𐌌𐌉𐌍𐌉 𐌕𐌄-𐌄Ɀ

Oscar sat on the sidelines, hand-balling the ball to himself, watching the mess in front of him with amusement. Their other teammates weren't having the same level of composure. Liam was lounging on the glass, tears of laughter trickling down his cheeks, while Ollie and Gabi were both failing to get through their own drills.

Oscar couldn't tell if Max was red from exhaustion or frustration. Charles was relentless with drills.

"Okay." Charles marched over to Max, snatched the ball out of his hands, and marched right back to where he started under the posts.

"We will get this right. Figure out your compass or whatever!" He snapped at Max.

Oscar could tell Charles was royally pissed at this point. He didn't think Max could do anything to redeem himself. Yet, Max, being his typical self, just rolled his eyes and moved back to the starting position.

When Charles was sure Max was ready to try the drill again, he started running towards the opposite try line. He volleyed the ball off to Max, who caught it cleanly, and started booking it down the field.

"Left!"

Oscar watched in amused shock as, again, Max stepped right.

"YOU ABSOLUTE-" Charles stopped dead in the middle of the field. He inhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Max knew he'd stuffed up as soon as Charles stopped following him and tried to compensate by veering left. Instead, he veered much further left than both Charles and Oscar planned.

"Too far!" Charles yelled after him.

Max veered back to the right, ending up somewhere in the ideal range but not how Charles had planned it.

Charles swore in colourful French before bringing his hands to his hips. Oscar could feel the self-restraint from the side of the field, watching as Charles tried not to blow up.

"Get your directions sorted!" He yelled as Max jogged back.

"I am trying!" Max groaned. "I've ran this drill so much my legs are attracted to the right in-lines."

"They're about to be attracted to the soil six-feet under," Charles muttered under his breath before moving off towards where Oscar sat.

Oscar handed him an energy drink once he reached the sideline, plonking himself on the ground.

"I've aged twenty years, I don't think I can do this anymore."

Oscar just snorted, patting Charles on the stomach.

Max waltzed over, catching the last sentence.

"You're being dramatic… it's building character and resilience."

"It's building a migraine in my frontal lobe," Charles complained.

Oscar grinned, grabbing his water bottle to drink from deeply. One of the trainers, who had just appeared from inside, walked over to them. He raised an eyebrow at Charles starfished on the grass, Oscar sitting cross-legged, and Max staring off at the field.

"Break time is it?"

Charles just groaned, and Oscar grinned.

"Charles is having a minor existential crisis."

"A major one!" Charles corrected.

"Max here," Charles threw a hand towards where Max stood, "keeps going the wrong way."

Max huffed. "I go a way."

"Yeah, the wrong frickin' one!"

"It's a subjective issue."

Charles squawked in indignation. "It is objectively not!"

The trainer just laughed, looking towards Oscar. "Not gonna help?"

Oscar waved it off. "Nah, I'll let Max sort his two right feet out."

Max sighed heavily. "I give up!"

He started to walk off towards the other drills before the trainer grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.

"Let's try this again. Oscar, you act as the half-back."

Oscar looked at Charles, an eyebrow raised, before hauling himself off the grass. Charles broke into a giant smile.

"Oh, hallelujah! Make him learn his left and rights!"

Max grumbled, while Oscar just clapped him on the back.

"If you yell at me in French, I'm done."

Oscar snorted. "I don't speak French, other than to order a drink or ask where the bathroom is."

Charles looked unimpressed, and Oscar decided to move on quickly, pulling Max towards the try line.

"Right, let's show Charles how to do it."

Charles made a noise that sounded like he was choking back a sob.

Within two minutes, both of them were weaving in and out of imaginary defenders, hitting the drills with incredibly precise passes, chips, and attack. Charles hadn't taken the sidelining to heart, rather trying to scream pointers at the two of them.

If they were going to do it better than he and Max were previously, he may as well point out where they were going wrong to prove that they weren't perfect. It would allow him to humble their smug selves later.

"Good morning."

Max grumbled even more.

"It is absolutely not."

Oscar shrugged, pulling the tape from his bag to start on his wrists.

"The sun's out, better than the rain."

"I don't care." Max huffed, tugging harshly at the boot lace to start on try five hundred of tying them.

"We only have an hour of gym today."

Max swore under his breath. "Still don't care."

"The canteen had an edible new recipe of muffin."

Max inhaled harshly. "It tasted like they used salt instead of sugar."

Oscar stared at the tape starting to snake around his right wrist.

"Yeah… at least it resembled a muffin."

They both fell into silence, Max's frustration at the simple task of tying his shoelaces filling it. It didn't mean much; Oscar was more than used to the grouchy lock beside him.

Once his right wrist was completely covered in the tape, he looked back towards Max.

"Do you need me to teach you how to tie your laces again?"

Max shot him a warning look. "I'm not a child. It just keeps coming undone."

"Mhm."

"I think it's defective. Throwing a mutiny."

Oscar looked at the ragged laces, evidently been through a few tough training sessions and games. Max also wasn't the type to overly care for his boots. Yet, the laces weren't damaged that much.

"Uh-huh. Not the wearers fault or anything?"

Max stopped trying with the damned lace, throwing it down to stand and stare down at Oscar. He crossed his arms against his toned chest.

"I'll have you know, smartass, that-"

The door to the locker room slammed on its hinges, hitting the plaster wall behind it and shuddering from the impact.

Charles appeared beside them in a few seconds, carrying two smoothies, a Gatorade, and a muffin.

"I come bearing gifts!"

Oscar dived for the muffin and Gatorade, shoving half of the baked good in his mouth before the other two had a chance to react. Max looked at him, disgusted, while Charles looked offended.

"That was mine- anyway, here," he palmed off the other smoothie to Max.

Max took it, sipping at it before looking back at Charles.

"So… what about 'thanks Charles, your thoughtfulness is really touching!'"

Oscar snorted, muffin crumbs spraying onto his shorts.

"You only willingly get us stuff if you've done something wrong. What's the catch?"

Charles looked wounded. "What catch?"

Oscar raised an eyebrow, and Max scoffed.

"There is always a catch."

Charles pouted, opening his mouth to refute the statement before dropping his eyes to the ground.

"I may need someone to help convince Coach that it was not my fault that six balls landed in the tree yesterday…"

Max stared at him.

"Annnddd, there you go ladies and gentlemen." Oscar shoved the last part of the muffin in his mouth.

Charles whined. "It wasn't my fault!"

"How much of it was?"

Charles chewed his bottom lip. "Uh. About… sixty percent?"

Max raised his eyebrows.

"Okay! Maybe like eighty percent, but I was teaching banana kicks. The trees were just inconveniently placed!"

Oscar snorted. "Our halfback everybody."

Both Max and Oscar clapped half-heartedly.

Charles pouted again. "Stop it! You have such little confidence in me."

Max rolled his eyes, turning to walk back to his locker before half tripping on his untied shoelaces.

"Oh, for the sake of all!" Max cut out the words threatening to finish the sentence.

Oscar snorted, moving to grab the tape for the next wrist.

"You've been trying to tie that still?" Charles asked, perplexed.

"It is not my fault the bunny is having a tantrum."

Charles crouched, grabbing Max's boot and tying the lace quickly.

"Mhm."

Max glared at his boots. "Traitorous son of a-"

"Let's go!" Charles clapped, slurping his smoothie and walking out the locker room.

Glossary:

Lock (Max): The player that wears no. 13, essentially a third forward. They're usually one of the top tacklers in a team, controlling the midfield. They focus on size for tackling and passing skills of the back rowers.

Half-back (Charles): The player that wears no. 7, and is the main playmaker and tactical player of a team. They direct attack, structure, and make decisions on field. They are usually the primary kicker (long kicks, short attack kicks) and plan field position. They act as a link between the forwards and backs.

2. Heat

Lando dumped the plate of ill-presented noodles on the table in front of Oscar. Lando, in a past moment of intelligence, had decided it was time for both of them to try the black packaged instant noodles.

Lando watched as Oscar looked up from his phone, set it beside him, and stared at the bowl. He plonked himself in the chair opposite his teammate, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Whoever loses rock, paper, scissors has to take the first mouthful.”

Oscar groaned, already accepting his terrible ability in rock, paper, scissoring. Both threw their object when Lando yelled shoot, his rock decisively beating Oscar’s scissors.

Oscar sighed, moving to pick up the fork and staring regrettably at the bowl of red, worm-looking noodles in front of him. He swirled the fork, gathering a clump and bringing it towards his mouth.

Lando looked at him expectantly, watching as the noodles went slowly into Oscar’s mouth and disappeared down his throat. Oscar stared at Lando for a few seconds, face absolutely blank, before red bloomed across his cheeks and his eyebrows rose.

Lando leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Oscar to do something to indicate the level of hotness. He had to ignore how Oscar’s cheeks were bright red because that didn’t mean much with him.

“Well!?” Oscar’s eyebrows didn’t move, still perched in that exact spot they always found.

Lando slightly panicked, stared at only the small, almost unperceptible twitches of Oscar’s eyebrow. He couldn’t tell if this would be the end of Oscar, a silent but agonising death from noodles, or if he actually enjoyed the savage red worms.

Lando couldn’t take it anymore, grabbing his own fork and shoving a mouthful of the noodles in his mouth. He immediately choked on the spice, spluttering on the rest of his bowl. He coughed, the entirety of his mouth burning. He was sure smoke would be pouring out of his ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, like a volcano ready to explode.

Oscar looked up, watching Lando struggling before letting out a loud laugh, choking himself on the kicking heat in his mouth.

“Grab the milk!” Lando grabbed at his throat, pointing dramatically at the fridge.

Oscar stumbled to the fridge, took out the bottle and didn’t bother trying to find a glass. Flicking off the lid, he poured the liquid down his throat, sighing as the heat started to subside. The bottle was crudely pulled from his hand by a desperate Lando, before he chugged the milk.

“Never again!” Lando swore, hugging the bottle to his chest.

“I told you it was bad.” Oscar snorted.

“You told me shit! I can’t read this,” he gestured to Oscar’s forehead before trudging back towards the table with the milk bottle.

