he resorts to making his stomach hurt even more by talking to you.
“Yeah. How have you been?” God. Did he not even know how to talk to you anymore? Small talk with someone you know better than yourself had to be a torture method used by government agencies.
“I’ve been good.” Lie, but he didn’t need to know that. “I see you’ve been living it up since I saw you last.”
You were expecting a little awkwardness between the two of you, but the way Charles was acting was insane, it was like it was your first time meeting or something. He couldn’t maintain eye contact to save his life and honestly looked like he’d rather be someplace else at the moment. Your fear of him not wanting you here was clearly not a silly worry, it was reality.
“Um yeah. Always busy doing something recently.”
You’ve been fidgeting with the ring on your pinky finger the whole time and your movements catch Charles' gaze. His eyes immediately locking in on the silver ring still shining on your finger. He’s surprised after the way he’s treated you these past couple months that you still have it on, but yet here you stood in front of him with it on, a sign to Charles that he did not deserve you one bit.
When he sees you realize that he’s staring at your ring and then sees your eyes shift to his naked finger his heart rate quickens once again. His stomach feels like it's about ready to drop out of his ass at the sight of hurt on your face that’s then quickly replaced by a blank stare. He can’t get his words out fast enough, he’s chewing on his words, mouth drier than the Sahara desert.
“I-um-It’s in my-”
“It’s fine Charles, really. We’re not little kids anymore. I shouldn’t be holding on to silly childhood promises.” It wasn’t fine, it was far from fine. You’re blinking back tears, your words referencing everything but the ring. But it’s a combination of everything that’s got you upset. The two of you drifting apart, the broken childhood promises, wanting to hate him right now but still being so proud to see him out there doing what he loves, and that damn ring.
You felt stupid for still having it on, for thinking that he would still have his on. You needed to start being more realistic, but you were still only seventeen. An age that held so much fun and whimsy, you should be out having fun with your friends, not getting upset over a guy who clearly didn’t feel the same about you. The two of you were always going to be at two different times in your lives, it was never going to work out, but fuck there is always going to be apart of you that still holds onto him. He’s got his fingers dug so deep into you that you think you'll be old and gray and still wonder what could have been.
Each word you spoke felt like a stab to Charles' heart. He wanted to tell you that he still wears his ring. That it’s sitting on its designated spot in his driver's room. But once again he can’t get his words out fast enough, his brain still hung up on your words for some reason. He’s hoping you would realize that the reason he doesn’t have it on was because he had just been in qualifying, but when he sees you slide your ring off and toss it in your bag those stabs to the heart intensify. He feels like he’s losing everything right in front of him, but he can’t seem to get his mind and body to work together to stop it.
He feels an arm wrap around his and he knows it's Leah. Where was she moments ago when he was looking for an out? Maybe this situation could have been avoided and Charles wouldn’t feel like he had just lost the one person in his life who truly cared about him.
“Good luck tomorrow Charles.”
You don’t feel like sticking around any longer, especially if you have to look at Charles and Leah. You let Arthur know you're gonna go find Pascale, but you don’t leave without taking one last glance at Charles.
It’s a long evening with Arthur’s prying questions about what's going on between his brother and you. All you can do is shrug your shoulders because really you don’t actually know what happened yourself, you assumed you drifted apart, but was there something else that happened that you didn’t know about?
The next day you decide to watch the race from Sauber’s hospitality with Pascale, hoping to get away from Arthur’s never ending questions and Leah’s presence in general. Pascale luckily hadn’t pressed you on the Charles matter, but she’s practically your second Mother and she knows too that there’s something going on between Charles and you, she’s known from the beginning.
Charles ended up placing eleventh, which is miles better than his last two races, which were DNFs. Though you don’t even bother to go to the garage with Pascale, opting to stay in hospitality until it’s time to leave. It may have been petty of you, but you really weren’t in the mood to see Charles again and from his behavior yesterday he clearly doesn’t care that you're not there.
But that was far from the truth. In fact Charles was praying that you would show up in the garage this morning, but when Arthur shows up solo he can’t hide the frown that forms on his face. The praying then moves onto seeing you post race, but that is quickly diminished when his Mother shows up without you in tow either.
Your words from yesterday hung heavy in Charles' mind all last night. I shouldn’t be holding onto silly childhood promises bothered him more than it should have. And he wracked his brain trying to figure out what you could have been referencing. It wasn’t until he was almost asleep that he remembered a certain promise that the two of you made at ten and thirteen. Sleep was the last thing on his mind as he laid there wide awake staring at the ceiling recalling the memory in his mind.
He was such a fucking asshole. He’d done the one thing you promised him not to do. Granted he never really forgot about you, you were still clearly on his mind these past three months, but to you it really did seem like he had forgotten about you. Like he had gone off and became this famous race car driver that couldn’t be bothered to text his childhood best friend.
