circiad

get to know me:

here is my carrd!

i'm a south asian australian

in formula one: i mainly support lewis, oscar, george, alex, charles, yuki, and mick.

i'm also interested in formula e, formula two, moto gp, supercars, and w-series!

second account is @circiadsucks

i speak fluent english and punjabi, with good-enough fluency in hindi and urdu.

masterlist:

motorsport works:

lando norris:

oranges, a oneshot

new year’s day, a oneshot

no ice cream, a fluff oneshot

salad bowl, a oneshot

twenty euros, an angsty oneshot.

horrible people, an angsty oneshot (part one of the horrible people series)

again, an angsty oneshot (part two of the horrible people series)

i know a place, an angsty oneshot

charles leclerc:

sunday, a fluffy oneshot

four times, a oneshot

in this universe, an angsty oneshot

domesticity & all her friends, a fluffy oneshot

marshmallows and cream, a oneshot (please read warnings)

black hole opened in the kitchen, a drabble

lewis hamilton:

notes on a good party, a oneshot

forest green, a fluffy oneshot

fit n full, a oneshot (part one of the miami heat series)

what the hell is a cannelé?, a oneshot

things i really know, a oneshot

liminal spaces, a oneshot

daniel ricciardo:

corona borealis, an angsty oneshot

george russell:

death penalty and rome's women, a collection of emails

fuck last names, a oneshot.

oscar piastri:

tuscany widow, a drabble

godspeed, a oneshot

to die a saint, a oneshot (part one of the holy collection)

arthur leclerc:

you don't know me, an angsty imagine

marcus armstrong:

dating marcus armstrong would include…, a headcanon

max verstappen:

crying at the supermarket, a oneshot

fernando alonso:

result, a non-romantic oneshot

requests - currently closed:

i do requests for most drivers on the f1 grid (except fernando and max), arthur leclerc, oscar piastri, marcus armstrong, callum ilott, and dennis hauger. i may do some other people, depending on the request (and if you’re nice about it). i don’t write hardcore smut, but lighter (suggestive) stuff is fine. i reserve the right to deny your request.

tags:

#f1 fic for all my f1 fics!

#f1 x reader for all my f1 inserts!

#ask for all my asks (not requests)

there is a black hole in the kitchen, and it's always been there. and it's never been there. but you know it's there now. and so you scream.

the gravity of the situation is sinking in, ever so slightly, but the physical gravity of the room has shifted like a haste decision or a swift blow. things are tilting and so are you - shifting and warping like a conformist in the face of fear. oh, there's the mug you painted.

he was so excited about the pottery class, gleaming like a big child and glowing like a god. charles had come in a white sweater and left in a different colour, but it was okay. he mucked the clay around and got his fingers messy and it was a beautiful cacophony of art and life coexisting in the small room where other couples sat in disagreement. you and him were in silent, simultaneous steps, agreeing to put the blue acrylic there, make the handle a little rounder, or make the base more sturdy. every 'yes, that looks good' was an 'i love you, you make me' in disguise. every 'i like that colour, add more' was a veiled 'come closer, attach yourself to me'. he lifted the mug to the light once you were done like it was an infant. it was something you two had painstakingly created - was that not creation, not making a child in itself? his kiss was stained with paint and coloured your insides.

the room kept spinning as you latched your body to the counter. oh, there are the photos from summers ago.

the 2021 summer break was one spent by the sea in france. the old porsche met the grainy road in the south of the country and the salt of the sea indicated that it was necessary to forgo all the inhibitions of the year so far and instead lay by the beach while regretting not putting on sunscreen. charles was a victim of this - his back was reddish and uncomfortable to look at when he winced in regret and pain before lowering himself onto the beach towel. you set your book down as he turned his face to you in a silent plea for sunscreen. you laughed and gestured for him to sit back up to tentatively smother some on his back while he made small exclamations of discomfort - but also gratitude. joris was there, taking photos the whole trip, but while there were many photos later that were taken with perfect poses and smiles, this moment was your favourite. you both learnt to be vulnerable - in giving and asking for help. charles sometimes jokes that he doesn't want to see the photo in the house anymore. but when the frame falls down, he'll always pick it back up.

