Warnings: mentions of absent parents, single parents, hints to postpartum depression, little bit of sadness and vulnerability, liv and milly have their parents wrapped around their fingers, soft dad seb, seb doesn’t boast about his career enough according to reader, reader starts to develop a little crush on mr seb.
Word Count: 2.7k
Author’s Note: literally based off my tags on this and @estevries screaming at me to write it in our DMs lmaoooo, enjoy papa seb <33 // also for the purpose of this, he and queen hanna weren’t together, his daughter is from a different relationship :)
sugar and spice; all things nice masterlist
—-
Olivia goes running towards the front door, “slow down!” You shout to your daughter, grabbing your own bag from the car before joining her. You let her in, the little girl dropping her bag by the door to sit on the bench and kick off her shoes.
“Liv,” you huffed, noticing her mismatched sneakers. “Do I need to ask why you have two different shoes on?”
Your daughter looked over at you, a mischievous smile on her face. “I do?” She asks, glancing down at her feet. You roll your eyes, not being able to hide the giggle.
“You’re trouble,” you tell her, helping her take off the shoes and give her another pair. “Let’s go,” you nod towards the opened door, watching as she put her slippers on and ran back outside.
Olivia, your daughter, had been asking you for a playdate with her best friend, Amelia. Milly was 6, turning 7 at the end of next week while Liv was 6, yet to turn 7 because her birthday was late in the year; October opposed to Milly’s May birthday. Amelia lived with her grandparents on her father’s side. Her dad worked with cars and traveled for his job from your understanding.
Amelia’s grandmother didn’t go into too many details but you knew he came home for a few days at a time to see her, it’s just that you’ve yet to meet him.
You glanced at your daughter in the rearview mirror as you turned in the other street; they lived 5 minutes away and you knew the route blindfolded. Amelia and Olivia had been attached at the hip since their first day of junior kindergarten.
The curb in front of their house was empty, and a car you’ve never seen before was parked in the driveway. Olivia held your hand as you two walked up to the door, and you let her knock.
Heike, Amelia’s grandmother, was who you were expecting to open the door, not a man who looked like Amelia’s twin; messy blonde curls, bright blue eyes and a smile to match hers.
The man had one hand on the door, leaning on it slightly as he looked at the two of you, smiling at the little girl beside you. “Can I help you?”
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other side of the moon - chapter one | formula one imagine
pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli
chapter one: an offer you can refuse
years of solitude has led y/n y/ln down a dark path following her career-ending injury in 2022 but one rookie seems dead set on bringing her back into the fray
it’s too early in the day to be subjected to twitter in y/n’s opinion, but her manager - the one she’s always insisted in not needing - insists upon it. sara’s hand shakes as she hands over her phone, the video already playing loudly.
the video is a poorly clipped together compilation of kimi antonelli, for no better word, gushing about her. it’s earnest and even cute, but not cute enough. the formula one paddock was a vulture pit, one y/n had only escaped three years earlier with her life - barely.
“it’s cool. that’s all it is though,” y/n moves towards the door, picking up her coat and refusing to turn back towards sara, “i’ve told you since jenson insisted i hire you, there’s no way in hell i will ever go back to that paddock. and that’s the end of it, please. i’ll do any stupid vitamin ad or female empowerment talk if it makes you happy, but i can’t go back there.”
y/n grabbed her keys and left the apartment, leaving sara in her wake. sara reached into her pocket and pulled out a tattered letter with ‘y/n’ scrawled on the front in awful handwriting. she left it on the kitchen island and left, understanding this was likely to be her last time in this apartment - there's stupid and there's what she was doing right now, there was no way she would still be employed in the morning.
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tagged: yourusername
girlsonthegrid: today we look back at the biggest what if for women in formula one - y/n y/ln. the 26-year-old drove for mclaren from 2020 to 2022 before she sustained a career-ending injury at silverstone. y/ln was the first ever female f1 race winner with her emphatic victory at monza in 2021 and the first ever female formula 2 champion with her win in 2019. her career lasted just 30 races and she hasn't been seen in the paddock or around any drivers since the crash. there have been reports that she has been approached about a mentor role but considering how fast her management rejected and shut down sky sports about a commentary role, this is also unlikely. what would you like to see from her if she ever comes out of hiding?
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user1: i mourn for her everyday
user2: the way she paved the way for so many but can't stand to be in the paddock to see what she did for the sport
user3: i really don't blame her
user4: doriane is the mercedes reserve and abbi is alpine's! her work is there even if she isn't and i know i'll always be grateful for that
user5: she's so overrated, if she didn't crash she still would've been out of formula 1 by now
user6: me when i'm the most wrong ever
user7: i can't believe there are still men to this day that think she wasn't great? literal world champions like max, lewis, fernando, seb and jenson have all said that she could've won a championship
user8: i mean no shade to lando but i think y/n would've made it 100x harder for max this season in that mclaren
user9: the way jenson tried to say that in the nicest way possible in las vegas lol
user10: and max agreed with him LOL
user11: the way it wasn't even proper lando shade or oscar shade like twitter painted it to be but like max just praising his bestie
user12: he does not play about her as he should
user13: i mean he's the only one we know y/n still actually talks to
user14: i can't wait for the tell-all biography that exposes half the grid because like how much have you must have fucked up for her to never speak to you again
user15: when twitter likes were public she was caught liking a bunch of tweets bout mick when he got his first points so like she doesn't even have hard feelings to the guy who put her in the barrier sooo
user16: it was proven it was break failure???? mick did nothing wrong that's why she still likes things praising him
user17: that crash really robbed us of the best ever f1 relationship with y/n and lando
user18: you know that's part of the reason that she doesn't speak to lando right?
user19: because she wished it was him not her?
user20: NO! because she hated that whole 'ship'
user21: and lando leaned into it way too much
user22: it made me a bit uncomfortable and i'm not even y/n
user23: AND she said on the beyond the grid podcast that she thought those rumours were really reductive and relegated her to just a love interest of her teammate rather than a race winner
user24: kimi antonelli please bring her back to us
user25: praying she'll listen to the literal child
texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and max verstappen (italics)
did u give them my fucking address
my lawyer says to always deny everything?
i also actually have no idea what you are talking about…
i just got home and there’s a fucking letter from KIMI ANTONELLI on my kitchen counter
it’s creepy and a mad invasion of privacy
i did NOT give them your address?
i gave them sara’s contact details so they wouldn’t be able to directly get to you and i honestly thought she would be too scared to ask you
she showed me all the clips of him praising me.
it didn’t work.
it’s been three years y/n…
and it still hasn’t been long enough.
all i’m saying is read the letter, as creepy as it might be, he is just an 18 year old entering the lion’s den you could at least reply to him even if you don’t take up the offer
although i read they were going to pay you £10 million a year??? was that real?
unfortunately it is very real.
i didn’t think i was still worth that much
you are worth that and more, just give him a chance. we’ve both met him, he’s a sweet kid.
it was cold in her apartment, y/n hadn’t shut the window from when she opened them that morning. in fact she hadn’t moved from the kitchen since she set eyes on the letter. it was bold she’d give him that.
the letter was crumpled as if it had gone through hell to get to her (it probably had) and the handwriting was a serious reminder of just how young kimi is. y/n had wondered if her maternal instincts would ever kick in like all the older women in her life insisted it would. sure she had felt intense feelings of love for her childhood cats and had cared her formula one cars (regina and heather, they were named after mean girls, because that is who they had to be on track) like they were children. but that true maternal feeling had never come to her, until now.
all y/n could think about was kimi. how young he was, how much he was set to lose. not everyone was her, the worst thing wasn’t going to happen to everyone - it just always seemed to happen to her.
her loud phone alarm jolted her out of her daydream, reminding her to take her painkillers. as she poured herself a glass of water, y/n slammed down the glass and ripped open the letter.
dear miss y/n y/ln
my name is andrea kimi antonelli and i am going to be driving for mercedes amg f1 team in 2025.
we met very briefly after i won all three races at mugello and lifted the italian f4 championship trophy. i know you were there on mclaren PR but for me it changed my life.
you have always been my biggest inspiration alongside michael schumacher (i am italian, you must understand). it was always my dream to race alongside you and maybe even be teammates, i’d even betray toto and leave mercedes to make that happen (please don’t tell him i told you that). i know that can never happen now, but it could happen in another way?
i know like me you grew up seeing niki lauda supporting and mentoring the mercedes drivers and i was wondering if you would be my mentor - who cares about george anyway. i know you’ve never come back to the paddock and are unlikely to do so for little old me. but if you could just think about it that would be great, if you don’t ask, you’ll never get!
i hope this letter wasn’t horribly offensive, i mean it when i say you’re my favourite!!!
love, kimi
(p.s. i was at monza 2021, so you could even consider me a good luck charm)
(p.p.s you won monza 2021 completely on merit but i was there)
(p.p.p.s please don’t think i’m an idiot)
(p.p.p.p.s i also loved interlagos 2020 that’s a super underrated drive)
with tears in her eyes, y/n placed the letter back on the counter, grabbed the glass of water and made her way to her bedroom. painkillers taken with a wince, she still hadn’t gotten used to the size of the pills even three years into taking them, y/n shuffled under the duvet.
the offer was there and it seemed sincere. her accountant would tell her that the money was worth the mental turmoil, even if she just did it for one season and returned to her little cave in west london.
there was no doubt she felt something for kimi - a kinship, a frienship or a maternal yearning - but was it worth ripping off all the bandages and opening herself back up to all the scrutiny again?
liked by maxverstappen1, georgerussell63 and 10,567,388 others
yourusername: much to think about these days. like how the fuck this app works now?
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user1: first post in three years and it’s THIS?
user2: i am not complaining
user3: i am savouring every little piece in case she goes missing for another three years
mclarenf1: the queen has returned
user4: no thanks to you
user5: how about we keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth
user6: socials admin i know it is not you specifically but i really don’t know how you can post up here like you’re completely absolved of your involvement in this. your car had break failure that broke her fucking back - it is a miracle she is even still walking! and you still don’t accept any responsibility for it
user7: i love y/n but like how is it mclaren’s fault? break failure happens all the time?
user8: well it’s in one part the fact that they were using her as a test dummy because it was a new faulty part that mclaren was experimenting with that was on her car and NOT lando’s and the fact that to this day when they feel like it they’ll heap guilt onto mick schumacher
user9: without being disrespectful there were two formula one careers that were ended that day because mclaren have kept to the narrative that it was mick that put her into the barriers eventhough siedel admitted when he left mclaren that it was a faulty break part that caused it.
user10: clock it
user11: yes clock it but maybe on a different post because it’s y/n’s return to the internet and all yall can talk about is the most traumatic event in her life?
kimiantonelli: i also love clairo
user12: what is bro doing?
user13: be quiet he’s our best hope of y/n coming back to the paddock let him cook
user14: name three songs local
kimiantonelli: bags (live), alewife and blouse
user15: this motherfucker might just do it
maxverstappen1: i miss brando :/
yourusername: you know my address
yourusername: use it since you like to give it out so much
when she woke the next morning, y/n knew she had to read the letter again before jumping into anything. in her sleep she was plagued with memories of the past, but not the usual ones that haunted her in the dark. there were no flames, no hospitals, no career-ending injuries. no, this time she was transported back to 2020 and her first few races of her formula one career.
march 2020.
the paddock was much bigger in formula one than it had been in formula two with hundreds more people running around, barging through crowds, hitting y/n on the way through and not even stopping to apologise. she had thought briefly that she would be making more noise as the first female racer to take part in a race since forever - y/n even thought that she’d made a bit of a splash during preseason testing, nestled between her teammate lando and alex in the red bull in fifth.
but she was invisible. even with the garish orange path to follow to the mclaren garage, y/n struggled to get through the crowds of people brandishing their paddock passes. her trainer had gone ahead to set up her driver room which left y/n to push through and arrive to briefing ten minutes late.
“i’m so sorry, i got lost and by the time i was going in the right direction the paddock had filled up?”
y/n stammered, not quite able to make eye contact with zak brown. the american wasn’t tall in comparison to the general public but he towered over y/n and the disapproving stare didn’t do much to help.
“just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
zak snipped, waving his hand in y/n’s direction, telling her to take a seat. y/n rushed to the nearest empty seat and looked for her teammate in the room. lando was sat just three seats to her right on a small table. y/n tried to make eye contact with lando but he avoided her gaze like it was burning him, so much for the ‘big brother’ act he had put on at the car launch.
the engineers stood in front of the screen and started their long-winded presentation about the prospects for the season ahead. y/n pulled her note book out and frantically started taking notes, she didn’t know if that was normal for formula one drivers, but knowing as much as possible couldn’t hurt.
y/n copied down the warnings about possible tyre wear in turn three when she heard some soft sniggers, like someone was trying to stifle their laughter. this drew y/n out of her focus on the presentation, looking around the meeting room to locate the perpetrator.
lando caught her eye immediately. he had a light blush across his face and his mouth was covered by his hand. he looked guilty, guiltier than the rest of the room who were listening intently to the engineers. y/n raised her eyebrow in question.
“i’m sorry are we distracting you two?”
zak interrupted the presentation, turning to look at y/n and lando.
“no, sorry sir,” y/n replied turning her chair back to face the screen. “lando?” zak pressed.
“i’m sorry zak but y/n was distracting me with her note-taking,” lando forced out between his boyish giggles. “i’ve never taken notes, i didn’t realise you would be sucking up to the engineers this early on?”
“i’ve always taken notes? is it a problem? i’m sorry if i was distracting you lando.”
“yeah we’ll see how much those notes help you on track, rookie.”
lando spat over the table. it was uncharacteristically mean for the lando she had seen in the mclaren social content and the lando she spoke with at the car launch. y/n felt tears prickle in her eyes but she swallowed them down, she couldn’t cry yet - or at least not in view of all the most important people on the team.
“right. we’ll get back to business then.”
the rest of the meeting went by in a blur for y/n, but despite the outburst from lando, she continued to take her notes, she would be damned if some comments from lando would fuck up her entire race weekend routine. y/n took her time when zak dismissed them from the meeting, not wanting to look unprofessional.
moving towards the door, y/n’s shoulder hit someone else’s. she looked up to make eye contact with lando yet again.
“you better not make a habit of making contact with me, rookie,” lando said, a slight smirk but a harsh look in his eyes.
“are you like okay?”
“why wouldn’t i be?” lando replied pushing past through the door.
“i don’t know, you’re just a little frosty this morning? did i do something?”
“why would i be thinking about you, seriously? this is my team, know your place and we’ll get on just fine”.
with that lando was gone and y/n was left puzzled. i guess PR really does work wonders, y/n thought before making her own way to her drivers room.
her trainer, luca, wasn’t there when she managed to locate the room but all of her gear was already neatly put away like they had discussed. y/n cracked open an electrolyte drink and opened her notebook to study the meeting points.
there was a loud knock at the door and before y/n could even utter a “come in”, the mystery visitor barged into the room. daniel ricciardo announced his arrival with a packet of tim tams thrown at y/n and a quick “howdy” before he started rifling through her stuff and studying her helmet.
“ah, another cool dude who has a cuddly guy on their helmet,” daniel said, picking up her helmet, pointing at the cartoon version of her childhood cat.
“oh that’s schumi, when we travelled for karting we always brought him up until he died of old age, but i still want him with me whenever i race.” y/n said, nervous that the heartfelt explanation would be deemed uncool by one of the coolest racers she had ever seen.
“oh that’s surprisingly cute, i bet schumi was a big hit in the paddock back in the day.”
“he sure was, he’s how i charmed max into not hating me after i took him out once,” y/n chuckled thinking back to the race where max stormed up to her with angry tears in his eyes until y/n practically threw schumi at him. in just five seconds, max had calmed down and schumi was happily purring in the young dutchman’s lap.
“that sounds like max. but speaking of the other young whippersnappers in the paddock, how is our lando treating you? i bet zak and that can’t keep up with you two…” daniel asked, slumping to the floor, taking one of her drinks from the mini fridge.
“oh. i am getting used to him, we’ll put it that way?”
“he’s not being rude is he?”
“no! well. he insists on calling me rookie and keeps making comments about me crashing into him and made fun of me taking notes in briefing but i’m sure that such the british banter.”
“you’re british?”
“well. um. yeah, you got me there.”
daniel grabbed her hands, forcing y/n to look him in the eyes rather than her very interesting shoes.
“i know lando is like some media darling, but so are you. don’t let him push you around, he may have been in this team a while but you’re just as good as him if not better. you’re here to prove yourself, not to play second fiddle, okay?”
it was the first time someone had actually tried to talk to her properly since getting to the paddock. again, tears climbed to her eyes, but this time she let one creep out. daniel wiped it away.
“we made the mistake of isolating max when he was young and new, we won’t make the same mistake - we can’t have two of you running rampant around here,” y/n let out a wet laugh which daniel returned, “just come to renault if you need anything from me. max will be there for you, you know, and seb, kimi, fernando and all the old men will listen to you. don’t rot in your drivers room or hotel suite and think you’re not wanted here.”
y/n nodded, feeling some butterflies in her stomach. she was actually here - a formula one driver. a seven-time race winner wants her here, world champions want her here. a private-school fuckboy wasn’t going to ruin her first ever race weeekend.
“thank you daniel.”
“i have to dash, but i’m serious, we’re here for you. and i would be honoured to kick that little shit’s ass for you, okay?”
the australian left in just as loud fashion as he came, but in the remaining silence, y/n finally felt some peace. this was her chance, and she wasn’t going to mess it up.
present.
y/n couldn’t let that happen to kimi. the young italian was just so unbelievably earnest in his letter that y/n couldn’t bear the thought of his kindness being taken advantage of. george russell had never been outwardly callous but with his attack on max late last season and his complete radio silence with y/n since her crash made her suspicious.
as she prepared to ask max for kimi’s number, sara (who did actually still have a job) sent her a link.
sara: zak brown believes mclaren has the strongest pairing on the grid with no more childish recklessness like in the early 2020s
sara: do you want us to put out a statement or ignore as usual?
y/n clicked on the link, even though she knew it would just annoy her to the point that her phone might become closely acquainted with the thames.
as the formula one world gears up for the 2025 season, zak brown has already stated his confidence for mclaren this season. the papaya team will be coming into the 2025 season as reigning constructors champions and lando norris and oscar piastri will be aiming to add the world drivers championship to that as well.
when zak brown sat down with us earlier this week, the mclaren ceo did not beat around the bush, stating that mclaren have the strongest pairing on the grid. with red bull promoting liam lawson in a test and, mercedes putting unproven kimi antonelli next to george russell and ferrari gambling with charles leclerc and lewis hamilton, brown might just be right.
in their journey to constructors champions, brown recognised that as a team they had straightened out all of their ‘growing pains’. this is exemplified in oscar piastri completing all laps in the 2024 season.
like they usually do, y/n y/ln’s particularly rabid twitter fans will probably detect some ‘shade’ towards the former driver. brown did touch on the prior mclaren drivers during his reign as ceo, saying that the team had some childish recklessness, but now they have a team that all know their place.
y/n y/ln hasn’t spoken about anything formula one related since her retirement, even forgoing the opportunity to congratulate the team that took the chance on her for winning the championship - something brown did not mince his words on off camera. brown lamented about y/ln’s silence, labelling her a brat and ungrateful for not still thanking him for allowing a woman to compete in formula one.
will mclaren make it back-to-back constructors championships? and will they sweep both championships this season?
she needed that loud-mouthed american’s head on a silver platter. the letter had almost sucked her back into the world of formula one, only for the man who discarded her like a broken toy when his car had malfunctioned and smashed her and her career into a concrete wall to call her an ungrateful brat.
fuck him. fuck mclaren. and fuck that dumbass reporter for giving him the time of day.
y/n didn’t throw her phone from her balcony but pulled up her texts with max.
texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and max verstappen (italic)
have you read this absolute hogwash
zak brown believes mclaren has the strongest pairing on the grid with no more childish recklessness like in the early 2020s
i 100% get why you wanted to put him in a wall last season
you watched last season?
shut up not the time
did you text me just to call your old tyrannical boss a fraud?
i was going to ask for kimi’s number but now i’m back at square one
noooooooo
i want to be there for him, the way no one was for us.
but this is the bs they write about me when i haven’t been seen or heard from in three years, imagine the shite they come up with when i’m the paddock every weekend
WHEN?
no no no
i’ll give you kimi’s number
contact: kimi antonelli (mercedes)
you decide what you want to do
as much as i would kill to have you around the paddock again… even in the vicinity of george
i want you to do what you are comfortable with
thanks max
i’m not giving you a yes but i’m definitely thinking about it
note: omg that's part one??????? i had this idea and have been planning and adding to it for a couple days. no spoilers but there will be multiple love interests, backstabbing and all that lovely stuff - i just love the drama !!! (yes i will finish guilty as sin at some point as well). i hope you enjoy the prose as well - first time writing that way on here lol ?! let me know if you liked it, who you'd like to see her with and what you'd like to see happen!
( all credits to @argentinagp for this dreamy gifset! )
❁ — FRITILLARIES AFTER FALL ; C.LECLERC
summ. This story is yours, but it isn't about you. Not exactly.
pairing. charles leclerc / f!driver!reader
w.count. 20.2k (bible-fic)
a/n. Warnings for death, & racing crashes. Late drivers are mentioned & pivotal to the story. Anyway, sorry I've been dry; have a 20k angst fic as an apology & a merry new year!
YOUR DEATH COMES with the Autumn seeding of the Fritillaries in his grandmother’s back garden.
It had not been violent, nor abrupt, nor unjust—
You had simply breathed out, and it felt like a release.
Then came the feather-touch of Charles’ hand emerging from the still darkness, somewhere between the flames and its shadows, fingers wrapping around your wrist— an old habit that stuck from his younger years— pressed so tightly that you could feel the ghostly beat of your pulse against the thin of your own skin. Charles spoke to you then, gently, in the same cadence he used when you whispered to each other as children, I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
No matter anything.
And you’d followed it obediently; led hand in hand through rain and across asphalt, and kept walking somewhere in-between the margins of what felt like a waking dream, until you settled on the evergreen grass of his childhood home, overgrown and tickling your ankles, beside the purple-dotted bellflowers his grandmother tends to so carefully.