God he had fucked up, like truly fucked up, and all he wanted to do was explain himself (without revealing you know what), apologize, and try and get back to the way things used to be. That though, was proving to be easier said than done when you wouldn’t even come around. And by the time he’s done with his post race duties you’re back at the hotel ready to head back home. Charles doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance to redeem himself and you're left wondering why you even agreed to come in the first place.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
A week later you're at home sitting on your bed, face shoved into a math textbook trying to figure out some formula when your phone rings. Charles' contact photo pops up on your phone and you contemplate not answering it. You haven’t had any contact with him since Monza so you wonder why he’s decided to call you of all things on a random Monday. But against your better judgment you press answer and put it on speaker before tossing it back down on your bed.
“Bonjour?”
There’s muffled sounds in the background, but Charles hasn’t spoken a word, and you wonder if he accidentally butt dialed you.
“Y/N.” His voice finally echos through the speaker and you hate the way your heart flutters at the sound of your name rolling off his tongue.
Charles had been working himself up to call you for hours, his finger hovering over your contact too many times to count. He thinks he may have blacked out a little when he finally pressed his thumb down on the screen and then heard your sweet voice, hence his delayed response. Today was his last chance to tell you the big news he'd hoped to tell you last week in Monza, but that clearly didn’t work out.
The big news in question? Him finally signing with Ferrari.
The team that he had dreamt of driving for once he got into F1 had finally given him a chance. It was not only his dream, but his Father’s dream for Charles too. Many weekends with his Father spent at race tracks had all led up to him getting that initial seat this year and then finally getting that Ferrari seat for next year, he only wished his Father could be here to witness it. Charles couldn’t have been more happy to finally accomplish that dream not only for himself, but also his Father.
The other person who knew about how badly he wanted to be sporting that Ferrari red and supported him in finally reaching that goal was you. And to Charles it didn’t matter if you guys perhaps weren’t exactly on the best of terms right now, he wanted you to be the first person he told, just like last year when he got into F1. He sure as hell didn’t want you to find out from the press release, so here he was telling you over the phone.
“Oui?”
“I’ve done it. I’m driving for Ferrari next year.” It feels good to say it outloud, especially to you because you know just how much it means to him.
There’s silence from your end for some time and Charles checks to make sure you hadn’t hung up on him, but the call time is still going. He’s about ready to say your name when he hears sniffles echo through the speaker.
“Are you crying?” He’s worried he’s somehow done something once again to make you upset.
You are in fact crying, as much as you hate it. It’s a mixture of happy and sad tears that you're desperately trying to wipe away like he can see you. Happy tears for him finally signing with Ferrari, a goal that you knew he would accomplish with no issue. Sad tears because you wished he was here telling you in person, wished that things were like they used to be, wished that you never developed feelings for him, and wished that whatever that situation was in Monza last week had never happened.
“I’m just really happy for you Charlie.” His heart skipped a beat hearing you call him Charlie, it had been too long since you’d graced him with that nickname for his liking. “I told you Ferrari would see what they had missed out on and come running.”
A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled that night on the swings when he told you about him getting into F1. “I wanted you to be the first person to know.” You can’t ignore the butterflies that form in your stomach at the thought of him thinking about you, wanting you to be the first to know, but you’re still crying, your emotions all over the place.
When silence fills the line and he still hears your sniffles, he knows it’s not just happy tears you’re crying. It was time to face the elephant over the phone.
“Listen I know things have been weird between us these past couple months and,” He paused, trying to choose his words carefully. “I know it’s my fault. I broke that promise I made you and I hate myself for it everyday.” The idea of him distancing himself from you was the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He wasn’t better off without you, he was better with you. His feelings towards you aside, he’d rather die than not have you in his life.
“I got so caught up in this new lifestyle and I lost myself for a while.” Maybe he shouldn’t be lying to you, but he wasn’t about ready to admit you know what. He’d already fucked up enough, he didn’t need to go spilling his guts and fuck everything up even more.
“And then in Monza I was shocked to see you there and I felt like an ass for forgetting about you and I was trying to figure out what to say, but you were clearly upset and it was honestly just a mess.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Basically what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for being a dick and that I really miss you.”
His thumb toyed with the ring on his finger as he waited for your response and he remembered you still didn’t know he still wore his. “I also still wear my ring. I just hadn’t gotten the chance to put it back on after qualifying last week.” His gaze never broke from the ring as he spoke. “I don’t like that you think I would ever stop wearing it. Gonna wear it till the grave Y/N.”
His last sentence was mumbled, but you heard him loud and clear. Your gaze shifted towards your dresser where the silver ring had sat for the past week. Perhaps you had jumped the gun with your actions last week, you knew he had to take off his jewelry when he got into the car, but in the moment your emotions were telling you otherwise. “You made me feel like shit Charles. It’s a horrible feeling to see someone exiting your life in real time and knowing you really can’t do anything about it.”
“I know and I’m so sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, and he thinks he’s done it so many times that he might have a bald spot by morning.
You feel like you’re forgiving him too easily, but you’ve missed him so much. And to hear him finally admit that he fucked up and say that he missed you too has you unfortunately very easily swayed. He’s been in your life for so long it’s felt like a piece of you was missing these past couple months without having contact with him. So, you forgive him, because you love him.