3. Battles

Lando, for their few hours off, had challenged Oscar to a sim battle. He’d tried to convince the engineers that it’d help for the upcoming weekend, but he didn’t know how convincing he was. They just shrugged and walked off, leaving the two up to their own devices.

Oscar had sat back in his seat, watching as Lando fiddled around with his settings. He’d let out a quiet sigh, stretching his leg briefly before fiddling absent-mindedly with the steering wheel.

When Lando had finally deemed himself ready for the match, he’d looked over to see if Oscar was ready. Except, he’d turned to find Oscar’s eyebrows raised. They hadn’t even started, and Oscar looked smug. Smug. Lando didn’t even know what Oscar had to be smug about. It’s not like he was currently staring at the screen, seeing OP81 plastered in the top three spots. No, because if both he and Lando looked at the screen, it would be Lando being smug.

“What?” Lando asked, completely deadpan.

Oscar glanced over, his face scrunching a little.

“What?”

“Why are you smug already?”

Oscar laughed, confused. “I’m not?”

“You clearly are! Your eyebrows are smug!”

Oscar snorted lightly, still looking genuinely lost. “What have I got to be smug about? We haven’t even started.”

Lando huffed, turning to start the race. Oscar shrugged lightly before turning away from Lando and gripping the wheel.

Five laps in, and Lando had somehow spun, and Oscar was ridiculously too far ahead. When Lando had glanced over, the same eyebrow raise was settled back on Oscar’s face.

“Stop! Stop projecting your smugness!”

Oscar quickly glanced over.

“I’m not smug! I’m too concentrated on not binning this corner.”

“Your eyebrows are doing the thing!”

Oscar sighed. “I am not smug, I’m concerned about your suspension.”

Lando stilled, because oh. Oh.

They were concerned eyebrows?

“But they don’t look any different to the smug ones!”

“Have you seen my smug eyebrows?” Oscar challenged.

Lando huffed indignantly. “Yes! The goggle soccer thing.”

Oscar shrugged. “Okay, fair, but that was a good reason to be smug. You’ve seen me with a soccer ball before.”

Lando huffed again. Those eyebrows were exactly the same if he remembered correctly. How did one eyebrow raise have about fifty emotions attached to it?

4. Karaoke

Lando had cursed the entire media and marketing team for the media content for the weekend GP. He’d thought when they’d been forced to finish the song lyrics for the Austin GP years ago, that’d be the end of singing. How wrong he’d been.

When they approached the idea of karaoke, Lando and Oscar had tried to stage an uprising. Both were five seconds away from running opposite directions and hiding to escape the horrific idea.

Yet the team had wrangled them up and sat them on a couch, thankfully this time without the hats, feather boas, and odd objects scattered around them. Lando and Oscar had just exchanged long-suffering looks before trying to muster up some form of a smile for the camera.

It started like most of the media did, with Lando trying to wrangle up enthusiasm and trying to shove it onto Oscar. It had started relatively easily, with classics like Hotel California, Sweet Caroline, or even The Nights.

Lando had managed to get in, but by the second song, Oscar had managed to turn it around and surprise everyone in the room totally. Lando had been belting his lungs out to a Justin Bieber song when he heard Oscar’s lower voice join in. He’d swivelled his head around so fast he was sure he heard a snap coming from some muscle. His voice dwindled out completely, leaving just Oscar to carry the song’s ending.

Oscar turned to look at him, his eyebrow raising slightly. Lando just stared at him, electing to say nothing and make Oscar stop.

“Okay, good, we have lovely harmonies, next!” Lando managed to choke out. Oscar just nodded solemnly before moving to tap the play button.

During the next few songs, every time Lando so much as moved, the same eyebrow reacted. A small, uncomfortable shift: eyebrow up. A pause to catch his breath that was longer than five seconds: eyebrow up. A random pause for Lando to contemplate his life decisions: both eyebrows up.

Lando was spiralling, and by the end of it, he’d sung about twelve percent of the lyrics, and spent the other eighty-eight trying to figure out if Oscar was judging him, hating it as much as he did, or if he was always that talented at singing.

Since when did Lando feel so threatened by an eyebrow raise?

5. Lego

Lando never particularly minded Lego. He didn’t always have the patience to build an entire set by himself. Or really just one bag. But he still could appreciate it from afar. Riding in the life-size ones at Miami and the podium car at Vegas were extremely fun.

Yet, he knew Oscar loved Lego, so he thought building it as a media activity wouldn’t be too bad. He could always start pestering Oscar if it got too boring anyway.

What he didn’t expect was the level of competition that would ignite between them as soon as the media team said, ‘best MCL40 wins’. It quickly became all-out war.

The issue, however, was that Lando never took up Lego Technic building. Staring at the pieces in front of him, Lando felt the prickly feeling of being utterly lost swirl in his stomach. Looking over at Oscar, the feeling intensified. Oscar was completely invested in building his replica, and Lando already knew it would look similar to the real set.

Lando groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair.

“I can’t even build a Lego set with instructions, how do I build one without?” He pouted, Oscar only briefly looking up.

After a few more seconds of moping, Lando began to try to piece together a remotely recognisable front wing. He wouldn’t admit the level of struggle it took to find pieces that worked well enough to take the curved shape, and then fit onto the nose of the car.

At one point, Oscar looked up from his, in Lando’s opinion, though he’d never admit it out loud, award-winning replica to stare at Lando’s… very much not award-winning front wing. Oscar didn’t say anything, just silently raised an eyebrow and watched as Lando sorted through miscellaneous pieces to try to build the nose of the car.

Lando looked up once he noticed Oscar was staring at him. The first thing he clocked was the raise of the eyebrow, and the way Oscar wasn’t even continuing his car. Lando immediately felt defensive, looking down at his mess of a car.

“Stop judging, Osc!”

Oscar shook his head. “I’m not judging, I’m just trying to understand the thought process.”

Lando scowled. “There is no thought process. Clearly. Take your judgement elsewhere. Creative liberalism is not made to be mocked.”

Oscar laughed lightly. “I’m not judging! I’m trying to understand why your front wing is curved inwards and not outwards.”

Oh.

Lando looked down at the front wing. He could understand how Oscar thought it looked more like a smiley face than a curved-in wing. Honestly, it looked more like a Twistie than a wing.

Lando looked back up at Oscar, his eyebrow still raised, but a look of amusement in his eyes, and a small twitch of his lips. Lando narrowed his eyes slightly. “Rigghhtt… now what do you call that expression?”

"You're an idiot."

Lando needed to start a dictionary of Oscarisms and eyebrows. He couldn’t understand his teammates' eyebrows and expressions at all, especially as they didn’t change angle, direction, or height at all between differing expressions.

1. Overthoughts

Lando sat on the bench at the back of the garage, mindlessly swinging his legs and staring down at the phone in his palms. He considered skipping the song playing through his headphones, his finger hovering about the next button. Movement out of the corner of his eye had him turning to look towards Oscar’s side.

Oscar had been missing most of the day, which Lando had found a bit odd. Oscar was usually always around in the garage, trying to get the maximum out of the car and himself before a weekend. Yet, Lando hadn’t seen him at all.

Until now, that was.

Oscar stood tensely near the back of his side, turned to stare at the back of his car. His shoulders stood stiff, his fingers fidgeting slightly by his side. His engineers stayed clear of him, working around the car.

Lando quirked an eyebrow, watching as Oscar seemingly zoned out, his face turning slightly in Lando’s direction. He could see the pinched expression on Oscar’s face, the way his jaw was set, and his eyes bored holes aimlessly wherever he stared. Lando noticed the raised eyebrows, twitching slightly.

Lando pushed himself off the bench, walking slowly towards Oscar.

“Hey, Osc?”

Oscar’s eyes flew to Lando, trying to school his face into a blank expression. His eyebrows dropped, and his lips smoothed out from where they had been pulled tight.

“Yeah?”

“Are you… okay? You haven’t been around all day.”

Oscar tried to push the tension away from his shoulders, Lando could tell. He shrugged.

"Yeah."

Lando fought every urge to roll his eyes. He knew that if Oscar was wound tighter than a spring, something was clearly wrong.

"Uh-huh."

Oscar glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"There! They're doing that thing again?"

"Whose doing what thing?" Oscar frowned.

"Your eyebrows. It's ticking - you're frustrated, annoyed, and a tad stressed." Lando nodded once, proud of his analytical deductions. "Please let me hide before you throw something, I'm already suffering from that ball to the jugular."

Oscar tried to fight the small lopsided smile that ticked at the edges of his lips. It didn't last long, the edges dropping again. Lando nudged his shoulder as Oscar dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I think I messed up." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It was nothing big!" He hastily added.

"Just… one of those dumb little things you overthink but everyone else has probably forgotten, you know? It's just… frustrating."

"If you haven't forgotten about it, it obviously means something to you."

Oscar ran a hand down his face. "But it's stupid!"

Lando just nodded slowly, fiddling with his fingers.

"Yeah, well, welcome to being a Formula 1 Driver. Great to have you join us." Lando mock saluted, a stupid grin crossing his face.

Oscar just huffed, the smile crossing his face and holding.

"There we go!"

Oscar raised his eyebrows in question.

"Better."

"Oh, for goodness sake." Oscar rolled his eyes, walking off with a half-hearted birdie in Lando's direction. Lando still heard the small laugh as he exited the garage and considered it a win.

And huh.

Oscar knew the only way it would’ve got in the room was through Lando, and he struggled to see how his teammate could’ve even carried that… thing. It would’ve been bigger than him. Then again, it would’ve explained the out-of-context post on Lando’s Instagram earlier that day.

Oscar continued to stare at it for a few moments longer before he heard shuffling coming from the bathroom. Lando walked into the room, steam curling out of the bathroom behind him. A large hoodie hung off his shoulders - Oscar presumed Lando had raided his case again - and trackpants. Lando followed Oscar’s eyeline to the teddy, and a large grin broke across his face.

“I present Bruce Junior! You missed parental rights by losing miserably in the tiny car race.”

Lando sounded somewhat pleased with his achievement, even though Oscar knew deep down that the bear would be promptly rid of by the next morning. Lando wouldn’t be able to travel with it anyway, but he also wasn’t the type to trail around with anything bigger than a wheatbag.

Oscar just nodded slowly.