weaving in and out of consciousness was enough for you to succumb to the black mass in the kitchen. it took you into a gentle sleep and, oh, there goes the flowers.

on your first date, you had said, offhandedly - 'i love lilies'. he made no response. the date went well, and with a kiss on his cheek, he dropped you off and got back in his car. before he started the engine, his head leaned back and he exhaled. the car started, and he drove home. months later, you fell off your bike on a trail in spain and had the scrapes to prove it; fresh red and in lines over your knees and elbows. it was not intolerable pain; you rode home and had it bandaged, but charles was quick to act as such. armed with dettol and a crooked smile, he cleaned you up and had you rest. equipped with bandaids and lillies, he refreshed the wounds and had you smiling. was there ever a man so ready to throw out his own responsibilities, jobs, and priorities for biking grazes? you did not know if such a man would ever come into your life again, but you knew that for every month onward from the biking incident, a fresh bouquet of lillies would always be the centrepiece of the kitchen.

you open your eyes and you see your kitchen. it's all a bit numb, really, but also a bit laughable.

was there ever a black hole? maybe not. the mug is still sitting in the cabinet. the photos sit candidly on the counter. the lillies are as poised as ten minutes ago. and charles is there too, washing the dishes and humming a tune from years past.

'honey, i've put the painted plates above the normal ones so they dry quicker for tonight', he says.

four. a memory.

'almost done, love, just stay still for a moment more.'

the inflatable arm bands look proportionally ridiculous in comparison to her small body. they stick out at the forearm and are bright yellow, meant to attract attention in case she needs help, but drowning is a foreign concept, and she doesn't think she'll ever need help.

she is four. nothing bad has happened to her yet.

her father gives the inflatables one more puff and plugs them. adjusting them slightly, he positions her for a photo in the sand.

'say cheese!'

'cheese!'

she shuffles her feet in agitation at the sound of someone running behind her. he is interrupting the photo to grab her hand and drag her to the water. her father makes a sound of disapproval and beckons the two of them back as the boy asks something along the lines of, 'please, we want to go play mermaids and princes!'.

'alright, alright,' her father gives in as he loads the camera again. 'i'm watching, don't go too deep.'

he hesitates for a second, and asks for his daughter. she loosens her grip on the boy and stumbles to her father, who is crouched down in a pair of khaki shorts and a shirt with glasses. her father looks as smart and effortlessly dapper as he is. he picks her up and plants kissess on her face while she squeals and laughs.

'don't let charles boss you around, pumpkin, okay? you are my warrior. he will be a mermaid if he has to. go have fun now, go.'

she lowers down and runs with the boy to the shore to the backdrop of a camera flash, coming from behind. the water pools around her ankles and the boy picks out her inflatables and says he wants some as well. she runs away from his splashes and the adults look in amusement, and a little longing, because being that young meant compassion was sewed into the fibers of every splash, and hope was in the colour of the arm inflatables.

they are both four. no one has died yet. no one has fallen in love yet. no one has left, and nothing bad has happened.

2019. five days before the belgian grand prix.

she hands charles a photo, one that can be instantly dated to the early 2000s in the card material of the picture and the glossed lamination. even more, it can be traced to an exact year, as it pictures a little girl and a little boy running towards the sea, hand in hand, with bucket hats on heads and funny little inflatable devices on the girl's arms. they are not looking at the camera and the sun has added extra glare to the film, which has discoloured the photo with grain and contrast.

charles takes it to look and smiles, and she realises that she has not seen him smile like this in years, not since they were last in monaco together, before all that happened. she has not seen him in the flesh in at least two years, as if their childhood was erased clean. she remembers the call a few weeks ago, spoken in the easy french-monagasque accent that belonged to a singular face.

it's me, charles. i know you said it was for the best but i want to see you again. i'm racing in spa in a couple of weeks, i know you've been working in amsterdam and i'm hoping you can make it. anthoine will be there too. if you don't want to, or if it's too hard after - well, you know - then that's okay and i understand. i've just been missing our friendship. call me when you get this.

'i remember this. who took it?' he says. the cafe is bustling with activity and it is hard to be heard.

'my father, i think.'