You follow the carnations all the way to the flagstone path that’s twisting in ways that defy logic, take the time to admire the spider-lilies that are finally blooming for you, until you reach that familiar Coast off of South France, a thousand miles away from home.
2014. He’s smitten the first time he lays eyes on you.
Not exactly the first time he sees you, no. That would have been when he was nine years old and baby-cheeked, during a Summer break with Pierre and Anthoine, drifting somewhere off the coast of Southern France on the family boat. You were a familiar face to everyone but Charles, padding down the bow with seawater-footprints after a dip— and as much as Anthoine had insisted on introducing you to each other, the both of you had only managed a passing hello before feeling the violent urge to shy away upon sight despite sharing the enclosed space for the next hour. Call it puppy love.
But, anyways, no. He means the first time he sees you. Past the road-rage during your shared karting days and the plastered smiles you’d put on show for media’s sake. You’d landed into single-seaters— unheard of for girls of the sport at the time— in the Formula Renault 2.0 Euro. The pictures attached in the bylined announcement articles truly didn’t do you justice, he’d concluded, and his mouth hung open when you moved to sweep your hair from your face.
You’d been scrutinising racing simulations and analysing lines of data even he couldn’t quite catch up with (you were always the smarter one, anyway), brows stitched tight in concentration, spectacles on your scrunched nose and one hand on your racesuit-tangled hips as you discuss with engineers. When you catch his eyes wandering, you’re quick to shoot him a friendly smile, and it jumpstarts the beat of his heart like the pop of a starting-pistol.
How was the race? His phone pings that evening.
Had to retire the car :/
!!!! Sorry to hear that, Calamar.
But, Charles types. Just asked out the loveliest girl in the world.
A pause. He almost laughs at the way the text bubble appears and disappears, pictures the narrowed gaze of the Frenchman through the screen.
Sounds horrific, Pierre replies. Glad I wasn’t around to witness that.
She said yes, idiot.
How miraculous. Who in the right mind would even do so?
Charles tells him. Pierre nearly bursts from the seams asking for details.
Later, in Pau, France, ahead of the following race, your date goes a little something like this:
Charles will prepare a bouquet of “Roses, because she loves a cliche every once in a while,” according to Pierre, and will compliment your hair and outfit you’ll throw on. Then he’ll bring you to a stellar restaurant that has stellar food, where he’ll charm you with his even-more-stellar jokes, and then end the day off by walking you back home to the hotel with his jacket over your shoulders, where he’ll call you beautiful for the final time, because he’s the blueprint of what every gentleman should be.
But, no. The date does not, in fact, go like that.
Charles will forget the bouquet he’d bought at the dresser by his hotel bed, because he spends the last 5 minutes panicking over his hair in front of the mirror, and curses himself the entire way he comes to meet you down at the lobby. Then he’d stumble over his words, say, “You’re pretty today. Not that you aren’t, always. I mean, like— every other day you are pretty too. Or beautiful. Pretty beautiful. Beautiful beautiful. And, and a good driver too. Yeah.”
He chases it with a joke that doesn’t quite land, but you laugh anyway, because his ears have burned bright red throughout the entirety of the ordeal, and it’s quite possibly the most endearing thing you’ve ever witnessed.
When you arrive at the restaurant he’s been raving to you about over text, you’re met with a closed sign and the realisation that it’s been under renovation for the last two months. Charles is thrown completely off-kilter with this revolutionary piece of information, and spends the next 10 minutes apologising for being a complete idiot. Dieu, I should have checked. I am so sorry. This is a disaster—!
Relax, Charles, you say. You’d never seen him this stressed, not even before a race. You circle a hand around his wrist, and he slows to a stop at the touch. It’s just me.
Exactly, he breathes. It’s you.
And— huh. Well. Charles supposes he’d done one thing right tonight, because you’re suddenly shying away with a smile on your face.
Burgers are what you settle for, in the end, despite how overdressed you are in a summer dress and him in his too-polished shoes. He makes a joke that does land this time, and the both of you laugh and chatter endlessly, after which he pays, of course, for everything, because his father had raised him right. When it’s time to leave, he brushes his knuckles against yours, fleeting, and makes sure to keep you on the inner side of the sidewalk while he offers his jacket.
Then he tells you you’re beautiful again, properly this time, where he goes out of his way to pluck a flower from a low-hanging branch to tuck into your hair, and you do that thing where you smile so sweetly it makes him haywire like a short circuit.
The day ends at the front of your oak hotel room door, and the both of you exchange awkward goodnights and see-you-tomorrow’s on shifty feet.
In another universe, restaurant or no-restaurant, you think it still would’ve turned out the same:
You smile, all crescent-eyes, and he all dimples, and then you lean to lay a hand on his chest, feel the thunder-beat drum of his heart beneath your palm, and press a kiss to his cheek.
How did it go? Anthoine texts you.
Clumsy, but charming.
You’re so boring, he spams, I need details! Did you kiss him?
You debate on answering, but he buzzes your phone until you do. Yes, you reply.
Lips??
No!! Just the cheek
Oh. Booooo
Idiot
The coast off Port Hercule in Monaco is always the right temperature at any time of day, but summer break that year feels even heartier.
The family comes around in annual tradition. Jules dismisses talking about his Silverstone race in favour of muscling both you and Charles into a headlock, and ruffles your hairs into a mess in congratulations. Charles had just won both rounds in Monza, where things are looking up for him as a junior championship contender— and “Yet here you are, the only girl in the grid, and you’re giving them a run for their money!”
You laugh, snatch the towel off Jules’ bare shoulder, and conspire with Lorenzo to shove him overboard into the sea. And then you're screaming too, bright and threaded with laughter as Charles follows suit, and takes you down with him in a crash of whitewater. He holds your wrist, delicate throughout it all.
Later, when Pascale calls everyone back to eat, she makes him fetch a pitcher of warm water from the cabin.
Hervé is coughing more now. No one talks about it. You’ve lost count the amount of times Lorenzo has slid a glass his way with that shadow in his eyes— the one where it looks as if he’s trying to pretend like everything is okay.
There will be worry, regardless.
Thin, like a veil over everyone’s heads, or perhaps a bubble— until Arthur divebombs starboard with a grand splash, all lanky limbs and pre-puberty shrieks, and the summer air clears with musical laughter.
By the evening, when the sky dusks and the sun melts into the waves in blinding light, you’re curled into Charles’ arms. It doesn’t feel as awkward as you’d expected. His family had always been familiar with you, and you suppose being this close to Charles wouldn’t be a sight too difficult to adapt to. If anything, Pascale had practically adopted you into the family long before you’d even gotten together with her son.
“As-tu du sommeil?” he asks, when you yawn into his freckled shoulder. You smell of the ocean and the SPF sunscreen you’d insisted he lather on that afternoon.
“Just a bit,” you nod, before chasing the sleepiness away with a stretch. You’re sunkissed and warm now, hair haloed in gold from the setting hour, and Charles has to take a moment, because he’s quite sure you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever set his eyes on.
“Come on,” you pinch at his skin and he swats you with a yelp, “Let's help Jules get the drinks.”
Downstairs in the cabin, the Formula One driver muses into the fridge as he shifts contents around. “I always knew you two would be a thing.”
You can feel Charles smiling against your bare shoulder as he noses a kiss into it. He’s never shy in showing his affection to you, much less around Jules. “They bet on us, did you know? Him and Lorenzo.”
“Bet?” you gape, shooting a narrowed look to Jules as he feigns a sheepish face behind the counter. “Did you atleast win?”
“Ofcourse,” he answers, confidently, pulling out a handful of Blue Coasts and sodas to pass to you to deliver back up the cockpit. “I can always count on Charles.”
Once he’s sure you’ve disappeared from sight and out of earshot, Jules pops two spare bottles open, sets them down, and slides one across the cold counter with a raised, calculated look. “You better be careful, you hear me?”
Charles is positively startled.
“I— Dieu, no, we’re not— I haven’t—”
Jules snorts into his drink, breaking off into a laugh. “Not that, you…” He could never really keep a straight face around him. “I’m saying be careful with a woman’s heart. Especially hers.”
“Bien sûr,” Charles answers, quickly, unhesitatingly. “I’m serious with her. I—”
Charles cuts himself off. Jules doesn’t press any further. Love, after all, can be a terrifying thing to admit.
2015. Anthoine hounds you; Pierre hounds Charles.
The troublemakers of the two resort to innocent jabs and the occasional tease, directed more to Charles’ way than yours, because he’d always been the pushover since you were children. (A part of you had feared the thought of dating amongst the friend group, but, the dynamic between all of you doesn't change, thankfully. It never really does, in the grand scheme of things— only ever suspends whenever it comes to racing against one another.)
“Just, don’t be stupid,” Pierre advises, in a rare moment of level-headedness for his character, albeit delivered ungracefully. He had come to visit the races, and Charles had gone off to sneak you all an oily lunch. “That’s Anthoine’s job.”
You laugh. Pierre fails to dodge the smack Anthoine sends his way.
“Shithead!” he snorts, but snags you and Pierre around his arms anyway with that same, dreamy look he gets in his eyes whenever he looks over to the horizon. “None of us are allowed to kill each other,” he gestures. “After all, we still have yet to race each other one day, in Formula One.”
And you beam at them, confident, saying yes, we will, together, because you’re seventeen, young and innocent and hopelessly in love, feeling like you had the entire world in the palm of your hands; naïve enough to believe that being the only girl to make it into single-seaters at this day and age would matter, that your burning passion is all it’ll take to keep this career going against any uphill battle.
It’s only after the final race of the season, that the both of you find out about the accident.
There’s no time to celebrate your win. You don’t really care, at that very moment. Both of you book a flight out of Spain instantly. Charles is quick to seek you out, lean to you in some form of desperate stability with a slip of his hand into yours. You stay like that, pressed close, holding each other all the way throughout the 12 hour flight toward Japan, and then several more throughout the dreadful hours on the stiff seats of the hospital waiting room.
He’s barely turning eighteen when he learns that the only thing greater than love is loss.
It’s the first time you see him breakdown.
Jules’ departure scalds Charles in a way he never knew possible, and for awhile, he becomes an unrecognisable shell of himself. The media won’t know this, ofcourse, because he’s been trained to keep his head high, fed his PR-answers, told to smile that same, dimpled smile, throughout the remainder of his F3 career. They tie every win and every point he gets to Jules, Jules, Jules, as much as it stings him.
All the while you try to keep his head above the tide, even when it feels like you’re drowning too— try to tell him to breathe with you in between each coming wave when the bouts of panic rattle him to the core. He makes you promise not to tell anyone about it, and you keep it.
“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, the first time it’d happened. He had snatched his palm away from yours abruptly, curled up with his knees up to his chest as he tried to steady himself. “I want to, but I can’t— I can’t—”
How does he tell you the world doesn’t feel right? That it felt too big looking at the sky, and too small looking at the four walls around him; that he wants to throw up, but there’s a pit in his stomach; that he wants so desperately to hold your hand, and that he can’t, because right now he wants to peel the skin off his bones; that everything is heavy and his lungs aren’t functioning and he can’t fucking breathe, God, I think I’m dying, please, stay, don’t go, just stay—
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, again, that night, when he sneaks you into his hotel room. He’s uncharacteristically nervous, having shown you his whole heart at its most vulnerable just that afternoon. It’s tough to keep up appearances when you’re in the same Feeder Series with him now, too. The spotlight of being the only competing girl on the F3 grid is heavy. Charles doesn’t want to add on to that. “For everything.”
I love you, you want to say. Having seen him at one of his worst, to be able to see this dismantled version of him he presents to the world— it’s trust. It’s love. But you settle on something else. You don’t want to bombard him with such a grandiose statement out of the blue, even though it feels like the right thing to say. Even if you know it’s true.
“C’mere,” you say, soft, feel him shift closer to your touch. “S’nothing to be sorry about.”
“J’suis un désastre.”
“We all are,” you hum, let him press his face into the crook of your neck. Tucked next to him under the duvet, legs tangled around each other, you smell like clean sheets and the hotel shampoo. “I’ll always be here, no matter… No matter anything.”
“No matter anything?” he says, with a tiny smile, and you know it’s real; you can thumb at the dimples on his cheeks as he bumps his nose against yours. “Is that correct english?”
“Dunno. It is to me,” you laugh, because Charles is contagious like that. “I’ll always be right here no matter anything. I promise.”
“Really?” he asks, even when he knows what your answer is. You’d never been the type to go against your word, but tonight he just needs to hear it.
“Yes.”
“Even if I snore?”
“Ah, well, hmm…” you feign a second thought, but let out a yelp when he pokes your side with a ‘Ey!
Okay! Yes! Yes, stop— you concede, trying to keep your laugh low as he tickles you. But then Charles shifts, impossibly closer now, and catches your lips into a kiss.
He’s warm all over while you run your hand down his jawline, and when he breaks away, his pupils are blown wide under the moonlight. “I love you,” he says, breathless, terrified.
Oh. You blink, let out a huff of laughter, and say the same. I love you.
“No matter anything.”
“No matter anything,” Charles confirms, and seals you into another kiss.
The crest and the fall comes in 2017.
No matter anything sticks. Even on bad race days, when the car just doesn’t cooperate, when someone takes a bad corner and you pay the price having been there at the wrong place at the wrong time; Even on date nights that never come around to be, sacrificed when Charles or you are whisked away to entertain other businesses in sponsorships and PR duties; Even on the death threats of your social media accounts that you managed to hide, months following your relationship being revealed, and he’d discovered it only after you’d accidentally left your screen unlocked on your vanity.
No matter anything sticks, especially when his father passes— the sickness had been aggressive; hard to fight and even harder to beat— and Charles gets his maiden win just four days later, like a Greek tragedy come to life. No matter anything sticks when he confesses to you, broken and heaving in your arms, that he hates himself; That he’d lied to his father about his signed contract with Ferrari, because he deserved to be happy. I just wanted to see him smile, I needed to see it.
No matter anything sticks, even when you watch the way he’s slowly eroding into someone entirely different, throughout the years.
No matter anything sticks, until it doesn’t.
Grief, you come to learn, is what sticks just the same. It sticks like the watermelon candy you share with Pierre, sticks like the soot in Charles’ grandmother’s fireplace, black and permanent and relentless. Grief hurts even more when you’re grieving for someone who isn’t dead, who’s alive and breathing, who’s making the choice to walk away from you.
Fights have always been few and farther in between, never really holding any gravity or significance unless it truly mattered. But, time changes people, and he didn’t even bother waiting for the plane ride to be over, didn’t even bother waiting for touchdown to the airport, didn’t even bother waiting to tell you at the hotel.
“Maybe this just isn’t the right moment for us, amour,” he’d said. Dropped, practically. Then the seat belt light overhead pings off in perfect timing, and you stay for a second to soak in the way his words sound like radio-static in your ears, the way he can’t even bring himself to look you in the eyes. You excuse yourself to the washroom, stay there for ten, fifteen minutes, maybe— Enough that the stewardess knocks on the door to check on you— breathing but not really, feeling like your soul’s escaped its body and been left behind to drift thirty-thousand feet in the air.
The rest of the ride is completed in dead silence, both of you drafting the right words to say in your heads to let each other down slowly. How do I fix this, you’d panicked. How do I end this, he’d thought.
You’re the first to break when his hotel room door shuts. He wipes your tears, because of course he does, because he can stand anyone’s tears but yours— even less knowing he’s the reason behind every one. It’s the racing, he reasons gently, the career.
And you get it, really, you do. You’d spent your childhood karting alongside Charles and Pierre and Anthoine for Christ’s sake, raised in engine smoke and grease since you could walk, so of course you understand the lifestyle, the grit. You get it. You get it. But you don’t. Because if you could handle it, then, well— why couldn’t he?
“It’s…” His face twists in frustration when the luggage he rolls catches at the carpet lip. “I can’t balance it all. Us, the driving, the— the expectations.”
The implication stings, but you know he hadn’t meant it to sound out that way. Charles is well aware of just how much you sacrifice being in this with him, too. You, who’d been spotlit until you melted, who’d been kept under the giant, unblinking eye that was Skysport, analysed down to the last breath and blink you take in social media; you who’d practically been studied under a public microscope— being waited on, preyed on, for a single misstep, misgiving, mistake, just so they could tear you to pieces for being Charles’ girl, for thinking you had a shot in a ruthless sport like this, for being a woman in a man’s world.
You toe the wheel off the lip his luggage is stuck on, and watch as he nudges the bags to the corner of the room with a little force more than necessary.
“I have expectations,” you say; not angry, not yet, because you still wanted to salvage this relationship, still wanted to lick your wounds together with him in the aftermath, still wanted to crawl into his arms by the end of the day and pretend this never happened. “We can work this out, Charles.”
“I’m—” he blinks his eyes hard, brushes past you and into the kitchenette, as if it pained him to even gather the effort to look at you. “We’ve tried. I can’t— I can’t give you what you deserve. You, you deserve someone bett—”
“Stop,” you flinch, rear your head back in disbelief. “You sound exactly like everyone else; telling me what to do, what I need. Like you know how I feel. You don’t get to decide what I want, Charles.”
“Putain—” He leans into the marble countertop of the kitchen island, arms spread, lets out an exasperated sound because he knows where you’re going with this; because this was descending into an argument faster than he’d expected. “—That’s. That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
You’re giving up, you don’t say, because it’d hurt you just as much to admit it out loud for him. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t want to fight,” he overrides, evenly, cut to the quick when he hears your calm begin to give way. Above all else, he’s always been a pacifist, and you’d never thought you’d come to hate it until now.
“Not even for us?” Your voice cracks but you shake it off in irritation. “So what? That’s it? You’re not some hero, sacrificing your heart for what’s best for me, Charles. You’re just being a coward.”
His shoulders drop. “You’re being unfair.”
The statement nearly gives you whiplash. Charles had just broken up with you on a red-eye flight, waited until both of you arrived in the hotel to explain himself— and when he did, gave a shitty excuse— and now, now you’re the unfair one?
“I’m doing what I think is right. I, what—? Wait,” he stumbles, alarmed, when he sees you toss the roomcard to the counter in front of him. “Amour, arrête!” he calls, rounds the island to grab you by the sleeve just as you pick up your phone to make headway to the door. “Tu fais quoi?”
You’d tried to sound resolute, but the tears flooding your vision aren’t helping, and his now-unfamiliar touch is making you waver. “To book another room. I can’t be here,” then, more bitterly, “You don’t want me here.”
Charles feels the fight drain out of him. “That’s not true.”
And in another universe, this would be where it ends well, where the love rekindles again. This is the part where the fork in the road would be, and he’d take the path that would save the both of you.
This would be the part where Charles apologises, says, I’m sorry. We can talk about this tomorrow. Let’s unpack, and eat, and rest. Just stay, please; because I love you, and I don’t think I can go to sleep knowing you’re hurting, and you would cry from the relief because at least, at least, you know now that it isn't the end just yet, that he’s still willing to fight for this, to fight for you, no matter anything.
Pierre receives a text late that night from Anthoine, frantic, and he only truly realises this one might be the worst, might truly be it, when he reads; Piccolo, she called me crying tonight. Did you know about this?
What did you do, Calamar?
Charles. Reply me
Hello??
She’s my friend too. I’ll beat the answer out of you if i have to.
I broke up with her.
I’m going to fucking kill you.
So it goes.
2018. Charles is green-lit and signed into Sauber that season for F1, and you’re left behind. It’s no surprise to you— your management had told you to brace for it; that no one would want to sign the only girl, as interesting as the headlines would read, because who would want to bet on a shot in the dark? Your results are impressive, yes, that you’d been able to hold your ground against the better half of the grid is a feat in its own— but the world of motorsport, and Formula One specifically, is first and foremost money-hungry, all-political, and then some. It’s too late for you to realise the cards have never played in your favour, and never will, as a woman.
Summer break grows dull. You’re not here for as long as you used to visit because of scheduling differences, and now neither is Jules, and neither is his Dad. When Charles reaches for the Blue Coasts in the fridge, he freezes. “What’s wrong?” Lorenzo says, across the same counter Jules had stood all those years ago.
“Nothing,” Charles answers, and doesn’t even bother hiding the fact that it’s a lie. He pops a bottle and slides it to his brother, fights back the déjà-vu suffocating him. “I just remembered something Jules said to me here, last time.” He’d been seventeen then, now he’s twenty-one. Four years fly faster than expected.
2019 rolls by. Both of you have long since drifted, separate in your own careers, though you’re not sure he keeps an eye on yours as much as you do his in Ferrari. The occasional bump and race overlaps happen every now and then, but conversations are reduced to minimal topics that mean little to nothing to the both of you. You talk more with his mother and brothers, granted, horrifically awkwardly; until he’d brought his new girl, had no choice but to nervously introduce you two when he couldn’t get out of it.
(A model; young and ambitious and wearing sponsored brand collections to every paddock visit she does. You almost laugh at the way you see so much of yourself in her innocence, in the way she looks at Charles like he was a God amongst men.)
This one is a distraction, you can tell. They’ll break one another like how you both did 2 years ago. Or maybe you’re just bitter, jealous, angry. You’ll get over it. You’ll get over him. You’ll—
It’s Anthoine that brings you back together.
In another time, you’d see sense in the morbid poetry of it all.
You’d caved, sobbed; the weight of grief and of loss and of death and everything else, bearing down on you. “It was supposed to be all of us. You, and me, and Pierre, and— We, we were all supposed to be here, Charles. We were all supposed to race.”
I’m sorry, is all he can manage, inadequate as it is, at the face of your anguish. You’re on the cold floor of a hotel somewhere in France, hands twisted into his sleeves, cradled in his arms the past hour against the foot of the bed.
The Leclerc’s, the Hubert’s, the Gasly’s— all of you had returned from the funeral. Charles has to remind himself, sometimes, that you’re not as familiar with saying goodbye as he is.
So he holds you instead, like he always did when the both of you were younger; familiar and delicate and full of love, like you were a porcelain doll cracking at the seams, because you were. For a moment, it feels like it’s 2015 again, leaning into each other's pain the summer Jules had gone.