“Right… I don’t think I’m too sad about that really.”

Lando just shrugged, his wet curls bobbing on top of his head at the movement.

“He’s great at wrestling.”

Oscar turned to Lando, one eyebrow slowly climbing up.

“You wrestled your supposed son?”

It seemed Lando didn’t think that one through. A small, sheepish grin appeared, the same one Lando always used when he was in trouble for breaking something at the MTC.

“Well… he does have extra padding?”

Oscar just snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement before walking towards the bed and flopping onto it. He’d had barely a second before a deadweight was propelled on top of him.

“Oof, Lando!”

Turning his head, he was met with tufts of white fur and one of the ridiculously shapeless paws of Bruce Junior. Lando was giggling from beside of the bed, a triumphant look on his face.

Oscar tried to kick the bear off him, a look of mild annoyance on his face at its inability to budge.

“I’m sure this thing has bones.”

Lando just laughed, diving on the bed beside him, stealing one of Oscar’s pillows and clutching it lazily. He just stared as Oscar struggled to get the bear off him.

“I’m glad you’re getting along…” Lando mulled, a smug grin slowly climbing on his face. “Since you’re on uncle duties tonight.”

Lando vaulted himself off the bed and ran across toward the opposite end of the hotel room.

“What! The hell I am!” Oscar struggled violently against the bear before managing to stand up, grab a paw, and attempt to run after Lando.

After a few stumbles and several near faceplants, Oscar had managed to pin Lando to the floor, the bear stuffed between them, threatening to cut off both their oxygen supplies.

The first red flag had been the struggle to slot his daughter into Charles’ arms. When Oscar had finally transitioned her to Charles and the hold looked stable enough that she wouldn't fall, the next issue was extracting his arm. Charles, in his determination not to harm his daughter, had gripped Oscar's arm so hard Oscar thought he'd impaled a vein. After much manoeuvring, Oscar had finally reclaimed his much needed limb.

Yet, he didn't think too much on the matter. Maybe Charles just wasn't quite used to the transfer process. So Oscar just calmly watched from the side, watching as Charles slowly grew comfortable with holding her.

The second red flag, however, had come when a small sigh escaped his daughter. Charles, who was still tense but had slowly relaxed, immediately coiled tighter than a spring.

“Bébé, it is okay! Papa is right there, and Oncle Charles is very good with babies!”

Oscar might’ve believed it if Charles didn't sound so sceptical about it. Or if he actually held his daughter correctly.

Yet, Oscar continued to give him the benefit of the doubt, watching closely as Charles began to take hesitant steps towards a vacant seat. It made sense, Oscar realised a tad too late, that Charles, who had probably not held a baby since Arthur was born, would prefer to sit down with his daughter. After all, carrying a baby was not the same as carrying Leo, even if Charles tried to convince you otherwise.

Charles looked a lot more confident sitting down. He’d managed to differentiate his left arm from his right and positioned Oscar’s daughter into a seemingly normal hold.

Oscar didn't know how many red flags Charles had shown before he realised Charles just didn't have much hope with babies. When he'd turned to talk to the engineers behind him, he hadn’t heard the explosive gas being emitted from his daughter. He probably wouldn't have known either if it wasn't for Charles’ indignant gasp.

“Bébé! You do not fart on Onkel Charles.” Oscar hadn't quite turned to face them, but he already knew the expression Charles' face would've morphed into: absolutely piqued.

Oscar just had to laugh, which only offended Charles more.

“Have you ever held a baby before mate?”

Charles tried to hide the sheepish grin by glaring.

“Of course!”

“Since Arthur?”

Charles stopped, his lips scrunching into a pout.

“It is not my fault that Lorenzo has not given me a niece or nephew.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn't be Charles’ fault. Especially not because he was equally able to have his own child.

Charles was just becoming a walking red flag when it came to babies. The final straw came in a spat out dummy and a grab at Charles' nose. He sighed deeply before attempting to stand, failing to position is bodyweight forward, and falling back onto the chair.

“I do not think babies are for me. She is most cute though.”

He attempted to give Oscar's daughter back, but the transfer was even messier than the first.

bit about me:

I love history, geography, and politics/law

I'm married to books - give me any mystery novel, action, history, or crime. Even some auto/biographies

I'm a nerd and love learning random facts - constantly down a rabbit hole of information

I'm quite an introverted person, so I don't particularly like sharing a lot about myself

I love sports: NRL, AFL, Hockey, Water sports, sometimes cricket. And ofccc F1.

Music is a lifeline

what I write for:

The list is currently comprised of

MUSIC*:

ATEEZ

SEVENTEEN

Stray Kids

BTS

Why Don't We

*Please feel free to ask about another artist or group. This list is those that I listen to or stan regularly and am comfortable in my knowledge of them. However, this isn't the extent of my list; I'm still able to write about other groups, predominantly k-pop ones like P1Harmony, The Boyz, Enhypen, etc. so just ask!

OTHER:

F1 (Formula 1)

Hawaii Five-0

Supernatural

MCU

THE MAYBE ONE DAYS:

Shadowhunters

Sam and Colby

The Rookie

Murdoch Mysteries

AFL/NRL

Criminal Minds

requests?

I will take any requests for the lists above, however please note the below rules:

I will not write anything 18+, I'm neither comfortable writing that nor reading it

I don't write for anyone I'm not very knowledgeable about, simply as I don't want to portray them wrongly or create situations that in no way reflect them as a person. Often, I will research a bit more about them before I write anything

Even if something isn't on my writing list, I may have heard of it and just forgotten about it. So feel free to ask something like 'have you heard of [this]? Could I have a fic about it and [idea]?' I might be able to accommodate it if I know it^

Please always be respectful if requesting an idea (and generally on my page!)

If you have an idea off the MAYBE ONE DAYS list, ask! Ill write it down and might get to it

^ If you request an idea, but with someone I don't know or aren't comfortable writing about, I won't use the idea for something else unless I've asked. I don't think its fair to take someone else's idea when I've said I won't write for what was requested, then turn around and write it for something else. If I like the idea, I'll ask for your permission to use it on something else. That being said, if I've already had a similar idea on my Idea Page, I won't ask, however I will let you know.

anything else?

I work full time and have minimal free time, plus I suffer from severe writers block, so what I write will be few and far between

The guttural roar, crashing of furniture, and the shaking ground beneath him made any idea of just how cool they really were grow wings and fly straight out of his brain.

“George! Help!” He screamed, skidding on the slippery polished wooden floors of the museum. The brief thought crossed his mind that the scene would look like one straight out of Jurassic Park. The dramatic skid to a halt before booking it down another corridor to try and avoid the dead ends.

The museum was like an eternal labyrinth – he’d round one corner to enter another long corridor, with oils of stuffy dead men and women staring their noses down at him. Lando was sure they were related to George, and he would’ve stopped to check if he didn’t have a creature that was a billion times bigger than him and should be extinct breathing down his neck.

He didn’t know why the whatever-the-hell-it-was-but-definitely-was-classfied-a-carnivore dinosaur had begun to chase him. After all, both Alex and George were far taller than him, and Lando was sure he wasn’t that fat. The summer break had put a little bit of padding around his ribs, but not enough for a dinosaur to choose him. He was not about to be a kebab.

A hand shot out of the opening to the Space Rocks exhibit, pulling Lando into the darkened room and straight under a bench tucked away in the corner.

Lando exhaled hard, his chin propping on Alex’s shoulder.

“What a fitting exhibit. Do you reckon we could recreate the extinction of the giant ass lizards?” Lando joked.

Alex just snorted, tucking his long limbs up into his chest, his neck already getting a crimp despite it being only a few seconds squashed under the bench.

“Ugh, move your head, your curls are threatening to clean out my nostrils.”

Lando’s head shot away from Alex’s shoulder, a look of pure disgust overtaking his features.

“That’s foul mate. Where’s George?”

“I dunno, probably reading the dinosaur it’s frickin’ rights from the Treaty of Versailles.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it meant to be the Geneva Convention?”

Alex shrugged. “Do I look like google?” He deadpanned, peering out from under the bench to look towards the entrance of the exhibit.

“Why is it suddenly so quiet? How does a billion-year-old, thousand-foot, dinosaur suddenly become a ninja?” Alex shuffled forward slightly on his butt, staring out into the empty, dark exhibit.

“Can dinosaurs see in the dark?” Lando whispered, suddenly rather conscious of the sound.

Both stilled, staring at each other before glancing at the door. The thuds grew closer before pausing right in front of the door. Lando gulped, watching as the large snout of the dinosaur peeked into the exhibit and sniffed loudly.

“You know…” Lando whispered into Alex’s ear, “how you owed me that favour for picking up your dry cleaning the other day-”

“Lando how does a favour for dry cleaning equate to giving my life for you?” Alex hissed, squatting him lightly on the forehead. “Where the hell is George?”

“If we escape this, he’s on dishwasher duty for a month.” Lando scowled.

“Make that three.” Alex huffed, slowly pulling himself up to peer into the trash bin next to them. It was empty except for an empty plastic water bottle.

“What’s that gonna do? Give it a concussion?” Lando sniggered. Alex turned slightly, using the bottle to whack him on the head. “Oww!” Lando hissed, clutching his head.

The head of the dinosaur pushed further into the room, the lights of the displays bouncing off its teeth. Lando gripped Alex’s arm, hard enough to leave nail indents.

“Don’t breathe-”

“I’m not!”

“You literally are-”

“Not!” Alex whispered harshly. His eyes were blown wide, face paling as the dinosaur tilted its head in their direction.

Its beady eyes narrowed, moving further into the room. It lowered itself into a hunting stance, taking a large step closer.

“So, it is a therapod!”

Lando jumped a foot in the air, whipping his head around, causing him to over balance and smack his head on the underside of the bench with a dull thunk.

“OWW-” Alex’s hand slapped over his mouth to stop the attempted scream. He turned towards the voice, to find George. He looked way too comfortable for about to become a dinosaur’s lunch.

“Where did you come from!?” Alex whisper-yelled before hastily retracting his hand from Lando’s mouth. “You did not just lick my hand!”

Lando looked smug before glaring daggers at George.

“I was trying to find something useful to help us in this precarious situation.” George stated calmly, flicking a non-existent fleck of dust off his chinos.

