a garden, which is a tenderness

ao3

˚ 𝜗𝜚˚ bibi , professional old man enthusiast and fic writer

⊹˚. ♡ op81 , mark webber

𐙚⋆.˚ occasional hockey + the pitt

He would still be very tall and lanky, of course, can't do much about that, but he could wear modest skirts that cover his knobby knees and sweet cardigans that hug his thin frame charmingly. His curly hair would be long and sleek and always prettily styled and he'd probably enjoy wearing things like bows or ribbons. His big eyes wouldn't be so buggish or unsettling, no, they'd be fawn-like. His pretty doe eyes would always be a bit teary and pink around the edges and his voice would crumble to a trembly whine but it's only because he's sensitive and not because he's a crybaby. Nobody likes a crybaby.

And it would be okay, no one would mind that he spends hours turning himself into something pretty and darling instead of being useful or that he has the tendency to cry at the drop of a hat instead of being mature and stoic or even that sometimes his outbursts veer into tantrums. No one would be angry at him because he's just being a girl and girls are such lovely creatures and he would be the loveliest of them all.

George wonders if Toto would like him more if he were a girl. Maybe he would be kinder.

Toto is always very gentle with his girls. George sees it all the time and has to bite his tongue bloody so he doesn't say something that only a jealous brat would say. He keeps quiet but it's so hard, when he sees how Toto makes himself into something softer and sweeter so easily around girls. How effortlessly he rolls his broad shoulders in and bends down at his creaky, achy knees and smiles without showing any of his sharp teeth and only speaks in the deepest, most patient tone, everything big and scary about him melted away to make space for a reassuring figure of authority. Not quite so paternal—daddyish, maybe.

They're not as pretty as me. They're not as quick or as smart or as good as me. I'm so much better than them. Look at me instead. Look at me, Daddy, George thinks bitterly.

And then he feels a bit silly because it doesn't matter if he drives his car the fastest or if he earns the most points or wins the shiniest trophies. It doesn't matter how good he is because he's not a girl which means he might be good enough for Toto to respect but never good enough for Toto to love.

Sometimes, George wishes that he were a girl.

He would be called Georgie and wear sparkly makeup and go to elegant parties and meet many powerful men. Most of them would be mean to her, in the fakenice way older men are mean to young ladies because they think they're dumb and useless, but she wouldn't really mind. Girls are used to that sort of thing, so Georgie isn't very bothered by it. She knows she'll meet a nice man, one day.

Georgie would meet Toto at one of the elegant parties and they'd talk about the lovely music and the vintage cars on display while drinking too much champagne and, when they stumble into a bathroom tucked away in the far corner of the party, Toto would lay his coat down on the marble floor so Georgie's knees don't bruise.

"People would say you are a slut. No slutty marks for my princess." Toto insists at Georgie's bemused frown. "No owies for my little girl. You have such smooth skin, so delicate. I must be careful with you, yes?"

It's hard to talk with her mouth full, so Georgie nods and tries not to gag when Toto pushes her head down and fucks her throat full. After she works herself into a sticky puddle, Toto brushes her bangs away from her sweaty forehead and wipes the overwhelmed tears from her eyes and kisses her wetly, even though she still tastes like him.

"Such a good girl," Toto croons, cradling her face in his big hands. "I am so proud of you. Give me a smile, sweetie."

oscarmark - REAL MEN AREN'T AFRAID OF ANYTHING

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

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

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

Oscar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh," Mark says.

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

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

Mark doesn't follow Oscar into his apartment.

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

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

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