'right. how is he? have you heard from him?'

he broaches the subject carefully like it could cost him his afternoon with her. she stirs her coffee idly.

'not really. he bought a house in costa rica with commissions from his work. jude moved in with him and they're thinking of adopting.'

she thinks he might hear the hint of anger in her voice springing to the surface, but if he does, he does not respond. she watches his hair blow from the warming air outside. the stubble on his chin makes him look a little older and more tired.

'how's your mother, is she taking care of herself?'

she thinks of her mother in italy, taking up a management role in her planning firm that organised events, such as weddings and funerals. she had worked tirelessly during her daughter's childhood to secure their life in monaco. in those times, she was less of a mother than she was an idea, an enigma. but she tried to be a good mum and her daughter understood it all.

'she's fine.'

'is she seeing anyone?'

she almost starts again but stops herself- her mother had not seen anyone since her father left. or rather, he was...evicted, but the formalities were not of her business, she had been told. charles knew of her mother's withdrawal throughout her teenagehood, so why was he probing it all over again? maybe he had forgotten. maybe he was just curious. maybe both - charles was difficult to read, always.

'no, not since dad.'

he tilts his head down. 'right, sorry. i forgot.'

'and your mother?' she diverts the topic. charles lifts again at that and smiles at the mention of his ever-present mother.

'definitely missing your mom', he says. 'they were a great duo. now she's as busy as before, especially with arthur.'

she glows at arthur's name, filling up with images of the younger boy's cheeky, toothy grin, and his antics to annoy herself and charles whenever they were together. just as she followed charles' career, she had followed arthur's, although she refrained from reaching out in an attempt to let old wounds heal. they looked happy on tv, they did not need reminding of the past, a past where fear was surrounding them and grief was overwhelmingly present and debilitating.

that was then, this is now. the pain has passed.

but why then was the feeling of being poked and pierced back again, in all the wrong places? why did she look at charles and want to scream and cry and yell and say, tell me you haven't forgotten history, because you're the only one who's ever known mine? no, not mine - ours. why did she not see his face, but the eyes, nose, lips, and cheeks of their friend, the one like a brother, the one who died and left no goodbye but so much loss?

charles thinks for a second and clears his throat. his coffee sits half full.

'do you want to go for a walk?'

ten. a memory.

'we have to start to walk! pack your bag quickly, they're waiting for us!'

charles scurries to zip up his floppy backpack with notebooks and a soccer ball occupying the most space. the winter has set in and a beanie covers most of his forehead, along with thick woollen gloves at his mother's request. the school is placated with snow covering the grass and the roof of classrooms, but this does not stop the schoolchildren from idly kicking about and playing running games. a familiar silver car rolls up along the fence outside the school. she gestures to it.

'c'mon, they're here.'

charles slings his bag across his shoulders and follows her to the gate, trudging through thick snow. he watches her run out the gate and her hair bounces around. picking up speed, he gets to the car.

'papa and jules!' the girl shouts.

the two kids see him and hugs fly around as they bundle into the backseats of the car. the father and jules smile wide and declare that they have a surprise for them, because, after all, they deserve something special for jules' yearly visit back to monaco. they sing radio songs and she and charles argue about school before they parks at a small cafe just outside the border. a sign reads, coffee and karting in cap-d'ail.

'yesss!' she exclaims as jules opens the door for them, throwing a scarf on as he does it. charles runs to hug him again and is reprimanded for not wearing his coat, while she fixes hers.

'she's been good, you haven't', the girl's father chastises. she beams and drags them to the entrance, where she plans her order in her head.

'papa, can we order on our own today?' she says with all the confidence and elegance an eleven-year-old thinks they have. he thinks, adjusts her beanie, and hands her his card.

'this is a very powerful card', the father says, gravely. 'you two must be very careful and responsible to use it, i'm not sure if you're ready yet-.'

'we promise we'll be responsible!' charles exclaims, taking his card. the two kids walk up to the barista and order two chocolat chauds, marshmallows and cream in both. she bends down to accept the card and hands them tissues and sugar. jules watches in amusement and the father finds a table.