“As I was saying, it’s a therapod,” he pulled out a paper brochure, “it’s characterised by its hollow bones and three toes and claws on each limb-”

“George!” Alex hissed, grabbing George by the belt and yanking him behind the trashcan. “Does your encyclopaedia of a brain also know how to survive a thoropud?”

“Theropod,” George corrected diligently. “They have relatively poor eyesight-”

Alex and Lando exchanged glances.

“And?” Lando let his grasp on Alex’s arm lighten slightly.

“Stop interrupting me and you’ll know!” George replied indignantly.

The dinosaur’s head snapped towards them; it’s head tilting to point exactly at the trashcan. Lando and Alex froze.

“Okay, continue.” Alex whispered, his face turning even paler.

“So, they rely on movement detection when hunting.”

The dinosaur moved closer towards them, everything feeling slow motion as panic overtook Alex and Lando. Lando didn’t know if George even had a panic bone.

“WHY WOULDN’T YOU START WITH THAT!” Lando screamed quietly in George’s ear.

He snatched the bottle that was clutched in Alex’s hand and threw it against the other side of the exhibit. It bounced against one of the displays, clattering loudly against the floor, the hollow tok echoing in the room.

The dinosaur’s attention snapped, spinning to narrow in on the noise in the back corner. It charged towards the noise, its vision impaired by the darkness and the slippery floor causing it to crash loudly into the display.

Alex and George turned to look at Lando, both exhaling shakily.

“I knew that bottle would be useful!” Alex boasted.

“Yeah yeah,” Lando rolled his eyes, “reduce, reuse, run and all that.”

He hoisted himself up, and started running out the exhibit door, George and Alex hot on his heels.

“George is definitely on dishwasher duty for three months.”

“Frick’n six,” Lando shot back.

George raised an eyebrow, turning to them crossly. “How is that equivalent to my involvement?”

Another loud crash made them pick up the speed.

“Make it a year!” Alex panted, turning down another corridor marked as exit.

“Agreed.”

“What!” George spat, offended.

As they burst through the exit, and almost tumbled down the front steps, all three tried to inhale a breath of relief.

You had tugged on your comfiest sweatpants, a warm jumper, and had burrito'd yourself so deep in the blanket you didn't know where it ended and your skin started.

You hadn't slept for weeks, the stress of your nine to five job, which in reality was a five to nine, taking its toll on you.

Yet you'd managed to finally deal with the big project you were working on and could sleep for as long as your body physically could for the next three days. You'd been so overwhelmed and exhausted you hadn't even considered anything but sleep, even half forgetting that food - your precious, underrated, cherished nourishment for the stomach - existed.

You slowly extracted yourself from the cocoon of warmth you'd created and seedily walked towards the apartment door.

The pounding on the door was quickly matching the thudding of your head, causing your face to scrunch up.

Opening the door wide, a look of pure frustration on your face, you came face to face with Lando and Oscar. Lando, clearly well past his ability to hold alcohol, hadn't noticed the door had opened and continued to try and knock, his fist lazily coming and hitting you on the nose.

Pain flared up your face, and you clutched your nose with an indignant cry.

"Lando! Ow!" He had realised a second too late that his first had made contact with your nose rather than the solid wood of your front door.

He gasped, his eyes growing comically wide. "Y/NNNNN!" He slurred.

He threw his arms around you, pulling you hard into his chest. You gave another squark as his uncoordinated limbs tangled around you.

"I'm sorrrryyyy!"

You stood frozen in his arms, staring over his shoulder to find Oscar still leaning against the door frame, eyes closed and body fighting the pull of gravity. It was no surprise to see Lando stoned, but Oscar being more than a little tipsy was a sight you thought you'd never see.

His cheeks were flushed a bright pink, hair completely tasseled, and shirt crumbled. If anything, he looked cute.

You sighed, moving a hand to pat Lando's back.

"Come on, come inside." You half dragged a clingy Lando towards the guestroom. He whined like a little kid when he saw the made bed and clean sheets.

"Wannttt youuurrrss." He slurred against your neck.

You sighed deeply. Lando was insufferable drunk. Oscar had just pattered slowly behind you, watching with his eyes barely open. He had hovered behind you, inching closer to your warmth. If anything, you thought he looked a lot more vulnerable drunk.

You turned to drag Lando further down the hall to your room, turning to see Oscar waddling after you. You kicked the door wider, moving to the side of the bed. Lando flumped onto the bed as soon as he was close enough, cuddling into the sheets. He shoved his nose deep into your pillow, inhaling heavily with a small content hum.

Oscar stood by the edge of the bed, staring at Lando burying himself under the covers before bellyflopping onto the opposite side. His limbs, an uncoordinated mess, sprawled out like a starfish, his right arm slapping Lando in the back of the head. Lando made a disgruntled noise before a few soft snores escaped him.

You watched the two drunks fall asleep in a record few seconds, dropping your hands onto your waist.

"It's my bed… so."

You jumped in between them, their warmth immediately enclosing you. You sighed contently, before shimming under the sheets.

You closed your eyes, content with being half squashed between them. Before you could turn onto your side to continue your interrupted sleep, two arms sneaked around your waist, and a leg found its way between yours. You jumped slightly at the contact, whipping your head to see Oscar pulling you towards him.

"Osc?" You whispered into the darkness, watching his face scrunch up slightly.

His eyes stayed closed, and little snuffles escaped his nose. He stopped tugging you when you were flush against his chest, and he buried his face into the pillow behind your head, nose half buried in your hair. A deep sigh escaped his lips before he soon began letting out little snores.

“Are you tired? You’ve been running through my mind all day.” 

You smirked slightly at the messily scribbled pick-up line. You picked it up and ran your finger over the writing before slipping it in your pocket. As you slid off your shoes and went to place them and your coat in the closet, another note stared back at you.

“Are you a campfire? Because your hot and I want s’more.” 

You laughed lightly, pulling it off the wall and slipping it into your pocket again. Wherever Max had been getting his pick-up lines from deserved a raise.

The last note you could see was on the art print hanging next to the dining room door. You pulled it off, a small snigger leaving your lips at the even messier writing.

“If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.”

As you walked into the dining room, Max stood in front of the table, a lit candle in one hand and a single, red rose in the other, both hands held out towards you. A soft smile graced his lips, the flickering candle creating a warm glint in his vibrant blue irises.

Your eyes glanced at the candle, with the wax dripping slowly down the sides, cooling before they settled on the tips of his fingers, solidifying into little puddles indented with his fingerprints. The rose’s petals were soft, opened to the tight rings of the inner petals, the blood red glowing gently from the light. You flicked your eyes up to meet his, briefly taking in the set table behind him with similar candles adorning the surface. You felt your skin prick at the pure adoration behind his eyes, the familiar feeling crashing into you, overbearing the previous exhaustion.

You stood in the same spot you’d been rooted to since you walked in, simply lost in his eyes. Max took the first steps towards you once he’d set the candle back in its place on the dining table. His steps were light and casual, not rushed or heavy. He raised his hand, slipping the sweet-smelling flower behind your ear, tucking a few strands of your hair along with it. His hands dropped to rest lightly on your hips, his forehead dropping to rest on your own, and his eyes staring gently into yours.

“Happy Valentines Day, Schat.” He murmured, leaning down to kiss your lips gently. Your hands trailed up his chest to rest on his shoulders, his body warming the space between you. You smiled into the kiss, your eyes meeting his as he pulled back slowly.

“This is a bit déjà vu.” You smiled up at him. “Happy Valentine's Day, baby.” You whispered, running a hand down his cheek. 

“You made dinner?” You asked softly, your eyes darting over his shoulder to take in the table behind you.

The dark wood was set with two china plates opposite each other, neatly placed cutlery and serviettes, and two wine glasses with a bottle between them. Roses and their petals were scattered around the table, the candles blinking lazily to set the mood.

Max nodded, moving to take your hand and lead you to a chair before pulling it out for you. You sat down gently before he pushed you in, setting a soft kiss on your temple before he quietly excused himself to the kitchen. The soft smile hadn’t left your lips as your hand moved to caress the flower sitting against your hair. You turned to watch as he re-entered the room, resting a tray of pasta between the two of you. Soft, lazy wisps of heat escaped off the top, curling into the air between you and settling into the comfortable silence. You reached across the table as he sat down, taking his hand and interlocking your fingers, squeezing lightly as his other hand reached for your plate.

Once he’d filled both the plates and set them down, handed you your wine glass, and set his own down, he reached across the table to take your other hand.

“I love you, Liefde.”

The dirty smell of oil and rubber filled the air as you huffed in annoyance, arms crossed, and your helmet long discarded. Your kart sat off to the side, parked since you had pulled off the track. If no one else was around, you would’ve stomped your foot pettily and stalked off.

Your race was going perfectly, everything to plan, before some cocky driver cut you off, causing you to slam on your brakes. It had only gotten worse watching the absurd driving style in front of you as you kept trying to overtake. It drove you batty. It made you want to scream. Yet you couldn’t do anything but boil with silent rage as you stripped yourself of your helmet and ran a towel over your sweaty face.

The interviewer who had stopped you after the race had got somewhat of an earful, a rant that only a nine-year-old could deliver with a straight face.

“He almost pushed me off the track!” You fumed before walking off.

Max wasn’t apologetic in the slightest. Instead, he walked around the track like he owned it, a smug look plastered on his face. He knew he’d irked you, rubbed you the wrong way, and it gave him some sort of pleasure. You’d been competitors for months, and you were the only one who constantly got in his way for karting titles. 

Max knew he drove dirty, yet he wasn’t going to let you win, not when he was in the race, not when he had worked so hard to get here. Not when he knew that if he didn’t win, his dad would be on his back.

And maybe, just maybe, he loved it when you got pouty and annoyed. The way your eyebrows would furrow, your eyes narrow, and your arms so tightly crossed that your knuckles were white. How you’d glare at him like daggers could shoot from your eyes. It always threatened a smile from him, longer than a second glance, and the tips of his ears to turn red. He’d never admit out loud, hell, he’d rather die before he admitted you were cute.

He turned to you yelling his name, watching as you stalked towards him, head held high and your arms stiffly swaying beside you.