“I want things to go back to normal, like before.” You’re standing in front of your dresser now, ring rolling between your fingers.
“They will.” He glanced back down at his ring. “I promise.”
“You promise?” You asked as you slid the ring back on your finger, a missing part of now you back in its rightful place.
“I promise.”
twenty two and twenty five
Over the past four years Charles and you had matured significantly.
You had graduated and landed a job that you loved at home in Monaco. It required you to travel a lot, which you loved, but also came with amazing off time and flexible hours. A perk you were beyond grateful for because that meant you could attend the majority of Charles races. You had also gotten your own place, a cute little apartment, and was truly embracing adulthood.
When it came to the love department though– Charles was still there.
Over the four years you had your share of talking stages and two boyfriends who both only lasted a couple months. Your hectic work schedule didn’t help matters, but neither did your feelings towards Charles that you’ve been harboring for the past eight years. You really would have thought you’d have gotten over those, figured it was a thing of adolescents, but your twenties came and the feelings never went. It wasn’t as bad as when you were younger, you learned to handle yourself better and your job keeping you busy helped that. The two of you were at a good place in your relationship and you came to terms that unless you were a big girl and confessed your feelings to him, then you were just going to have to live with him at arms distance.
Like you when it came to romantic relationships– you were still Charles number one, as much as he tried to make it work with other girls, they just weren’t you. He had thought multiple times over the years that he was going to tell you how he felt, but you were either talking to someone or had a boyfriend, the timing never right. So he learned, like you, to live with his feelings towards you. A thing that was necessary if he didn’t want a repeat of what happened when he tried to distance himself from you.
So here the two of you were– adults who were completely oblivious to how either of you felt about each other for years, hopelessly pining over each other.
Charles' career on the other hand was more of a success story than his love life. In the past four years he had accomplished his Maiden win in Belgium during his first year with Ferrari and then his second the next week in Italy. Then went on to win three more races during this year's season.
A season with three wins may sound like a great accomplishment, but the thing was that he should have had more than three. To say that Charles' fourth season with Ferrari was stressful was an understatement for the ages. He had never been more happy for winter break to arrive than he was this year. He had started the season out on a high by winning the first race of the season, but life somehow had a way of humbling him.
Horrible strategy calls from the team, bad pit stops, and car troubles had cost Charles his chance at the championship. It seemed like for every high he had– five lows followed. So needless to say when he saw the checkered flag at Abu Dhabi he was somewhat relieved that the season was over and perhaps making the podium may have lifted his spirits a little too.
But that relief was short lived, because in true Charles fashion, he can’t get out of his head about the what ifs from the season. He had wanted to just let it go, leave it behind him and look forward to this time off and the new season ahead. But all his brain wanted to think about was maybe if we would have gone with softs instead of hards or pitted one lap earlier or managed his tires better then maybe he would have been still coming down from the high of winning the championship right now instead of sulking about.
He’d been a little distant since break started and you knew he was probably in his head about everything. So when a text pops up on your phone from him late one evening telling you to meet him at the harbor you don’t even think twice about telling him you’ll be there in ten. If you had to guess what he had planned, you’d bet all your money on taking his yacht out to look at the stars. It was something the two of you had done for a couple years now, but it was usually over summer break, not the week before Christmas. But for Charles you would do anything, even brave going out on the water, at night, during the winter.
When Charles see’s you walk up to his slip on the dock wearing what looks to be the coziest outfit and holding his favorite blanket from your apartment he thinks his heart is about ready to explode. “You’re lucky I love you Charles. It’s gonna be so cold out on the water.”
I love you. The words echo in his mind as he helps you into the boat. It’s nothing new for you two to say it to each other, and he’s under the impression you’re saying it platonically, but god does it sound so heavenly to hear those three little words come out of your mouth and be directed towards him.
“I’m the luckiest man alive.” He’s referring to you and that glimmer in his eye would tell anyone that he was, but you don’t see it, you’re too busy getting situated in your designated spot next to the captain's seat.
Once he’s got the boat a good enough distance out into the water he deploys the anchor and you make your way out to the loungers on the deck. You push two of them together, making a big enough space for both you and Charles to relax.
You’re already cozied up with the blanket by the time he makes his way over to you, but he doesn’t even have to ask, you’re already pulling back the blanket for him to slide under.
He lets out a sigh once he gets comfortable beside you. “I needed this.”
A hum in agreement comes from you as you scoot a little closer to Charles, a gust of cold wind blowing through the air.
“There’s the big dipper.” Charles points his finger up to the sky, your eyes following where he’s pointing to. The two of you take turns pointing out what you think are constellations, but are undoubtedly random stars in made up shapes, but it doesn’t matter to either of you.
The gentle lull of the waves crashing against the boat fills the silence that falls between the two of you once you’ve run out of things to point out. And you’ve somehow ended up cuddled into Charles' side, his arm wrapped around you, and your head on his chest. You couldn’t help it, he’s always been a walking furnace, and when the opportunity presents itself to be in his arms you were gonna take it.
