#bibi.rambles

[brakebalancing]

oscar whose real dad had the wealth to send him to prestigious boarding schools and put him in race cars and wire him the funds for the summer vacations he takes his friends on. oscar whose real dad calls on his birthdays and christmas, precisely at nine o'five in the morning because it hasn't been blocked off in his calendar and is the time it takes him to walk from the parking garage to his office. oscar whose real dad comes to see him drive race cars when it's a quick flight away and happens to fall on a weekend when he doesn't have any important meetings scheduled.

his dad doesn't try to see him very often because he says it makes his mom upset. oscar didn't know his mom and dad still talk to each other. maybe they don't and his dad is just saying that so he doesn't hurt oscar's feelings. maybe his dad is lying to him.

mark doesn't lie to him. mark tells him to get his head out of his ass when he's driving like shit and to take the compliment when he tells him he's the best driver he's ever seen and to come here, son, you look like you could use a cuddle. just a nice warm cuddle from your old man, yeah? no tears, sweetheart, i've got you now. everything's alright. hm? what's that? yeah. daddy's got you now, osc. oh, you poor thing. daddy's going to take care of you, never ever leave you. why? because i love you. daddy loves you, oscar. oh, my little boy.

mark whose career ended in a sputtering fire instead of a blaze, which he's always resented until he met oscar because then he knew he was never meant to be a champion. mark whose priorities get crossed sometimes which leads to him getting accused of favoritism but he doesn't care because it's true, it's all true, and he may not be a good man but he isn't a liar. mark, who takes oscar with him on every vacation and asks him to stay with him in his home and brings him to every event so he can introduce him to important people and talks about him every chance that he gets so that people will look at oscar and never know that there was a time in his life when he wasn't loved.

[brakebalancing]

oscarmark - HOW BAD COULD IT BE?

“Is it one of those things that make you feel like a dirty old man? Is that why it's a secret? I think that's dumb and you should just tell me. It's okay, I already know what you are,” is the first thing out of Oscar’s mouth.

Oscar’s lips are chapped and his cheeks are flushed a blotchy red and his hair is terribly windswept. The whole picture is unexpectedly charming, in a boyish sort of way.

Mark sips his latte and wishes it had something stronger in it. Then he takes the thought back because it’s eleven o’clock in the morning and he's trying to be better. Or something.

“At least sit down before you start attacking my sense of morality,” Mark sighs.

Oscar obediently slides into the booth across from Mark. He immediately hooks his ankle around Mark’s, his worn sneakers probably scuffing Mark's loafers.

“Just because whatever you're too nervous to tell me makes you feel weird doesn't mean it's a bad thing,” Oscar argues. “You know, I like that you're so much older than me. It’s, like, one of my favorite things about you, I reckon.”

“Forgive me for wanting to make sure you feel safe and comfortable,” Mark snarks back. “You know, part of having a healthy relationship is checking in with each other and actually using our words.”

“I don't know how many times I have to tell you,” Oscar rolls his eyes. Little brat with his little tantrums. “You don't need to keep asking if it's okay with me. I’m down for anything, yeah? We can do whatever you want.”

If Mark was a good man, he'd tell Oscar how dangerous it is to give someone carte blanche when it comes to things like intimacy and sex. How there’s such a thing as trying too hard and it’s painfully obvious to those who know to look for it. How someone might take advantage of Oscar’s charming naïveté and youthful ignorance and twist him all sorts of ways without him even realizing it.

Mark isn't a good man, though, so he swallows the saliva that floods his mouth and wipes his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans.

“How bad could it be, anyway?” Oscar asks flippantly, resting his cheek in his palm. “What, you wanna tie me up? Want me to wear women’s underwear? I could call you sir if you wanted. Or daddy, maybe? You seem like more of a daddy, I think.”

Mark hasn’t felt this kind of adrenaline since he was behind the wheel of a machine that was trying to kill him. He needs to calm down or else he’s going to put himself in a wall, blazing flames and everything.

Oscar is looking at him, brows knit in confusion over Mark’s silence, so Mark clears his throat. Takes a deep breath and curls his hands into tight fists, grounding himself in the stinging pain.

“Alright. We’ll talk about this later,” Mark says. He frowns. “For God’s sake, Osc, where’s your coat? You're going to catch a cold.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at him judgmentally. “I didn't bring one. And stop trying to change the subject.”

“I can't exactly have my wicked way with you if you're sniffly and bedridden,” Mark points out.