“I don’t want to race, anymore,” you’d whispered into his shirt, utterly defeated. It’s soaked in your tears, and still, still, you can practically taste the scent of Charles through the wrinkled fabric. He’s had a growth spurt last you saw him; he’s grown into the fat of his cheeks, more angular in the jaw and mature in the eyes— but boyish all the same, in the wide-eyed way he looks at you like you’re his whole world.
(You’re not sure if he’s even aware he does that. The better half of you would have crawled out this embrace, save yourself whatever dignity remained after falling apart in the arms of your ex— but you think you’ve buried your better half along with Anthoine that dark morning.)
“You have to,” Charles says. He doesn’t make the mistake of saying, Anthoine would’ve wanted this, or Anthoine would hate to see you this way, because it would’ve been unfair. You and Pierre had always been far closer to him than he ever was. “You need to prove everyone wrong,” he says instead.
The crying tires you out, eventually, but you’re quick to catch him by the wrist when he slips out the bed to leave. The touch alone sends a wave of homesickness through the both of you. You didn’t want this to end, not yet.
“Stay,” you plead, and omit the rest of the sentence. I’m scared. I need you. I miss you. It isn’t a good idea, you know this, because he has a girlfriend now for Christ’s sake, and Charles had hurt you once before, so you’re sure this would be taking a path down the same road, but—
—No matter anything exists between you two. Maybe, maybe, you can hold onto that, if nothing.
“I don’t want to sleep,” comes your confession, when the clock hits midnight and the stars and satellites dot the sky. I can’t, would’ve been the better way to say it, in hindsight.
That you couldn’t even close your eyes sometimes, because you’ve yet to erase the sight of the aftermath in front of you that turn in Spa, that you couldn’t shake the post-race anxiety that still nestled deep in your marrows like an ache long after you’d exited your cockpit in the garage that day. You figure he understands.
So he stays. This is the crest. The fall will come after. He knows it. He deserves it.
He brews coffee just how you like it, just like how you both used to share in the early mornings back in his apartment, and slides under the covers by you. He tells you about his Winter breaks because he knows you won’t want to hear about anything that has four wheels and an engine, and drapes an arm around your shoulder, your head on his chest, where you can feel him play with the strands of your hair just like once-upon-a-time ago. He talks, and you listen, ears pressed against his ribs, distract yourself from the horrors of the world by basking in the rumbling nostalgia of his voice, and the hum-drum of his heart, instead.
You want— need— to carve this into memory, as badly as it hurts, knowing he’ll disappear come morning.
Hm? you murmur, eyelids heavy.
Rien, he dismisses, and you’re too drowsy to register that it’s his lips you feel ghosting across your forehead. Bonne nuit.
The coffee on the table is stone-cold by the time you wake, alone.
He’s still with his girl come New Years. It’s a late celebration; January 3rd, 2020.
You wonder if she knows. If she knows Charles had slipped into bed and kept you company until you slept, that he’d kissed you goodnight on your forehead; that you’re still helplessly, hopelessly—
You’re not drunk enough, but Arthur is; you’ve been trying to pep-talk him after you’d caught him swooning over a pretty blonde named Carla across the room, with a cute accent to match. “Fais-le, ‘Turtur. She’s been staring at you too.”
“Ah bon?” he gapes, and repeats himself in English, for some reason, “Really?”
You shoot Charles a distressed look.
“Ouias! Oui,” he covers for you, instantly, and the both of you cringe as you watch Arthur shake his tipsiness off and dust his corny button-up shirt designed with tacky fireworks.
“He’s going to embarrass himself,” Pierre groans into his drink, but you notice there’s a glint in his eyes— the same one he always got whenever he schemed with Anthoine. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen it again.
“I don’t see you stopping him,” you say, and the three of you descend into laughter at the sight of Arthur fixing his hair at every reflection he passes on the way to the other end of the club.
“Ça suffit pour l’instant,” Pierre chastises, once you’d reached your fourth glass of… whatever that was.
“I’m not drunk,” you insist, trying not to slur your words. Charles had long disappeared from the space beside you to dance with his girlfriend, somewhere. Summer is gone, but you think you can still see it through the flash of strobe lights; your eyes instinctively searching for the tousled hair, the half-lidded eyes, the rosy cheeks and stupid, stupid dimples. That’s him, actually, you realise. And— oh.
“For your sake, don’t look,” Pierre says, and nudges you enough that you blink, and you lose track of the ugly scene playing in front of you.
“I…” I miss him, you almost say. He used to kiss me like that.
Pierre watches you carefully.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” you blurt.
“What.”
You do hurl, a minute later.
Pierre complains the entire time, and of course he does, but you know he doesn’t actually mind because he’d tucked your hair behind your ears and held it up into a ponytail despite it all, and ordered a glass of water for you when you’d finally washed up. Ever the gentleman.
Oh my god, you’d laughed, at the curbside of a random street for fresh air, I’m unlovable, before descending into tears at an alarming rate, burrowing your face into the white linen of Pierre’s shoulder. You want to apologise for ruining his night, for putting him through hell and back, for fucking everything, but words are impossible, clumping like a ball in your throat.
It must be so difficult, you realise: to be the in-betweener, the neutral party. To have to stand at the crossroads, and be stretched thin between the two people who matter the most to you.
“You’re not,” says Pierre, patient yet rough in his own brotherly-way, and pulls you closer to his side, pats you on the head. “I love you.”
You sniffle out a laugh. “You know what I mean, Piccolo.”
He beams at that. That nickname had been the bane of his existence for the brief moment of time you’d been taller than him as children. “I do,” he agrees, after a moment of pained silence. Then, after careful consideration, adds, “Il t'aime encore, tu sais.”
That sobers you in an instant, and you inhale sharply, sit back up proper. “Pierre,” you sigh. “Arrête.”
“J’suis sérieuse,” he shoots, and says your name for good measure.
“He loves her, and he loves Ferrari,” you argue, in hopes of steering the conversation elsewhere. “Talks about them with all the love in the world.”
But Pierre scoffs, much to your chagrin, and does that thing where he raises his eyebrows with a smile, shakes his head in disbelief. “Then you’ve never heard him talk about you.”
Congratulations, Pierre had texted you, later that year in the Autosport Awards. You’d won the W-Series driver’s championship with three races to spare, and he’s never felt prouder of you, watching you appear in the screens. You deserve it.
Say it to my face, comes your reply, because even after all this time you could never quite change the way Pierre turns you back to your younger self— playful, soft, hopeful. He just laughs, peeks at the buzz of notifications from his phone when you continue. We’re having a party. Bring Charles. I miss him.
Ouch, he writes, and fails to send the I missed you too in his textbox.
Their plane doesn’t touch down in time for the party, but you manage to squeeze in a Christmas dinner in Mallorca before the end of the year. I want you to meet someone, you’d said, and Charles had felt his heart drop in his chest.
This is Emilio, you introduce. You try to brush off the arrested look on Charles’ face, try to convince you'd just been imagining the pass of… something in his eyes, out of self-indulgence. Charles has moved on, surely. Why shouldn’t you? Why couldn’t you?
Emilio. Right. Him. Charles had heard of your supposed attachment through the grapevine mid-season, but they’d never held any ground (or maybe he just refused to believe it). That Singapore weekend had been spent trying to convince Pierre not to message you about the rumour; claiming out of privacy’s sake, but Pierre knew Charles long enough to understand it’s mostly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know the truth.
He’s a Doctor, you smile, proud, lay a hand on his bicep and look up at him like he’s your universe, like the Mallorcan view around you isn’t literally right there to gaze at. Charles might have to take a seat before he collapses, at this rate. Not really, Emilio says, humble— because of course he’s fucking humble too, Christ; what else does this guy have that holds a candle against Charles? I’m in my second year of Residency.
He’s everything good, Charles concludes, by the time the night had winded down and dinner was beginning to come to a closing end. Emilio had held the door open for you, for everyone; he’d pulled the chair for you and translated the Spanish dishes for everyone patiently, and took his time to learn about him, and Pierre, and Lorenzo, Arthur, Carla. He’s affable, naturally charming, effortlessly funny, and managed not to squirm under Pierre’s doberman-like size up: the perfect type to bring home to your parents and get an immediate stamp-of-approval on. He’s everything Charles isn’t, hasn’t been, hadn’t been, could’ve been—
CRACK.
You yelp.
Lorenzo curses.
Charles blinks, then blinks again, at the shard stuck in his palm. He’d crushed the thin wine glass in his hands.
He can’t tell if this is a crest or a fall.
“Force of habit,” he dismisses later, after he subsequently becomes a patient of Emilio— the Doctor— your boyfriend’s— care for the next five minutes. It didn’t make sense at all, but an answer was better than awkward silence. Carla hands him a spare plaster from her purse. Charles thanks her, excuses himself from the restaurant for a breath of fresh air.
He doesn’t notice you’d trailed to follow him until he feels you brush by his shoulder. You’ve got Emilio’s blazer over your shoulders. He wonders if it would’ve been his jacket instead, in another life. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He raises his palm to show the bright red Lightning McQueen plaster. “Never better. Kachow.”
You scoff, amused, and tuck your hair behind your ear. Mallorca in December is high-strung in Christmas lights and bathed in Winter markets across cobblestone streets; if you listen closely past the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, you’d be able to pick out the local buskers singing festivities and dancing with one another. “The view is beautiful.”
“It is,” he replies, instinctively.
He’s not looking at the scenery. You know, because you can feel the burn of his gaze through your peripherals, like a brand on the side of your face.
He’s watching you, waiting for a sign in your expression, waiting for the shift in your footing and the bloom of your cheeks. It would mean something. It would mean it isn’t too late for him yet, as fucked up as it would be for him to think. It’s wrong. Charles knows this. But he couldn’t leave Spain yet without letting you know, someway, somehow, that you’d always have a key to the backdoor into his heart.
“You kept bringing up the past,” you ignore. She likes the Fritillaries in my Grandmother’s backgarden when they’re in season, he’d told Emilio. When you made a passing comment on your dinner being one of the best you’ve ever had, Charles had went; The best dinner I ever had was a burger in Pau, France.
He was being childish. Is. He didn’t have the right. He’d been the one to break your heart, been the one to give up, to act like nothing ever happened; been the one to make sure the space between you two felt like a million miles apart, and now— and now? Now he wants to do this?
“Is that so bad?”
“In front of ‘Milio, yeah.” It’s delusional, but he clings onto the fact you’d said Emilio, instead of my boyfriend. “You did it on purpose.”
“I didn’t.” ( He did. He’s self-destructive like that. It’s a trait he could never shake— Sebastian had told him. )
“Oh my god,” you sigh. “Could you for once just be true to yourself?”
“True to—?” His voice pitches there, but he’s quick to reel himself back in.
“There. That,” you gesture. “Just say it how you want to.” How you used to.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” he says, strained. He’s well above that. His father had taught him better, and he’s made that mistake before. “Just tell me what I did wrong.”
“Don’t, don’t act like you don’t know, Charles. The glass breaking—” you raise your finger before he can cut you off, “—Chalk it off as an accident, why don’t we. But my favourite flowers? Our first date? Wh— I don’t understand why you would even do that!”
He makes a dry sound from the back of his throat, and it irks you. It irks you because he’s looking at you, glacially calm yet looking as if he wants to spill every word that’s latching onto his tongue, like he wants to scream at you, like he wants to kiss you, all at once.
“I think you do,” he says, finally.
That stops you short.
No. No, no, no, no. He couldn’t possibly be doing this to you; here and now. After all this time. Not when you’re finally putting your pieces back together and trying to live a life, not when you’re finally trying your best to move on.
“Oh, you are so fucking selfish,” you snarl, and Charles visibly flinches at that. You’d always told him to be more selfish. To take the wins he gets in each race and carry it with pride, and to not do the same with his losses. Now, he’s not so sure. “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t. No.”
“Yes.” He reaches for your wrist. It feels like Summer of 2014, when you’d leapt off the boat, feels like Fall of 2015, when you’d held him in your arms in Monaco, feels like Winter of 2016, when he’d been pressed into you that early Christmas, feels like Spring of 2017, wh—
“No, I want you to tell me,” you snap, snatch your arm away.
It’s easier this way. It’s easier to hear it openly from him, so you can still come out on top of this argument in your own rotten metaphorical way; so you can spit out the script you’ve drafted in your head time and time again, so you can still manage, at the end of the day, to blame him, and move on, move on, move on.
“Go on, Charles. Tell me.”
“You’re lost,” he says, instead, and it’s in part the truth. You hate that he’s right. You hate that you still notice how his cheeks dig in when he speaks. You hate that at the end of the day you’re always going to be caught in his orbit one way or another. You hate him. But you don’t. But you do.
“I’m… lost,” you parrot, throwing your hands up. “What the fuck is that? Where am I supposed to be then, Charles, huh?” And then you blurt it out for him before you can even stop yourself. “Back in your arms? Back with you?”
He’s silent. Even after all this time, you could always read him like an open book. ( It’s a yes. A yes in the gentle breeze of the night, a yes in the buzz of the amber lantern lights, a yes in the way he’s watching you with that sad look in his eyes. Concession. Admission. Confession: No matter anything. )
“No. No, you don’t get to do that. You of all people—” you choke up, grit your teeth when your face twists, and look away. “You are being so… you are so mean, Charles. So mean.”
And then you’re running your hand through your hair and down your face, chasing the flush away, the burn at the back of your eyelids. Emilio, Pierre, Clara, and the brothers have appeared around the corner. One of them must have paid the bill.
“Tout vas bien?” Lorenzo says, by way of polite intrusion. Pierre’s got his hands in his pockets, and he’s staring Charles down colder than ever. He looks two inches away from snapping his neck. Pierre knows. Ofcourse, he knows.
“Nothing,” you sniff innocently, leaning into Emilio when he sidles by you with a comforting hand. You didn’t have the heart to look at anyone, afraid you might just burst into tears. You feel like a porcelain doll again, fracturing, losing your pieces with every pained breath you take trying to swallow down the disgusting churn of resentment in your throat. “A fan just wanted a picture with Charles.”
“I wouldn’t want one with you,” Arthur jokes, and you’re laughing with them, carrying the joke forward. Had Charles not known you, he would’ve fallen for it. You’re an excellent liar.
I’m sorry, he messages you that night, even though he wasn’t. Not, at least, for telling the truth.
A text bubble appears, then disappears. Charles waits, and waits. Holds out on hope.
You never do reply him.
Are you coming for Léon’s wedding? you receive, mid-season in 2021. You’re just about halfway up to zipping your racesuit when you see the screen flash. It’s Pierre. Don’t think so, you reply. I’ve got a contract thing coming up then.
In an airport a thousand miles from you, Pierre pauses mid-sip on his coffee, narrows his eyes at your text. What contract thing?
Secret, comes your reply, followed by a string of emojis. Gotta race. Ciao.
Congrats on pole.
Don’t curse me, Piccolo.
You don’t see his middle finger emoji until after the race, where you do, in fact, pole, despite a questionable start under even more questionable weather conditions. It bumps you up to lead comfortably in the Women’s Championship.
Charles won’t be there, is the final text he sends, last seen one hour ago. You roll your eyes at that, wipe your champagne-soaked hands on your towel. Your world doesn’t revolve around Charles. Not anymore, you hope.
Doesn’t change my answer.
I need distance.
Pierre leaves you on read with a knowing laugh.
(You do end up going, in the end. That had been a fleeting weekend in Malta, alone mostly with Pierre, where you had time to reflect on the whirlwind that was your life after witnessing the wedding between two of your good friends.)
Distance doesn’t work.
Distance doesn’t work because you’re two halves of a whole Universe as much as you don’t want to admit it, because your world is small and Monaco is smaller, because there’s always been that divine, gravitational pull you have towards each other; celestials caught in each other's orbit.
You know it never will, not when it comes to Charles, who always made you weak, always made it so difficult to stay mad at him, so easy to forgive. You’re sure you’d forgiven him the day you turned your back on him in Mallorca— just didn’t want to admit it to his face, give him the satisfaction. In retrospect, you’d been just as childish as him.
“Pink looks silly on you,” you comment, when you see each other again in a mutual friend's baby shower. That’s a flat-out lie. The champagne has you loose-lipped. Charles looks good in anything; and he always seemed the doting girl-dad type.
“Blue isn’t your colour,” he replies. It’s a blatant lie. Any colour is your colour, in his opinion. You could dress in a rainbow potato sack and he’d still find you the most beautiful person in the world. “I thought you’d have bet on a girl, too.”
“I grew up and competed with boys my entire life,” you shrug. His model-girlfriend isn’t around, and your doctor-boyfriend isn’t around. Neither of you dare to comment on it. You just skirt around each other and talk about the races, and of Arthur in F3, now.
You drift between circles of friends, talk until the clouds clear and the balloon bursts and the couple announce that It’s a Boy! And the blue-and-white petals scatter in the yard, and you’re laughing, and he’s laughing, because; vous gagnez, cherie.
You hand him a too-sweet cupcake in navy sprinkles, from one of the sidetables in the kitchen. “For the loser.”
It’s a peace treaty. A proverbial apology. No matter anything?
Charles picks it from your hand, and takes a bite.
I’m sorry, too. No matter anything.
Come 2022. Carla asks, half-whispering, “Are you two okay, now?” as she clasps her sunscreen shut. She peers at you carefully through the mirror.
“Uh.” You’re mid-dip down into the mess of bikinis and sundresses that was your luggage bag, digging through for an appropriate outfit in the Maldives weather. You don’t know why she’s whispering, it’s just the two of you in the hotel room right now. Right. Okay. What is okay, to you and Charles?
Okay had been elbow nudges and shy hand-holding once, had been open-mouthed kisses and thumbs over knuckles and around wrists, had been distance and tolerating each other’s presence, pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. Okay had been balancing the tight-rope of something and nothing, of too-familiar-strangers and ex-lovers who bet their everything on no matter anything.
If okay is pursed lips and friendly smiles, there-and-away glances that aren’t decipherable to either of you anymore, and keeping each other within a comfortable distance, then, yeah. Okay. The both of you are okay, you guess. Enough time has passed.
“I, uh, never actually asked him.”
Carla makes a face when you pull two bikinis up, points to the non-printed one draped over your left forearm. “You should, though.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” you say, picking the conversation back up once you’ve settled comfortably in the beach hammocks. Carla wriggles her feet and claps her hand to dust the sand away, hopping in beside you with a squeal when the cords nearly twist and throw the both of you backwards.
“Just, ask,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Maldives has been kind to all of you, the weather bright and the clear water gently lapping on white-shores. The atmosphere is good. Perfect, even. It’s Summer break and again it feels like you’re under the sun in Southern Italy. The brothers, and Pierre, are here and happy. Race season has paused, and for now you can set the weight of the world down at your feet if only for a little while.
“Easier said,” you answer, with a tone that signalled you aren’t really in the mood to debate it. Carla nods, and lets go of it with a final:
“Okay is easy, but not love. Love should never just be easy.”
You mull on it. Churn it and digest it and try to pick it apart in your brain. Loving Charles had been so easy. As easy as breathing. Loving Charles feels like instinct, second-nature. You decide you don’t understand her, not completely, atleast.
“Amour.”
Your head whips up at his voice. Easy. Instinct. Second-nature.
It’s Arthur. He always sounded horrifyingly similar to Charles. Pierre, trailing behind, catches your mistake, and pins you with a knowing look.
Fuck off, you shoot back a glare. When Charles arrives not long after to pass you a freshly broken coconut, umbrella and swirly straw in, you try not to stare at the sheen of sweat on his chest and arms. It’s near sinful.
“Did you bring it?” Charles says, digging greedily into your tote.
“Yeah. Go put some on, you’re turning into a fuckin’ Ferrari,” you chide, even though you’re already setting your coconut down, and squeezing the sunblock on your hands to do it for him. (Summer as teenagers. Old habits. The fact that moving around Charles is as unconscious as a heartbeat.)
“Turn around. I’ll draw a dick on your back.”
“Bitch,” he swats with a laugh.
You’re smiling as you lather your hands and swallow down the instinctive, Love you too.
The rest of the day is spent frantically running in the sand as everyone argues over volleyball rules and whether or not “it went over the line!”; followed closely by a chance golden hour photoshoot with everyone, where you try not to let the compliment get to your cheeks when Charles tells you, you look beautiful, as the sun melts into the horizon.
“I think I just drank seasalt,” you hiccup, wading back inland, beer in hand. The ripples light alive in bioluminescent plankton as Charles meets you halfway, one hand outstretched, as always— ever-ready to steady you when you need it. He’s a gentleman, like that.
“Seawater,” corrects Charles. He can tell you’re already beginning to slip deeper into the planes of tipsiness when he hands you a roasted marshmallow, and you miss grabbing the skewer by an inch. You make a face at him when he laughs before settling down onto the shoreline, wiggling your toes into the wet sand.
Then the silence comes, and it’s comfortable. It’s just stars, now; and the cold, and the water, and Charles, beside you with his elbows propped on his knees, fingers rolling on the lip of the empty beer bottle he’d offered to hold for you. Ten-year-old you would have found it hard to believe that it hadn’t always been like this— that there’d been a point in time when you’d leave from every room he enters, that you couldn’t bear to even think of him.
“I think I knew you,” you say, and you’re half-surprised you’d blurted something out.
Charles looks at you funny. “I sure hope you did.”
“No, no,” you amend, looking up from your feet in the tide. “I mean. Knew you. Before all this. It makes sense.”
He’s got a boyish smile on his face, sweet and dimple-y as he reaches to adjust the beach towel he’d swept over your shoulders earlier. “I think you’re drunk.”
“No, no, hear me out. I think..” you look at him, straight in the eyes since he’s first sat beside you, and Charles finds himself pinned under your loopy gaze. “I think we're soulmates, you know?”
You say it with the kind of conviction that could convince even the Devil himself. “… Yeah?” he asks, feels a creep of warmth somewhere in his ribcage.
A nod, slow. “Yeah.” His eyes hang onto the movement; the curl in your lips, the flutter in your eyelashes, the wet hair sticking to your forehead. You’re sunkissed. You’re beautiful. He wants to tell you, again. He can’t, he thinks.
“What were we, then, before this?” Did I love you the same? Did I hurt you the same? Did you let me back into your life as you are now? Did we get our happy ending?
“Maybe we were… strangers. We meet by pure accident, like those cheesy Hallmark movies where the girl accidentally spills coffee on the guy, and then he looks at her as if she hung the moon and the stars.”
