You were mine, and you were awful every time.
[An Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader] [Oneshot turned parter] [ANGST NO COMFORT][Part 2]
(I don’t know anything about Oscar Piastri, I've been a Max Verstappen gal through and through, and that may show with this one shot. But I have a vision, and it will be realized. So with a quick google search of his childhood, and with "Merry Christmas, please don't call" on repeat --I present to you, this.) (PLATONIC and-or ROMANTIC --MORE PLATONIC) (CW. MEMORY LOSS DUE TO TRAUMA, IMPLIED ABUSE, ABUSE, SOMETHING THAT INVOLVES CHILDREN --I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAG, BUT DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE READING ABOUT TROUBLED KIDS AND TROUBLED HOMES.)
Your name pops up in his head. Not often -but it does, and without warning. The same went for the color of your hair, the scowl on your mouth, the wrinkle on the bridge of your nose, and the bruises on your skin that blossomed so often that you didn't even try to hide them anymore.
Your name was both near and dear, and far and gone for Oscar Piastri.
He was twenty-four, already in his coming fourth year in Formula One -a stage he had dreamt since long before. Filled with lights, microphones, a wheel on his hand and four beneath his car.
Where every word he said was either taken seriously or not serious enough in the most infuriating ways possible, and it was the beauty of winning and losing while he fought his hardest the very same that got his heart pumping and flatlining all the same.
But in the quiet -when he catches a glimpse of a familiar color of someone's hair, kept in a length someone he knew well hated but their mother insisted.
When he sees a particularly unruly, crass, foul mouthed child in the supermarket throwing a tantrum.
When he sees a kid with a missing canine. When he sees a child wearing a military shirt too big for them, too worn, and clearly from their father. It's then that Oscar Piastri turns eleven again. His right hand always holding one too bruised for a child their age, yet holds his just as tightly anyways.
His hand holding onto yours- both of your shoes covered in the mud and dirt of the childhood treeline the you always ran to when you were upset, with the leaves and stains that weeds left on his shirt and shorts when he chased after you every time. He always chased after you, he doesn't remember a time where he didn't.
At one point in his life, he was yours -and you were his. You were his, and you were awful every time.
No --not everytime. Just, sometimes.
His memories of you were never the long walks from school to your houses, ones he's sure he's done a million times with you. Nor when he used some of his allowance to buy you a sandwich every day at school for lunch or a cone of ice cream after the bell rang.
But rather, his memories of you were a jumble between highs and lows. Between the good and the bad. When you were cruel and kind and never anything in between -but never one or the other too often that he felt that didn’t want to be friends with anymore, or considered you his best friend. He had memories. A lot of them.
Like when you took and painted his brand new electric remote car that his father bought him just earlier that week without his permission -stating that the colors before were boring and that what you did only made it look cooler and faster.
When he had gotten lost in the woods at night -crying from fear and worry for both you and him- because someone from school said something that made you angry and run to the forest. You came back for him an hour later, but only to drag him by the wrist -enough to give him a bracelet of soft yellow bruises the morning after- and walked him back to his home.
He could remember you lifting him up and spinning him around while you both laughed when he won his first kart race. He remembered that as vividly as he remembers you pushing his sister, Hattie, down to a shallow, muddy puddle the rain had left in their driveway because you thought she was being a show off with her new dress.
He remembers you carrying his backpack after a long day, and there were often. Just as vividly as the time you pushed him and snatched his white trainers from under his feet before you threw them at a canal because you were angry at him.
He remembers you punching a kid taller and bigger than both of you, you punched and punched til both you and the kid bled on the sidewalk --all that because he was making fun of his long "uhhm"s and "uhh"s, the same quirk you've made fun of thousands of times before and after that.
He vividly remembers you accidentally poking his eye with a leaf when you tried putting a seeding dandelion behind his ear -your face laced with an angry, humiliated shame before you crunched the flower in your tiny, bruised, calloused fist.
You were a problem child -but you were his.
You gave him bruises like how your mother did to you, always unconcsiously -but you were his.
You were everything he knew to be angry, awful, unfair, and painful in this world when he was eleven years old -but you were his.
Were.
You were his.
You were his when you were ten, and he, eleven. When you were eleven, and he, twelve. When you were twelve, and he, thirteen.
When you were thirteen ---only until you were thirteen.
You went to juvenile prison when you were thirteen.
He doesn't remember what happened, but he knows he was there when you did something that resulted in you being sent to juvie -and resulted in him meeting child therapists that dance around something he can't quite piece together until now.
He only knew that he saw and heard something, but he doesn't know what. He could never describe the first thing about it, and he could never even admit to the adults that he was there in the first place.
What he does remember, was on that day, he was standing at your kitchen hall.
Your mother had been shouting, and a second later, she wasn't anymore. He remembers hearing something before that. Sometimes, he hears it as a plate being smashed. Sometimes, a cupboard being slammed. A table being shoved. A yelp. A skid. Metal against metal and metal against something softer. Whatever it was, he didn't know, and he didn't remember -but it was loud, and it was sudden, and it made your mother stop yelling.
Then you turned to look at him, and told him to walk through the back door. Not run, just walk --and to not call you on the phone to bid good night like you two always did. Your voice was calm --he thinks that's the only time he ever heard it be calm. But not in the way that's at peace, but as if you had taken care of a problem --as if you never had to carry something heavy ever again.
He did as you told him. He didn't fight it. He doesn’t know why he didn't, but he didn't --and he walked home. Out your backdoor, to the sidewalk, past a few houses, and back to his home.
He only knows that the police came to your house a few hours later - blues and red blaring from outside his window and reflecting from the frost that clung to the glass when he was already home and putting on his pajamas.
He doesn’t think of what happened for any second longer than a minute --he may not have been able to say anything to the prodding adults at the time, but he did take their advice of not delving deeper into the memory once they gave up. He doubts he'd remember anything anyway.
When he was fourteen, him and his family moved to England to continue his career in competitive racing, but something in him says that it was also to leave something behind.
Something about that memory. Something about you.
Your name still comes up in his head. Not often, and never with warning. He's sure he'll ever forget your name.
You will always be that girl that called him names but would and have fought someone too harshly, and too violently for calling him the same thing.
The same girl that hugged him too hard, enough for the breath in his lungs to escape on impact, all while thinking you were only comforting him after he had lost a race.
The same girl that gave his hands scrapes when you pushed him when he said something small and immemorable that you didn't like but he never understood why. The same girl that was a little too defensive, and a little too ashamed when his thumb softly touched one of the new bruises you'd almost always leave him when you held his hand or his wrist while walking.
You never apologized, never said anything remorseful for every awful thing you did. But you never demanded thanks either, never hung something you did above him, and never made him feel like he owed anything to you.
You were awful --but you were his.
And something in him --something small, young, with dirt covered shoes, or with no shoes at all. With scrapes in his palm, with a sting in his eye, with a crudely colored toy car. With a nose that was far too used to the smell of his own sweat and yours when out in the sun, and far too used to running through the woods ---was yours. You were his, and you were awful every time.