He ignores the way his dick twitches at the thought of Oscar tucked snugly in his bed, glassy eyes and clingy hands and feverish sweetness. He’d be so sweaty, sticky and flushed, whining that he needs Mark to help him wash up, needs Mark to touch him, needs Mark to make it feel better.

All his brattiness and attitude melted completely away, just a sweet little boy needing the sort of care and attention that only his Daddy could give him.

“Uh, yeah, you could,” Oscar says unhelpfully. “That sounds fucking hot, actually. Also, like, I would let you. You could do—”

“I could do anything I want to you, I know,” Mark finishes, which is an insane thing to say in public. “And I appreciate it, kid, I do, but if you say it any louder, the evening news will be running a headline about washed up athletes preying on their star protégés.”

Oscar wisely shuts his mouth and takes a massive gulp of his hot chocolate instead. He gets cream all over his mouth and cleans it up with little kitten licks, flashes of a soft pink tongue across a soft pink cupid’s bow.

“That wouldn't be good,” he says succinctly. Then, with a delicate frown, “You’re not washed up. You just got old, which is, like, totally normal.”

Mark feels a telltale pounding start between his temples.

“No, it wouldn't be good,” Mark agrees. He checks his watch. “Like I said, let’s talk about this later. I have to go back to the office because I have a meeting at three but you can come with me, if you'd like.”

As a rule, Oscar doesn't go to work with Mark very often. There's only so many times Mark can tell the well-meaning receptionist that they're just going over contract specifications and they'd appreciate no disturbances, thank you. But sometimes, when Mark is feeling brave and Oscar doesn't have anything too important the next day, Mark locks the door and pulls down the window shades.

There’s a large cushion he keeps in the coat closet. It’s plush and luxurious and was advertised as the bestselling dog bed at the department store. It fits perfectly underneath his desk. Conveniently enough, it’s also the perfect size for Oscar if he tucks his knees under himself and slouches.

Because Mark’s life has turned into a cliche fantasy in his middle age, it's almost routine for him to lean back and spread his legs a little bit. To undo his belt buckle and unzip his fly, all under the watch of Oscar’s heavy-lidded gaze.

He takes a while to get fully hard but Oscar never minds, sucking Mark past his lips and keeping what he can fit in his mouth warm. Mark is big, just shy of too big to be handled comfortably, and the head of his cock nudges the back of Oscar’s throat. Mark lets himself shudder, once, and goes back to his emails. Oscar settles and begins to drool, vacant-eyed and utterly relaxed.

The slick heat of Oscar’s mouth and the cheeky curl of his tongue are welcome distractions from the mundanity of Mark’s work. When the threads of Mark’s self-control snap and he finally spills down Oscar’s throat, Oscar grins up at him with a smile covered in spit and tears.

“Nah, I told Lando I’d stream with him and call for a bit,” Oscar shrugs. He looks at Mark shrewdly. “If that’s okay with you?”

Mark bites his tongue. It's as if Oscar can see right through him, down to his rotten core and all his awful desires.

“Of course it's alright with me. You don't need my permission to hang out with your friends,” Mark lies through his teeth. “I’ll see you at home, then?”

“Yeah, sure. See you at home,” Oscar says, oddly sullen and withdrawn compared to just minutes before.

Mark would think Oscar sounds disappointed but it must just be his imagination. That would be too close to his fantasies and dangerously far from reality.

[brakebalancing]

at the end of the day. there's something very tender about mark meeting this boy who's a little quiet and doesn't get along with people very well for a lack of being around others but is so clearly good and deciding he's going to be a star. he just needs a little looking after, is all.

oscar just needs someone to believe in him unconditionally and tell him that he's the best when he feels like he isn't and fight for him so that he knows he's worth keeping.

mark knows oscar is going to be better than he ever was and he won't damage the kid's reputation by making him the legacy of a has-been old man but it's nice to think about, sometimes—that his name might be attached to a star, to a boy who's going to be world champion and win it all.

[brakebalancing]

BOYS NEED THEIR FATHERS

All of Mark's neighbors think that Oscar is his son because that's the only reasonable explanation for why such a young man spends so much time at Mark's house. Neither Mark nor Oscar do much to discourage it.

Their neighbors get used to seeing Oscar around, jogging around the road in ratty tees and athletic shorts or lounging shirtless in Mark's backyard with a book. Of course, they all love the nice boy who stops to chat with them on their morning walks or who offers them a cool glass of lemonade when he sees them gardening over the fence.