“Why the hell did you cut me off?” You practically hissed at him, your rage barely under control. He simply tilted his head, looking at you with that smug look you wanted to slap off his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were there.” His words dripped with sarcasm. You vibrated on the spot, rage replacing the adrenaline that had fuelled your veins.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you can’t see someone that’s on your back tyre. It’s a damn cart, not a submarine! You can see behind you!” You shouted, your arm shooting out drastically, almost hitting him in the shoulder.

He snorted at your words before shrugging nonchalantly. “If it’s going to bother you so much, would ice cream fix it?”

He didn’t think through the words before he said them, and you visibly short-circuited at the offer. 

“That’s your apology?” You raised an eyebrow, all effort going into maintaining a steady voice.

He simply shrugged again. “Take it or leave it.”

Slowly, the edges of your lips turned up. “Okay! Let’s go.” 

You grabbed his wrist, dragging him towards the garage to collect your stuff before leaving the track. He ambled along behind you, letting you pull his wrist gently, a small, hesitant smile on his lips.

One post-race ice-cream turned into another, and another, and another. Over time, they turned into house visits after school, Saturday arcade trips, and trash-talking the kids in your class at the top of the monkey bars. You still had the small, petty fights after a race, but they held less rage than they used to.

Slowly, you’d turned from ripping each other’s heads off after a race to becoming inseparable and joint menaces on and off the track. You both became proof that maybe those you hated the most could become your closest friends.

You stared down at your phone, your hands trembling and tears dripping off your chin. It was supposed to be one of the best nights of your life; you’d spent hours picking the right dress, pinning the stray pieces of hair, and perfecting your makeup for it all to go down the drain.

“Sorry, couldn’t find you a date. You’ll be fine by yourself, yeah?”

The text was cold. Deep in your bones, you knew your friends had never tried to find you a prom date. You knew they were only scoring their own, throwing you lies about finding someone. It stung.

Max had told you repeatedly that your friends never seemed very loyal. They never showed up to your events, barely reacted to your posts, and never honestly cared. But you couldn’t seem to move on; they were your first friends, the first ones to notice you when you walked into that new, French school.

You hastily wiped at the tears that ran unchecked down your face, not caring that your perfect makeup was smudging. You took a deep breath, your insides shuddering as you tried to collect yourself.

You turned your phone screen off, tilting your head up to stop the tears rather than continually staring at the hurtful text. You weren’t going to go by yourself; you were in no way confident enough. You wouldn’t bother telling Max either. He was on the other side of the world, competing for a win, and you knew it wasn’t fair to add what you thought was such a trivial thing to him.

You stood up from where you had sagged on the couch, walking towards your bedroom. You threw your phone on the bed and only glanced at it briefly when your irritating ring tone filled the room.

Max 🦁

You hesitated. You could ignore it; pretend you were already off for prom and were having such a good time you couldn’t take his calls. As far as he knew, you did have a date; he didn’t know who, but you’d told him you’d sorted it. Otherwise, you knew he would’ve threatened to be on the first plane out to take you to that damned prom himself.

The ring tone nagged at you, your perfectly applied lipstick rubbing off on your teeth as you chewed your lip. You sighed, lunging for your phone before it sent him to voicemail. Taking a deep breath to try and stop the shaky breaths, you pressed the green button.

“Hey, Max! Sorry, busy getting ready for prom,” you lied, trying to fake an excited tone.

You could hear the silence of the background, which you guessed meant he was holed up in his hotel room, winding down after his race. A hum answered your tone.

“Who did you wrangle into going with you?” His voice was tired, the long weekend and travelling getting to him.

You stuttered. “Oh… this guy from my… Math class… Francis.” Real smooth, Y/N.

Max hummed again, quieter this time. “Is he coming to pick you up? Or are you hitching a ride with your friends?”

The way he referred to them felt like venom running through your veins. You unconsciously tense, a sour taste forming on your tongue, and tears threatening to escape your water line. Your face was already covered with the black tracks of eyeliner and mascara, your eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

“Uh… yeah… he um, messaged me saying he’ll be here… soon.”

He sighed before a shuffling sound was heard in the background. You could hear him talking to someone briefly before his voice got closer.

“Hey, open your door.”

Your heart stopped. No way could Max be here so soon. No way could he see you like this.

“You’re… here?” Your voice portrayed not only your shock. There was no reply from your phone. You crept forward towards your door, your phone screen now black. Pulling it open revealed Max leaning against the door frame.

His eyelids were softly closed, the lines of exhaustion decorating his forehead and eyes, and his mouth turned down gently. His Red Bull duffle lay discarded on the floor, cap thrown haphazardly on it, showing his unruly hair.

“Max?” You whispered, your hand moving to gently rest against his shoulder.

His eyes fluttered open lazily, taking in your tearstained face before jerking up quickly, his arms reaching out to grip your shoulders.

“Y/N? What happened?”

You sniffled, shaking your head slightly before bending down quickly to collect his duffel.

“Come in.” You didn’t get far before his hand shot out, taking the bag from you before dumping it in your entry and steering you towards the living room with the other hand.

He sat you gently on the couch before sitting on the coffee table opposite you. Your head fell against your chest while he took your hands in his. His calloused thumbs ran over your knuckles, the warmth and wear of his skin grounding you.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? Where’s this Francis guy?” His voice was soft, but hesitant. Emotion wasn’t something that the two of you really dealt with. Yes, you had your moments when you’d angrily vent to Max about somebody in your class that had annoyed you, or the time a guy had absolutely humiliated you in front of the entire school and had left you crying alone in the bathroom. Yet you both never really talked about just how shit both of your lives were.

You looked up guiltily, taking one of your hands out of his to wipe harshly at the tears that once again slid down your cheeks.

“There’s no Francis, is there?” He whispered, to which you slowly shook your head.

“I tried, Max, I really did… I-I went around a few of my classes, asking someone... my friends… they claimed to try and get one of their guy friends to find me someone… I was like the pity case for a month.” You looked down further, a sob catching in your throat. “They said someone would come… then,” you vigorously swiped at your nose, “I get a text about an hour ago to say they didn’t find anyone. Max… they didn’t even try I just know it, and I just sat there… and let it happen.” Your body shook, not just from the tears, but from the ripping feeling of betrayal and hurt. 

They had led you on for one month, telling you there’d be someone, inviting you to third wheel on their dress fittings, with the occasional snide remark you had swallowed and kept going. You’d prepared for one month, saving the little money you earned to get the dress you adored. You’d purposefully ignored Max’s texts and calls about it for one month so you could surprise him, and so he wouldn’t do the typical Max Verstappen and buy you the dress before you even knew. One month, just to be ruined by one text.

“Why am I never good enough?” You whispered into your chest, yet Max heard. It tore at his heart, the way you were so broken. His chest swirled with anger, hurt, and helplessness. Anger at your friends who had so blatantly used you and your tendency to see the good in anyone. Hurt because, no matter how many times he’d told you they weren’t truly your friends, you still tried to see the best in them. Helplessness because it should have been him taking you to prom anyway. You shouldn’t have to find some other guy because Max was too cowardly to admit his decade-long crush and his inability to ever be there when you needed it.

How many nights did you stay up, scared in case this moment happened? How many meals did you skip to afford the dress that made you look like the Queen herself? How many hours did you waste watching YouTube makeup tutorials to cram your exam study into a few hours, fuelled by a coffee-induced panic?

He stood up quickly from the coffee table, your eyes shooting up to his in confusion. He tugged at your hands, pulling you up gently.

“Go fix your makeup and give me twenty minutes.” He turned you gently, nudging you softly towards your bathroom.

“What? Why? Max?” He continued to push you forward, your tears drying on your cheeks as your eyebrows furrowed.

“Just trust me – we’re not letting your prom night go to waste.”

“Max, I don’t want to go there and see them-”

“We’re not going there, come on, it’ll be worth it.”

His soft pleas elicit a soft sigh from you before you nodded and walked down the hall to the bathroom. The feelings of hurt were slowly being replaced by a constant warmth and reassurance, an emotion that could only be brought down to Max’s presence filling your apartment. A small smile tugged at your lips; maybe it was selfish of you, especially when you knew how exhausted Max was, but you had wanted him to be your prom date since you were nine. Since he’d taken you for ice cream, the only way he knew how to say sorry.

Yeah, you were selfish, but when had you ever had time lately for just the both of you? He was off travelling the globe to compete in the highest level of racing. He was hotel-skipping most of the year, with the occasional week off, split between your apartment and Monaco. That split time should have been more than enough for you to know that he even cared enough to give up his time off to see you. 

But you knew if you truly thought about it, it was you who was often uprooting yourself to visit his races, juggling University and his rollercoaster life. You both knew that, and it truly didn’t bother you because any minute spent with Max was worth the hours of studying that ate into your sleep. You told yourself you could be a little selfish in this friendship, because you never really were. You were always there for Max, you always would be, because even if he jumped off the edge of the world, you’d follow. Because somehow, despite the thousands of miles often between you, he always felt right there, and you’d learned to exist with the thought he was a phone call or text away. Maybe you were both being selfish, but maybe it was cancelled out when you just wanted to spend time with the person you loved with all your being.

You smiled at the mirror, turning to look at the Polaroid clipped to the edge. Yours and Max’s faces stared into the camera, both with tongues hanging out, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, and your hand thrown up in a drunken peace sign. He was cross-eyed and you sported the darkest shades in existence despite it being midnight and only the flicker from a worn streetlight visible. You had just finished high school, barely making it through graduation before he’d pulled you off your seat and taken you to the dingiest bar you knew. You both hadn’t made it to the bed that night, waking up sprawled across the living room floor with the biggest hangover you’d ever had.

As you reached for your makeup to reapply it, you couldn’t help the warmth that wrapped around your heart. Maybe it would be the night you expected that month ago.

Max waited until he heard the door close softly before digging his phone out of his pocket. Scrolling through his contacts, he hit the closest one he could that would be able to get what he needed.

“Max?” The voice broke the settled quietness of the apartment.

“Uh, hi. I need a quick favour; would you be able to round me up a Tux in about ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes? Max, are you insane?”

“Yeah, sort of, look, it’s for Y/N. She got dumped for prom; I’m trying to make it up to her.”