You don’t notice it, because you’re busy wading the water with your fingers, picking at a seashell— but he’s looking at you right now, that way. The bioluminescence of the water glows and glitter neon in the reflection of your eyes, and the distant moon and firelight is painting you like a saint off the tinted glass windows of a church— some sacred thing he probably doesn’t deserve, but selfishly wants to keep for himself forever.
“And then?” He can barely conceal the desperation in his voice. He hides it with a small laugh. “Then what happens?”
“Then we fall in love,” you tell him, softly. You think back on Malta. The vows, the shift in the air, the way colours seemed to saturate around the presence of intimacy. “Get married. And grow old together. Then we find each other again, in the next life.”
A next life. You’re thinking of a next life, with him. “You’d like that?”
“Ouias. I’d like that.” You remember telling Pierre something similar to this— that you’d like to settle down, somewhere sunny and slow and beautiful; perhaps Tuscany. He had teased you for it.
“And… what about this life?”
You glance at the sand between his fingers. The droplets of water on his skin. If you didn’t know Charles so well, you wouldn't have recognised him with how small he’d sounded. But you do, so you did.
“What about it?”
The tide laps. It bathes you in a moonglade of blue. The implication hangs in the air, and it’s frighteningly tentative. Charles lets the words tumble before the regret can haunt him. “Do you see it? See us?”
Concession. Admission. Confession. It feels like Mallorca, all over again.
“I…” I don’t know.
You look away. Down. Up. Down. Then back up to his eyes. He looks torn, but patient.
“It’s okay,” he says— smiles. It’s sincere. It’s sincere because it’s digging into his cheeks, and you can finally translate the looks in his eyes, again, after all this time apart: I will wait for you. No matter anything.
“Just— as long as we’re okay.” The hope in his tone phrases it like a question.
“Of course,” comes your answer, easily. It’s okay. We’re okay. Nothing has changed between us, even when I thought it did. You are still Charles. My Charles. In every way; In the only way I’ve ever known you. No matter anything.
Your fingers brush against his. You can feel his bracelets pressing against your wrist. “Always.”
Sobriety comes with the five slices of watermelon that Pierre had supposedly ‘fought tooth-and-nail’ to keep from Arthur and save for you.
“Y’shaid y’had to tchell me shomething,” you remind him, clawclip in your mouth as you gather your hair up. It’s two in the morning. The overwater-bungalows are a distance from the shoreline, but the boardwalk is a welcome stroll to clear your mind. You’re still at the beach though, busy shaking the sand off your sandals while Pierre puts the fire out. It’s getting dark. Everyone has already gone off to disappear into their rooms.
“Nah,” Pierre dismisses, after a lengthy, contemplative pause. “It’s nothing. Just— Hey, is that Arthurs?”
You clip your hair, hook your fingers to the straps of your sandals, reach with a free hand to the white square that’s bending the hammock out of shape. Airpods. You flick it open. Only one earpiece is in.
You snort.
At half past 2 in the morning, someone knocks on Charles’ door.
“Idiot,” you say, when he opens the door to find you standing outside, bleary-eyed, holding his airpods up. “You left this at the hammock.”
“Oh shit.” He takes it from you with a sheepish smile. “Thanks.”
In hindsight, you should have left, afterwards. Or maybe just handed it to him the next day. But— but. He’s leaning against the doorframe, topless, one hand busy rubbing the sleep out his eyes. You hang onto the movement, flick your eyes from the way his wrist twists, arm flexing. He looks good. Too good, for someone who just seemed to have rolled out of bed. You’re growing alarmingly warm under the thin material of your cover-up, suddenly violently aware of how you must look standing at his doorway with half your skin showing in a bikini of all things.
“Can we talk?”
“Can we talk?”
He laughs. It’s a soft, boyish rumble deep in his chest. “Yeah, uh— come in.”
“Désolée,” he apologises once you step in, “C'est en désordre.”
But you don’t mind. If anything, it’s familiar. Nostalgia finds you between the clothes strewn by the edges of his bed and the luggage burst open at the corner of the room, looking like it’d been kicked to the side at the last minute. He’s never been able to keep his rooms clean for any longer than a few days— never in his apartments and never in his hotels. You remember. You always remember.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, hurrying to clear the floor.
“Nothing,” you reply, try not to focus on the way the cord of muscles on his back pull when he bends to reach for a stray t-shirt in the way. “You just. Haven’t changed alot.”
He dimples at you over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
You kick up a towel at your feet and hand it to him. He tosses it into a messy pile in the corner. “Yeah.” You’re still Charles. My Charles. I’m still helplessly, hopelessly, in love with you. You’re still the same because we move the same, breathe the same, look at each other the same.
“I think I’ve changed,” Charles says, shuffling further into the room. He places his airpods down a side table, by a bowl of complimentary fruit from the hotel. “I’m a better man than I was.”
“Less of an idiot?” you tease, if only to deflect the unspoken implication. ( We’re all idiots when we’re teenagers and in love, anyway. ) Charles turns to you to find his other missing earpiece in your forefingers, dug out from God knows where. “Highly unlikely.”
You toss it. Charles catches it easily without breaking eye-contact, just smiles. The motion shouldn’t have been that attractive to you.
“I can try,” He clips it back into the case, sets it down. “If you will let me.”
The sliding doors facing the ocean waves are curtainless, and left ajar. When a breeze blows through, you can smell the salt winds, the smell of Charles; feel the way your skin rises with goosebumps— but only because he’s gazing at you with that dopey look he has; doe-eyed and green and twinkling with hope.
“Let you do what, exactly?” Your mouth is dry. You take the pause in his answer as an opportunity to walk into the kitchenette, ground yourself by paying attention to the grooves of the wood beneath your bare feet as you pour yourself a glass of water, sip slowly to occupy yourself.
The kitchen island works as some border between you both. Charles closes the distance, slow, like he’s testing the waters; until he reaches the corner where you stand, and sidles his hip on the edge. He runs a hand across his day old stubble. You’re one reach away. He doesn’t close you in. If you wanted, you could walk right past him and out the door. It’s an option. A choice. Don’t go, he means to say. But if you must, I’ll spend the rest of my days wondering where I went wrong.
“It’s. I mean,” he says, twists his rings as he usually does when he’s nervous. “I— Need to apologise. Properly.”
The sentence is stilted, and it’s impossible to not remember how he’d stumbled over his words all those years ago— A first date; Somewhere at a hotel lobby; Calling you pretty in a messy, albeit charming way. “There’s no need,” you say, because it’s the truth. You’re okay with it now, as far as okay can be. “We’re past that. We’re past all of it.”
“Even Emilio?” He waits for the recoil, the affronted look on your face, but nothing comes.
“Emilio was…” you shrug, end it off there. Was. It’d been a mutual break over breakfast, admittedly a lovely thing of the past. Not the right person, and definitely not enough time seeing each other to make up for it. “You did apologise, though,” you remind Charles. He’d texted you on a flight back to Monaco, and you left him hanging.
“So then it’s just… now. What happens now?” That’d been what he wanted to talk about, after all. What are we? I need to know. I need to hear it. I need you to tell me. Tell me to leave, and I will. Tell me to stay, and I will. Tell me to follow you to the ends of the earth and I will.
“You asked what I’d like in this life,” you repeat, and you can feel your heart swell with the tide. If he noticed the warble in your voice, he didn’t comment on it, just relishes in the closeness, the proximity. It’s been so long since he’s been this near you. “I was going to say that I—” you trail off to inhale, gather your thoughts, exhale. “I want you. I always have. In this life. In all of it.”
There. There. Your heart laid out on the cutting block waiting for the final strike. Tell me you feel the same. Tell me something. Anything.
“Me too.”
Charles shortens the remaining space between you, hopes you don’t notice him shaking, fidgets at the tassels of your cover-up idly. It’s chiffon; sheer. He’s been trying not to let his eyes wander at your silhouette beneath it. His fingers curl at its threaded fringe; quiet permission. May I, May I, May I?
This is the crest. Fall be damned.
“Tu n'as pas froid?” he asks.
You shake your head, honest.
“Can—” he swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs, and you want to mouth at it. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes,” you whisper. Your pupils are blown wide, bright and inviting, and he drops his gaze. It falls on your mouth, the curl of your lips— then he’s reaching forward to kiss you.
Charles’ palms fit to your face like it’s always meant to be there, perfect, slots together like a puzzle piece. He tilts your head up, feels your hands scrape up from the nape of his neck, and he hums in response, until you can feel the vibration from his chest run into yours. He wants to breathe you in, kiss you impossibly deeper, hold you tight like this forever, until he could hide you into the spaces of his heart.
He winds his arms around your thighs to lift you with alarming ease— and maybe that shouldn’t have turned you on more than it did— setting you gently on the countertop so he could gaze up at you like a goddess come to grace the earth. He says your name, hushed and spoken into your lips, and it sounds like a prayer. “I never stopped loving you,” he confesses, reverent, and kisses you again for emphasis, for good measure, for the sake of tasting you. “Never. No matter anything.”
You keen into his touch when he kneads at your hips, can’t stop the giggle from escaping you. It’s ticklish. He remembers. “I love you too,” you whisper, his five o’clock shadow scratching at you when he nips at your bottom lip, nudges his nose against yours. “No matter anything.”
A kiss, again. Hungrier and more eager, this time, because Charles tastes like an aphrodisiac— warm and honey sweet in all his flushed-face, bare-chested, dark-eyed, glory— and because what you wanted from him is simple. His face gleams under the wash of moonlight. Angelic. You’re half-sure you’re dreaming this, half-sure if you run your fingers down his spine you’ll feel the bump of where his wings should be.
He breaks away, rests his thumb on your lip, where you take it between your teeth.
Je m'emballé, he pants, almost wistfully, unable to resist smiling. It’s the kind that dimples deep, makes him laugh quietly under his breath, makes him duck his head down into his bicep in embarrassment. You can feel the tufts of his hair tickle your jawline, and you skim your palms up, press at the indents of his cheeks when he finally looks up at you, half-lidded and so, so, in love. “I, ah, need to…” he pulls his thumb from your mouth, pantomimes spinning a thread with his index finger. “I should.. Reel it in. Take it slow.”
“Tomorrow,” you shake your head, breathless, dizzy, half out of your mind and intoxicated by the taste of him, him, him. Slow can come tomorrow. Right now— “Just kiss me, Charles.”
And he does. He presses himself between the bracket of your thighs and undoes the buttons of your cover-up, running his lips down your throat and feeling like a live wire when you hum in content, purr in his ears.
He kisses you, urgent, but soft, because it’s the only right way to treat you after all he’d put you through, and lets his hand slide across your buzzing skin. The tangle of your legs with his when you reach the sheets is unceremonious, bumping knees and ankles, where you slip a comment on how untidy his bed is, and he just laughs into your neck, giddy, because I’ve missed you so much, amour.
How much? you dare, trace the cupid's bow of his lips, count the freckles across his collarbones like you used to. How much have you missed me?
I’ll show you, he promises, holds your wrist down to feel your rapid pulse just like he did all those years ago, and dips his moon halo-ed head to kiss you, again and again, deep and desperate until he got you to arch, to croon his name into his ears.
And if anyone heard the both of you, well— the tide had long since been crashing in, wind soughing against the windows, where no one could possibly hear.
Pierre finds your sandals inside, on the foot of Charles’ villa door, the next morning.
“Have you seen her?” he asks, even if he knows how stupid it is to ask. (He has to check. But if the sandals, or Charles’ hair— tousled and sticking out in all directions— isn’t enough of an answer, the figure ducking just out of sight in the bedroom behind him is.)
“Uh,” Charles begins, eyes flicking down to where he’d left his slippers by yours. He blinks multiple times, tries to come up with something. He’s never been a good liar. “She’s—”
“Breakfast is in fifteen minutes,” overrides Pierre, already walking away with a grimace. “Be presentable, oui?”
You come as presentable as can be.
Everyone’s excited for the next activity of the day— a short boat trip out from the lagoon and into the sea where the manta rays would come now that they’re in season.
Carla compliments your sundress, pokes at the eyelets, and doesn’t realise you’d chosen it because the halter neck covers up the marks Charles had left on your chest. You don’t think anybody notices— anybody but Pierre, that is. He’s sitting beside Charles, looking slightly green, glancing uncharacteristically between everyone and the food but you. You would’ve laughed, but. Well. It’s awkward. Charles had told you, anyway, the moment he’d slammed the door shut and started cursing like a sailor earlier in his room. Pierre knows. He knows.
It’s fine, you’d laughed, drowned tiny in his linen button-up, squeezing toothpaste on his toothbrush for him. He won’t spill. You know him. If anything, he’ll hold it against us.
Charles had just smiled, relaxing, took the brush from your hands. Then he’s combing aside your hair in favour of nosing a kiss to the juncture of your neck, your shoulder, thought quietly to himself as the déjà vu hit, so this is what it’s like to love you freely, again.
“I’ve been keeping a secret from all of you,” you announce, when breakfast winds down, and Arthur had finally come back with his third glass of juice in hand.
Pierre’s neck must’ve gotten whiplash with the way he’d snapped towards you. But, no, that isn’t what you’re going to be talking about. God forbid.
You squirm in your seat as all eyes fall on you. Charles, beneath the table, nudges his ankle against yours in a silent show of affection. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. He already knows. ( You’d told him sometime last night, a final chance for him to take it all back if he wanted. Charles had simply kissed your doubts away. )
“I’ve got a contract,” you say, after a momentary beat. Then, with a heavy inhale— deep enough you could feel the sting in your diaphragms: “I’ve signed into Williams for the next Formula 1 season.”
2023. Fanfare is, obviously, as bad as it gets.
It’s exhausting, most of all unfair, but Charles is there every step of the way, and so is Pierre. They try. They try, so you try, too.
Your debut is either controversial or progressive, the last resort or the perfect choice, a diversity seat or an earned seat. You know you won’t win against the media, much less the fans that had dug up your past and aired out whatever dirty laundry they could find in hopes of tearing you down. Your history with the drivers— Charles, specifically— has become an open secret amongst the sport. The headlines and bylined articles run wild. You’d called it, Williams called it, Ferrari called it. Hell, even Netflix called it. Talk about adding bittersweet, romantic spice into the pinnacle of motorsport, hey?
It’s a PR team's worst nightmare. The first half of the season is spent dismissing, denying, disregarding. We’re friendly competitors now. I’m here to race just like everybody else. Charles is in Ferrari and I’m in Williams, that’s what matters to me. It’s making sure you arrive into Paddocks either earlier or later than Charles, and to keep a measure of distance between each other in the off-chance you do appear at the same time.
It’s making sure your congratulatory hugs and comments about each other are kept at a minimum after races so that no one can string up a story from those moments, that you don’t sit too close to one another during race conferences, or that you don’t get caught in pictures with each other when in airports or hotels, because it’s impossible for Charles to just be friends with a woman.
Then the death threats escalate, and the team bumps up security, and sometimes it feels like you’re eighteen again, jokingly debating the consequences of deleting all social media until Charles shuts your phone off for you. The FIA makes a late stand, exactly three races later, condemning the misogyny that surrounds you as one of the first débutantes of Formula 1. You and the other drivers just laugh at the irony of it all, over an afterparty celebrating Lando’s podium finish, because the FIA had only spoken up on it when Lewis had commented on it, but never when you did.
“I’m sorry,” Charles had said once, after your first points had been overshadowed by hate. Baku had been one of the most exhilarating races of your life. “I want to—” he sighs, runs a hand down his face. He’s about to cry. You can tell. Not because he pities you, but because he feels helpless. “I don’t know.”
I want to protect you. I want to love you freely. I want you to be happy. No matter anything.
“I want to help,” he tries to be firm, fumbles with his words and the mess of languages in his head. “But most of all I want you to be happy.”
The pang in your heart sears like a bolt of lightning. You remember the last time you’d been in a situation like this. Except this time no one’s baring teeth and rearing for a fight. This time he’s choosing you, you, you.
You come to the vanity he’s leaned his palms on, tuck yourself into the space between his arms to look up at him. “I’m the first female driver in decades. I scored points on debut. I very nearly had a podium finish,” you list down. “I’m in a good team, and we’re scoring. I have a supportive boyfriend. I have my family. Who says I’m not happy?”
“Charles,” you call out, half-laughing, kissing the red of his eyes away and letting your fingers scrape up from the back of his head the way he likes. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” This is how it should have turned out years ago, you realise. Instead of turning your backs against each other; instead of pretending the both of you weren’t horrifically in love with one another; instead of swallowing the ache. Maybe then the both of you wouldn’t have wasted so much time finding each other again.
But you’re both here, now. Neither of you would give it up for the world.
The next year, your driver’s parade car— a 60’s vintage Corvette— unfortunately breaks down mid-way, and you find yourself clambering into Pierre’s so you don’t get left behind the cavalcade. The shutter of cameras grow louder; you can already picture the comments fans will leave behind.
“My car just shit itself,” you laugh. Pierre offers a hand to lift you into the seat, but you ignore it. He doesn’t comment on it. He knows why. “I’ve missed you,” he teases, blunt and honest, like he usually is, too distracted with waving at the grandstands to notice your surprise. Miami is always overwhelming.
You adjust the Williams cap on your head. “We see each other every race weekend, Piccolo.”
He shrugs, turns to see you eyeing the back of the Ferrari rolling ahead. Charles has his whole-hearted attention to the fans, as usual— a loyal sea of red that follows him everywhere he goes. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” You dish out a smile and a wave when the fans scream for you at the next turn. “But you know how it is.” Pierre, or any driver— any male presence, really— could offer a ‘bless you’ when you sneeze and the fans will still find a way to give you flak for it. You still remember the one time Skysport had zoomed in on you at the weighing scales post-race in Australia, asking Daniel to help you pry open the cover of a glass bottle screwed too tight— fans flooded your comments telling you off for flirting with a man who’s attached.
“But you’re okay,” he says— asks? He can’t tell if he’d said it for himself or for you. You’ve become this unwarranted extension of Charles, now, and sometimes of Pierre too— he didn’t want you to be reduced to just that. An extension. You’re not just the girl who grew up with Charles, and Pierre, and Anthoine. You’re not just a pretty face for Formula 1. You’re brilliant; talented. You deserve your seat. The data, the achievements, speak for itself.
You smile at him, all cheeks, skip the concern in his voice as you answer humorously, “S’long as I finish the race ahead of you.”
Imola is, unfortunately, not yours to win.
The race syphons the spirit out of you: tyre degradation, marbling, poor weather, and an even poorer pit strategy, only to end with a grand ending of a DNF thirteen laps from the finish line. Media duties always feel more stretched out in the hours afterwards, and you suppose the only silver-lining that could come out of a bad result like this is the fact that you’d— for once— get interesting questions about the car and it’s set-up instead of your alleged ‘friction’ with Jamie Chadwick or Logan Sargeant or Nyck De Vries after you’d ‘stolen’ their Williams seat.
Your press-officer and ever present shadow warns you the coffee machine back at the motorhome is down. You wonder if your day can get any worse, descend from the pen, and make a beeline for the Ferrari motorhome next door instead. To hell with the rumours or the tiktoks— you’ll be in and out, anyway.
“Joris,” you blink, when you finally fill your cup at their hospitality. He should be back at the paddock with his other ragtag group of friends, or supporting Il Predestinato from the pitwall himself, cheering for the red boy in the red car in the red team. “What’re you doing here?”
“Hey, you are the stranger here,” accuses another voice. It’s Charles, appearing with hair still damp from sweat, looking as raceworn as you are, but somehow glowing, still as pristine as ever. He fidgets with his racesuit, re-tightens the sleeves into a knot around his waist. You try not to let your eyes fall to it. “What is a Williams girl doing in Ferrari?”
Moreso who, Joris coughs, only to earn an elbow into the ribs from Charles.
“Stealing iced coffee,” you reply, honestly. “Sorry I didn’t stick around. Were you P2 or P3?” You look to the screens playing highlights of the race behind him. Verstappen and Norris would be taking the 1-2 podium.
“P3.” He shrugs, cards his fingers through his hair the way he does when he doesn’t have the energy to talk about something. His press officer nudges at him, and you understand— Lord Perceval, the little boy in red, their Predestined, is needed elsewhere. “A plus tard à l'hôtel, hm?”
Charles, you nearly blurt, and tilt your head instead, raise a warning brow— he had instinctively leaned forward for a kiss.
He fumbles through the motion by awkwardly reaching for an empty cup instead, where you turn to leave, swallow back a laugh when Joris runs a hand over his face, exasperated. Mate, you’re a shit actor.
“He’s right,” Charles admits, much later, ahead of the Monaco race day. And perhaps it was the thrill of a pole in Quali, or the adrenaline from being surrounded by support in his home race, that brings him to say, in the peace of his apartment: “Amour, when I win, let me kiss you for the world to see.”
You shut down the idea, ofcourse, with a cringe and a scrunched nose. “Lando’s shown you that side of tiktok, huh? He’s poisoned you, I fear. Also, it’s if I win, doofus, not when.”
He laughs out from his piano— the stiff kind, the one where he tries to lighten the air and gauge where the conversation will head— and motions for you to come. “Don’t girls like romantic gestures?” he hums, once you’d sat on his lap.
His hands are gentle atop yours, ghosting over the keys to a new song he’s composing (“What’s the title for this one?” you ask. “M’not so sure, yet. But the inspiration will come.”). You both play and stumble over the chords, until you can feel the way your hearts sync in tandem, until each of you have drafted what to say to each other.
“I love you. Why should I hide it?” This will not turn into an argument. Charles won’t let it.
“You know why,” you say, leaning into the kiss he plants on your shoulder. “Besides, the fans already sort of know there’s something.”
“Exactly.” He murmurs, steadying you as you shift in your seat. You have a perfect view of his profile, now. He looks busy in his head. “It won’t be that big a change.”
“But it will.” It will for me. For a woman. For a female racer in a sport that’s spent its decades rigged against anything but men. “Let’s get to bed, hm? We can talk about this another day. You’ve got a lot on your shoulders tomorrow.”
You don’t talk about it, in the end.