And the neighbors are in unanimous agreement that it's just so impressive how close Oscar and Mark are. It's wonderful how protective Mark is—tucking Oscar under his arm as they take their evening walk with the dogs, waiting in the dark on the front porch until Oscar gets dropped off by a car full of rowdy twenty-somethings that blast their dreadful music far too loud, showering Oscar with easy affection like kisses on the top of his head and paternal pats on his back so his approval is never something that's doubted. It's so lovely that Mark is so attentive and careful and Oscar is so receptive and obliging in turn.

Boys need their fathers around, after all.

A PARENT'S JOB IS NEVER DONE

"Oh, Mark!" Mrs. Walters from next door calls out. Mark glances away from his mailbox and over at the elderly woman in his driveway. "You stay right there. I have something for your boy!"

Mark smiles as the frail woman disappears into her house and returns with a considerable tower of tupperware and a righteous sort of fury about her.

"I saw Oscar reading in your yard while I was watering my roses the other day and I was just horrified," Mrs. Walters bemoans. "I could almost see that poor boy's ribs! I would ask what you've been feeding him but clearly the answer is nothing! My cooking should put some meat on his bones. You know, you really should tell him to wear a proper shirt. He's gorgeous, of course, but he might catch cold, walking around like that."

Mark accepts the scolding and the food with open arms and a rueful grin.

"Yes, Mrs. Walters, I'll be sure to let him know. I'll send him over with your containers tomorrow."

As Mark is about to turn to head in, Mrs. Walters calls out, "Make sure to take better care of your boy, Mark! Just because he's got all those muscles doesn't mean he's grown. A parent's job is never done, you know."

Mark waves back at her. He bites his tongue and doesn't say a word.

GOOD BOYS SAY PLEASE

Oscar thinks that Mark may have the poorest sense of timing of anyone he's ever met. There can be a perfectly good moment full of tension and want and Mark's fat dick in Oscar's swollen mouth and then Mark chooses to open his mouth and ruin it all.

"Mrs. Walters told me something interesting this morning," Mark says, threading a hand through Oscar's unruly hair. "Would you like to hear it?"

Oscar pulls off with a petulant scowl and an obscenely slick noise. He headbutts Mark's hand off.

"I would like to get back to work," Oscar says brattily. "I was busy, thanks."

This is one of those days where he pretends he's not a race car driver and is instead Mark's kept boy. It's one of Oscar's favorite fantasies and Mark is stomping all over it.

Mark ignores him, as he does, and puts his hand back in Oscar's hair to guide him back down and shut him up with his cock, as he does.

"She told me that I don't feed you enough," Mark continues. "Isn't that funny? I think I give you your fill and then some, don't I?"

Oscar rolls his eyes and pointedly swallows around Mark's length. The tight squeeze of his throat coaxes a rumbling groan from Mark, low and full of gravel.

"She thinks I'm your father and she still told me to take better care of you," Mark pants. His hips jump, his cock bullies past Oscar's gag reflex, and Oscar's eyes squint shut to fight off tears.

"But I do, don't I?" Mark uses his grip on Oscar's hair to move him up and down, up and down. Like a—like a fleshlight, like the one Mark bought him when he'd admitted he's never had a toy before. Like that but tight and wet and real. Oscar is a real boy and not just a—a toy.

"I take good care of you," Mark says. He's breathless, desperate. "I take care of you and love you and feed you. Fuck, I love you. My good, perfect boy. I love you."

Oscar gives up the fight and lets the tears spill down his cheeks. Once he does, it's like Mark gets bigger somehow. Oscar's lips stretch past their limits and drool drips down his chin in sticky strings. He hears the filthy noises his throat makes as Mark—as Mark loves him. As Mark shows him how much he loves him.

Mark looks down at him, eyes hazy and bright and seeing nothing but Oscar. Like Oscar is his whole world.

"Tell Daddy you love him too," Mark rasps. "Be a good boy now, Oscar."

Oscar lifts his head up even though it feels like it takes all of his strength training to keep his neck from lolling back into Mark's touch.

He makes sure to meet Mark's feverish gaze with his own when he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the puffy, purple head of his cock. His Daddy is so full of love for him that he's hurting with it and all Oscar wants to do is kiss it better.

"I really, really love you, Daddy," Oscar mumbles, in his sweetly ruined voice. "Will you feed me, please?"

In one blink of Oscar's tear-clumped lashes, Mark comes all over his face. It's ridiculous, how much cum there is, but Oscar just opens his mouth wider and licks up what he can, gratefully.