It was something that was happening more and more with you two recently– pushing the envelope per say on what your friendship entailed. Cuddling, staying the night at each other's apartments, hands lingering a little too long after a hug were all normal things for friends to do– right? Friends who somehow while doing these things couldn’t tell that the other person felt the same as they did.
Love may be blind, but in Charles and your’s case, you were blind to love.
You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but you think you could spend eternity out here with him. The feeling of comfort, safety, and the feeling of home that he brings you when he’s around is something you don’t think you can ever live without again. He’s your person and you hope you're his, no matter what the future for the two of you entails.
The feeling of his fingers ghosting across your arm and down towards your hand tells you he’s searching for one thing and when his pinky finger links with yours you know he’s got something on his pretty little mind.
“You wanna talk about it?” You whisper, your head still resting on his solid chest.
He doesn’t respond for a while and you think he perhaps didn’t hear you, but then he speaks and it sounds like blasphemy coming out of his mouth.
“What if I quit?”
Your body freezes at his words and you’re hoping he’s not meaning what you think, but when you lift your head to see nothing close to a joking manner on his face you know this is about to get serious.
“I’d think you’d be miserable. You love racing, you were born to do it, it’s in your blood Charles. All the hard work you’ve put in from a literal child to now–” You shake your head, not even wanting to think about him quitting racing. “Don’t be stupid and throw it all away. You’re just only getting started.”
A deep sigh comes from him, his eyes fixated on your now intertwined hands as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “I’m not going to, but there were so many times this past season that I thought about it. I know that’s crazy to say after I won three times, but god the lows of racing truly are lows. I’d have a good weekend and then have literally a weekend from hell the next race week. It’s just a lot– mentally. Trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, the teams, the fans, the media, and my own is like a mental prison sometimes.”
You had sat up at this point, and almost like a small child Charles had clung to you, his head in your lap as you gently ran your fingers through hair. You knew he had a rough season, but you didn’t think it had taken this much of a toll on him.
“And you’re right. I love racing and I’d be miserable without it, but sometimes I’m miserable with it.”
The frown that had formed on your face moments ago had deepened at his confession. “I didn’t know the season had affected you this much Charles. Wish you would have talked to me sooner about it.”
“Sorry.” He mumbles.
“You have nothing to be sorry for Charlie, you’re allowed to feel how you feel. And I know you probably get sick of hearing me say it, but I’m still so immensely proud of you. Like I’ve said before, you could finish dead last in every race and I’d still be proud. I know this season was a rough one at times, but you won three times and were on the podium eleven times. That’s still something to be proud of. So for every time you're miserable because of racing, think about me telling you repeatedly how proud I am of you and maybe you’ll just be miserable because of me instead.”
You see the corners of his mouth move up and you know you’ve gotten a little smile out of him. “That’s funny that you think me hearing you say that you’re proud of me would make me miserable. It actually has the opposite effect, so your plan may work, but it would result in me being happier instead of more miserable, which is what I think we want to accomplish right?”
“Yes, I love happy Charlie, but I still love miserable Charlie too.”
He’s sat up, the two of you sitting face to face now, and you aren’t sure if it's the cool breeze or him staring at you that makes a shiver run up your spine. “That’s good to know.”
He’s still staring at you and even with only the moon as your source of light, those pretty blue eyes of his are as bright as ever, and staring into your soul. And for a split second you think he’s leaning in and you think this might be the moment he’s gonna kiss you, the moment you’ve been waiting for since you were thirteen. But you’re completely wrong, he’s only reaching for the blanket as he leans back onto the lounger once more.
“Merci Y/N, truly. For always being here for me, especially for tonight. It was nice to finally get that off my chest. Je t’aime.’
You claim your spot back next to Charles and you don’t even second guess yourself when you lay your head back on his chest. “Je t’aime aussi Charlie.”
Charles, while he can’t complain about having you in his arms and your head on his chest. He can kick himself for that moment mere seconds ago. He was finally going to do it, it was the perfect time, but he chickened out and reached for the blanket instead of using that hand to cup your cheek. He could drive a race car at 230 mph, but couldn’t work up the courage to kiss the girl he was in love with. Maybe he’d find the courage sometime in the next four years. But for now he could live with having you cuddled up against him and knowing that even if it may be platonic, you love him too.
twenty three and twenty six
The Monaco Grand Prix.
An world renowned event. A pinnacle for motorsports. People from all around the world come to the tiny principality every year to watch twenty of the world's best drivers race around the streets of Monaco.
As a child you watched the grandstands go up every year and you dreamed of getting to watch Charles race those very same streets that you took to school. The two of you as kids watching from the crowd, not knowing that some of those drivers Charles would drive alongside one day, even being teammates with some of them. Charles could only hope that one day that would be him on that top step, hearing his own national anthem play at his home race.
That one day had yet to happen after six seasons in F1. After three DNF’s, horrible strategy, and two lost pole positions– Charles really didn’t think winning his home race was ever going to happen. He had started to believe the “Monaco curse” more and more year after year.