'we watched you in hockenheim, tell me, how did you save the car from the wall in turn three like that?' charles asks, with the girl nodding enthusiastically.

jules launches into an explanation as he watches their eyes glint in wonder - he had missed them more than he would admit, and he often thought of how they would react to an impressive overtake or a crash after a race. he remembers the days they were born and the trio of their families when he would despair at having to look after them at events as a teenager but now he takes any opportunity to spend time with their innocent and limitless personalities. the father knows that jules thinks that they deserve a better older-brother figure, a better godfather than him. in any case, it was always charles, y/n, and jules. their names are always uttered together. once he was in formula one, they would have all the time in the world to drink hot chocolate and go karting.

the girl has milk on her upper lip. 'can we go to the track now?'

'magic word?'

'...please...?'

2019. four days before the belgian grand prix.

'oh please, markus, you don't know anything about this game, let's just read the rulebook again.'

autumn in belgium feels tragically warm, and she notes the sun leaving its wide shadow on the carpet of the flat. a few other people are arguing over a heated game of monopoly on the coffee table as they deal the money. she takes her fake cash and double-checks the amount as katia, a school friend, looks for dice.

'what can i get for you?' a voice asks from the kitchen. it's katia's boyfriend, oliver, a real estate broker. 'tea? coffee? water?'

'hah, she doesn't drink tea', charles laughs. 'can't stand the taste of it.'

'how'd you remember that?' she asks.

charles shrugs absentmindedly as he helps looks for dice. 'i'll take coffee', she responds. they find dice and the game kicks off with markus, an old neighbour, already attempting a trade with katia. the atmosphere is inviting and friendly, and she knows why. it is the first time in years that they have all been together and spoken. all of them are wary to not cross lines and break a forged trust.

'hey, when's anthoine coming?' oliver asks katia. katia checks her phone and he will be here soon enough.

the girl steals a look at charles while he moves his piece and she realises that he has not changed at all. she can still map the terrain of his eyebrows, nose, and cheekbones like they are fifteen again. she can close her eyes and imagine his stomach and waist like they are eighteen again. and all else falls in between those moments, those years, like a black hole. she remembers the bed and the date and the roof and the race and the birthday and the funeral.

'staring?' charles whispers under his breath with a smile. markus is showing oliver a funny video on his phone and katia is in the bathroom.

'more like making up for lost time', she responds.

'you used to do that a lot. would just look and analyse.'

'and you used to be very observant.'

'i guess neither of us has changed', he smiles. she grows a little weaker. he rolls the dice and does his turn. she's missed his smile. he's missed her. the sun puts him in an otherworldly light, and she wants to take his hand.

a knock at the door and anthoine is here with a pack of beers. his glasses are crooked and she fixes them as she goes for a hug. charles grins in her peripheral vision. she holds the hug and his hair smells of petrol and smoke, and it's all comforting and nostalgic and suddenly she is back in time and no one has left, no one is hurt.

'the whole group is here!' markus exclaims. there is a light in his eyes that no monopoly win could replicate. 'and it only took charles complaining for ages to do it!'

'what? complaining?'

sixteen. a memory.

the highway is empty, save for the four bodies in the black jeep singing along to the strokes. the headlights are on and they are searching for a gas station - or anthoine is trying to. katia is trying to get reception with her phone and charles and the girl are pretty shitfaced in the backseats, laughing their heads off. anthoine's hair is short and spiky and the girl is trying to tame it from the back, whipping out a hairbrush while he drives. charles tries swatting her back, saying that anthoine looks fine. katia tells them all to shut up so she can make a call.

'missing me?' katia preens to the boy on the other side of the phone. she has been dating oliver on and off for a few months now. no one in the group really likes him, but they barely know him. they say he's ambitionless and unfunny. she says that at least he's hot. charles mimicks oliver's voice in the backseat and anthoine sees it from the mirrors and bursts into laughter. katia motions for him to shut up, but it's useless, because the phone is cutting out anyway and katia gives up.

'how the fuck do i talk to him now?' katia complains.

'relax girl, there'll be reception at the campsite. hopefully, ' the other girl says.

'easy for you to say when your boyfriend is sitting right next to you!" katia jokes, laughing and high-fiving anthoine. charles goes even more red and rests his head on the window. outside it is pitch black.