Mark's handsome face melts into a snarl as he comes over the plump swell of Oscar's cheek, the strong bridge of his nose, the almost non-existent curve of his cupid's bow. He makes his old man noises, grunting and groaning until he coughs, until he slows to a stop like an old engine.

"Good boy," Mark sighs. He brushes Oscar's bangs away from his forehead and kisses him, stubble scraping across smooth skin. "The best boy a man could ever ask for. See? I take care of you. Daddy loves his boy more than anything. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?"

Oscar, sweaty and still hard and covered in Mark's love, nods and smiles.

[brakebalancing]

| oscarmark - THINGS FATHERS TEACH THEIR SONS

This is the exact scenario that keeps Mark from turning on Do Not Disturb, no matter how much Oscar gripes about Mark's phone constantly ringing.

Because what does Oscar mean that he broke down on the side of the road at two in the morning? What does he mean that he thinks he has a spare tire under his trunk but doesn't really know how to get the old one off and the new one on and could Mark please just stop yelling at him and tell him how to fix it.

Mark takes a deep breath. He doesn't shout—not anymore, not since he noticed how it makes Oscar curl into himself like something small and less than. He apologizes for raising his voice and gets a muttered huff in reply.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Keep your doors locked and your hazards on," Mark instructs. "If anyone tries to help, don't open the windows. Just tell them that someone's on the way. I don't want you talking to any strangers."

Mark grabs his coat and slides his shoes on, hustles into his car and throws it in drive. He'd waved Oscar out of his house just that morning—"My parents have been asking to see me, I think since my dad's finally in town. But I'll be back for dinner!"

Oscar did not make it back in time for dinner, which Mark cooked and ate all by himself. Oscar stayed out hours past the time he knows he's supposed to be home by and ended up broken down in the dark.

"You sound ridiculous," Oscar scoffs. "It's not like I'm totally helpless. I'm a grown man, Mark."

Mark, speeding thirty miles over the limit and worried out of his mind, feels his temper flare.

"Oh, are you?" Mark asks, quiet and mocking. "I could've sworn that it was a scared little boy that called me because he doesn't know how to change a tire even though he drives race cars for a fucking living. God forbid I want to keep a scared little boy safe and warm until I can be there to take care of him. But no, you're all grown-up so it can't be you, huh? My little boy doesn't need me anymore, is that it?"

Mark's breathing faster and harder than he should be. He takes a few deep breaths, remembers he needs to be careful about his blood pressure now.

"What the fuck," Oscar says. "What the fuck, Mark? Where is this even coming from? Have you been drinking again?"

"No, I haven't been drinking," Mark snaps. He doesn't say that he'd been having a staring contest with a bottle of whiskey before Oscar called. "For Christ's sake, I'm worried about you, son."

"Well, you could be nicer about it," Oscar demands brattily. His voice sounds wet, no tears yet but close, Mark thinks.

Mark swallows down his old-man worries and old-man regrets. He drives a little faster.

Oscar's car is a lone, blinking thing on the side of the freeway. A closer look tells Mark that it's the old family car that's practically held together by prayers and duct tape—one of Chris' projects he keeps around for the nostalgia of working on something with Oscar, probably.

Mark pulls up behind Oscar and stalks over to the driver's seat. He curls his hand into a fist and knocks on the window, watching with a twisted satisfaction when Oscar jumps before recognizing him.

Good. Little boys out past their curfews that they have been lovingly, repeatedly, constantly reminded of should be scared when they break the rules. The rules are there to keep little boys safe and happy and Mark's little boy is not being safe and looks like he's about to cry.

Oscar scrabbles out of his seat and steps out into the cold with Mark. Mark doesn't wait, just gets an arm around Oscar's neck and hauls him in. He doesn't want to be angry anymore. He wants to soothe away Oscar's hurt.

There's this thing Oscar does that Mark calls not-crying. Oscar's eyes will water all big and brown and his thin lips will wobble precariously but if no tears fall and there's no noise, then it isn't crying. That's what Oscar thinks, at least. Mark wonders where he learned it from.

Mark lets Oscar not-cry into his shoulder for a few moments before he loosens his grip. Oscar doesn't move away.

"It's not my fault," Oscar says, finally. His voice is nasally and choked. "It's not my fault and I'm not stupid. I asked my dad to teach me once but he said he was too busy and he got mad when I asked again so I figured that it wasn't that important. And I usually have a whole crew to fix my tires for me. And I called you 'cause I was scared and you were mean to me. Daddies aren't supposed to be mean."