You on the other hand didn’t believe that the curse existed. You did believe that the idea of one had made Charles be more in his head when the race came around every year, and in a sense perhaps making him not perform the best at times. But no, you didn’t believe in the Monaco curse.
Every year you had hoped he would win and sadly when he didn’t you were there to pick up the pieces. You knew his time would come and granted you didn’t think it would take this long. But the universe works in mysterious ways, there’s a reason for everything, and you knew there was a reason Charles hadn’t won yet.
And as this year's grand prix rolled around you hoped that this time the universe was ready to give him what he deserved.
You did have a good feeling about the race this year, or at least a better feeling than prior years. It was mainly because Charles had been so– carefree these past couple days. He’s usually already thinking about Monaco at the race the week before and the nerves have set in come media day, but this year he’s different.
He’s excited of course, to be at home for the week and to see everyone for more than a couple days, but during the days leading up to media day he doesn’t show you any sign of nervousness or doubt. And you can’t help but think that this year is the year, he seems to finally be in the right headspace to win this thing.
Charles and you had spent basically every free moment the two of you had together this week. It was nice, the two of you together again like old times. You had gotten the week off from work, a perk from your job, and it wasn’t like Charles had to travel to another country. So, the two of you took full advantage of the week. Dinner with both families together, hanging out with friends, and just enjoying each other's company filled your Monday through Wednesday.
But come Wednesday evening you found yourself at Charles apartment after a long day on the water with all your mutual friends. You’re absolutely beat and ready to be back at your place when Charles asks you to come back to his, and you want to say no, but the way he looks in golden hour could be used as a hypnotization technique, so you say yes.
He claims he’s got something to show you, but the whole car ride and trek into his apartment he won’t budge on telling you what it is. It isn’t until he sits down at his piano with a blush creeping up his neck that you know what he’s got to show you.
“Have you been working on new music?” You ask with a hopeful smile on your face.
His fingers ghosted over the keys and his pinky lightly tapped one– the sound filling the room. “For a while now and I think it’s finally ready.” The blush had made its way onto his cheeks and he’s fidgeting with his bracelets as he makes eye contact with you. “So, I think it’s only right that the person that it’s for should get to hear it first.”
Your eyes widened in surprise and now you’ve both got crimson painted cheeks. “You wrote a song for me?!”
“Yeah.” He states sheepishly.
You’ve always loved hearing Charles play the piano. There were many late nights spent where you sat in his apartment and just listened to him mess around on the piano. Those nights were shamelessly some of your favorite moments with Charles, it was like the world didn’t exist and it was just you two and the piano. So to know that he thought and even cared enough about you to write you something had your heart about ready to leap out of your chest.
“Well, let's hear it then.” You sat down on your usual spot on the couch and eagerly waited for the music to hit your ears.
He hesitates at first, his fingers slightly slipping on the keys, but once he gets himself sorted the sound that comes from that piano nearly brings tears to your eyes. It’s beautiful and heartfelt and you can’t believe he wrote something like this while he was thinking of you. It’s tugging at those feelings you’ve still got for him after ten years and you try not to get your hopes up that this means he feels the same as you.
When the song is over his head immediately turns to you for reassurance, but all he sees is your body barreling towards him. You’ve got your arms around him before he can even process what’s happening, but from your excited words of nonsense he knows you loved it.
“Oh mon dieu!” Is the first coherent thing you’re able to get out.
“I take it you liked it?”
“Liked it? I loved it Charlie! It was beautiful and the fact that it was for me made me love it even more. Truly what did I ever do to deserve someone like you in my life? Merci a million times.”
“I’m glad you loved it. I’ve been working on it for months, wanted to get it perfect in time to show you now.”
You’re both beaming at each other and to anyone from the outside looking in, the two of you looked so in love it was crazy. Crazy that the both of you have been harboring feelings for each other for years and years and neither of you have made the first move.
“Will you play me some more?” You try to give him your best puppy dog eyes and of course he can’t say no to you, puppy dog eyes or not. You give him one last hug as a thank you before you sit back down on the couch and let the melodic sounds soothe you. In fact it soothes you so much that combined with the tiredness from being on the boat all day you end up eventually falling asleep.
You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you feel Charles gently shaking you awake telling you that is time for bed. It’s not uncommon for the two of you to spend the night at one another’s places. You’ve spent many nights in Charles' guest bedroom after drunken nights out or sometimes just for fun. You’re clinging to him, still basically asleep, as he helps you walk towards what you think is the guest bedroom, but it’s his.
Charles was only going to grab your pajamas that you had left here last time, they were just in the laundry basket on his dresser and it would just take a second. But you followed him into his room still thinking it was the guest room and Charles doesn’t even know you’ve come in behind him until he turns around to see you crawling into his bed.
That all too familiar feeling starts to bloom in his chest as he sees you curled up and comfortable in his bed. He’d want nothing more than to climb in next to you and hold you all night, but he knows the guest room is his room tonight. Charles doesn’t even make it two steps before you call out his name. When he turns around he’s not expecting to see you lying there staring at him with those sleepy eyes, comforter pulled back as you pat the empty spot next to you. He knows he shouldn’t, this is different than cuddling on the couch or sharing beds as kids, it feels different at least. But against his better judgment he climbs in next to you and like he’s your missing puzzle piece you instantly slide into Charles arms.