'shhh! it's not like that!'

'yeah, sure...'

the ordeal is interrupted when the girl spots a gas station approaching. the car is parked to the side in an area enclosed by trees and mud.

'i need to piss, anthoine wants snacks, and we need to top up fuel. you guys want to come?' katia asks.

charles and the girl shake their heads, but charles then interjects with a request for more drinks. the other two leave, and it is just them, the laughter falling away from moments ago. charles' eyes are closed and he rests against the seat, while her head is against the window.

'god, they are such dicks', he says.

'i just don't know how they know...'

'know what?'

she laughs and looks him in the eyes. 'about us, stupid.'

'there's an us now?'

'there's always been an us, charles. we have been best friends forever. the parameters have just...changed, i guess.'

he thinks for a second, and then laughs. facing the girl, he tucks her hair behind her ears in a fluid motion. 'you know, i don't hate the idea of us.'

her nose touches his, and she is suddenly one with him, one body, one soul. 'me neither.'

the kiss is long and slow, and his hands drift up everywhere. his breath hitches up and down and he is nervous, she can tell. but the first act of romance must have been years ago, because this has been years in the making. she and charles transcend forms of love, because they are one person, and it has been like this for as long as time itself. it is not a new story.

knocking comes from the window and she jumps. the two others smile widely and lift up a bag of oreos and crisps.

2019. one day before the belgian grand prix.

the time is almost eleven at night, and she is outside the hotel, sitting on the steps to the entrance. road cars rush by and the air has grown cold and wet. across from the hotel is a small conservation park with benches and fountains, and slides and swings. there is a large oak with jutted branches that reach the sky and back. two birds hop around the closest branch and shuffle their nest around in the dark. one flies to a nearby tree and the sounds of crickets can be heard somewhere. the girl will not be getting any sleep tonight, maybe never.

a figure is walking from the right. he is looking down and walking slowly like he is deep in thought. his wispy hair is unprotected and is thrown around by the wind. the boy takes a seat next to the girl. he has been crying, and she doesn't need to look to tell.

'you have always been my best friend', he says quietly. 'you still are. and i don't know who else to go to.'

'you would've gone to jules. we both would've.'

a silence. charles sobs into her shoulder. she thinks about anthoine, but this is too painful to bear, so she thinks of her father. she thinks of all the things he would say to make her feel better when she hurt herself, or when someone was mean. she thinks of his eyebrows, furrowed in concern, and his broken face, and his story turned into declaration: i love you, i need to leave. she thinks of the fighting late at night between him and the girl's mother. she buries these things deeper. she holds charles closer. too much loss, too much grief. she silently begs him not to race tomorrow.

they have run out of tears. 'charles?'

'yes?'

'i love you - he would've wanted you to hear that.'

a silence. everything is said.

'i-can we just sit like this a little longer?'

eighteen. a memory.

the car rolls around hills and dirt and road, and yet it never seems to get anywhere meaningful. italy is full of this, she comes to learn. full of foreign land and equally foreign words and sounds in her mouth that produce nothing of substance. her mother drives and looks ahead. she looks through her phone, skipping unread messages as she flips through the ones with charles, kissy emojis and all.

she still holds firm to the fact that they are making the right choice. that moving to italy is right for her, and formula one is right for him. if she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine him there, at the podium celebrations, covered in champagne. but there is something more; something she will never tell him:

that every time she looks at him, she sees jules, and this is too much to bear.

as the hills pass by, and the mother and daughter inch closer to the house, she thinks, for a split second, about driving back. she does not do this. oh, how it could've changed her history.

the belgian grand prix.

charles wills himself out of bed and drives his race car because this is all he knows how to do. the changing of gears, the apex, the pedals - this is his life now, and it always has been. he had been told by a very close friend once that it was all about immersing yourself in the work. he does exactly this, and it relieves him of pain, just a bit, but he still thinks of him at every corner and straight.

and then there is the fact that he is leading the race, and something changes. he thinks of the win and all the wins that could've been, and all the times that he almost did but didn't, and all the moments he should've, but could not. he thinks of faces and times and places and enters some state of free control, where he is not thinking of driving, but of everything else. and he is thinking of him, and him, and her. her. the finish line is crossed and he is not the same person as an hour and a half ago.