"You're not stupid and it's not your fault," Mark agrees. He pulls back, holds Oscar safe and sound, one hand wrapped around the back of his sweaty neck and the other gripping his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for being mean, sweetheart. I—Daddy should've been nicer. You're only just a little boy, hm? You need someone to teach you, is all. Just need some help, don't you?"

Oscar nods once, sharply, but refuses to look up from his worn sneakers. He gets like this, sometimes. Mark doesn't push.

"Whenever you need help, you call me and I'll be there right away." He presses his lips to Oscar's temple, hard. His boy, stranded on the side of the road with not even the slightest idea of what to do. Fuck. "Can you promise Daddy that you'll call when you need help?"

"I promise, Daddy," Oscar replies, but he says it so fast that Mark doesn't think he means it, really.

After Mark walks Oscar through setting the jack up and unscrewing the bolts to actually getting the new tire on, Oscar goes still and silent. He's been quiet since Mark nudged him a safe distance away to watch him work. Mark waits him out, knows what Oscar looks like when he's trying to muster up enough courage to do whatever it is that he's thinking about.

His patience is rewarded when Oscar finally looks at him. It's only for a moment but it's Oscar meeting his eyes, as embarrassed and ashamed as he may be. It's Oscar looking at Mark and letting Mark look back, letting Mark see him.

"I'm sorry for not listening. Thank you for teaching me," Oscar mumbles. "I'm glad it was you instead."

Mark, with all of his old-man longing and old-man wrongness, is selfishly glad that it was him, too.

[brakebalancing]

oscarmark - REAL MEN AREN'T AFRAID OF ANYTHING

Mark is not a man who likes change. He's not afraid of it, because real men aren't afraid of anything, but he greatly dislikes it. In fact, he'll go to extreme lengths to keep everything in his life the exact same even if it means he'll suffer for it.

The Ann of it all still dragging him along decades later because a divorce would make people talk and we can't have that, can we? Not after all that I've done for you, Mark. His reputation of a washed up racer turned helicopter parent that follows him through the paddock, the knowing looks seeing straight through to the rotten core of him. None of it really matters, though. He's good at putting his head down and bearing his burdens. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore.

Anyways, the suffering makes him feel like he's earned it. The singular beacon of light in his life that stops him from drowning all of his regrets with liquor or blowing it all to shit in an interview on national television or climbing into one of his fucking sports cars he doesn't even fit in anymore because he's old and fat and driving off the edge of a fucking cliff—

Oscar.

If there's anything that Mark can take pride in, it's Oscar. He doesn't know what the boy saw in him all those years ago that made him want Mark to be his mentor. He was good when he was driving but he wasn't the best. He was handsome enough when he was younger and he's tried to keep fit but there's more gray in his beard than not and he's taken to wearing sports coats to hide the way his gut hangs over his belt.

Sometimes, when Mark is very drunk and a bit weepy, he likes to think that maybe Oscar likes him just as he is.

Mark has always been a creature of need. He needs to be surrounded by other people to remember that he's an actual person that exists and has a body, in turn, he needs people to depend on him. He needs someone to need him so much that it keeps him accountable, keeps him nice and tidy and sober.

Oscar needs Mark. He needs his money and connections and he needs his guidance most of all. Oscar didn't grow up with a father, not properly, and Mark doesn't have the obligation to be that but he does have to look out for him.

And isn't that what a father is meant to do? Look after his boy? So Mark doesn't have to be some kind of father figure for Oscar but he already kind of is and he sort of likes it. It's only right, after all that Oscar has done for him. He's a better man after knowing Oscar.

Only, it's sort of difficult to look after someone that refuses to be seen in the same room as him.

The break was a fucking nightmare, with all the fluff articles and press photos circulating online, each headline declaring that Oscar had decided some distance between him and Mark would be best for his career. It was worse because Oscar had actually followed through on what Mark thought was a bluff to get Oscar's publicity person off their back.

The distance between them makes each little change that much more monumental to Mark. It starts with a decrease in calls and then texts and then being left on read by a boy half his age. Then he has to see on fucking Instagram the way Oscar's tees start to strain against the breadth of his shoulders and the swell of his biceps and how Oscar has taken to letting his stubble grow in, thicker and darker than it's ever been before.

Years ago, Mark had been the one to teach Oscar how to get a good, close shave without nicking himself. Has he forgotten already?

The way Mark had lathered his special soap and expensive oil along his jawline and carefully scraped the razor around acne spots and dry patches so Oscar wouldn't bleed? How Mark had cradled his face in a warm towel and soothed away any irritation with gentle pressure and endless patience when Oscar whined and squirmed away from his damp touch?