An audible sigh was heard before a small hum replaced it. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

The line went dead as Max ran a hand through his hair. Huffing a quick breath, he looked towards your living room.

“Right…”

You heard Max call your name from the living room. You’d finished fixing yourself five minutes ago, but Max had told you to stay in the bathroom until he was ready. A small bubble of excitement was having a hard battle with nerves in your stomach.

You pulled the door open, moving to walk out of the room and down the hallway. You could hear the fading notes of a slow song, but nothing prepared you for the moment you walked into the living room to find Max, his hair restyled and exhaustion clear from his face. The lights were off, candles flickering around the room, their light seeming to fall perfectly on his frame. Your mouth parted in shock as you glanced down at him, impeccably dressed in a Tuxedo, completed with a bow tie, and shining cufflinks that peeked out from the sleeves of his jacket.

His fingers gently held a singular red rose, the stem stripped of the thorns, but the leaves peeped out from between his fingers, raised up towards the bud of the flower. His eyes flickered to yours, the corners of his lips turning up into a warm smile.

You stood frozen in your spot, your mouth still parted gently as he walked towards you. He took one of your hands before placing the rose in it, moving to take the other in his larger palm.

“Y/N… would you do the honour of coming with me to the L/N Residence’s prom?”

You covered your giggle with the rose, pressing it to your nose, inhaling the rich bloom’s scent.

“Max… how did you pull this- how did you get a tux in fifteen minutes?” You laughed gently, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Let’s just say I have a severe debt to owe a friend.”

He felt the back of his neck turning a deep shade of pink at how stunning you looked in front of him, your hand in his larger one, your eyes and gorgeous smile gently fixed on him. If you were beautiful in your dishevelled state of ruined makeup and falling hair, then you were drop-dead stunning with all the remnants of hurt gone. He was grateful he had hit the lights, and it was only the flicker of candlelight in the room to hide his blush.

“Then, yes, I would love to go to prom with you.” Your smile widened impossibly, tears threatening to escape your water line.

He smiled, leading you towards the centre of the living room. The furniture had been pushed back to the walls, leaving you enough space to slowly waltz around the living room. The candlelight danced off the sequins that adorned your dress, spreading the light along the floor like a spotlight, focused solely on the two of you. It would catch the occasional glint of Max’s cufflinks, lighting the distance between your bodies in a calm glow. Your eyes were locked, and time seemed to stop as you both spun in aimless circles around the room. You both had quickly figured you had two left feet, and he had two right, so it began in a fit of giggles, and had somehow figured itself out along the way. It became your own dance, something between a waltz, a tango, and a foxtrot, with some random steps between that you both somehow knew despite it all. 

The occasional giggle you’d let out warmed Max in more ways than one. You’d forgotten how badly the night had ended up, courtesy of how well Max had made up for the betrayal and hurt. You were convinced that it was better than what it ever could have been anyway. It made you truly realise that no matter what, no one could measure up to Max, that no one would ever see you how he did. It hurt somewhat to know it was possibly only you that way, but you were adamant to keep thinking, at least tonight, that it was only you that mattered.

It was you that he had foregone crashing on the couch to dress up and dance terribly around the room. It was you he’d fixed himself up after a hard race to treat right. It was you he put past his hatred of suits, ties, and dress shoes to impress you and make your prom night the best possible. He’d be wrong if he didn’t admit he loved you more than he ever knew he did in that moment.

“Y/N…” he whispered. You hummed, moving to rest your head tiredly against his chest, willing the moment to never end. “What would you say to being mine?”

You padded quickly down the hallway, the loose fabric of your shirt trailing behind you, matching the excitement coursing through your body.

“Road trip!” You sang loudly, skidding down the freshly cleaned floorboards, crashing into the kitchen. Max stood behind the sink, sporting a severe bedhead and a cooled mug of coffee in his hand, midway to his lips. He smirked, bringing the mug the rest of the way to take a quick sip.

You barrelled past him, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek before disappearing into the laundry behind. He ambled slowly behind you, socks sliding along the floor. He leaned against the wall as he watched you almost run around the laundry collecting clothes, towels, and any other object he swore you wouldn’t need.

“Liefje, it’s only a week road trip through France, why would you need an inflatable duck?”

You paused to stare at him before the excitement made you hop from foot to foot.

“Max, you never know what you’ll need!” You burst, before spinning around to the cupboards behind you. “Now, where did I put the tanning lotion,” you muttered to yourself, digging in the cupboards and lightly throwing things away to get to the back. 

Max just shrugged, watching you create a mess in the room before walking out towards the bedroom. He raised an eyebrow at the state of the room; you’d ripped through it like a tornado, leaving clothes, shoes, bags, hair clips, and whatnots strewn around every inch of the room. He chose to ignore it, instead pulling a bag from the top of the cupboard and placing it on the only free spot on the bed.

He dug out the bare minimum of what he’d need for the trip: t-shirts, a dress shirt, a few polos, jeans, his favourite shark-covered shorts, and the pineapple with sunglasses ones you’d pressured him into buying. Within ten minutes, he was sorted, dumping his bag at the door and walking back to find you star fished on the laundry floor.

“Schat?”

“I’m overwhelmed, give me a few minutes.” You muttered, tilting your head to look up at him.

He laughed at you. “Maybe start with the bare necessities and go from there. I’m sure Duckwald can survive missing this trip,” he teased, walking over to lightly kick the rubber duck in the head.

You pouted. “Don’t kick him! He’s innocent.”

Max smirked lightly, bending to kiss your temple. “Come on, let’s do your clothes and necessities and then do the rest after.” He pulled you up off the floor before tugging you into his side, shuffling towards the bedroom.

Packing went faster than Max thought. After steering you back to the task at hand numerous times, stopping for the occasional five-minute chat, food or drink breaks at random intervals, and the distraction of finding things you thought were as good as lost, Max was ready to thank every star in the sky personally. Yet it still somehow went faster than he anticipated.

All your bags were loaded at the door; his single duffel buried beneath your two bags and a third of random items you demanded to take when you hit the beach. All that was left to pack was the starting snacks before you’d inevitably threaten to buy the entirety of the first gas station you hit. Max said he’d handle that while you sat on the couch, checking last-minute reservations at Airbnb’s you had rented along the way. Excitement coursed through you at the full week ahead of you.

Max had always promised to take you around France, possibly up to Paris, then rounding back to Monaco before he’d have to inevitably return to Milton Keynes. Summer break was glorious, but it always seemed to go by too fast for both of you, hence why he suggested slowing things down with the car trip and sights. You eagerly agreed; you’d never found time or the extra money to go to Paris, or much of France really. After moving to a smaller French town in the south as a kid, you hadn’t seen much.

Max waltzed into the living room, gripping the back of the couch with both hands before dipping to kiss the top of your head.

“I’m done, everything okay?”

You hummed, leaning back against the couch to stare up at him. “Swell."

You stood up gently, rounding the couch to leave a quick kiss on his cheek before walking towards the door.

“Let’s load up and get going!”

As the last notes of Uptown Girl echoed through the car, you gasped for breath. Max sat relaxed next to you, one hand resting on the wheel lazily while the other was sprawled against the centre console. A soft smile painted his face as his body rested against the crevice between the back of the seat and the door, turned towards you.

“I think it’s time for a new playlist.” Max interrupted the start of Piano Man.

You gasped dramatically. “Billy Joel is a classic! You can’t skip them; they’re written for moments like this!”

He smirked lazily. “For me to slowly lose my mind while collectively adoring your out-of-tune but cute singing?”

You pouted exaggeratedly, turning to look at him. “We can play something else…”

He leaned over slightly to grasp the hand that had been clenched around your water bottle, acting as your microphone.

“It’s okay, let’s let him finish.” He smiled widely as your face lit up, quickly joining in the chorus.

“Sing us a song,” you dramatically lifted your hand that was intertwined with his, shaking it a little, “you’re the Piano Man!”

Your face hit the mattress with a smack. Star fished, still in your work clothes and hair rumbled, you sighed harshly. The week had taken everything out of you, not only physically but mentally.

You knew being close to Max would bring you into the critical eye of the public, but it didn’t prepare you for the onslaught of horrific comments aimed at you. Some weeks were easier than others. Then there were weeks like this one, where all you wanted to do was curl up in a tight ball and cry. You hadn’t done anything to provoke the intense hate you received; you always made sure you were polite and warm to fans, even going out of your way a few times to make sure that they got Max to sign their cap or take a selfie. They knew he hated that, you knew it too, but something about their excited smiles and pure adoration for him made your insides melt. Hence, Max was only happy to oblige to see your face light up like a Christmas tree.

You knew there were always haters, but it never dulled the pain. It never took away the harsh sting when it sliced through your skin and attacked the insecurities that plagued your mind. There were the days you were ready to give up, to somehow break it to Max that you didn’t want to see his races, didn’t want to post on social media.

But that wasn’t fair. Not to yourself, but certainly not to Max. He had stuck with you through thick and thin, and you’d be selfish if you thought the comments were only directed at you. How many times had you scrolled through comments on his Instagram to be hit with comments that not only hated you but threw shade at him for even considering you.

Even during the friendship stage. When you were seventeen, watching his F1 debut. Everyone had a say on who you were and your relationship to Max. At first, as he stormed his way through his debut year, you were praised as something of a lucky charm. But it soon turned into you being a distraction, someone that Max didn’t need around him, just a gold digger. It hurt, yeah, but your fire-y nature and determination made the jabs do little damage to your ego. Yet, as you aged and friendship turned into something more, it began to hurt more.

You sighed again, rolling over onto your back to stare at the white ceiling. Sometimes you wished people would just disappear, leave you alone to just exist together.

Your thoughts were interrupted as Max waddled into the room, a large fluffy blanket that you’d begged for hours to buy wrapped around his torso, a cup of steaming tea in one hand, the TV remote, socks, and a book juggled in the other. He stared intensely at the mug, his glare alone willing to stop the hot substance from spilling over the edge. A small smile spread across your face at his concentration. He was one second away from tripping on the edge of the blanket or yelling curses at the tea to stay at a respectable distance from the rim.