You chalk it off as timing; that you should let the days pass with celebrations before confronting him with anything. You both celebrate his first Monaco win, remember his Dad, and of Jules, of the entirety of his home country rallying in support, and of the bells that will sing in Maranello for him.
You don’t talk about it, because there is always the crest and the fall.
You don’t talk about it when Perez clips your rear-left tyre in Baku, Azerbaijan, and sends you off at 200kph to meet your maker. The crash is so violent it practically strips your car clean, save for the survival cell. You’d sat terrified and kept watch at the turn, helpless in the middle of the street circuit, praying to God that no other car turning the high-speed corner would T-bone you straight into your side. (You finally understand George’s horror from his crash in Australia.)
You don’t talk about it even when Pierre pulls you into a hug at the Medical Centre, and your boyfriend is nowhere to be found.
You don’t talk about it until Charles is holding you in your hotel room, and you admit to him, irrational and as petty as it seems: Where were you? Where were you? I feel safer with you. In your arms, than I ever would in even the strongest survival cell in the world; that you’re not quite sure you’ve ever felt pure fear sitting in that car since Spa, when An—
“They didn’t let me into the medical centre after the race,” Charles says, furious. He’s venting the stress, you realise this. He isn’t fighting you; he’s fighting the contracts that stand between you two. “If it wasn’t for Albon, I would have knocked someone’s teeth in.”
You don’t know what to say. You don’t think there is anything to say. It’s nobody’s fault, you remind yourself. Sometimes, repetition breeds comfort and it makes you forget the danger of this sport. You just sit in your aftershock, rattled to the core, and let him hold his head against your heart as you both lay in bed, so he could listen to your heartbeat as a reminder you’re alive.
“They’d have let me in if everyone knew about us,” Charles comments, off-hand. He hadn’t intended to nor realised he’d steered the topic back to that night in Monaco, but you pick up from where the both of you left off the conversation regardless. You owe it to him, you suppose. Or perhaps it’s simply something else to think about other than a brush with Death.
“December, then,” you finally relent. It isn’t grand— the world already suspects the both of you, and it was a matter of publicly announcing it— but the weight that lifts off your shoulders surprises you. There’s nothing to be ashamed about, afterall, and you’ve always wanted to love Charles as openly as any other person in the world; Screw the politics of it all. The both of you have learned from your pasts; things will be different. Better. “After the season ends.”
He nudges his nose against yours into a lavish kiss. It grounds you, makes you beam and break into a laugh and press close to him. Thank you, he breathes, because he recognises the sacrifice. I love you. I’m glad you’re okay. I love you, I love you, I love you. No matter anything. He’s not quite sure he could have held all the love in his heart any longer, much less how the both of you managed to fly under the radar these past years. Sooner or later, he would’ve slipped.
No matter anything, you mirror. You don’t linger about the accident. You dash the thought of bringing up how you could have sworn you’d heard his voice calling to you through the radio when you’d crashed; dash the thought of Anthoine, of Jules and of the radiostatic.
You let Charles wipe a tear from your eye and kiss you from your lips and to your neck and to your stomach, instead. You let him curl over you under the sheets, remind you you’re alive throughout the night.
It’s euphoric. You’re happy. This is the crest: You’re in love, and the world will know it soon. No fall can possibly break this.
When Fall comes, Charles’ grandmother would seed Fritillaria bulbs for the next Spring. They’re bow-headed bellflowers once completely bloomed, so he always wondered why you took a liking to them instead of the Carnations or the red Spider-lilies by the flagstones leading from the backdoor and down the garden.
“The spider-lilies always bloom too late for me to see,” you remark, defensive. “Besides, sometimes there is no reason to like something.”
His Grandmother laughs. She always had a soft spot for you. “And if you try to find one, it’ll just drive you crazy,” she adds. “Never seek reason where there is none.”
Charles will think he understands this. He thinks he will understand this after Jules, after his father, after Anthoine, after his Grandmother. He never really does.
(It takes 15 years before he truly understands.)
“Come, Charles,” she waves him over. “Enough with the--
--chatter and radio-static in your in-ears. It’s hard to distinguish words, much less what was left and right or up and down. The air is rushing around you, sounding like flags in the wind. Something is crackling between the pelt of rain. Searing.
“—epeat, can you hear me?” It’s your race-engineer. He sounds urgent. You can’t remember why. You can’t remember where you are, really; it’s just flashes of black and orange as you nod. How many G’s had you taken? “Yes,” you relay, unlocking your seatbelt instantly, feeling around your halo and sidepods. The steering wheel is gone; one less concern.
“Can you move?”
You try. You try in all possible directions; You really, really, do. But it feels as if you’re pushing against a concrete barrier, compressed into an impossible box— or cage? Your muscles hurt; it’s getting hard to breathe. How long had you been out cold?
“Get me out of here.” You’d meant to yell, but it comes out in a croak. Your throat is stinging. You want to remove your helmet, as irrational as it is, though you don’t have space for that either.
“Marshals are working as fast as they can. Stay calm. They’re on--
--the way to Brignoles, there was a pop-up shop selling nomination bracelets,” Charles says, as cool-headed and cavalier as a 13-year-old kid could possibly say in front of their biggest crush ever, “If you don’t like it, you can give it to Pierre. Or. Whatever.”
Lorenzo, in the distance, laughs. He debates telling you how meticulous Charles had been at the booth as he picked out which charms you’d like. (He brings this up over Christmas years later, and the brothers still laugh over it. A classic of the Leclercs.) “You can rearrange and choose the pieces, by the way. Looks like the bracelet is a little too big for you.”
“I’ll give this one to Anthoine, then.” You clip off a charm— a little four-leaf clover coloured in gold and embedded onto the metal— and tuck it away into your pocket. You don’t know it yet, but Anthoine will come to wear this for the remainder of his life. “Merci beaucoup, Charles!” you fawn, rotating your wrist and listening to the tinny sounds it makes, “C'est très joli!”
You’re prettier, Charles doesn’t say, because he’s timid for his age, and God forbid he admits something like that within earshot of his brother, no less. But he admits it years later, when you both visit Brignoles to kart again. The circuit is holding a racing event in memory of Jules. “Were you actually?” you laugh, bright and resounding as you thread through the streets.
“Ouias, I was thinking it!” He squeezes your palm. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.”
“You’re a flirt,” you roll your--
--eyes are tearing up from the fire. The helmet is designed to protect your head and keep the fire out, but only for so long. You’re sure the tear-offs have begun melting in its layers— it’s getting hard to see. “Please,” you manage. The strength in your body is fraying completely. Your words are weak; you aren’t even sure you’re speaking loud enough for the comms to pick up.
The silence lasts so long that you think you might have lost connection after all, when a voice comes through, serene, “They’re with you.”
It might be your race-engineer. It might be Charles. It might be Pierre. Voices are a blur and you’re slipping by the second. You know it. You feel it. “Just stay with us. Stay with us, you understand? You’re going to be okay.”
The world is melting away, and the thin air has you locked in a plummeting tailspin. Your fingertips scald from the metal of your car as you try to breach from any angle, gloves singed and bitten through from the flames, while your mouth tastes like smoke with every harried breath. You can’t for the life of yourself figure how long you’ve been trapped. Longer than you should, probably. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out. You don’t know why you’re apologising or to who— perhaps everyone, or yourself—? but it feels right. Everything feels…
You feel yourself sink into your seat.
There’s fear, still, stirring low like whitenoise in your heart; the same kind of feeling you get when you’re swimming in the ocean, and you’re starkly aware of how your feet can’t reach the ground.
Dread, perhaps, is the word. But bigger and more quieter. All racers feel it atleast once in their life.
But this… peace? You’re not quite sure you’ve felt this boneless with relaxation in your entire lifetime. (Had this been what Grosjean meant about ‘Benoît’?)
“They’re right on you. They’ve got you,” they call your name. It’s distant. The car— this living, breathing machine that you’ve become one with for the past year— seems to shift in its weight with a metallic groan. “Are you with me?”
Yes, you answer them. I am.
They call your name--
--again,” Charles dimples, gentle and polite as he rubs a thumb at the back of your palm. The sun is setting, and it’s turning your skin liquid gold before his very eyes. He wonders if it’s possible to get drunk off of the sight of you alone.
“You know what, I give up,” you huff, half-hearted as he noses a kiss into your neck. He breathes you in, murmurs some comment about how you smell like fresh laundry. “You should quit racing and become a full time musician.”
“And leave the fun of racing to you?”
You lay the back of your head to his chest. If you focus, you can feel the pulse of his heart. You want to fall asleep to it; to the lull of his voice as he speaks. “I’ll win the championship for the both of us.”
“We can both be world champion.” Charles descends across the chords again, the melody slow and graceful. “Me first, though.”
You laugh. It’s punched out, yet delicate. Charles thinks he could never compose a piece as beautiful as that sound you make; could never find an art piece as striking to his heart as the sight of you sitting warm between his arms. “What will you title this one?”
He makes a noise, and cocks his head. “What about…” he pauses. You wait patiently, tuck your hair behind your ear as you watch the gears in his head turn. “No matter anything?”
“No matter anything,” you assent, breaking into a grin. He presses a kiss into your hair, and you take his hand up to your lips to return the gesture. “You’re so lame. You’re lucky I love you.”
“I love you too.” He bumps his cheek to yours, where you catch the tail-end of that boyish laughter you’ve grown to cherish. “C’mon, let’s try again. Give me your--
--hand, amour. Don’t be scared. It’s okay.
And you may be having trouble reconciling left to right, but this voice, the vowels and Its lilting cadence— Charles, your beloved, your heart, your soul— you have no trouble remembering, at all.
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
No matter anything.
So you’d followed It obediently; led hand in hand through rain and across asphalt, and kept walking somewhere in-between the margins of what felt like a waking dream, until you settled on the evergreen grass of his childhood home, overgrown and tickling your ankles, beside the purple-dotted bellflowers his grandmother tends to so carefully.
You follow the carnations all the way to the flagstone path that’s twisting in ways that defy logic, take the time to admire the spider-lilies that are finally blooming for you, until you reach that familiar Coast off of South France, a thousand miles away from home.
A boy a lot like Charles dimples at you, carrying Blue Coasts in his hands.
Then, someone else offers you a hand up to the boat.
Hey you, says the boy with the clover charm on his wrist.
You smile, and rest.
Fritillaries, Charles is reminded. He’s paralysed with fear, watching the screens in the garage document everything:
Your body dragged out from underneath the fiery pile up— bow-headed like bellflowers in riotous bloom.
This.
This is the Fall.
It— the situation— doesn’t quite hit his brain yet, but his heart has caught up somehow; the tears haven’t stopped falling. He thinks this is some twisted catatonia— stupor— his body is putting him through. (Shock, he remembers the correct term, later.)
He hasn’t felt like this before; not for Jules, or for his father, or for his grandmother. He had time for those. He had time to brace for the end, like headlights you see at the end of a road, before it hurtled towards him.
But this? This is a band-aid ripped without warning. This is antifreeze running through his veins. This is the abyss at the bottom of the ocean, come to swallow him whole. This is standing outside the ICU on a Sunday evening, with the best minds and Doctors that Singapore has to offer, declaring: We tried our best, and feeling the earth open up beneath his own two feet.
The Williams personnel— your team, your work family— take the reigns. They smother the pain because that’s what they need to do for everyone right now, and tell Charles to just take a seat, or go home, mate. We’ll handle it from here. It’s okay. If you want, I can contact someone. Do you want me to contact someone?
Maman, Charles calls, sounding lost and frighteningly like a child. Ma mère— my Mama.
Then he roots himself outside the unit, stills himself from the crown of his head down to the soles of his feet, and… waits. He doesn’t know why, though. It’s not like it’d change anything. His mother is a thousand miles away, and the phone call they eventually share does little to comfort him, and it’s not like he’s expecting you to exit the room and jump into his arms.
He isn't sure. He hasn’t kept track of time, or what has been happening around him. He hasn’t even—
“Charles, precious boy, let’s go back home, yes? You must be so tired.”
He’s quick to bow his head. Andreas must have sent her his way. “Ma’am—” He hasn’t called your mother that in a long time, “—you shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”
“Pascale w— Your mother would hate to see you like this,” she says, thin and doting and worried for him, of all things. Who is he to deserve this patience, when she’s just lost her daughter? “Pierre is waiting too.”
“Pierre,” repeats Charles. My best friend.
He blinks and breathes and blinks again. “Okay.”
“Yes,” she says, and gently leads him by the hands. She’s not quite sure Charles notices he’s still in his racesuit— they’d red-flagged the race and called it then and there following the shunt, 4 laps away from the end. Charles had bolted straight out the garage and skipped every media duty, fines be damned. “I think it’d do you two some good to be around each other, okay?”
“Okay.”
An aside on the strange thing we call grief: it can be a rampant, demonic, abysmal thing— so it goes for Pierre— or a quiet, quiet, stillness— so goes for Charles.
(It should be said they will both experience the same things in due time, since the journey is never quite the same for either of them; or anyone involved, for that matter. Grief is just the unsaids and the excess, anyway, of every kind of love one can uniquely share with a single person. There is no existence of a baseline or foundation or limit. It simply is.)
And if you’d brought the best in Pierre, then losing you brought his worst—
So it’s no surprise that when he crumples, he tears everything else down with him.
That’s not to say his breakdown happens during the funeral, though. Yes, there had been something about the fritillaries and the hydrangeas and the knell of the church bells; Something in the arid, clotting smell of frankincense and myrrh, and the distant thin drift of smoke up in the chapel that had sent his guts curling up at the thought of that black, forsaken night back in Si—
He shoves off someone’s steadying hand.
“Don’t you dare fucking touch me, Charles.”
—but the funeral had gone fine, other than that. Hell, Pierre drifted through the rest of the season, albeit like a ghost of himself, racing against Colapinto who’d replaced you. He managed to power through the annual driver-dinner despite wanting to throw up from seeing the empty seat they’d left in your name, and powered through the choking grief during the 2024 FIA Awards Ceremony where they did the same in your honour.
It’s only when he gets shitfaced at Alex and Lily’s wedding.
In hindsight, Pierre thinks it might not have been because of Charles playing that piano-piece he’d made with you for the newlyweds, but the fact that everyone had been— happy. You would have been grateful, he thinks. To have your memory lived on in love.
Surrounded by silken, pastel gowns and white, floor-length veils and perfectly-timed petals sailing down from the lavender sky, Pierre has to remind himself that he’s not back in that dreamy Malta wedding he had been in with you three years ago. Three. Fuck— had it been that long?
(Life had gone on without you.
Ofcourse, it did. Ofcourse, it does.)
And so Pierre drinks.
He drinks the overpriced champagne, and the aged Riesling, and the Jameson Malt whiskey, and the bespoke St. Hugo wine that Danny sponsored cartons of for the wedding. He drinks and drains and downs until Charles had to tug him aside and into a washroom, telling him to take it easy, you’re embarrassing yourself, piccol—
“Ne t’avise pas de me toucher, putain,” Pierre hisses, snatching him up by the collar. “And don’t fucking call me that. You don’t get to.”
“What the hell is up with you?” Charles snaps, wrenching out his grasp. There’s no malice in his words; he’s simply never seen Pierre shoot a glare so savage that it physically makes him recoil at the sight. There had been the absence too: Pierre’s sudden severance from his life, avoiding him like the plague and cold-shouldering him like a child acting out a tantrum. Charles had gathered it'd been the grief, but now this—?
“None of this is fair,” Pierre waves, stumbling to lean onto the basin with a growl. “None of it. The fucking flowers and the dancing and the singing. They…” But then he’d shaken his head abruptly, and looked up at Charles in the reflection of the mirror, looking pristine as ever in his Spring Collection Armani suit— or whatever the fuck it is he’s wearing.
“You,” Pierre amends his words. “You don’t fucking deserve. You never did, but I…”
“Deserve what, you asshole?”
“Her.”
A beat.
Charles seizes. Pierre turns to face him.
“What is it you say, again, Calamar?” he hiccups. “No matter anything—?”
Something sobers him in an instant.
Charles had struck him.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
There’s a ringing pulsing all around Pierre’s head. Dizzying. The world ripples into painful clarity: he’s been shoved and pinned against the bathroom wall. “I told you not to touch me, you basta—”
“Fucking answer me, Pierre!”
“I said!” he snarls, now in full command of his senses. “That you never fucking deserved her.”
The scuffle is vicious—
—but it doesn’t last long. Lewis had intervened before the fight got too bloody and out of hand, prying them off each other like wild strays. Charles comes out with a nosebleed; Pierre recovers from drunken bruises and a split lip. Neither Alex nor Lily, fortunately, ever hear a peep about what had gone down that night.
By 2025 pre-season testing, they still don’t talk.
Not since the wedding in early January, to pre-seasons in February, nor when they shared a podium in the first race of the year that mid-March in Australia. “Whatever the hell it was I stopped that night… You gotta talk to him, man,” Lewis had even counselled out of the blue. “Don’t wanna end up like me, Charles. You don’t.”
He doesn’t listen, ofcourse. He’s petty like that, and Pierre is stubborn.
(Charles does, however, ask during a 20-second elevator ride down to their shared Melbourne hotel lobby:
“For how long, Pierre?”
There’s no need for thought. The answer is too easy.
“For as long as I knew her.”)
So it doesn’t take much before the fans put the pieces together. There had been that pianissimo lament Charles had released, after all, damningly titled ‘SIN24(1:4)’ like something out of a melodramatic movie, alongside a heartbreaking interview that tore the entirety of motorsport asunder from the sheer grief it carried. Couple that with existing connections over the years with you and Charles’ rekindling relationship—
Well.
Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of all is that the world doesn’t fully learn about Charles' love for you until after your death.
Or, no. The greatest tragedy, perhaps, is that no one knows—
“I loved her first,” Pierre laughs, meanly. It’s childish and immature and nonsensical. But what can he do? What can he do? This is Pierre, who has been so polite with his longing, who has carried so much love in his heart for you and never found a place to put it down.
This is Pierre who couldn’t begin the next day without you, because you took the sun with you when you’d gone and selfishly left nothing but a cavern in his soul; because his heart was still pulling through every yesterday he had to endure without you.
“So who are you so angry at, Pierre. Charles?” Over the phone, he can hear his mother set her mug down, resolute. “Your best friend?”
“He’s—!” Not my best friend, he’d wanted to cry out, but the words taste rotten. My best friends are 6 feet beneath the earth; in a place I can’t reach. He kicks the leg of his hotel vanity instead, hard enough to rattle a perfume bottle down to the carpet. “Pierre,” he hears his mother chide.
“You need each other. Now more than ever.”
“I can’t,” he says, face twisting into frustration as the tears blur his vision. “You don’t understand. How can you?”
“Unless, dear boy, you’re angry at her—”
“Non! No!” he cries, furious. “For fucks sake, I can never be angry at her. I loved her. Love. Maman, I love her. I can’t— I don’t—”
He’s looking back on it all now. It feels like remembering how you left someone through the rearview mirror. The months since your death had collapsed into a shrinking gap in his memory. He had only ever been placing one foot in front of the other, day by day by day by—
When did you become this? Something he couldn’t think become possibly worse? Worse than an agonising pain that screamed in his chest, a twist in his gut, a— a memory. Memory. Someone he could only cry or scream and never just talk about.
You who’d held his heart in such an relentlessly tight fist (unknowingly too, so how could he ever blame you?); paralysing, breaking— And then: you up and fucking went. You’re gone. Yet somehow, still, he thinks he’s never felt you haunt him now more than ever.
“I’m— It’s me,” he crumbles, choking in his tears. There’s that harrowing, daunting feeling gripping Pierre’s entire body again; makes him want to curl in on himself and squeeze into the tightest, darkest corner of the room and disappear. It’s the same pit of dread he’d felt that night they broke the news to him that you’d died from asphyxiation, and not upon impact.
(Slow. You had died slow. You must have been terrified.)
“I’m so fucking angry at everything. At the world. At me. I wish I never took on this pain. I wish I learned to let go easier. I wish she was here, because I miss her. I miss her so bad, Mama, I fucking miss her. Do you understand me? Tell me you do. Because I think I could die. I think I am dying. I want— To, I— I can’t— I can’t breathe. Not without—”
My boy, his mother weeps over the line, because sometimes that’s all a mother can do to console their twenty-seven-turned-seven-year-old child, halfway across the world. My sweet, darling boy. I’m so sorry.
It’s Doohan who he goes to, heaving and red-faced and trembling out of his skin like a cowering dog. They sit together for a long while; long enough for Jack to realise it’s not him who Pierre needed, but — Charles, Jack texts, He’s having a panic attack.
I’m already boarding my flight, the Monegasque answers, bitterly. It’s the truth. The thing about having Lewis Hamilton as a teammate is that you can leave as early as you wish for the next race. Just keep me updated. Tell him to pick up my call.
Charles calls once, ten minutes later.
Pierre doesn’t pick up.
He doesn’t bother calling again.
— I miss her too, is all he allows via text, and isn’t even surprised when he sees Pierre’s phonescreen has earned a new crack on it the next time they cross paths.
A shunt in Shanghai rattles something in Pierre again.
“I thought you—” he swallows, mouth dry, “—would’ve been at the Medical Centre. I looked for you.”
“They cleared me,” Charles explains, blankly. It had been a gnarly crash, but barely ranking in any of the worst ones he’d ever suffered. “Pierre?”
“I owe you a drink,” Pierre blurts, before thinking. The scar on Charles’ nose from when he’d punched him back in January is invisible to everyone but him (and Lewis).
“Ouias. You do.”
They don’t get their drink in Shanghai, but back in Monaco, where Charles had to be taken on a detour to for some APM photoshoot. It doesn’t take long for another argument to spring up between them again, borne from the tension in the air, and—
“You threw them away?” Pierre frowns, looking at the remaining PR boxes stacked at the corner of Charles’ apartment. Every single one of them had cards with your name on it. They must have been from last year, sent by brands and companies long before your accident had happened.
“Not all of it. Not yet. I…” he huffs when Pierre shoots him a sour look. “I didn’t have the time.”
Pierre sets the Whiskeys he owed onto the kitchen island with more force than necessary. “She would have wanted you to give them away, Charles. C'est du gâchis.”