Did it not matter to Oscar the same way it mattered to him?

Mark can be reasonable about this. He doesn't go on any drunken tirades or spend days moping under the covers. He does pour his favorite whiskey down the sink, though, just in case. He doesn't lash out at Oscar even though he tends to get mean when he's scared and he's a little scared right now.

Being scared isn't the same thing as being afraid. Fathers aren't supposed to hurt their sons. Mark can be good at this.

"Oh! Hey," Oscar greets, when he opens his door and finds Mark looming on his front step.

Oscar's hair is long enough to curl around his ears and the nape of his neck in soft waves. His sharp jaw is softened by stubble that looks days old. He's dressed in an unzipped hoodie and a pair of boxer shorts. Little white socks that end at his calves. He looks indecent.

Mark clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Hey, Osc," Mark says. He glances down at his shoes and then up at Oscar's neutral expression. "I was, uh. In the neighborhood. You hungry?"

Oscar's brows crease, one of his thinking frowns that isn't necessarily unhappy.

"It's alright if you're busy," Mark hurries to say, even though he'd probably hole up in the dingiest bar he could find and kill his liver dead if Oscar said he was too busy for him. "I know you probably have better things to do than spend your free time with an old man."

"Actually, no. Not really," Oscar hums. "Funny you mention it."

He scratches his belly absentmindedly, long nails slipping under his waistband, and Mark does not look. He is being good about this.

"I was supposed to film with the guys but they had to cancel," Oscar shrugs. "We were actually gonna do one of those mukbang videos so I haven't eaten since breakfast. You feel like pasta?"

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Whatever you want," Mark says, even though he knows he's going to be bloated from all the carbs and spend the rest of the night fighting heartburn.

Mark doesn't bring up how pasta isn't in Oscar's meal plan for this week, which he knows because he keeps a copy of it in his Notes app. Mark thinks Oscar shouldn't even have a diet plan because there's only so much littler his little boy can get. Mark wants to give Oscar everything he wants.

Mark wants to watch Oscar smear creamy béchamel sauce all over his mouth and suck the juice from crispy shrimp heads and smile, stuffed and sated with heavily lidded eyes, as he thanks him for the meal.

"Just let me go make myself presentable and then we can head out," Oscar says. He wrinkles his nose. "Do I have to put on real pants or do you think shorts are fine?"

"Yes. You can wear whatever you want. And I–I like your new look," Mark blurts, gesturing at his own chin.

He's lying. He's fucking lying, but he has no idea how he'll be able to sit across from Oscar without bringing it up so he figures he might as well rip the bandage off now.

It isn't a big deal. It is very much insane that Mark cares so much about the faint shadow on the bottom half of Oscar's face. Actually, now that he's looking at it up close and in person instead of on Instagram, the scruff is so sparse that it doesn't even take up half of Oscar's face.

But it's different and new and Oscar is changing when he was supposed to be the last good thing left in Mark's life.

"Really? Thanks," Oscar says, eyes curved into pleased crescents. The tips of his ears pinken. "I actually got inspired by an old picture of you I saw. From the Red Bull days, you know?"

Mark knows. He remembers moving across an ocean and into the house of an older woman who held his future in her manicured hands because his dream, like most other little boys, was to drive fast cars and become the world champion.

He remembers being told that the sponsors said that his driving was average, his size wasn't ideal, but him? He had sex appeal. And he wanted to be a race car driver no matter what, didn't he? So he posed for the strange photoshoots and cut his hair shorter and grew his facial hair out even though his father used to tell him that it made him look unkempt. He wasn't unkempt—he was sexy. Desirable. Sellable.

"Oh," Mark says.

"Be right back. I have some beers in the fridge if you want," Oscar calls over his shoulder as he turns to walk down the hall, leaving the door open behind him in invitation.

"Yeah, of course," Mark replies, belatedly because he was focused on the curve of Oscar's ass and the soft backs of his knees and the jut of his ankles in his little socks.

Mark doesn't follow Oscar into his apartment.

He doesn't go into the fridge and crack open the six-pack of Tooheys that Oscar stocks just for him.

He doesn't trail after Oscar into the bathroom so he can pin him meanly to the counter and rub his beard all over his neck until it's raw and red and burning, Feel this? This is a real man's beard. Is this what you want? You're not big enough yet, son. Stop trying to grow up so fast. Don't try so hard. You're breaking my heart.