time is moving in slow motion, and everything is happening at once. out of the car and his engineers and mechanics are waiting to embrace him, and the sun is shining again and it's anthoine and jules and his father, and his mother is crying in joy and his brothers are rushing to the front, but then he has eyes for one person. her.

they are both smiling, despite everything. despite a few years of absence, and a few days of all life, they are smiling. through tears and laughs and choking sobs. charles leans in, and she leans in, and they kiss for everything they didn't do, and all the times they left.

i. lead actress in upcoming reboot of khabi khushi khabi gham spotted at annual mercedes end-of-season ball - read more at tmz magazine!

the orchestra drew out a defiant final note of their piece, poking the air with an absence of melody in their aftermath which pulled you away from your conversation.

'champagne, madame?'

'thank you, i'll take another for pranav here.'

pranav was a lively, impulsive character who had reaped the perks of your fame without indulging in the work of it all, and was therefore eternally in debt to you - as the sole user of your lisbon yacht, and also as your brother. perhaps this is too insulting of a description, as he was a kind man and kinder friend, and welcomed luggage from your starting destination: a souvenir from home.

'did i miss much?' he asked, coming back from the bathroom. his dark hair was messy and his blazer was off, revealing a white button-up shirt and dislodged tie. his crooked smile completed the look of a twenty-something boy who is not yet sure of himself; he was always travelling, always looking for purpose. but he was attractive enough, and well liked, which made him fit in any scene - even a high-profile ball as that night.

'no, just the final act. here, have a glass. it'll sleaze you up real good.'

he smirked, taking the curved glass. 'perfect. just what i need for that chick there.'

he pointed with his glass to a girl at another table at the other end of the hall as he said this, with long brown hair and a red gown. she caught his eye and waved, as he shot an eyebrows-raised, dapper smile which made her grin. you and your brother switched to hindi to avoid strange looks from eavesdroppers.

'can you not flirt for, like, a night?'

pranav reached for a macaron on the table and stuffed it in his mouth. 'you weren't considering that when you brought me along?'

'uh, you brought yourself along. on your own accord.'

'damn. shouldn't have let me do that', he said, standing up and taking a sip of his champagne.

'truly.'

'y/n,' he said, 'i just think if you strike up some conversations, play some games, take a hot thing home, you'll understand me better.'

had he not realised the severity of a scandal now? right in the middle of promotion for the new film, right when the world was teetering on the edge of coupling you with your co-star?

'pran-'

'please?' he asked, 'you know i hate to see you miserable.'

'...fine. but it won't be pretty.'

'you're y/n; you could trip on your ankles and they'd say they have a kink for it.'

with that, he left for the brown-haired girl and left you with your macarons and a challenge. the hall was lavish and large, booked out for the month to accommodate the annual mercedes end-of-year ball. an exclusive event for high-profile businessmen, celebrities, and mercedes sports cars and formula one team members, it served as a hub for contracts, business deals, and money. more money than you and i would ever need. here, the mercedes company would agree on partnerships to serve both their road cars and formula one divisions, while maintaining an elite audience and classy brand image. it was all quite genius, really. all hidden in the table bouquets and wall paintings.

your brown skin was an outlier in a very distinct data set of white men, creating a sort of disparity between your universe and theirs. no interest existed in either, and so you kept to your side of the hall. pretty girls swayed around with dance partners and a vaguely recognisable instagram celeb downed vodka at a table, alone. you searched for a man to occupy your time with, as it was obvious that a late escapade would be captured and discussed for a year and a half by 'us weekly'. you imagined the image; your dress, flowing in the breath of winter, halfway out the window with cameras flashing like a december diana. suddenly, the wandering man across the room did not seem like such a bad idea.

the wandering man across the room. he did not seem like such an anonymous figure anymore. you studied him from a distance.

ah fuck. he's lewis hamilton.