“Don’t tell me what she’d want,” he bites, instinctively. He snags one of the bottles and doesn’t bother with taking crystals, just goes to slump at the foot of his living room sofa. (Not on it, because you’d laid there last, and he wanted to keep your scent on the throw rug for as long as he could.) “And I know. I gave most of it away to Lily, back in January. She wears the pieces to paddock sometimes.”
“Does she know that it’s—”
“Yeah. Ofcourse. The first time she went to wear one she took the time to ask me if I was okay with it.” She’d been kind. He forgets Lily had lost a dear friend in you, too.
“What about her other things?” Pierre asks, eyes scanning Charles' shared apartment with you. Your possessions have remained in time, caught and clung frozen in a glacial, eerie stillness: the slippers by the door seemed to wait to be worn again, and so did the half-empty bottle of perfume by the keys. “Did you throw those too?”
“Pierre,” Charles warns, before sighing. The weight of the day had suddenly crashed down on him. “Sit the fuck down.”
There’s an anger and sadness swarming up and threatening to choke him, but beneath that, something hurts him more. It feels a lot like a betrayal– which makes no sense, because Pierre has never made him any promises. Despite having a ringside seat to the relationship Charles had with you, Pierre has never interfered; has only ever protected you; and above all else, had been considerate about his love for you.
(And Charles knows intimately what that’s like, however brief his experience had been. The white-hot pain; a burn that smoulders continuously under the skin like embers. He can only imagine how much longer Pierre had suffered in silence compared to him.)
Pierre sits. Takes a swig after Charles does. There’s something in his mind begging to resurface— he might’ve done something like this with him before, sharing a bottle amongst each other like teens. There are 4 people in that distant memory. He shakes it away in favour of another thought.
“I almost deleted my chat with her,” Pierre says.
Charles had pieces of you everywhere he went. Charles had Pau, France; had the bungalows in Maldives, had the chords of your song in his fingertips when he plays the piano, had the handwritten chicken-scratch writings you’d left behind in his little notebook he carries into the Ferrari garage. He had a song he made for you that’s unfinished, the chords in his laptop frozen in time from when you’d sat on his lap to listen to what progress he made.
(It’s a song unfinished, he’d explained, when it’d been pointed out in an interview. A lot like her, he couldn’t bring himself to say, eyes catching on the polaroid of you stuck at a wall.)
Pierre only had you, and you alone. A museum of text messages in an old chat, or a photo album of you in his gallery, or your bright voice in an old voice message over the phone, sent from a million miles away, once upon a Tuesday. He scrolls them as far as the app allows him, and calls your number (hoping, irrationally, that you’d pick up) so he could hear your cheesy pre-recorded voicemail.
“You have no idea how much better I could have loved her, Charles,” he says, and it’s so soft that the Monegasque nearly misses it. “I could have loved her better than you. I did love her better than you. I’ve loved her all my life, you know?”
The air is dead silent between them. Charles rests the back of his head to a cushion, and can feel the world warp between the tipsiness. “But I loved her.” I did. I did. I loved her. I love her. Je l’aimais. Because what is there left to say? To argue about? What would it change?
Pierre nods. “Yeah.” He can recognise it; recognise himself. What Charles had was true— and above all, real— so Pierre couldn’t have a say on it. Who was he to do so? He of all people had no right. “I know,” he agrees, and tries to tamp down the waver in his voice. “I know you did, Charles.”
“Did you ever think to tell her?”
“No,” he flinches, lightning quick. “Why would I?”
“Tell me the truth, Pierre, or I’ll crack this bottle at your head.”
“Never, Charles.”
Something savage ignites in him. You fucking liar, Charles thinks— knows. Harsher words snap in his mind. They taste disgusting. Maybe it’s the alcohol.
He doesn’t force him, in the end, just scowls and sets the emptying bottle down with a disappointed thud. It would’ve been unfair, anyway. Everything about this is unfair. He figures Pierre is keeping the truth for his sake. He isn’t even sure if he’d have been able to take it, and he’s not sure if he should even be grateful. He’s just angry. And it’s so much more easier to be angry at Pierre than it would be to whatever divine being that decided to take you away from him.
“I hate you,” Charles admits. If he said it any louder then Pierre might’ve heard the lie in his voice. He probably knows, anyhow. If there’s one thing grief had gifted them, it was clarity in the off-moments.
(Charles briefly closes his eyes. What is it Mémère had told him again? Never seek reason where there is none.)
“I understand,” Pierre says, and then, with little malice: “I hate you too.”
Now, this may be a good place to worry about another fall:
A fault line driven like a crack between their childhood friendship, a petty amount of years spent ignoring each other, or a farce held up to the media that everyone can very clearly see through. But this isn’t Lewis or Nico; this isn’t that kind of story— animosity over competition is different to animosity over heart, even if the outcome could be the same.
No; Pierre and Charles will eventually come to the ugly realisation that out of the original four of their childhood friend group, only two of them are the last ones standing to achieve this godforsaken dream— and nothing brings two people of shared history together like all-encompassing grief.
There is no crest or fall here. There is only that plateau you feel in your soul after losing someone dearest to you; a vast ocean of Nothingness; Doldrums. They’re both sinking in it.
What an inconvenience it is that they happen to be each other’s lifelines, too.
“Will you drink with me?” invites Charles, on the second bottle he goes to take. (Will you drown with me? More like.)
Ofcourse, the louder part of Pierre doesn’t say. You are my greatest friend, and I am not that cruel.
“Okay,” Pierre nods, resolute, and resists to tag Calamar at the end of his answer.
They’ll be fine. They will be because they have to be, now that four has turned to three has turned to two.
To put it all simply: they cannot lose each other. They have no one else.
You have made sure of that.
The Universe has made sure of that.
“I wanted to plant fritillaries,” Pierre quietly says. “I couldn’t make it past the cemetery gates.”
A hum. “Let’s go together.”
“We will never be the same, after,” Pierre warns, after a long drawn out pause. “Calamar, I need you to know. I won’t apologise.”
“Bien sûr,” Charles confesses. “I don’t want you to.”
Something unspoken in the air lifts as they pass the bottle again to each other.
“Okay. When should we plant it?”
Charles thinks of your sunshine smile in the evergreen garden, again.
“Après la saison d'automne,” he mumbles. Then, lucidly: “Fritillaries are planted after Fall.”
spirit is truly my favourite fic writer. literally crying at 1am. such elegant writing and the flow is so natural and almost like floating on a calm sea. highly recommend that you also read the footnotes because the amount of detail she pours into this is incredible.
Summary: you + Lestappen + a sex tape leak + one very unamused head of communications … need I say more?
Based on this request
The Red Bull Racing communications office smells like stale coffee and impending doom. Portia, the team’s head of communications, sits stiffly in the center of the storm, knuckles white around her phone. She stares at the video playing on her laptop, horrified but unable to look away.
The footage is intimate, explicit — grainy but undeniably clear. Three people, tangled up in sheets, moaning names, gasping into each other’s mouths. Max Verstappen. You. And, unmistakably, Charles Leclerc.
Her inbox is a dumpster fire of urgent PR memos, emails with subject lines in all caps, and press releases that have already been revised half a dozen times. She hasn’t even responded to half of them yet. No point.
This is beyond damage control.
The door swings open violently, smacking into the wall. Max strolls in first, looking every bit as casual as if he just finished a training session. You follow behind him, your hair in a messy bun, holding a half-eaten croissant. Charles is the last to enter, chewing gum like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Portia blinks at the three of you. “… What the hell?”
Max plops into the chair across from her, sprawling out like he’s just arrived at a friend’s house. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Portia repeats, incredulous. “You-” She gestures frantically toward her screen. “The video. The world just saw everything, Max! You, her, him-” She throws a desperate look at Charles, who only shrugs.
“Yeah. We saw,” Charles says casually, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to Max. “Kind of funny, no?”
Portia makes a strangled noise in her throat. “No! It is not funny, Charles. None of this is funny!” She can already feel the migraine creeping in, sharp and mean behind her left eye.
Max leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Listen, it’s not like we were hiding it. We’ve been-”
“Friends,” you interject, your voice calm as ever. “Very close friends.”
Charles grins. “Really close.”
Max winks. “Super close.”
Portia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Stop saying that.”
“You’re the one freaking out,” Max says, as if that makes any of this better. “It’s not a big deal.”
Portia throws up her hands. “Max, it’s not just a sex tape. It’s a scandal. Sponsors, shareholders, media outlets — everyone is calling. Red Bull is losing its mind, Ferrari is fuming, and the internet-” She gestures vaguely toward the air, as if the internet is some wild animal loose in the building. “-is losing its collective shit.”
Charles leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “The internet always loses its shit.”
“True,” Max agrees, glancing at you. “Remember when they thought we broke up because I didn’t post anything for two weeks?”
You hum thoughtfully, finishing the last bite of your croissant. “They were so mad.”
Portia stares at the three of you like she’s trapped in some bizarre fever dream. “Are none of you remotely concerned about this?”
Max shrugs. “Not really.”
“It’s out now,” you say, wiping your hands on a napkin. “What’s the point of stressing?”
Charles nods like you just delivered the most profound truth of the century. “Exactly. It’s not like we can put it back in the box.”
“Oh my god,” Portia mutters, pressing her palms to her temples. “You’re all insane.”
Max flashes her a charming smile — the kind that usually gets him out of trouble. “Come on, Portia. You handle worse than this all the time.”
“Not this, I don’t!” She groans. “I mean, sure, we’ve dealt with crashes, team infighting, broken engines, drunk interviews-” She shoots a pointed look at Max, who grins unapologetically. “But this? This is next level.”
Charles checks his phone, seemingly unbothered by her panic. “The fans seem to love it, though. Look-” He flips the screen toward Portia. It’s a Twitter thread full of memes and heart-eye emojis, captioned with things like Lestappen and Y/N living their best lives and Honestly, goals.
Portia glares at the phone like it just insulted her family. “This is not helping.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Actually, it kind of is.” He points at the screen. “If the fans are cool with it, the sponsors will calm down eventually.”
“Sponsors are not fans.” Portia slams her laptop shut, as if doing so will somehow make the problem disappear. “Sponsors are very rich, very conservative people who do not want their logos anywhere near a video of you having a threesome!”
Charles clicks his tongue thoughtfully. “Technically, it’s not just a threesome.”
Portia shoots him a death glare. “I swear to God, Charles-”
You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand. Max notices, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he nudges you with his elbow. “See? Even Y/N thinks it’s funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” you admit, which only makes Charles beam with satisfaction.
Portia looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown. “This is not funny. None of this is funny.”
“I think you need to relax,” Max says, as if that’s the simplest solution in the world. “It’s not like we committed a crime.”
“It might as well be,” Portia snaps. “Do you know what Ferrari is going to do with this? They’re probably drafting some moral code violation complaint as we speak.”
Charles waves a hand dismissively. “They can’t fire me. I bring too much to the table.”
Portia gives him a flat look. “Charles, you are the table.”
“Exactly.”
Max turns to you, his hand casually resting on the back of your chair. “Do you think we should put out a statement?”
You consider it for a moment, then shake your head. “Nah. Statements are boring.”
“Agreed,” Charles says, pulling his phone back out to scroll through more tweets. “No one likes statements.”
Portia exhales slowly, as if trying to summon every ounce of patience she has left. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Your solution to this PR nightmare is ... to do absolutely nothing?”
“Exactly,” Max says with a satisfied nod. “We just let it blow over.”
“Like Austria,” you add.
Portia stares at you, aghast. “Austria? You cannot compare this to a racing incident in Austria!”
Max looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think it’s kind of similar. People get mad for a while, then they forget.”
Charles grins mischievously. “By next week, someone else will do something stupid, and no one will care about this.”
Portia groans, dragging her hands down her face. “You are all ... impossible.”
Max reaches across the table to pat her shoulder. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine.”
“Max,” Portia says, her voice low and dangerous. “If this mess costs us a single sponsor — just one — I swear I will make your life a living hell.”
Max’s grin widens. “You already do.”
You burst out laughing at that, and even Portia can’t suppress a reluctant smile, though it’s clear she’s fighting it with every fiber of her being.
“This isn’t over,” she warns, but there’s no real bite in her voice.
“It never is,” Charles says breezily. “But that’s half the fun, no?”
You lean into Max’s side, content and completely unbothered, and he drapes an arm around your shoulders. Charles glances over at the two of you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “See? We’re all good. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Portia shoots him a murderous glare. “Do not say that.”
Max laughs, the sound low and easy, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside the room doesn’t exist — no scandals, no cameras, no angry emails. Just the three of you, stuck in the strangest mess, but somehow, perfectly fine with it.
And, really, isn’t that all that matters?
***
A few weeks later, Portia is sitting at her desk, sipping her second coffee of the morning, when her inbox pings with a new email. She glances at the subject line, hoping it’s something routine — maybe a press update, or an invitation to a sponsor event.
Instead, her heart drops.
URGENT: New Video — Verstappen, Leclerc, and Y/L/N on Beach Vacation
She groans audibly, slamming her head down on the desk with a dramatic thud. They didn’t listen to her at all.
Opening the email, her stomach churns as she scrolls down to the attached link. The video loads instantly — there’s Max, Charles, and you, sun-kissed and carefree, lounging on beach chairs somewhere tropical. The sound of waves crashing in the background is almost soothing.
Almost.
And then, without warning, it escalates — hands everywhere, tangled limbs, kisses that start off playful but quickly turn into something else entirely. A bottle of rosé tips over in the sand as Max pulls you onto his lap, and Charles leans over, dragging his mouth along your shoulder with a grin.
Portia shakes her head in disbelief, muttering under her breath, “I’m going to kill them.”
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summary: Sebastian came into your life in 2015 and left in 2020 - but you fell in love with him and he just wanted a championship.
themes/warnings: alcohol, ANGST, no use of y/n, description of a panic attack, unrequited love, waxing poetic about ferrari - can you tell they're my fav team, kimi mentioned, charles is here too !! THIS IS FICTION
wc: 3.6k
a/n: someone on tumblr said that ferrari is a haunted house with a picket fence and i have never stopped thinking about it since. i have also never stopped thinking about sebastian vettel - subcategory of seb thoughts is seb in ferrari. also still open to do requests - trying out this whole fic writing thing. will also need help with organising my blog if anyone is keen :)
read on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/60713827
Sebastian joined Ferrari in 2015. The team were ecstatic to have the four time world champion join their ranks, determined to bring Ferrari back to its former glory.
You were working on the strategy team, fairly new but established enough to be listened to on the rare occasion.
You met Seb in the pre-season at his factory introduction. He made his speech, charming the floor with his near perfect Italian. He popped into the strategy meeting room during his tour, a war room that had become home for you with its laptops and papers spread out. Sebastian was the perfect gentleman, shaking hands with everyone, though you thought he may have held on a bit longer with you.
The season started soon after, the entire garage working overtime. You were given the opportunity to accompany the team at races, rather than being stuck at Maranello.This is how you became Sebastian’s favourite strategist.
You’re not exactly sure when it happened. You made a good strategy call in Malaysia, a well timed pit stop in Hungary and by Singapore, the lion knew your coffee order from the Ferrari cafeteria, ensuring to always pass you some before a long meeting.
Falling for Sebastian was drawn out, comprised of lingering greeting hugs, good conversation at team dinners, long nights at the factory and searing glances across foreign nightclubs.
You didn’t realise it for a while, and you wouldn’t realise it until it was too late. The attention you received was perhaps just part of Seb’s charm, and he had the whole motorsport world wrapped around his infamous finger.
2016 brought on a winless year for Ferrari, both Kimi and Sebastian unable to make it to that crucial top step.
You found Seb at the back of the Ferrari motorhome after a particularly tough race, hiding between tyre stacks. You overheard his PR team scrambling to find him - you slipped out to the back unnoticed, knowing exactly where he was.
The tyre stacks were sort of a shared place for you and Sebastian, free from the prying eyes of the world. The only person who knew about it was Sebastian’s head mechanic, who accidentally stumbled upon you two sharing champagne after a podium last year.
I’ll be there soon. Sebastian recognised your footsteps before even looking up.
You sat down beside him, trying to find the words while he absentmindedly played with his water bottle.
I’m sorr-
I don’t want to hear it.
Sebastian had never snapped at you. You knew the strategy calls were bad today, resulting in an ill timed pitstop and Sebastian falling through the other. This Seb, this was completely foreign to you.
Seb stood and left, sparing no further glance at you. It was a punch to your gut. Did he blame you? Drivers were always temperamental, that you knew, but Sebastian had always been nothing but kind and mature with you.
Your body went into autopilot mode, packing up what you can before the team debrief.
Sebastian barely spared you a glance as everyone settled in for the debrief. Perhaps a sign that he calmed down during media duties, but you knew better than to play detective with another man’s emotions.
Strategy seemed to be the biggest issue to tackle with your boss taking the lead. You half listened, taking notes occasionally until he mentioned your name.
One of the plans you brought up in pre-race meetings was bold and daring. It was entertained, but ultimately shoved aside for what ended up happening during the race. However after witnessing what happened in the race, it would have gained the team some higher positions.
Ferrari is a team, one where we win and lose together. Every aspect is just as important as each other. Admitting mistakes and learning for them is how the team gets stronger.
The strategy admission had Sebastian sneaking glances at you for the rest of the meeting. You felt it, but you weren’t exactly ready to forgive yet.
You returned to your home in Maranello without so much as another word to Sebastian. You were, however, greeted by a bouquet of peonies on your dining table, along with a note from the man you were so desperately trying not to think about.
By 7PM the same day, you and Seb were sharing a blanket on the couch and watching a romcom, having devoured pizza and now working your way through a giant bag of chocolate wafers.
Unfortunately, Seb knew the way to your heart. As you tucked yourself into bed that night, you realised that you never shared a conversation with him about Sunday and an even scarier thought, you had forgiven him.
2017 saw you and Sebastian grow even closer. Movie nights at your apartment became the norm and Seb often took you to dinner on race weekends, despite your protests that the dinners were too fancy. He had to spoil his favourite strategist would always be his response.
Sebastian returned to the top step of Monaco that year, the Italian anthem blaring across the track along with a chorus of devoted Tifosi. He sneaked off after the celebrations, pulling you with him to the tyre stacks, champagne bottle on the other hand.
Seb passed you the bottle and you took a large sip, pushing down the thought that his lips were on it mere moments ago.
Are you coming to the afterparty?
Yes, but I don’t have anything to wear?
No party dress packed? Ye of little faith.
You rolled your eyes and shoved the bottle back into his hands. The endless banter and teasing simultaneously made you forget about your feelings for Seb but also made you fall harder for him.
Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. He kissed your cheek and walked away.
Cheek kisses weren’t new for Seb, having evolved from greeting hugs long ago. But “take care of it”? Well, he better not be doing what you were thinking.
You returned to your hotel room to a large black box on your bed, an extravagant red bow tied around it with a handwritten note, definitely scrawled on by a tipsy Seb.
The box revealed a red dress, and on top of it, another small box. You opened it and out dangled a small necklace with a heart charm. Engraved on one side was the number 5. Sebastian.
Sebastian knocked on your door two hours later, dressed sharp and ready for the night ahead. He took you in, the dress he picked out was the perfect fit against your skin. There was however, one missing detail.
The necklace?
It’s a bit much, no?
Nonsense.
Sebastian walked into your room and spotted the necklace on the bed. He took it out of its pouch and motioned for you to stand in front of the mirror. He stood behind, putting the necklace on you. His fingers ghosted over your neck, raising the tiny hairs on your skin.
Team number 5.
Sebastian kissed the side of your head and his fingers trailed down your arm to grab your hand. You followed him out in a daze to the elevator.
The dim light of the elevator and Sebastian’s intoxicating cologne enveloping the cramped box. The elevator dinged, letting in more people. The sound woke you from whatever spell Sebastian cast. You counted down the floors until you had to leave the warmth of Sebastian’s side and his calloused hand around yours.
Ground floor. The air was clearer as you exited the bubble - reality. Because despite everything, Sebastian wasn’t yours. He is Ferrari’s. You are Ferrari’s. For now, sharing a home would be enough.
You never left Sebastian’s line of sight all night. Between partying with your girlfriends, sharing a drink with your boss and a few dances with Seb, the clarity in the haze of the club was Sebastian.
As the night began winding down, Sebastian approached you at a booth. He was holding a mystery drink and his pupils were blown wide. He began blabbering about something Kimi did, the Finn possibly to blame for Sebastian’s current state. You took one look at him and began arranging a cab back to the hotel.
You managed to drag a half asleep Sebastian back to his room. You sat him on the edge of the bed while you filled up a water bottle. You came back and found him spread eagle on the bed. At least he took his shoes off.
Goodnight Seb.
You were halfway out the room when you heard it.
I love you.
You froze. Looking back, you saw Seb snoring peacefully, hugging a pillow to his chest. No, he’s drunk and sleeping. It wasn’t for you. It could’ve been for his bed for all you cared for. It didn’t matter, despite your heart wishing it was for you.
2018 was another successful year for Ferrari. Sebastian came home with five wins that year, placing second in the drivers standings and Kimi in third. All in all, you were quite proud of the team’s efforts that year and you knew you could unlock more of that potential.
However, you could feel something bothering Sebastian. An itch that had been present all season. You had asked a few times, but Seb always insisted it was nothing. You knew Sebastian well enough by this point. You could read him, to an extent. But if he truly wanted to hide something, you would be helpless at getting it out.
Sebastian invited you to stay at his farm in Switzerland for a week during the winter break. You happily obliged, having not seen him since wrapping up in Abu dhabi. You could use the tranquillity of farm life for a bit.
Your days there were spent helping Sebastian with the animals. He taught you horse riding and you taught him baking. You let yourself get lost in that life, if just for a mere moment. Perhaps in some alternate universe, this was your home with him, that you weren’t only playing house for a week.
You and Sebastian were laying on the carpet in front of the fireplace, sharing a bowl of attempted smores. It was your last night there before you had to jet off back to Maranello to begin pre season work.
Seb got quiet, not exactly rare but it was different when something was on his mind.
Would you ever leave?
Leave where?
Ferrari.
No. Ferrari is home.
Sebastian hummed, adding nothing more but deciding to bite into another smore. A bit of chocolate dripped onto his chin. You chuckled and wiped it off with your thumb.