It’s like home, being in each other’s embrace.
The next morning when you wake up in Charles' room it takes you a minute to remember everything, but the blush that creeps onto your face at the memory of you and Charles cuddling in his bed is embarrassingly bad. And you thank god Charles isn’t next to you right now to see it.
You do wonder where he’s gone though. He’s not in the living room or kitchen, and it’s still too early for him to have left for media day, but then you hear complaining coming from the bathroom.
“Maman! No, that's going to be too short!”
As you peek around the door frame you find Pascale cutting Charles' hair, a tradition the two of them have had every year before the Monaco GP.
“Charles last time I checked you’re not a hair stylist, let your Maman do her job.” You teased as you finally entered the bathroom and you see him roll his eyes at you in the mirror.
Pascale lights up at the sight of you and leans over to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Mon amour, you’re here early.” The look on her face tells you she knows you spent the night, but it’s not like it’s something new or anything happened. Hell even if she didn’t know she could definitely tell you had just rolled out of bed.
“I spent the night. Fell asleep after we were out on the boat all day.” You shrugged your shoulders, it truly was no big deal (you sleeping in his bed and cuddling with him aside).
She doesn’t say anything, but she does nothing to hide the smile on her face and sly looks she gives you and Charles the whole time she’s cutting his hair. She’s been waiting for the prophecy to fulfill itself forever and that prophecy just so happens to be Charles and you ending up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but she’s known you two were made for eachother since you were kids. If you didn’t end up together soon she was going to have to do her own plotting to get you two to fess up about your feelings.
Pascale can see how you two look at each other, how Charles’ eyes light up when you enter the room. How you’ve always been his soft spot since you were little kids. The way you speak about Charles like he’d hung the stars and the moon in the sky. She knew you fell first and Charles a couple years later. All these little things she’s noticed and stored away for that eventual wedding day.
You can see Charles staring at you through the mirror and it’s making you squirm, his eyes burning into you. “You gonna get rid of that facial hair too?” You try to get him to focus on anything other than you at the moment.
His mouth opens in fake shock and Pascale curses him for moving. “I’m actually thinking of growing a full beard.”
“Oh please don’t.”
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘’t.”
Charles and you don’t speak about you spending the night in his bed or in his arms. In fact you don’t see him again until qualifying on Saturday where he puts it on pole. You’re ecstatic and you can tell he is too even though he’s trying to remain calm and collected while he does his press duties. He’s gotten pole two times before in Monaco, he knows pole doesn’t mean you win, but he can’t help but think it’s a good sign.
That night you find yourself back at Charles' apartment by his request once again. Which was a surprise, you figured he’d want to be alone the night before the big race. But it’s quite the opposite, he wanted your company, he can’t get how good it felt to have you in his arms in his bed the other night and he selfishly hopes it happens again tonight.
“Feeling good about tomorrow?” You asked as the two of you sat down for an amazing pre race dinner of pizza. His trainer may not like it, but you two thought it was a good idea. He needed all the positive energy he could get and if that meant pizza for dinner, then so be it.
“Yeah. The car has been consistent the past two days and I’ve got pole.” He paused for a moment and you can tell he wants to say something, but he stuffs his mouth with pizza instead. You don’t press the matter anymore, figuring he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, didn’t want to possibly jinx anything. It’s a relatively quiet dinner the rest of the time, he asks about how your job is going and you two shamelessly gossip for a moment about two old friends who recently broke up.
It’s not until you’re putting the leftover pizza into the fridge that he brings up tomorrow again.
“It feels right this time.” He’s leaning against the counter, eyes trained on you as you turn back around to face him. “I mean tomorrow– it feels right. I think it’s gonna happen.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you move to lean against the counter next to him. “I think so too. You’ve been different too, more relaxed this week. Think it might be the universe telling us it’s finally gonna happen?”
A deep sigh comes from Charles. “Mon dieu I hope so.”
You glance over at the time on the microwave– 11:00 p.m. Shit. You didn’t think it was that late already.
“It’s getting late Charles. You should be in bed and I should be heading home. It’s a big day tomorrow.” You go to give him a hug goodbye, but he’s just staring at you, and it throws you for a loop. “What’s wrong?”
He swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Was he sure he wanted to ask you this? Would it make things weird? It never has before when he’s asked you, but this time felt different. Fuck his palms were drenched in sweat and he could feel his heart beat racing.
“Um– well you could just spend the night if you wanted to”
You try not to act like you weren’t silently hoping the whole night that he’d ask you to stay. You had figured he wouldn’t want you to again after you basically invaded his bed the other night, so hearing him tell you to stay made you a little giddy.
“Traffic is a nightmare this time of year…” You act like you're weighing your options while you fully know you’re going to say yes. “Probably take me twice as long to get home, even at this time of night.” You fake ponder some more, really putting on a show. “Yeah I guess I’ll spend the night.”