'shit', you murmured, watching his gestures - unmistakably his. he had been an attractive afterthought since your university years. you may have had a minuscule crush on him as a young woman. you may have numbered him as seventh most attractive man in your dorm room wall ranking. it was nothing. you stood up and walked to him.

this is fine.

you said the phrase again, 'this is fine', as you looked at pranav, who shot a mischievous, knowing back. he was engrossed in conversation with the brown-haired girl, but you knew what he was trying to say:

i dare you. i dare you to do it.

and who were you to say no to that?

ii. seven-time world champion pictured dancing at annual mercedes ball, should he be more focused on chasing wins in twenty-twenty-three? find out at the hello! press website.

'the sleeves; they're too short', lewis said with a sigh. 'i don't know how you expect me to mingle when the entire world thinks i've regressed to rookie skill.'

he cast his blazer aside on the hotel bed, as christian - his stylist and close confidante - studied the sleeve seams closely. paris nightlife was just coming alive and so was the ball. it was in an hour, and lewis still had no shoes, one black sock, and a too-small blazer. he fidgeted with the case of his phone, repeatedly popping it in and out of its place.

'it's fine, we can go with the black tux. and nobody trusts the media anymore, lew, they're stupid', christian remarked as he picked out a different outfit from the closet. 'one bad season doesn't erase your seven championships.'

'is the tux pressed? i know it doesn't change what i've done in the past but when you're a black formula one driver who's already gotten a fuck ton of heat in your success, people don't exactly gloss over this stuff.'

christian turned to look at lewis with the tuxedo folded across his arms, and an exasperated look on his face. the grey hairs on his head seemed highlighted, like he was much older than he was. 'i feel like we have this conversation every year. do your fans care about this year?'

lewis bore a sheepish look. 'no.'

'what about the team?'

'no.'

'and what about the people that really care about you the most?'

'well, no.'

christian threw the tuxedo in his direction. 'you've got your answer - now go get changed again, and make sure you don't crease the pants.'

he left the room and left lewis to his senses, taking every bit of lewis' nonsense with him. the driver was known to be overtly critical of himself, especially in his older years. he was compiling every mistake, every bad habit, and every failure into a secret folio stuffed in his mind labelled 'retirement'. every year, the talks of retirement grew stronger, and every year, the folio grew too.

if he was being honest with himself, there was really no reason to keep going, and not a single person could be upset with him if he decided to quit. mercedes were struggling again, max was dominating the sport, and lewis was being upstaged by his teammate. if lewis was honest with himself, he could faintly trace some low-grade depression or anxiety in the way he spoke or moved or thought. let yourself let me help you, his therapist said on tuesday. you can't get better unless you start talking.

he didn't talk, though, and they sat through the session in near silence, save for the clink of tea cups hitting the table.

lewis put the tuxedo on carefully, and this time the sleeves fit. he looked for which other part of the suit was too short or too long. there wasn't one.

iii. y/n and lewis hamilton spotted conversing at ball, a new romance? photos included!

the air stilled and smelt of cinnamon, new vogue, and old money. in the crowd of naysayers, disbelievers, refusers, a man in a well-suited black tux whispered yes, yes, yes, over and over again until he was barely audible above the white noise. his eyes were staring like a whirlpool; drawing you in and rushing you back out, violently. the salt water stung your eyes, until he had never been saying those words at you at all, and merely conversing with the old man next to him.

'yes, of course. yeah, it's been great.'

the old man that you recognised, looking all old money and interested, lit up when he caught your gaze, and motioned for you to walk over. you did just that, feeling the weight of each foot hitting the floor and lifting again like it wasn't a natural movement. you became overtly aware of your posture and breath until the man and lewis were in front of you. the sharp intake of lewis' breath settled you back into the room, into the space and world. he seemed to be surveying you, like a new figure to be assessed.

'lewis, this is y/n, she's acting in a new bollywood film, i'm one of the sponsors for it. y/n, this is lewis, i'm sure you've met, actually.'

you took lewis' hand in yours and shook it, firm and warm. he looked through your eyes, right to the back of your brain, as he said, 'i don't think we have, charles.'

'it's a pleasure anyways', you interjected. 'i've watched from afar, and all your magic with the car.'

he smiled gratefully. 'it's been a bit lacking this year, i'm afraid.'