Besides, you don’t need to worry about that new French kid. You’re still my favourite, world champion.
Sebastian laughed, but you missed the melancholy in his eyes and the smile not quite reaching his eyes.
Being a Tifosi came with many highs and lows - any balding Italian man can tell you that. It was felt even more within the team, especially for Sebastian this year.
2019 saw the meteoric rise of Charles Leclerc, the predestined. He cemented his place as not only the future of Ferrari itself, but of the sport as well.
Charles was full of energy and light. You grew fond of the kid and it was nice to have his company amidst the turmoil surrounding the team that year.
You went into that year determined to get Sebastian his championship he so desperately craved. You were instead met by cheating rumours, bad calls, power shifting and well, an increasingly frustrated Sebastian.
Sebastian who has been chasing that championship feeling for years. Sebastian who bleeds Ferrari red. Sebastian who is determined to bring the team back to the top. Sebastian, who is not quite yours, but you devoted your red heart to.
Perhaps that’s how you ended up in this position.
Sebastian pulled you into his driver’s room after a race. The habit has raised a few eyebrows from passing crew, but none have said a word.
Nothing ever happened anyways.
Seb would sit you on his couch and you’d listen. Listen as he rambled in a heinous mix of German, Italian and English. Listen as he let out his emotions after a race and all the lows he went through that weekend.
You’d bring up some of these points to relevant crew members. It would be worked on and by the following race, it would be better. But it was never enough for Sebastian.
You understood, he was supposed to bring Ferrari back, follow in the footsteps of his mentor and hero. It was an immense pressure and responsibility that has been carried for years. Now, the Italians have put their faith in his teammate, throwing him aside like an old toy.
It was draining for you too, being subjected to this almost every weekend. It wasn’t your burden to bear, but this was Sebastian. He is still Rosso Corsa, and you weren’t one to deny a cry for help.
Singapore rolled around, one of Sebastian’s favourites. He crossed the line in first place that night. You haven’t been so happy in months.
Sebastian found you at your desk after media duties. You were still on the adrenaline high, but the tiredness began seeping back into your bones. You knew you weren’t sleeping well, the stress of the season getting to you and your eyes looked darker than ever. For Ferrari, the pain was always worth it.
Come out tonight.
Seb, I feel dead.
And the race winner is personally inviting you.
You could never resist him, which is how you have an extremely plastered Seb on your arm as you walk back to the hotel. Apparently being part of Team 5 also meant babysitting when he’s had one too many.
I LOVE FERRARI! I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE! FORZA FERRARI!
Sempre.
May 2020. F1 was still on the break. The only place you went was your home in Maranello and occasionally the factory. You hadn’t seen Sebastian in months and to be honest, you haven’t heard from him as much as you wanted to.
Then, the announcement. Sebastian Vettel to leave Ferrari by the end of the 2020 season.
It came as a shock to you. Seb’s contract was up for renewal, you knew that. But he never said anything about leaving, at least, not to your face. And to find out from Instagram, rather than from the man himself, that was a whole other issue.
You left several messages on Seb’s number over the next week, all remained unanswered. You knew he was a bit of a recluse sometimes, preferring quiet company over the glitz and glamour other drivers seemed to surround themselves with. Ignoring you however, that was unheard of.
You asked some of Seb’s mechanics, but none have heard from him. You even asked Charles, but all he received was a polite thank you message.
After a while, you gave up on contacting him. You knew better than to beg for a man’s attention, even Sebastian’s. It broke your heart to walk away, but you had to keep pushing and Ferrari needed to keep pushing.
Red Bull Ring, Austria. The first race back was a much quieter environment than what you’ve been used to. Despite wanting to stay in Maranello, mainly to stay safe but also to avoid a certain German, your boss wanted you at the races. Who were you to deny the call of the Prancing Horse.
You ignored him all weekend, refusing to make eye contact or be in his general presence at all. It was perhaps a bit petty, but you deserved to be after the last two months.
Charles placed P2, a great result from the team for the first race back. You chatted to him at your desk after the race. Charles was a young man that had raw talent, immense passion and was wise beyond his years. You were lucky to call him a friend.
Mid conversation, Charles glanced behind you. You knew exactly who was standing there, but he could wait his turn.
You finished up with Charles, giving him a hug before he left.
You stared at Seb standing awkwardly in the doorway. He shifted on his feet, for once not knowing what to say to you.
Please say something.
I have nothing to say to you. You’re the one who went radio silent for months.
I’m sorry.
You shook your head and looked away, not wanting him to see how much this affected you.
I didn’t know how to tell you.
Seb moved closer, stepping into your space. He reached out a shaky hand to yours. You gripped his, you couldn’t help it. A silent sob escaped your body.
Come with me.
You whipped around, searching his pleading eyes.
Come with me. To Aston Martin.
His other hand came up to the side of your head, cupping your cheeks and wiping away the tears on your cheek.
Come with me. I need you.
His hand brushed down the side of your neck, fingers finding the necklace he gifted all those years ago.
Team 5. That’s our home. Please.
Sebastian fiddled with the charm. He found the engraved 5 turned around, no longer facing outward like how you’ve always worn it.
You took Sebastian’s hand and pressed a tender kiss to it.
Ferrari is my home. I can’t come with you.
You dropped his hand and looked anywhere else but him. You couldn’t bear to see the tears welling in his eyes.
Please leave.
Sebastian walked out, hesitating at the door. He took a last look at you and left.
You let the cries come out. Every emotion you’ve kept the last few years came out in a tidal wave.
You felt an arm wrapping around your shoulders, recognising Charles’ hand. He helped you to the floor and let you lean against him.
I’m sorry.
You requested to be transferred to Maranello for the rest of the season, citing health concerns. The team was sad to see you go, many of them enjoying your company on long race weekends.
You only saw Sebastian in passing for the rest of the year, heard about him from mechanics, through strategy feedback and once from Charles. He knew not to press, but you didn’t miss the occasional flicker of sympathy from his eyes.
Sebastian came by the factory after the season ended, a formal goodbye to Ferrari. There was food and drinks passed around and some quick speeches made.
Sebastian was the last to come forward.
It has been my dream to race for the Scuderia since I was a boy. Here I stand now, as a Ferrari driver for six incredible seasons. It still feels like cloud nine everytime I get to walk into this beautiful place and be greeted by the passion from every single one of you. I thank you all for the hard work you’ve put in all these years.
Sebastian took a breath, as if hesitating on what to say next. You found yourself waiting, a small part of you hoping for him to say something, anything that would allow you to forgive him.
I want to say a special thank you to those who have been by my side. You know who you are. I know I haven’t always made it easy, and I am sorry for that. But I am eternally grateful for you.
Sebastian’s eyes found yours in the crowd. You found yourself fiddling with the necklace for comfort, forcing your eyes to hold back tears.
Thank you all. Forza Ferrari sempre.
The crowd erupted in cheers, applauding Seb as he made his way back into the crowd.
Your ears were ringing, vision blurry and the swell of the crowd was suddenly too much. Your feet relief on instinct, turning you around and leading you towards the exit.
A hand found your arm as you reached the lobby. Charles. The youngster took one look at you and said something about a car and to wait. Your body curled into a ball as you heaved.
This was it. Sebastian was leaving. Leaving Ferrari and the home you built in it, with him. And neither of you could muster the courage for a proper goodbye. What an irony, Ferrari who creates heroes and legends but two of their best and brightest are cowards with each other.
A sleek black Ferrari pulled up to the front. The rumble of the engine was enough to push yourself to stand and stumble your way to Charles who had opened the door for you.
You turned, taking a look at the building. Ferrari is always going to be home, but the people in it give it meaning. Sebastian left, and your sun set, but it will rise again soon.
You were at the door and hesitated for the briefest moment. That was enough for Sebastian to come running into the lobby.
You stood in the moonlight with windswept hair and teary eyes. From the distance, Sebastian could just make out the glimmer of the necklace he gave you all those years ago and the most important thought - you were still the most beautiful woman he ever got the chance to know.
He loved you. Loves you. It was real all along, not some drunken stupor that he convinced himself it was all those years ago, hiding because it would be easier than to let himself fall.
He understood. You were always by his side, and he was too late to notice it, much less be grateful for it. You can't forgive him now, and he’s caused too much harm. It would be selfish of him to keep you tethered.
He needs to let you go.
Sebastian nodded at you from his frozen place in the lobby. This is the end. You touched your hand to your heart, where your necklace fell. In another life.
I’m so down if you’re ready, I’ll show you if you let me, girl (she said fuck me like I’m famous, I said okay)
You and Max Verstappen are very well known in the media, for having one of the most volatile rivalries in the sporting world. But Ferrari’s Princess and Redbull’s Mad Max send shockwaves through the paddock when your PR teams confirm you’re officially dating. The public have a hard time believing it…until your sex tape gets leaked on Twitter a month later. Social Media!AU
Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, trying my hand at a SM! AU for the first time!!, dom! Max and switch! Reader, size kink, sexism, max being a feminist king
Everyone always said there was a thin line between love and hate. Frankly, you find it to be sexist bullshit, rolling your eyes everytime some interviewer or your friends or trainer would make some sly comment about so what’s going on between you and Max, with a suggestive wiggle of their eyebrows. Nothing, just him trying to run me off the track repeatedly and giving me 4 bruised ribs in Singapore when he clipped me illegally, you say with an annoyed tone. You know that if you were a man, and not the first female driver in decades in F1, you wouldn’t be getting randomly shippedwith all the drivers. And for gods sake, Verstappen off all people was the most laughable idea. The man was either being a violent menace on the track or an autistic twelve year old off it, you think vehemently. You two had stayed well out of each others way in your Haas seat last year, with you leading the mid pack in the suboptimal car but Max remaining well out of reach at the front of the pack. But this year, you’d earned yourself a Ferrari seat and were ecstatic to finally be able to compete for a WDC.
That was, until you and Max Verstappen suddenly started to keep getting caught in each others crosshairs. What started as polite indifference between two coworkers blew up into a PR frenzy, with you and Max completing for the top step in the podium every race weekend. He thought you a reckless driver, getting lucky in a rocket ship this year and trying to sink her claws into something she can’t handle. You thought him over arrogant, a man who couldn’t handle losing to a girl, his fragile ego unable to handle losing a 4th WDC to a Ferrari driver who was only in her second F1 season.
And then, two months out from the end of the season, everything changed between you and Max. On a night out in Monaco with your friends, celebrating being home from triple headers, you’d had the unfortunate experience of being cornered by some drunk, sexist creep who thought he was entitled to touch you. He’d been stronger than you expected, pinning you in a dark alleyway and you just when you starting to freak out, Max of all people practically threw the guy off you. He’d angrily spat at the drunk to pick on someone his own size or he’d break his jaw next time, before leading you to his car with a gentle hand. Normally, you found Max’s far larger frame to be annoying, another way for him to intimidate you when he glared downwards. But that night you couldn’t help but be grateful for the muscular, tall man and his attentive blue eyes as you willingly follow him with wide, doe eyes.
The ride home had been silent, you nervously clutching the large sleeves of the hoodie Max had given you from his backseat. And when you’d thanked him for his help, saying you appreciate him looking out for you even though he hated you, he looked at you with genuine surprise. I don’t hate you, he’d said. Well, I suppose we have had our differences on the track. You snickered at this, muttering that’s one way of putting it. Max chuckled, making you peer at him curiously as you’d never heard him do that in your presence. He was actually very handsome, you noted, without an angry scowl on his face or that Redbull helmet covering him. Then you tell your tipsy brain to shut up because where the hell had that thought suddenly come from?!
But really, I think you’re a pretty amazing girl off the track, Max continued. It must be hard being the only female driver, but you always have something good to say to the dumb interview questions you get. And I’m not going to stand by and let any woman be felt up by some creep. Even if it’s the Princess of Ferrari, he adds with a smirk. You rolled your eyes at this, stepping out of his car as you reach your apartment. And when you offer him his hoodie back, he tells you to keep it. You can use it to stay warm at the next race - it’s Brazil, very rainy. Did I mention I’m called the rainmaster, incidentally? You burst out laughing at his lack of subtlety, and he smiles at having distracted you, making the scared look in your pretty doe eyes from earlier disappear. Fuck off, Verstappen, you giggle, and for once your words have no real bite.
By the time your second F1 season is over, and you’re receiving your trophy for the world championship at the Prizegiving Gala, the first female to do so, you and Max Verstappen have became good friends. Maybe something more, from all the time you’ve started spending together off the track gaming, playing padel, and going out drinking. You were far too afraid to ever say something to him, knowing the media response to the first female driver dating a fellow driver would be absolutely brutal. Besides, you had no idea if Max remotely felt the same way about you - his type seemed to be pretty models, not aggressive drivers who spent half her time plotting his downfall.
You’re surprised when he finds you at the after party, late into the night, where everyone is too plastered to note that the fallen Redbull champion is taking the winning Ferrari Princess to a private level on the yacht. If you think I’m going to apologise for breaking your winning streak, you can try again, you announce dramatically as you grin at him, 5 drinks in and pink lips loosened, letting him know you were jesting. Wouldn’t have it any other way, Princess, Max hums, coming to stand so close to you that your heart rate quickens when you feel warmth radiating from the taller, muscular driver. Besides, I’ll be taking the cup next year, anyways. Enjoy the high while you can, he says in his Dutch accent, all cocky.
You let out an outraged gasp at this, forgetting how close you two already are as you step towards him, accusing hand pressed against his firm chest. But before you can say anything, Max’s gorgeous blue eyes drop down to where your manicured nails are touching his pecs. And then he looks down further, to where your plush tits have pressed up against his abs, your cute red corset minidress pushing your cleavage up temptingly. There’s no mistaking the dark desire that swirls in his intense gaze as he looks back into your wide doe eyes. And then he’s leaning in, finally, you think, and then your brain wakes up and you remember who’s in front of you. We can’t, Max, you say breathlessly, dazed by how attractive he looks when turned on. Why not, the Dutchman demands, cocky as usual. You don’t want this, Princess? His large hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face upwards when you try to look away. Your breath hitched from the contact, and you’re sure he can feel how fast your carotid pulse is beating. It’s-it’s not that I don’t want to, you say with a blush, making a pleased smirk appear on Max’s lips. But I’m the only female driver on the grid, the public would tear me apart if they found out I hooked up with another driver on the grid-
Fuck what anyone else thinks, Max says passionately, the familiar spark of defiance in his eyes. I know the fallout from something like this would be much harder for you as a woman than me, and I waited till after the championship fight finished. No one can contest you didn’t win the cup with your own sheer skill. But now that it’s finished, I can’t hold back anymore. Your jaw drops from Max’s heated confession, never having guessed the handsome blonde would reciprocate your buried romantic feelings. And I don’t mean some one night stand or summer fling, he continued boldly. I want to be your boyfriend, I want you all to myself properly.
You must have had too many G&Ts, you hear yourself say distantly, cause you’re not even a little bit cute and shy like you normally are off the track, Verstappen. He smiles gently, knowing you were using humour to deflect from the swirling emotions within you. Maybe, he murmurs, bending down to rest his forehead against yours. Or maybe you look so fucking gorgeous in this red dress I knew I couldn’t hide how I feel anymore. When he feels your hand graze his chest, pulling him just a bit closer, he knows what you want. Pressing the gentlest of kisses to your glosses lips, he pulls back to make sure you still wanted more.
But he didn’t need to have any doubts, because you’re staring up at him sultrily, desire having darkened your own wide, doe eyes. This time you’re pulling him back onto your lips, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders so that there’s not even a millimetre of space between you too. He groans into your mouth as the months of tension come to a head, the two of you languidly exploring each others mouth with tongues.
Even if you’d woken up the next morning regretting your decision, there was no way you could turn down Max’s offer of a relationship. Because even if you had still hated him, the sex that night on the yacht has been so incredibly mind blowing, by far the best orgasm you had ever experienced, that you knew you’d never meet anyone who could fuck you so perfectly again. So you hesitantly said yes, let’s try this for real, Max over a late hungover brunch the next morning. The rest had been history - the two of you had spent the last 7 months in a secret relationship, not wanting the chaos of the media to ruin your relationship before it could even start properly. Max has proven time and time again you’d made the right decision saying yes, being the perfect boyfriend, dedicated to all your needs and wants, spoiling you endlessly and making you laugh whenever you had a bad day.
Sometimes things were hard, of course. Like when you two had tensions during a race, your private relationship doing nothing to dampen the competitive spirit you both shared. But you’d both make up after, whether it be with a long debrief and strategy talk on how to avoid an incident next time - or your personal favourite, some angry make up sex. Like you’d suspected, Max was an absolute sex god and you two enjoyed a very healthy sex life, exploring each others kinky preferences. So when you’d have to be away from each other for long periods, busy with planning and meetings at your separate team bases, your boyfriend came up with a solution once the nudes and phone sex didn’t quite hit the same.
Filming yourselves during sex seemed like a certain recipe for disaster, given how famous the two of you are and the consequences of anything got leaked. But the temptation was too great as weeks drag on without the touch of your boyfriend - so you agreed, just this once, to try it out.
Well, that had certainly been the plan. But the video had been so so nice to watch again and again anytime your pussy ached for Max that you can’t resist making more. And then last month when your teams had finally given the okay for an official announcement on your relationship, and the media response had overall been surprisingly positive, you two get too comfortable and Max accidentally sent the video over DM to you, instead of the encrypted chat you normally use.
And that was when shit hit the fan.
No, Max, go away, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone ever again! The blonde Dutchman sighs he leans his head against the closed bathroom door with a worried expression on his face. You’ve locked yourself in his Monaco penthouse’s bathroom for the past 4 hours, not coming out despite how much he’s pleaded. Please, schatje, he tries again. I know it’s bad, but we’ll get through it together. Twitter’s already banned any links of the video and both our PR teams are doing damage control and so many of the grid drivers and journalists were calling out the website that had leaked the tape. Please, I just want to see you, you can’t be locked in there forever and reading all the stuff online alone.
When you don’t reply, only sniffling through the door, he sighs again and slides down the door, making himself comfortable. A few minutes later he hears the door unlock and your red, crying face peeking through. Oh, schatje, he croons soothingly as you drop down into his arms and bury your face in his thick neck. He rubs soothing circles along your back as you sniffle that Everyone’s saying such horrible things, Maxie. How am I going to face going on the paddock ever again?
He reassures you firmly that you two would go hand in hand, united on the paddock with your heads held high, because you’ve done nothing wrong. He’d been doing the media game a lot longer than you and knew this scandal, like everything else, would get blown over with time. After your quiet sobs settle with his comforting words and tight hug, you pull back to look at him and apologise for shutting yourself away and not checking in on him. It’s your leaked tape too, you say anxiously. How are you feeling about it, baby?
He eases your concern again, telling you honestly that in the grand scheme of things, although it was a little mortifying he’s had worse in the media. Besides, it’s gonna be satisfying to crush whichever little fucker leaked the vid, he says vehemently. Any anyone who’s saying any bullshit sexist comments about you sleeping your way into F1 or anything is getting hit with a defamation lawsuit from legal, he declares, making your heart swell from his protectiveness. You still aren’t convinced, though. Are you sure, Max? I remember in that particular video, you can’t see much of my body but there’s definitely a lot of shots of your…
Dick? Your boyfriend finishes with a deadpan expression, That’s fine. Besides, I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. You know the hashtag Verstappen’s third leg is trending on Twitter now? You giggle at his nonchalance, making Max smile at seeing you cheered up. You’ve finally having processed what happened enough to maybe see a bit of humour in it. True, I suppose it could have been worse, you muse. The Las Vegas video could have been the leaked one. Imagine how batshit the fans would have gotten if they saw the handcuffs were for you, not me. Max laughs genuinely, blue eyes looking fondly at your mischievous expression. The familiar Ferrari fire he adored was back in your own pretty doe eyes.
Or worse, the Barcelona one, you tease as you lead him to the kitchen to start making dinner. Scrolling through hundreds of posts and spiralling was calorie consuming work. I think Twitter would have shut down if they found out Max Verstappen likes being called daddy in the bedroom.
Your boyfriend’s face goes adorably pink as he stammers at your unexpected roast. Hey-hey now, schat, that was just one time okay? You’d just accidentally said it and it caught me off guard-
You grin playfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek because he looked too cute to resist. Sure, baby, so off guard you lasted 5 seconds after that. His face goes even pinker, reaching the tips of his ears now as he shyly looks away. For all his fierceness on the track, you loved how sweet the Dutch Lion was off it. Giggling, you put him out of his misery by handing him a knife and tell him to get to work chopping the tomatoes. You knew no matter what came your way, you would be fine with Max by your side.
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A/N: okkk so what did u guys think at my first attempt at a social media AU ahaha. You know I love to yap I fear I included too many Twitter screenshots, I ALWAYS GET CARRIED AWAY. Anyway this was super fun pulled me right out of my writers block!!! Hope u enjoy xx
Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same
The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.
His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.
He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.
A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.
He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.
As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.
Sponsors.
Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.
He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.
“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.
The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”
“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”
The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”
Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”
“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”
“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.
His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.
But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.
Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.
“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”
Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.
“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”
You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.
“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.
“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.
“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”
“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”
You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.
There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”
“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.
“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”
You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.
“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”
And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.
***
The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.
The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.
“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.
Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”
You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.
“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”
Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.
When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.
“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.
“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.
You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.
“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”
Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”
Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.
The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.
Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.
“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”
You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.
“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”
Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.
“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”
You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”
Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”
Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.
“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”
Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”
You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.
“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.
Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”
You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.
“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”
Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.
“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”
You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.
“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.
Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”
You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.
“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.
Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.
"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."
***
It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.
You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.
“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”
Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”
You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.
As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.
Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”
You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.
“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.
The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.
“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”
“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.
You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.
“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.
“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”
He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”
You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.
The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.
“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”
You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.
Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.
Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”
You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.
Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”
You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.
“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”
You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.
You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”
You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.
Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”
You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”
Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.
“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”
You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.
“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”
There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.
But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.
“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”
Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”
You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.
Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”
***
The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.
Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.
You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.
“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”
Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”
The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”
He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.
You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.
You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.
Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.
Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”
“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”
You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.
“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”
He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”
You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”
Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”
You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”
“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”
There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.
You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”
He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”
The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”
Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”
You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”
He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”
The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.
“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”
You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.
“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”
Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”
There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.