Mark thinks about it for a minute. Indulges in the fantasy of running a clean blade, sharp as anything, over Oscar's jaw while Oscar holds still and keeps quiet and lets Mark take care of him. Then, after the minute has passed, he closes the door quietly and makes a reservation at Oscar's favorite bistro.

He can be good at this.

[brakebalancing]

HIS GOLDEN BOY

Mark hovers. It's sort of his thing, really.

If it's a race weekend, most people know he can be found looming somewhere in the background of the McLaren garage while Oscar talks to the crew. It might look like he's scrolling on his phone but he can hardly be paying attention to mundane things like work emails when he's so wholly focused on his larger-than-life golden boy. Or at least, that's what the media has been calling Oscar these days. Mark trusts Oscar to be smart, he really does, but—

What if someone says something and Oscar doesn't know how to respond? What if one of the engineers wants to talk about data that Oscar doesn't remember but Mark already has pulled up on his tablet? What if one of the reporters asks something that crosses the line and Oscar gets caught off-guard, flustered and scrambling for words? That would be horribly embarrassing for Oscar and Mark doesn't want the kid's confidence taking that kind of hit.

So, he watches and he listens and he stays within easy reach just in case Oscar needs him. He hopes Oscar never stops needing him. Everyone thinks of Oscar as some sort of stoic prodigy but to Mark he'll always be the boy who signed his contract with a small, trembling hand—starry-eyed and pink-cheeked and hungry to win.

PROBABLY BECAUSE HE IS OLDER

Oscar's so tired he thinks he might doze off right there as he's standing. George nearly pushed him into a wall coming out of turn one, which really set the tone for the rest of his race. He might just close his eyes for a second...

He's slouched against a wall by the motorhomes when a buzzing presence makes itself known somewhere a few inches to his left. He squints past the lights and sees a hedgehog head of blond and thinks Oh, it's Max. I like Max and then closes his eyes again. Max will let him nap.

"Hello Oscar. You had a very good race today despite, well. Everything sort of went a bit fucky, that happens around George quite often, but you still drove very well. I was just speaking with Daniel about your overtake in lap fifty-one and he said that he wouldn't want to be your teammate because you would definitely be the first driver but don't worry! That is a compliment, he tells me that all the time now and it is okay because many years have passed. I can laugh at it now, yes?"

And then Max laughs all raspy and a little manic, so Oscar finds the strength to peel his eyes back open.

"Thanks, Max." Oscar bumps his shoulder against Max's, one of those friendly bro-shoves, and Max stops vibrating. "You had a really good race too. It's, what? Your fourth P1 here?"

"My fifth, actually. But this is not about me! You of course know that Daniel is very fond of you," Max continues. And, no, Oscar didn't actually know that.

"Er, sure. I really appreciate that. Daniel is a great guy," Oscar says anyway, because it's nice to think that someone like Daniel fucking Ricciardo is fond of him.

Max smiles. "Yes, he is quite wonderful. Probably because he is older. But not all older men are wonderful, Oscar."

"What?" Oscar says.

"What?" Max parrots back.

Max shakes his head at Oscar's blank look.

"What I mean to say is if you are ever needing any help or anything, you are more than welcome to come to either me or Daniel and we will take care of it."

Oscar blinks. Why does that sound vaguely threatening? "Uh. Thanks, mate. I, uh, think I'm good for now, though."

Max bobs his head in a decisive nod. "Yes, you are very good, Oscar. It is not you that I am worrying about. If anything—anyone—gives you trouble, I would like you to tell me or Daniel, yes?"

"Okay," Oscar says. "I'll, um. I'll let you guys know."

"Good," Max says, with more than a little satisfaction. "You are very good and very smart, Oscar. But you are also, also..." His brows dip in thought. "Ah, yes! Little. That is the word. You are still very little, like a little brother almost. Like you need taking care of. But I don't really think of you as a brother but as a friend, someone very dear that I respect. We are friends, yes?"

Oscar nods mutely and Max smiles again.

"I am glad," Max says. He looks at his watch and winces. "And I am also late to a meeting. I will see you later, Oscar."

And then Max is gone, leaving Oscar standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hall. He's probably spent too long staring into space by the time someone finally stumbles upon him.

Mark's always loomed over Oscar, a little less now these days, but he still cuts an impressive figure with his frankly excessive height and salt-and-pepper hair and warm smile lines that have always made Oscar feel a little less scared of the world.

Oscar lets Mark drift into his personal space and thinks Oh good, it's Mark. Mark will know what to do.