He tries to hide the smile on his face when he hears you finally accept his offer and as much as he would like to stay up and talk some more, he really did need to be getting to bed. “Well, I probably should be in bed by now. So I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
“Yeah. I should go to bed too.”
So you follow him down the hall towards the bedrooms. When he reaches his room he opens the door, but lingers in the doorway. You being a couple paces behind him, figured he was just waiting to tell you goodnight. But when you reach the guest room, which is across from his room, he doesn’t say anything to you. Your hand lingers above the door knob and something inside of you tells you not to open it– to turn around instead.
You’re met with his piercing blue eyes staring at you as you turn around. His gaze sometimes could be so intense, but this time you matched him. There was an obvious tension in the air, but neither of you were brave enough to be the one to break it. Then suddenly you see Charles nod his head towards his room before finally going past the doorway. He’d left the door open behind him and you knew that was just another unspoken invitation. And like a moth to a flame you followed behind him, not even second guessing your actions. You hadn’t even opened the guest bedroom door, you were a goner as soon as he asked you to spend the night.
For the second time in a week the two of you shared the same bed, not sexually, but it definitely wasn’t friendly or at least how normal friends would share a bed. But tonight he’s in your arms, your fingers lightly combing through his hair as he rests his head on your stomach. He falls asleep rather quickly, his light snores filling the room, but sleep evades you that night. Your heads a mess, you can’t help but think that Charles has to feel the same way as you, there’s just no way that he doesn’t.
What man is this intimate with someone in a non sexual way and doesn’t have the slightest bit of feelings for them? But then your heart breaks at the idea of him just stringing you along and you know you’ve got to set up some boundaries to protect yourself. Unfortunately you were never going to be the one to admit how you felt first, so unless he spills his guts, then this was the last time you’d share a bed with Charles like this.
The next morning he’s already gone and at the track by the time you wake up and when you grab your phone from the nightstand you see he’d sent you a text.
Charlie: i left early this morning and you just looked too peaceful to wake up before i left. so i’ll see you before lights out.
A sigh escaped past your lips as you tossed your phone on the bed, today was going to be a long day.
You made the journey back to your apartment to get ready and then fought the traffic again to get down to the circuit. The hustle and bustle distracts your brain from continuing your spiral session from last night, something you were grateful for. You were here to cheer on and support Charles, not go into a frenzy once again about whether or not he likes you.
A good amount of your time is spent in Ferrari’s hospitality chatting with everyone and discussing potential outcomes for the race. You don’t end up seeing Charles until the time between the drivers parade and race time. He’s in his drivers room when you find him and he’s literally the calmest you’ve ever seen him before a race.
His face lights up when he sees you and he’s immediately pulling you in for a hug. “Didn’t think you were gonna come for a second. We’ve usually seen each other by now.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just got caught up talking to everyone and you know how our Moms get in a large group. I had to wrangle them in before they invited everyone over for dinner tonight.”
“Well I don’t plan on being home for dinner tonight. I’m going to be out celebrating.” He’s got a cheeky grin on his face as speaks.
You laughed lightly at his new found confidence. “Oh someone is sure of themself.”
He only laughs along with you, as the two of you sit down on his physio table.
The two of you chat some more about random things, like if he’s planning on going to Jimmy’z or someplace else tonight. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been talking until he gets a knock on his door letting him know it’s twenty minutes till lights out. Before you leave you stand in front of him, holding out your ring clad pinky finger and like a natural reflex Charles wraps his around yours, pulling them close to his chest.
“You’re gonna do great and when you take that top step on the podium I’m gonna be there front and center cheering you on.”
“You better be.” He’s serious, he doesn’t want to win this thing if you aren't right there alongside him.
“I promise Charlie.”
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
You think you might pass out or throw up when the lights go out and the race finally begins. It then turns into thinking you’re going to do both when there’s a red flag not even halfway through the first lap. Your mind automatically goes straight to Charles and your stomach churns at the idea of him being hurt, screw the win, all that mattered to you was that he was okay. Thankfully he’s not involved in the crash, but the red flag lasts for what seems forever. And eventually you have to endure the start of the race again.
You’re a nervous wreck the whole race, but you think with how hard Pascale has been gripping your hand that she might be more nervous than you. It’s the longest 78 laps of your life and you’re praying he can maintain the lead, put a big enough gap between Oscar that he can just ride this race out. Lap by lap he’s holding steady but that just makes you more nervous. The knot in your stomach grows more and more as that lap number gets closer to 78.
He’s driven so well the whole time you couldn’t have been more proud. You’d been holding back tears since lap 68, but when you hear him over the radio on lap 75 say that he’s just going to bring it home you can’t help but let a couple tears fall. And by now you know the win is his. He’s got almost a nine second lead and as long as he keeps his head clear he was going to be the first one to see the checkered flag.