'well', you said, 'that makes it all the more impressive.'

'i'll let you two get on with it', charles said. 'i see they've restocked the hors d'oeuvre.'

the man left and lewis filled in the gap between you two. his presence was as gentle as it was unnerving and you found yourself looking across the room for something to fixate your eyes on. you settled on a waiter delivering skewers on a comically large plate.

'so, not a lot to do here for fun', lewis said. 'the party, i mean.'

'yeah, though i came prepared. downloaded the best iphone games for the occasion.'

he chuckled a little at this, and you took it as a sign that you had done something right. he leaned against the bench behind him with his hands on the back, near where your hands rested lightly. his dark skin complimented your dark skin in a room of paler faces, like there was a mutual understanding that 'people like us aren't really ever at places like this.' like there was a need to make up for that with all the 'aren't's. like the need to do something so ambitious, it would fill the space left by the absence of minorities.

pranav locked onto your eyes from across the room. he did the thing, the look. like he was daring you again. looking back to lewis, who was watching you, your heart threatened to leave your chest. fuck it.

'hey, lewis', you whispered. 'i've got this idea. and it's a little insane, but fuck it.'

iv. film star and driver getting damgerously close at ball, read who they are here at thespotter!

'this sounds...really spontaneous and risky and, yeah, insane', lewis remarked. 'i love it.'

'great. great! uh. the slow songs will be on in a second. we should get on the floor.'

lewis wasn't entirely sure as to what the consequences of this would be, but he was blinded by champagne and hope, and so it didn't really matter. the party was fucked, the team was fucked, and so was he. the floodgates were open, and they had been open for a while, though this girl was the one to release the water. he wasn't even sure of her last name, but he followed her to the floor, stumbling and all.

couples were filling out the area as the lights dimmed and lewis' hands snaked around your waist, filling the cavity of lonely space. he left them there, awkwardly and unsure, and you laughed.

'don't tell me you don't know how to dance', you laughed, your head tilted to the skies. lewis smiled at the floor and steadied himself.

'no, it's just i'm not great at it. at the whole slow dance thing.'

'lewis hamilton, seven-time world champion and playboy, doubting himself?' you feigned shock.

'you'd be surprised...'

'it's fine. just follow me.'

your body swayed along the floor like an abstract piece of art with no boundary. he followed along and tightened his grip as you approached a group of dancers, pushing closer to you to move past. you felt the space between but made no mention of it, instead choosing to swirl along with the beat like lewis was just any man. because in the moment, he was.

inversely, lewis was acutely aware of every brush of your hand, the feel of his wrist against your back, your brown skin like an endless canvas and he was the painter. your face up to the stars when you laughed and the tiny tattoo on your finger and your raw voice made him feel like he had known you for years and years before. the so-called 'idea' didn't feel so fake anymore to him. the air changed and quietened. god help me now.

'now', you whispered, closer than ever. lewis saw the mischief in your eyes like this wasn't for you what it was for him. for him it was all incredibly real and loud and banging. whatever controversy you were trying to stir up together was backfiring on him, because he was feeling, which fucked with the whole point. it was painful to see you so careless, and yet so freeing. lewis thought you didn't give a shit and that was part of your charm. his lips were parted and so were yours.

they met in the middle, in the liminal space, and fit in longing and confusion.

v.

'oh my god. we weren't supposed to...'

he did it.

his lips moved away from yours with yearning and you missed them again, that warm, bitter feel so unique to him, like he was learning and unlearning you all over again.

he did it, and so did you.

lewis looked sheepishly at the floor again like he had made a grave mistake. you noticed the room had come to a standstill with all eyes on you two. the music still played about but the chatter had lowered and eyes were darting across the floor in search of you and him. 'i'm sorry, i shouldn't have star-'

you cut him off with a second crash to the lips, this time with more purpose. he eased into it and loosened his tension, transferring it all to the space between. his hands cupped your face in an act for all the cameras to see, everywhere. a strange sense of nausea overcame your senses like you were walking somewhere high, like a tightrope. but you were, and if you were going to fall, you were bringing lewis with you. his hair pressed against your forehead as he chuckled in relief or amusement or both. i never told him my last name, you realised.