"Oscar? You alright, kiddo?" Mark sounds worried. He looks it too, when he bends down a little and peers up past Oscar's bangs. His hand finds its way to the back of Oscar's neck as per usual.

It's then that it hits Oscar like a strike of lightning. Or George in a piece of shit Mercedes.

Oscar thinks about what Max said and imagines what this might look like to a passerby. An outsider.

A mentor wrapped around his star protege in a tucked away corner. Mark's collared shirt tucked into nicely ironed slacks and patent leather shoes juxtaposed to Oscar's inside-out hoodie and shorts and ratty sneakers. The way Mark's thumb strokes over the vulnerable knob at the top of Oscar's spine in a paternal, proprietary sort of way. In a way that sort of says I made you and now you're mine and you love it.

Oscar's not stupid. He knows he's in over his head but if he can pull this off—if he can lunge for the gap and live to see it and get everything he wants, why shouldn't he?

"I'm fine," Oscar assures Mark. "I'm good, I swear." He hesitates. "I mean, I could eat, I guess..."

"Well, we can't have that. You're still a growing boy, aren't you?" Mark's smile is crinkled and warm. "You must be so hungry all the time."

Oscar lets Mark lead him away, the man's hand around his neck so safe and secure like a collar, and thinks:

I'm starving.

[brakebalancing]

Mark takes Oscar to a networking event but fails to mention it's for men in motorsports and their sons.

Oscar has no clue until he finds himself alone, in a circle of boys with straight white smiles and shiny smooth skin, talking about how their fathers took them vacationing on an island, how their fathers go to all of their races and take them for gold dusted sundaes after, how their fathers are teaching them the family business, how their fathers are heroes to them.

The boys ask Oscar how he knows his—Mark. Is Mark a friend of his father, maybe? Or a family friend?

"Uh, no." Oscar's throat feels tight. "Mark is, um. He's my manager."

I pay him to take care of me, is what Oscar doesn't say but all the boys hear.

Oscar sees the way their eyes go soft and wet with pity, how their lips curve down in sympathy. He hates it. There's no reason to feel sorry for him. He and Mark have a perfectly fine relationship. It's clear and easy and—professional.

Oh god. Is he—he's just a job to Mark, isn't he? Mark didn't take him to this event to show off his son, to tell all the other old men Look. This is my boy and he's going to be a champion, better than I ever was. Look at him and see why I'm so proud of him. I couldn't ask for a better son.

Oscar's eyes burn and his throat hurts and he realizes that he's going to cry, right here in front of all of the other boys. He's going to embarrass Mark by making a scene like a—like a little boy. Like a bratty little boy crying for his father.

Why did you even ask him that? One boy hisses.

I was just wondering! Another defends.

Both of you shut up, someone insists. You're making it worse. He looks so sad...My dad said that when I'm sad, I should call him. Maybe we should call his Mark? Oscar? Oscar, can you tell us Mark's phone number? Can you hear me? Oscar? Os—

"Oscar? "

Mark's voice is quiet, careful. His hands are warm on Oscar's skin when he cradles his face in his big hands and tilts his head up. Oscar opens his eyes, knowing that they must be all puffy and red with tears. Knowing he must look ugly.

"You found me," Oscar mumbles, soft and sniffly. "How...how'd you know where I was?"

Mark makes a crooning sort of noise, the kind that people make when they see an animal on the side of the road. A bird with its wing bent at an unnatural angle. A sad little boy with a hungry heart that's been starving for attention, every pulsing, skipping beat—please love me please love me I love you please love me too pleasepleaseplease.

"Of course I found you, kiddo," Mark murmurs. "You think I'd let you wander off somewhere you've never been on your own? I've had an eye on you all night but I thought maybe you'd like some space to make friends. Now, keep still and let me make sure you're alright."

He holds still while Mark holds him, fingers curled tightly in Mark's belt loops. Mark's eyes dart from Oscar's teary eyes to his flushed cheeks to his wobbly lip.

"I don't feel so good," Oscar whispers. He buries his face in Mark's chest, too raw to be ashamed of how needy he must look.

"My poor boy. Let's get you home then, hm?" Mark soothes. He hesitates before seeming to steel himself.

"Daddy's going to go get the car," Mark whispers, hushed like a secret. "Wait here with your friends and I'll be right back. Okay?"

Oscar swallows down his tears and squares his trembling shoulders. Feels Mark's hand slip down to the nape of his thick neck and give him a reassuring squeeze. Tries his best to a big boy.

"Okay, Daddy," he says very bravely. "I'll wait for you."