“Max- “

“Shht, I’m almost there.” You stifled a giggle into the blanket. His concentration wouldn’t be broken until the mug was safely on the bedside drawers, the blanket was wrapped tight around you like a burrito, your feet were socked, and the TV was playing the predictable mystery series you were cracked on.

Once each task was completed to his satisfaction, he pounced on top of you.

“Max!” You let out a squeal as his weight suffocated you, a small oomph escaping his lips along with a small laugh.

“Schat!” He mimicked your whine, splaying himself on top of you like an extra blanket, poking his nose into the crook of your neck. You giggled at the tickly sensation, swatting his head lightly until he pulled himself up slowly, staring down at your face.

“I made dinner!” He announced triumphantly, a smirk spreading across his face.

“You… did?”

“Uh-huh, it’s on the stove, I just have to plate it.”

“Mhm, and did you turn the stove off this time- “

Max’s face quickly lost the smirk, draining slightly of colour and a look of horror crossed his face. 

“Uh…” He jumped off you, skidding down the hallway towards the kitchen. You struggled to unwrap yourself from your cocoon, running after him.

“Max!”

You rounded the corner to watch a small cloud of smoke rising from the pan sitting on the stove. Max grabbed a tea cloth, lunging for the pan’s handle before throwing it in the sink and running the cold water, dousing the smoking remains of your dinner.

You both stared at the slightly steaming pot in the sink, his arms resting on his hips.

“Well, I never really did feel like stir-fry…” he replied indignantly, flipping off the pan before spinning on his heel with a huff.

You laughed, pulling him into a hug. “I appreciate the thought.”

He rolled his eyes at your words before letting out a sheepish laugh. “Pizza?” He asked before reaching for his phone. You hummed, turning in his hold to be trapped in between his arms, staring as he scrolled through the options.

With twenty minutes to wait until the delivery, you shook yourself from his hold and ran to the game’s cupboard. “I call Scrabble!”

You could hear his groan from the living room. “I hate that game!”

You returned to the room, wiggling your tongue teasingly at him. “You’re still sour that I banned Dutch words.”

“I can’t even make words in my own language!” He cleared the few items off the coffee table as you set the box down, plonking yourself on the floor in front of it, and hurriedly pulling out the board and pieces.

“Yeah, because you tried to convince me numerous times that completely made-up words were real! Then tried to solidify your lie with explaining what it is in English, like I’ll believe it. Google Translate insultingly laughed at me when I searched the words up.” You huffed, a small pout forming on your lips.

Max laughed heartily at the faux dejection on your face, leaning over the table to kiss your pouting lips. You threw him the bag with the tiles, watching as he picked his seven and the starting tile from the bag.

“I got an E!” He cheered, clutching the tile like it was a hard-fought trophy. You smirked, taking the bag and shuffling the tiles around to pick one.

You flipped it over, beaming. “Yes! B!”

He looked at you incredulously. “Show me.” He snatched the tile from you, a boldly printed B staring mockingly up at him. “Ugh!”

He flopped against the couch, his back arching off the floor. He stared at you as you triumphantly picked out your tiles and slotted them onto the rack. You stared at them for a few seconds, your brows furrowing as you tried to put together a word.

“C…” You placed it on the star tile in the middle of the board. “H, I, N. Chin. Yes, eighteen points!”

Max just groaned again. “I hate this game.” He murmured before hoisting himself up from the couch and staring down at his rack. “Are you sure we can’t use Dutch words?” He smirked.

You turned to him. “You told me last time djasche was a word.” You deadpan. “No.”

He rolled his eyes teasingly. “Fine,” he mumbled, staring hard at his tiles like they’d magically spell out a word themselves. “I’ll use your C and write Champ.” 

He grinned proudly. Your eyebrows furrowed further, staring at your new letters and back at the board.

It had been an intense game. The pizza had long arrived, and you’d both taken small bites while trying to think up words. Arguments had broken out numerous times about whether a word was right or not, both of your competitive natures fuelling the fire.

Yet, after an hour of intense play, you jumped up off the floor, knocking the table and jolting the tiles on the board, arms spread in celebration.

“Yess!!” You yelled, dancing around the living room, stumbling over the rug and appearing behind the couch with arms raised high above your head. “Max! Max, I won!” You yelled in celebration, running around the couch to cup his cheeks and give a quick kiss to his lips. You turned and ran off again.

Max just smiled at your antics. He may be extremely competitive himself, but it paid at times to give you a slight advantage. To see you so joyful, forgetting about everything else while you just revelled in the fact that you had finally been able to beat Max at something. Even if you were competing against him, you’d always share your win, make him feel like he won too. Most would say that you weren’t very humble when you won, but to him, you were the humblest. You were allowed to celebrate because he knew he never made anything easy for you. He knew that his winning streak, especially in Mario Kart, was getting close to 20:1.

But most of all, he knew you’d been down lately. He knew you’d seen the latest round of hate comments, chipping at not only you but him. It didn’t get to him much; he’d got used to it, and if he was being honest, he didn’t care about their opinions anymore. It was all too easy to sit back and watch the TV, yelling your own strategies when you’d never stepped foot into the paddock or the car.

You were perfect for him, and no amount of hatred towards you or negative views from ‘fans’ would change that. He had stayed up the numerous nights you had cried yourself to sleep, their negative views of your body or looks wearing you down. He’d just held you, promising you that even if you were to change, you’d still be perfect. He’d even written notes on his phone to remind you how much you meant to him. He’d slip the occasional text or sticky note with flirty messages or simple reassurances, so you’d see them at random times of the day. Just to know he was always there.

Your favourite was still the messily scribbled sticky note that simply said, “oh my, you look hot today.” You had made it your lock screen for the longest time, along with a picture of Max.

Max was yours. Just how you would always be his.

You had been fiddling nervously with the hem of your skirt the whole car ride. Even Max’s calm, warm hand on your knee hadn’t quieted the thoughts swirling in your head.

“Don’t worry schat, they’re going to love you.” Max quietly reassured. You could only nod, trying to drown out the nerves by staring intently out the window.

When Max had proposed the idea of you coming to a race and meeting the grid, you had been reluctant. For years, they’d only known you from stories Max had talked about as a friend; now, you were more. The promise ring that shone on your finger told you that you were his until the next ring would decorate your finger. Yet, you’d only been officially dating for about 5 months, and University had been taking up so much of your time, you hadn’t gotten to one of Max’s races since before Prom. Then you had hid in the background, away from everyone else. To come to a race now and be faced with reporters, drivers, and thousands of fans had your stomach twisting in odd patterns.

Max had never publicly declared what you were. As far as anyone knew, you were friends from your early childhood. You’d seen the multiple devoted fans quickly point out that you had raced him early on and pick you from photos of Max’s karting days.

“Lando has been pestering me nonstop to meet you, and they all think I’ve made you up to try and convince them that I don’t need intervention in my dating life.” Max complained.

You bit back a laugh, imagining the lengths that some of the drivers would go to make Max happily taken. It would be in good faith and genuine care, but none of them seemed very observant of the fact that Max had always been happy by himself or by your side.

By the time you arrived, the nerves had started chewing at your stomach’s lining. You clung onto Max’s hand like you were trying to merge palms, your knuckles and nails ashen white, and slightly clawing into Max’s hand. He didn’t say anything about how you were slowly cutting off the circulation in his fingertips; he just continued to rub his thumb across your knuckles.

“Ready?” He asked gently once parked, eyeing the PR manager slowly walking towards the car.

You nodded hesitantly. “Ready as I’ll ever be I guess…”

He nodded, letting go gently of your hand before climbing out of the car and walking around to your door. Opening it, he reached in for your hand. You gripped it as he helped you out, giving him a timid smile as he clasped your fingers, leading you towards the entrance.

A blur of papaya caught your eye as it weaved around the mass of people. Before long, it appeared right in front of you, making you jump, and tug Max closer to you. He stumbled slightly at the sudden tug before trying to right himself. Following your startled look, he came face-to-face with Lando.

“So, Max didn’t make you up!” Lando grinned widely, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Max let out a huff beside you as you began to shrink into him.

“No, Lando, I did not make her up.” He rolled his eyes. “Schat, this idiot is Lando. Lando, Y/N.”

Lando let out an offended squawk. “I am not!”

“Not Lando?” You asked quietly.

He spun to look at you. “No! I mean yes, I am.” He stuttered. “I am not an idiot.” He replied indignantly, crossing his arms across his chest and pouting like a child.

Max laughed as a small smile spread across your lips.

“Sure.” You shrugged. “Nice to meet you, Lando.” You hesitantly extended your free hand for a handshake.

Lando stared at your hand as if insulted before pulling you into a hug, ignoring how half of Max’s arm came with you. You let out a quiet shriek of surprise before slowly wrapping your free hand around his back loosely.

“I do not do handshakes if they’re a friend. Nice to meet you, Y/N!”

You nodded dumbly, trying to get out of his hold. When he finally does release you, you latch back onto Max, a polite but timid smile on your face.

“Anyway, I have to run to a debrief, but it was nice to meet you!” Lando grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets before spinning and waltzing off towards the McLaren garage.

You watched his retreating back before letting out a sigh. “Are the rest like that?” You joke half-heartedly, already feeling worn down. It was just easier when you were part of the background – fewer people, fewer cameras, less attention.

Max hummed. “Not all of them.” He looked down at you, squeezing your hand gently. “You’d like Oscar, he’s a bit like you.”

He tugged you towards him, tucking you into his side as he continued to walk through the crowds of people who parted for him to walk through.

Throughout the weekend, you thought you’d seen them all. From meeting Max’s work husband Daniel, to almost being run over by George on a scooter, you thought you’d been introduced in the oddest ways possible.

Yet nothing prepared you for an armful of Charles.

Ferrari hadn’t been having the best weekend. You’d watched both Carlos and Charles from a distance, their faces changing between frustration, disappointment, and annoyance. At one point, you’d watched the engineers tiptoe around the drivers like a ticking time bomb.

You guessed you could somewhat understand what it’d be like – to usually have a somewhat okay weekend one week, then the next look at having no points on the board. You’d had years of Max detailing his race weekends to know the utter defeat of a poor weekend. The feeling of failure.

You had grabbed an extra coffee, walking towards the Ferrari garage by yourself, as Max had media. You peeked into the first garage, which happened to be Charles’.