The feeling of seeing Charles cross the finish line and knowing he had won was indescribable. The whole Ferrari unit was going crazy, already rushing down to be there when Charles got out of the car. You’re cheering as tears run down your face, your Mom and Pascale hugging you, the two of them also in tears. It’s surreal, him finally winning, you can only imagine what he’s feeling like right now. You waste no time in heading over to get the best spot to watch the podium ceremony. You’re front and center, the metal barrier pressed up against your abdomen as more people fill the crowd behind you.
The feeling you got seeing him come out, take that top step, and proudly hold that trophy was something you wished you could feel forever. To see him wrapped up in the Monaco flag as the anthem played, the visible weight taken off of his shoulders. You were so unbelievably proud of him and so utterly in love with him. The tears just wouldn’t stop coming as you watched him shine up there. The universe had finally decided that this was his time, he was destined to win this race today.
Charles feels on top of the world as he looks down at everyone in the crowd, he can’t believe he’d finally won his home race. He’d immediately spotted you as soon as he took that top step and he could see how happy you are for him, tears streaming down your face paired with that beaming smile. His heart has never felt as full as it does right now. And as he stands there hearing his national anthem play at his home race he knows that today was meant to be. The universe put him here, put you here, for a reason. He’s tired of pretending like his life wouldn’t be better without you being his. The two of you haven’t broken eye contact for awhile, both of you grinning like fools, and he decides that now is the time.
“Je suis amoureux de vous” He mouths to you.
It takes you a moment to realize what he was saying, but when you do you think you’re dreaming. There’s no way he just admitted to being in love with you right here, during his podium celebration. You pinch yourself just for good measure before mouthing it back to him. And if it was even possible his smile gets even bigger.
You’re the first person he wants to see after the celebratory champagne pop. He can’t wait a second longer to tell you how he actually feels out loud. He doesn’t care that he’s drenched in champagne or that there’s hundreds of people around. He’s waited too long to let a moment like this go by. He’s pushing his way through the crowd to find you, he’s basically getting manhandled, but he doesn’t care, you’re his priority. And when he finally finds you it’s like a scene straight out of a movie.
His adrenaline is pumping and he doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, he’s just running straight towards you, his heart fluttering when you smile at the sight of him. His hands cup your face and in an instant his lips are on yours. It takes you by surprise, but once your brain finally processes what’s happening, you grab him by his race suit, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss. He tastes like champagne and sweat, his lips soft, and his facial hair tickles your face. Kissing Charles is everything you could have ever dreamed of and more, you’d never thought the day would come.
When you finally pull back it feels like the world is spinning and Charles laughs at you being drunk off one kiss from him. His hands cup your face once more causing you to focus on him. “I’m in love with you. Have been for years, but I’ve just been too scared to say anything, but winning today let me know the universe was on my side. And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity once again to tell you how I feel.” Your eyes widen at hearing him say he’s been in love with you for years. “Don’t act so surprised. I made it painfully obvious sometimes.” His dimples peaking out as he smiles at you.
“I’ve been in love with you since I was thirteen Charlie.”
Now it’s his turn to look surprised. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Was too scared that you didn’t feel the same.”
“I could never not love you Y/N. It’s always been you, you’re my person. I wish I would have told you sooner so I could have been doing this more often.” He pulls you in for another kiss and you think if he didn’t have his arms around you your legs would have given out.
Never in a million years did you think that Charles would be confessing his love to you after he’d just won his home race. If thirteen year old you could see you right now she’d probably die. You can’t believe the man you love with every fiber of your being loves you back. The universe definitely wanted today to be a win not only for Charles, but for you.
He grabs your hand and presses your ring clad pinky finger to his lips. “Mon coeur.” Then he presses another kiss to your lips. “Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime aussi.”
thirty three and thirty six
The summer sun had started to make her farewell to the principality of Monaco, pink and orange hues swirled in the sky. A little boy and girl play on a weathered playset, their giggles echoing through the open air. The sound of a screeching sliding door tells them that their Maman is coming to get them before they even hear her holler their names. “Come say goodbye to grand-mère and grand-père!”
Their tiny bodies run towards the house and are soon met with lots of hugs and kisses from their grandparents, who they see very often, but it wouldn’t seem like it by the way they were acting.
“Ok, who wants ice cream?” Their Papa asks after all the goodbyes are said and they are out the door.
“Me!” Is said in unison from the two children.
The little girl has her Papa wrapped around her finger, he just thinks the world of her as they walk hand in hand down the street, while the little boy is definitely a Maman’s boy.
“You know your Maman and I used to come to this place all the time when we were younger.”
“We know Papa, you’ve told us a hundred times, and we come here all the time.” The little girl sasses her Papa.
“I know but I just like to reminisce.” The man gives his wife a wink and she knows he’s about ready to go down memory lane.
The journey to the ice cream shop is filled with stories about their younger years and luckily for the children the ice cream shop isn’t that far away.
That all too familiar sweet smell soon fills the parents senses and it brings them back to when they were around their children’s age. That same bell on the door dings as they enter and that same old man who should have retired a decade ago is still working behind the counter.
“Ah the Leclercs! My favorite family. You know I’m gonna have to start making extra vanilla ice cream just to accommodate you guys.”
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