Your timing had the impeccable ability to be just the wrong second.

Charles spun around the corner just as you stepped into the garage, crashing straight into you and sending the two coffees you held flying. Drenched in coffee, you blinked owlishly at the floor and the small puddles forming from the dripping coffee.

“Oh! Merde!” Charles gasped dramatically, his hands flying to his cheeks. “I am so sorry! I, uh…” His hands hovered above you as your eyes moved up to meet his flushed cheeks and look of utter distress.

“It’s okay.” You laughed quietly, bending down to pick the now-empty cups off the floor. “One of them was yours anyway.” You added teasingly.

“I am- it was?” He asked, clearly taken off guard.

You hummed. “You looked like you could use it.” You stood up, the two dirty cups extended in your hands to avoid dripping on either of your feet.

He raised an eyebrow. “Um… do I know you?”

“Ah, I’m Y/N-”

“You are Max’s girlfriend?!” He exclaimed, pulling you hastily into a hug without waiting for an answer, seemingly forgetting about your coffee drenched top. “Oh my! Comme c'est excitant! So nice to meet you. I am Charles! I can understand why Max is so enamoured by you!”

Charles didn’t particularly strike you as a fast talker, but now that he was standing in front of you, chattering away like a speed train, you wondered why you didn’t think he would be. Not only was it his mouth doing all the talking, but his hands flew expressively around in the air.

You smiled. “Nice to meet you Charles,” pulling away slightly, “I apologise about your coffee… It was a bit of an attempt at a pick-me-up without knowing what you like.”

Charles beamed. “I truly appreciate it! I should be the one apologising, your shirt is ruined!” His face fell. “I would offer a replacement, but it would be a Ferrari shirt, and I do not think Max would appreciate that.”

You laughed. “Honestly, better than feeling a wet substance sticking against your skin.” You pulled your sodden shirt away from where it stuck to your stomach.

“Aha, there should be some shirts around here somewhere. We can find a less… red option for you.” He bustled off, digging around the garage. You sighed, peering around for a bin, and upon finding one slightly tucked around a corner, you discarded the two cups.

You had to walk up to an engineer to ask for something to clean up the mess. He stared at you suspiciously before handing you paper towel. You hightailed it back to the entrance to clean it up, already starting to feel uncomfortable being in a different garage, and without Max.

You didn’t have to wait much longer for Charles to bustle back up to you. “Alexandra gave me one of her shirts she has spare you can use! I think it might fit…”

He held out a white, linen shirt to you. You smiled gently, taking it.

“Thank you, Charles.”

“I am very sorry – I can pay for it to be cleaned!”

You shook your head, a small fond smile gracing your lips. “Don’t worry, it’s a cheap shirt. Max can fix it anyway.”

You threw a small wave over your shoulder as you walked out of the Ferrari garage and off to find Max.

You watch Lottie toddle down the walkway between the garages, her little legs carrying her wide-eyed excitement around the hospitalities. Her hazel hair in little pigtails, and white overalls still somehow stain free, the three-year-old was on a mission to find her papa.

“Mama!” She called, slowing down to make sure you were following her.

You smiled, watching her pigtails bounce as she spun around to watch you walking closer to her.

“Yes Lottie?” She reached up for your hand when you reached her. Your hand engulfed her chubby, tan one.

“Papa?” She asked. She’d already walked straight past the Red Bull Hospitality and had no interest in going to the garage when you had asked if she wanted to see Uncle Yuki. You’d assumed she was after another uncle once she had passed her Papa’s team’s area.

You smiled. “Papa is talking to some very important people. We’ll see him soon, okay?”

She nodded solemnly. If it was one thing other than the perfect blue eyes she got from her father, it was the facial expressions. From the furrow of the eyebrows, piercing stare, and thoughtful glance, it matched her Papa exactly. It made you smile lightly, watching as she continued to skip beside you.

Lottie continued to skip past Hospitalities until she reached the bright papaya of McLaren.

“Mama! See Osc?” She looked up at you, her blue eyes widening in excitement.

You smiled down at her. “Let’s see if he’s there and isn’t busy.”

“Okay!”

She picked up the pace slightly, pulling you along.

You found it funny how she had picked Oscar as her favourite McLaren uncle, and not Lando. Lando had been the one to visit you in the hospital, vowing to be the favourite uncle as he held her, the one to show up to every birthday with extravagant gifts, and spent countless hours trying to woo her over. 

Yet all it took was Oscar to pick her up when she had fallen over, crying and with a scraped leg, clean it up and plant a hesitant kiss on her forehead for her to claim him as the favourite uncle. At this point, you were wondering if he was the favourite out of the entire grid, much to Charles’, Yuki’s, and the rookies’ disappointment.

As she reached the bottom of the Hospitality’s stairs, Artturi exited the sliding doors. When looking up from his phone, he saw Lottie scaling up the stairs. A small smile broke free on his face. He squatted at the top of the stairs, waiting for Lottie to victoriously haul herself up the last step and stop shortly to collect her breath. Looking up to find Artturi, she peered at him curiously.

“Osc?” She asked, tilting her head up at her uncle’s trainer.

Artturi’s grin grew wider. “Oscar is in the garage; do you want to come see him?”

Lottie nodded vigorously, her pigtails bouncing against her shoulders. “Yes, see Oscuh!”

Artturi held out his hands, waiting for the little girl to toddle towards him before he lifted her up gently, setting her against his hip.

“Come on, Prinsessa.”

“Oscuhhh!” Lottie squirmed out of Artturi’s hold and toddled towards Oscar, almost tripping on the various cords running along the garage’s floor.

He scooped her up before she would fall over, resting her against his chest, and tickling her sides gently.

“Hello Lottie.” She giggled, squirming slightly in his hold. She clapped her hands on his cheeks, giggling again as she squished his cheeks. 

He smiled at her, his cheeks growing chubbier between her hands. He stuck his tongue out, deflating them a bit and making her giggle again. She moved to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Osc go fast?” She babbled, staring up at him.

He grinned. “I’ll try, maybe I can beat Papa this week.”

She gasped, a small hand flying to her mouth dramatically. “Osc go really fast?”

He laughed at her antics, something he knew Max was adamant came from you. Oscar didn’t risk telling him that he was exactly the same. Lottie was a carbon copy of Max.

“Mhm, so you better tell Papa to get a wriggle on.” He tickled her ankle, making her squirm.

Max walked through the paddock, glancing around the masses of people to try and spot you. You’d told him you’d take Lottie to the hospitality until he could meet up with you and try to entertain her until he got back.

Yet, when he finally managed to get away from the media and sponsors, you were nowhere to be found in the Red Bull Hospitality. He’d asked around, most just saying they saw you walking between Hospitalities. He knew you wouldn’t go too far, especially as Lottie still got tired easily, and you didn’t want a toddler tantrum on your hands in the middle of an extremely busy area.

That’s why, when he walked past McLaren’s Hospitality and saw Lottie lying against Oscar’s chest, dead to the world, he wasn’t surprised. He looked around, trying to find where you were, but couldn’t spot you.

“Resorted to kidnapping my daughter, have you?” Oscar’s neck snapped up to find Max standing in front of him, a small smirk on his lips.

Oscar shrugged. “I think she likes me better. She’s been giving race strategies.”

Max smiled, sitting down opposite Oscar to look at Lottie. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Off getting a drink, as well as finding Lottie’s water bottle.” He adjusted the small deadweight against his chest gently, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to let her burrow her nose into his fireproofs. He smiled down at her, moving a small strand of hair from her eyes before looking up at Max.

Max was just staring, watching his daughter with heart eyes. Oscar knew how gone Max was for Lottie, his whole world revolving around her and you. Oscar had heard the whispered comforts over the years when Max thought no one was around. How he’d promised to always keep her safe, always be there, and would forever love her. She was his pride and joy.

Lottie was his princess, and he wouldn’t treat her any less. You were the only thing stopping Max from spending everything on your daughter. Max wouldn’t think twice about retiring from F1 if it were for her, giving up everything he worked hard for to satisfy the little girl he watched tucked in Oscar’s arms.

You slipped into the seat next to him, carefully placing Lottie’s water bottle and three drinks on the table in front of you. Max turned at your presence, smiling when he met your eyes.

“Hello schat.” He kissed your cheek, pulling you into his side.

You smiled, handing him one of the drinks. “How was media?” You held out one of the other drinks to Oscar, which he gratefully took, trying not to disturb Lottie.

Max just rolled his eyes, moving his arm to wrap around your waist, leaning his head slightly on yours as you dropped your head on his shoulder. You both turned to watch Oscar with Lottie, soft smiles on both of your faces.

Max walked straight through the masses of people in the paddock, people parting for him. Lottie sat on his shoulders, small hands tucked into his much larger, warm palms. She giggled, clearly enjoying being so much taller than everyone else. She turned slightly to look for you, watching as you trailed slightly behind.

You gave her a small wave and stuck out your tongue, causing another peal of laughter.

“Mama’s funny Papa.” She looked down, slouching to lean her head on top of his.

Max smiled. “She is, isn’t she. She’s a bit of a slow poke too.”

Lottie giggled at the term, turning again to you. “Papa says you’re a slow poke, Mama!”

You gasped dramatically, picking up the speed to fall in step with them. “Well, isn’t Papa being mean.”

Lottie grinned widely, moving her clasped hand to hit Max in the cheek. “That’s for being mean to Mama!”

You both laughed at your daughter’s antics, so clearly inherited from Max. Max let one of Lottie’s hands go, reaching to intertwine his fingers with yours, pulling you gently towards him. You smiled up at him, your heart warming at the two people who mattered the most to you.

You ignored the cameras, reporters and fans swirling around you, yelling your husband’s name, and even calling your own or your daughter’s name. You were surrounded by your own bubble of contentment. Despite the chaos of Max’s world, you wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It was what made you meet the man of your dreams, and the husband who treated you like royalty.

Max was always the light at the end of the tunnel, no matter the hurt and pain. He helped you through it all, whether it was heartbreak, broken bones, or the emotions of having Lottie. Looking back to childhood, thinking of where you wanted to be in ten years, you didn’t think it would be Max. He gave you more than you’d ever dreamed of.

You’d always wanted a man who loved you as much as your father loved your mum.