“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”
You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”
You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.
“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”
Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”
You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.
***
The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.
He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.
Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”
You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”
Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.
Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”
“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”
Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”
You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”
Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”
You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.
Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”
You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”
“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”
There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.
The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.
“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”
You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.
He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”
You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”
And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.
As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.
The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.
Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.
Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.
The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.
As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.
“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”
The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.
Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.
When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.
“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”
You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”
Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”
You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.
As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you
***
Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.
To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.
He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.
On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.
Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.
The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.
“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”
Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”
You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”
Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”
You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.
“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”
Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”
Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”
You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”
Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”
Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”
Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.
Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”
Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.
“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”
You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.
“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”
Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”
Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”
You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.
“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”
You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”
Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”
The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.
By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.
As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”
Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”
You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.
Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."
***
The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.
Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.
You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.
As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.
Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.
Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.
You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”
“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”
You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”
Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”
You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”
“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.
Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.
You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”
He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?
Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”
Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”
Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”
You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.
He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”
You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.
“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”
“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”
As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.
And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.
***
The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.
In your rookie season.
The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.
The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.
“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”
A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.
As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.
But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.
You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.
“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.
You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”
He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.
When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.
“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.
He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”
You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”
There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.
Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”
Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.
Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”
For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.
“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”
You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.
“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”
It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …
Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.
“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.
Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”
The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.
You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”
Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”
Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”
You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.
“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.
Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”
As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.
“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.
Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”
The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.
As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.
“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”
He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”
And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.
***
The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.
Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.
He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.
“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”
You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.
“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”
A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.
“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”
He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”
You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.
“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.
Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”
His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.
“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”
You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.
“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.
He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”
He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”
There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.
“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.
Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”
He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”
You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.
“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”
The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.
Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.
“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”
He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.
“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”
He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.
The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.
By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.
As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.
After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”
You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”
He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”
You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”
Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”
His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”
***
The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.
He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.
Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”
You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”
Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”
You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”
Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”
A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.
“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”
“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.
Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”
As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.
“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”
Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.
You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”
Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”
You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.
Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”
You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”
“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”
You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.
He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.
“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”
With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”
You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”
Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.
As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.
He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.
Make them remember your name.
The lights go out, and the race begins.
***
The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.
Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.
You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.
“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”
Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.
“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.
“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”
“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”
“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.
The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.
A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”
You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.
“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”
The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.
The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.
Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”
He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.
Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”
“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.
You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”
Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.
You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.
“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.
But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.
He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.
“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”
“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.
Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”
You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”
“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”
The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.
“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.
The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.
“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”
You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”
Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”
You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.
“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”
“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”
***
Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.
“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”
Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.
“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”
Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.
You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”
Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”
The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.
Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.
“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.
You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”
Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”
“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”
Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”
“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”
You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”
Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”
You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.
But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”
You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.
“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”
You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.
As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.
***
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.
Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.
Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.
As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”
“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”
The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.
“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”
There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.
“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”
Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.
The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.
Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.
The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.
The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.
When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”
For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.
“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”
Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.
“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”
Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”
“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.
As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”
“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”
***
The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.
As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.
It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.
He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It’s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.
You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.
“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”
He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.
“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”
You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”
For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.
The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.
“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.
You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”
Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.
“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.
You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”
Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.
“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.
“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”
Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.
“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”
He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”
Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”
You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”
The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.
As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.
Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”
Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”
You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.
This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.
sumary: y/n's always giddy after getting a nugget update, sure she loves her best boy, but it also has something to do with the cat sitter sending the updates
driver!reader x cat sitter!max verstappen
-> habs incoming... series masterlist
cw: not fia approved words, a bit of lance hate (I don't actually hate him), mutual pinning, the grid teasing the reader, lot of appearances from the reader's cat, kissing, kinda mean!reader (to the grid)
wc: 4.1k
a/n: this is my first time writing in 2nd person so bear with me. also, I low key hate this and it may be shit. not proof read!
“Well aren’t you a ball of sunshine?” A voice called out, disturbing the peace - or the closest thing to peace you could have near a Formula 1 track.
Your gaze snapped up, eyes narrowing as you took in the man standing on the entry of the RedBull garage. “Hello, Charles,” you replied, a teasing bite obviously heard in your voice as you crossed your arms over your chest. “I know you wanted to experience what a successful garage looks like but I thought Ferrari had a better hold on you.”
Charles laughs, his eyes crinkling as his lips stretch into a smile. Teasing Charles was always a fun time but that’s all it was, just a bit of fun. It never stretched into something meaner, just two people showing affection by teasing each other.
Charles had been your very first real friend on the grid. The first to offer his hand with a smile and genuinely mean it. The first to congratulate you on a win after getting out of the car or the first to say that the next race would be better. Really, he was your best friend, but you would never tell him that or it would go to his head.
“Funny, very funny.” He said, his accent thick. His eyes slid around the motor home until finally meeting your own. “Lot of drivers are going out for drinks, came by to invite you.”
“I don’t Charles,” you started to say, going through your mental list of excuses, searching for the best one to use to avoid this social interaction.
“Oh come on!” He whined, rolling his eyes. He gave you a look that let you know you could stop thinking about an excuse because he wasn’t going to be buying it. “We won’t stay that long and it’s night race tomorrow so you don’t need to wake up at the crack of dawn.”
You pressed your lips together, the lip gloss previously applied making them slide against each other easily.
Charles kissed his teeth, nodding his head along. Fine, he’ll play the game. “Some of the WAG’s are coming as well.”
“Are you really trying to lure me out by promising female company?”
“Is it working?”
“Eh,” you shrugged your shoulders. “Will you pay my tab?”
Charles scoffed. “Pay your tab?” He asked, sounding as if you had asked him for his firstborn. “You’re filthy rich! You have a bigger salary than me!”
“Yeah, they do pay world champions a bit extra, comes with the title.” You replied, grinning at him, a wide teasing grin, your eyes twinkling.
“Fine whatever, I’ll pay your tab.” He said, raising his hands in surrender. “Now go take that suit off and shower, you look disgusting.”
“You look like a trash can threw you up!”
“It threw me up because it saw you!” Charles shouted back in response, his back already turned to you as he walked away, back to the Ferrari garage.
And that’s how you ended up in the bar, an hour later. Squished in the not too comfortable and definitely not meant to sit so many people, booth. With George’s girlfriend Carmen on your left, and Pierre’s girlfriend Kika on your right, and deep in conversation with both of them.
You feel your phone vibrate under your hand on the table, and the screen lights up, showing off your wallpaper, a picture of your beloved cat Nugget.
You tune off from the conversation the moment the message arrives, grabbing your phone and pulling it in towards you. Your face lights up, lips stretching into a smile as your eyes focus on the sender ID. Maxie.
Or rather Max. The very cute guy who was your cat sitter whenever you were out and about in the world, chasing the racing track.
With a quick move of your fingers, you swipe up, opening your phone and going into the message app. Fingers quickly tapping along the screen of your phone as you type out your reply.
With a smile you closed the messages app, pressing your fingers against the button on the side of your phone, watching the screen go black before setting it face down onto the table. As you looked back up, Lando’s amused yet teasing expression caught your eye.
You leaned forward against the table, pressing your hands to the wooden surface as you attempted to get a bit closer to the driver on the other side of the table. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Oh nothing,” he said with a laugh. “Just wondering who you’re texting, that’s all.” He intertwined his fingers, elbows pressed against the table and leaned forward as well. “You were all grumpy cat but then you get a message and suddenly you’re all smiles.”
“Grumpy cat?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at the McLaren driver. “I’m not a grumpy cat. And for the record, that was Nugget’s babysitter and he was sending me a picture of Nugget.”
Lando laughs, there’s a twinkle in his eyes that tells you he wants to say more but he holds himself back. “Can I see? I haven’t seen the orange gremlin in so long.”
“That’s very mean,” you say, opening your phone to show him the picture, that Max had sent you. “Nugget would never say that about you.”
“That’s because Nugget can’t speak.” He looks at the screen and his lips twist upward in a smirk. “Who’s Maxie?”
You breathe out through your nose, teeth digging into your bottom lip. When you speak your voice is sharp, it leaves no room for questioning things or an invite to ask more questions. “The cat sitter.”
“I’m sure that’s all he is.” Lando laughs when you show him your middle finger before settling back into your seat and returning to the previously abandoned conversation with the two WAG’s.
The race went pretty smoothly, as always. Starting from pole, keeping the lead the whole race and with a 20s gap to car in P2. Everything after that was pretty much a blur, the interviews, partying through the night with the grid and boarding the jet early in the morning.
The sun already started setting by the time you made it to Monaco. With a sigh you rummaged through your bag, blindly feeling around the stuff inside before your fingers finally wrapped around the keys.
Opening the apartment door you walked inside, gently laying down your suitcase as your eyes settled on the scene in your living room. Right there, laying on your couch, in deep sleep, and cuddling your cat is Max Verstappen.
His hair had fallen over his eyes and the position he’s in looks rather uncomfortable, you’re sure his body will be aching when he wakes up. His chest was raising and falling with each breath he took, little sighs slipping past his lips. Nugget was cuddled up to him, curled in a ball.
You looked at him for a few moments before starting to move around as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake him up.
Max had been cat sitting for you for a while now. Half of last season and now half of this one so almost a year. He was a sweet, kinda shy, mostly nerdy guy you ran into in a coffee shop and spilled his coffee. You offered to buy him a new one and he joined you for the coffee and you got to talking when he said he was looking for a job so you offered him to become your pet sitter.
At that point you really did need someone to look after your cat while you were gone, since you had broken up with your ex who usually took care of Nugget while you were away. And you couldn’t leave Nugget with your parents since your father was allergic to cats.
Now, your best friend who had been working in a different country had returned to Monaco and said she’d be more than happy to look after Nugget - but you wanted to keep Max around.
Already having grown used to coming home after a race weekend to find him there, just existing in your space.
Nugget’s whiskers twitch, his eyes opening and he pulls himself away from Max, stretches out and then trots over to you, rubbing his head against your leg affectionately while purring. He let out a happy, albeit a bit too loud, meow when you picked him up and on the other side of the room Max began stirring from his sleep.
He opened his eyes, a bit confused, and rubbed his knuckles against his eyes to wake up, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light filling up the room.
“You’re back,” he says, his voice is gentle, still sleepy and a bit quiet. His eyes meet yours and he offers you a sweet smile that has you immediately smiling back at him. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry about that.”
“Oh no, it’s no problem,” you reply, running your hand over Nugget’s fur as the cat lay happily in your arms. “You can use the guest bedroom if you’re tired, you know. The couch may be expensive but that doesn’t mean it’s comfortable for sleep.”
“I didn’t want to overstep,” Max said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. You approached the couch and sat down, the cat nestling in your lap and purring in content. Max smiled, reaching out his hand and petting Nugget.
“Nonsense Max, you’re not overstepping.” You cut him off, leaving no room for argument. You always told him to feel at ease in your apartment, that he was welcome to any food in the fridge and free to use the guest room as he pleased but even after all this time there was still a slight air of awkwardness backed up by the fear of going a bit too far.
Max’s eyes settled on you, your own focused on your cat so you didn’t notice him looking. He watched the way you cooed at Nugget, asking if he was a good boy while you were away and petting him gently, and his lips stretched into a small, careful smile.
He spoke before thinking. The words left his mouth before he even finished the thought inside of his head. “I watched the race,” he said, and your eyes instantly snapped up to meet his. He swallowed, already too deep to back down. “It - “ he licked his lips, trying to decide his next words, feeling like his tongue had tied itself up in a knot. “You were spectacular. It was lovely … simply lovely.”
You let out a breath, the corners of your mouth twisting upwards and you gave him a thankful look. Max swore he could feel his heart beating in his throat, and felt his cheeks heat up. “Thank you,” you said, your voice gentle, holding a comforting tone. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. And it’s nice - knowing you watched.”
“It is?”
You bit your lip, teeth scraping against you bottom lip as you looked at him, your brain running faster than the Sauber (like it’s hard) as you tried to come up with a response. “It’s kind of comforting,” you finally said, after what felt like a small forever.
You hummed, looking down at your nails. “I was thinking about bringing Nugget with me to the next race. It’s been a while since he was in the paddock.”
“Oh,” Max said, an edge of confusion noticeable in the tone of his voice. “Does that mean that you don’t need me coming over next week?”
“Actually, I was hoping you would come with.” You say, before you can talk yourself out of making the proposition.
Max tilts his head to the side, kind of like a confused cat and you try your best not to giggle at the mental image. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“If you wanted to attend the Grand Prix,” you tell him, running the edge of one of your nails along your skin. “Cuz’ I’m still gonna need someone to look after Nugget, and you do that in general so this would just be an added bonus of traveling.”
Max is silent for a few moments and you think he’ll decline. You wouldn't fully blame him if he did, you know what the pressure of the paddock can be like. You’re about to open your mouth, tell him that ‘never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway’ and put him out of the trouble of finding a polite way to decline when he finally speaks.
“I suppose, if you want me to then yeah, I’ll come along to watch Nugget.” He says, trying to ignore the nervous feeling building up in his chest when you smile at him, a wide happy smile that makes him instantly smile back.
“Great!” You said, the excitement evident in your voice. “Someone from the team will contact you in a while to arrange the tickets and leave the rest to me.” Max nods, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with the way his throat is closing up and it makes him feel like he can’t breathe.
“Look at you all giggly,” Charles teased, gently pushing your shoulder with his hand. He wiggled his eyebrows, a laugh slipping past his lips as you glared at him.
“Charles, why don’t you turn around and flash your pretty face to the crowd.” You said, rolling your eyes. You looked at the stadium full of people who were shouting out for their favorite drivers, waving banners and cheering happily. You smiled towards the stadium and lifted your hand up, waving your fingers to the public. “Give them a wave.”
“See, I always knew you thought I was pretty,” Charles replied, waving at the public. The two of you and the rest of the grid were in a wagon, going around the track for the drivers parade, so essentially you were stuck with him for at least five more minutes. “Now, do tell who’s got you smiling like that.”
“Is it Maxie?” Lando asked, the teasing tone evident in his voice. He pushed himself closer to you and Charles, inserting himself into the conversation.
“Didn’t your mom teach you not to eavesdrop?”
“No, no!” Charles said, shaking his head as he waved his hand dismissively as you, his full attention now focused on Lando. “Who’s Maxie?”
Lando smiled at him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “The cat sitter,” he said in a sing-song kind of voice.
“The one you brought to your garage?” The Ferrari driver asked, his attention back on you. “The pretty one.”
“Hold up!” Lando almost shouted, raising his hands. “You brought him with you to the Grand Prix?!”
“I didn’t … well I did bring him.” You said with a sigh, there was no escaping this now. “But it’s not like that. He’s here to watch Nugget.”
“And for you to watch him - because boy that is one good arm candy.”
“Charles, your homosexual is showing,” you warned.
“But you’re not denying it,” Charles noted, giving you a smirk.
You rolled your eyes at him but finally gave in. “Yes, I’m not denying it.”
You stepped back into the motor home, your eyes immediately searching for Max and finally you found him talking to your lead engineer. As you approached the two you could start to hear their conversation and quickly realized they were talking about how the car worked and what went on behind the scenes at a Grand Prix. You found it cute that Max was interested in that.
His eyes met yours and his face lit up, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a smile. “You’re back!” He said, “After terrorizing everyone around and getting pets, Nugget decided to settle down for a nap. He’s in your driver's room.”
Max gave you a wink after saying that and you had to hold in a giggle. You excused yourself to go to your driver’s room, with Max following behind you. The first thing you noticed when you went inside was Nugget, curled up on the massage bed and sleeping without a care.
The next thing that grabbed your attention was a dozen pastries lined up on a small table next to the couch. They were all individually wrapped in tissues.
“Max,” you said, picking up one of the pastries and unwrapping it. “I really did mean only one pastry, you know?” You bit into the chocolate filled pastry, moaning at the taste of a treat you weren’t usually allowed to have when it was race week. “My trainer will strangle me if he sees.”
“I swear, no one saw anything.” Max said, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down. “I was sneakier than Nugget when he’s stealing my food.”
“Oh, now that’s a very serious claim.” You told him with a laugh, his own laugh echoing back. You picked up one of the wrapped pastries and offered it to him. “Take one, or five. There’s no way I’m eating it all.”
He takes the pastry you’re offering him, his fingers brushing against your own as he takes it from your hand, sending sparks of electricity down your spine. After a second of hesitation you sit down next to him, the two of you eating the treats in comfortable silence.
His thigh nudges against yours and you turn to face him, finding that he’s already looking at you. He smiles and you don’t hesitate to smile back.
The practices go great, P2 in FP1, P1 in FP2 and P1 in FP3.
The qualifying is where a slight setback shows up, with quali being ended early due to a crash and a red flag, putting you in P10 for the start of the race tomorrow.
Once the car had rolled back into the pits you wasted no time getting out, putting the steering wheel back into place before storming into your driver’s room.
You pulled your helmet off, fingers curling into the bottom of your balaclava as you pulled it off, throwing it next to your helmet before bringing your hands up to smooth down your hair.
“I’m not in the fucking mood, Pepe.” You said without turning around, assuming it was your race engineer coming to talk about the outcome of qualifying. “Fucking Lance and his fucking money made seat - if that little frog screws up another quali, I’ll be the one crashing him out.”
“I’m not Pepe,” the other person in the room says and you instantly turn around, your eyes wide as they meet Max’s blue ones. “And I’m certainly glad I’m not Lance.”
You looked him up and down, eyes trailing over his figure. You took notice of Nugged, cuddled up in his arms and looked at you curiously, and reached your hand out to pet the cat, a long breath slipping past your lips.
“Sorry,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I didn’t really mean for you to hear that.”
Max barely heard what you were saying. Too distracted by the sight of you for his brain to properly register your words. Your skin was slightly glistening with sweat, an imprint from where your helmet and balaclava had dug into your skin still visible on your flushed cheeks. Your messy hair, and your chest raising and falling with each breath you took as you were still working on catching up your breath.
Max blinked, finally snapping out of his thoughts and focusing his attention back to what you were saying. “They should have let you finish the lap.”
“I agree but sadly that’s not how it works.”
Max nodded along, not really knowing what to say to that so he switched to the next topic. “I ran into your friend. He invited you, and me, out for drinks. I think it would be nice to go, you seem like you need a drink.”
“Yeah, I definitely do.” You replied, taking Nugget from his arms and into your own, stroking down the cat’s body. “Which friend?”
“Uh,” Max started, thinking of a way to describe the guy since he couldn’t remember his name. “Wears red, pretty, sounds French.”
You laughed, smiling at him. “That’s Charles. I hope you didn’t tell him he sounds French, he gets offended by that.”
“Then it’s great I kept it to myself.”
You laughed in reply, putting Nugget down to the floor, the cat immediately moving to a cozy corner and curling up into a ball on the floor, shutting his eyes. “The hotel is right next to the track, you can take Nugget back while I shower and then we can go - if you want to.”
“Sounds like a deal,” Max replied with a smile.
You showered and put on a clean set of clothes just in time to meet Max after he finished dropping Nugget back to the hotel, leaving him with toys, food and water. The two of you made your way to the bar to join the rest of the grid for a night out.
Some of the drivers were playing pool while their girlfriends were engrossed in a conversation so that left you and Max sitting together, sharing drinks and talking.
“I just …” you started, cracking your fingers. “I don’t know, this quali really messed up my mood and I was riding on such a high after the practices going well. It all feels shit now.”
“Maybe you just need more motivation for the race.” Max offered, drinking the rest of the liquor from his glass in one go.
“You have something in mind, Maxie?” You asked, the nickname slipping past your lips without a thought now that you’ve had a few drinks.
“How about a kiss if you get on the podium?” He said, his voice suggestive. Normally he never would have dared to say something like that but the alcohol courage really worked wonders.
Your eyes widened, clearly not expecting him to be so bold or to suggest that. He took your reaction as a bad sign, immediately straightening up as a wave of dread quickly sobered him up.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped out, the expression on his face shifting into a panicked one. “That was stupid. It was thoughtless. It was -”
“A great motivation,” you cut him off, putting a finger up against his lips to silence him. “It was a great motivation.”
His cheeks burned as his eyes met yours. He looked so vulnerable, his bright eyes impossibly wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“One more corner to go but you’re in the clear,” Pepe’s voice echoed over the radio. You blinked, your eyes focused on the track before you, the checkered flag already visible along with your team gathering in the front. “That’s P1, Y/n. Phenomenal drive today, you deserved it!”
“Thank you,” you said, your voice breathless as you moved your hands, going through the last corner and speeding towards the finish line. “Thank you, Pepe.” You repeated, swallowing your spit. “It was lovely, simply lovely.”
You put the car into P1, getting out and posing for a picture on top of your car. You could hear the shouts, the cheers, the celebration. You took off your helmet, ripping off your balaclava and putting them both into the car before turning around to face the team, eyes searching for a particular face.
Finally, you spotted Max. Standing besides your engineer, a proud expression on his face as he looked at you with a wide smile. You didn’t hesitate, feet moving before you could think and then you were in front of him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down, smashing your lips into his.
The kiss was desperate, both of having waited long enough for it. He wrapped his arms around you, the best he could with the fence between you, kissing you back with need.
You finally pulled away when you felt your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, learning your forehead against his. Nothing else mattered, not the public, not the team, not the celebration. Only him, finally yours.
“Simply lovely, right?” You asked, your voice breathless.
“Simply lovely!” Max repeated back to you, before kissing you once again. And he really did mean it - everything was simply lovely.
i hope i tagged everyone who said they wanted to be on the tag list. hope you enjoyed this one and keep an eye out for the poll about the next part of the series <3
I'm working on a project for the 2025 season and would love to include iconic F1 quotes! If you want, I'd really appreciate it if you'd fill out the form below. No pressure whatsoever tho!
I am looking for your favourite F1 quotes for a project I am working on. Could be something a driver said, or a commentator: as long as it's
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summary: Max, Daniel, and you. Inseparable. Their bond from childhood rivals to best friends to lovers.
themes/warnings: alcohol, no smut, domestic, fluff, some angst, hint of daniel being possessive, daniel's tattoos, no use of y/n THIS IS FICTION
wc: 1.8k
a/n: craving maxiel x reader that isn't straight up smut so enjoy this completely self indulgent fic. also trying to get back into writing so if you have request pls put them through <3
read on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/59444749
You and Max grew up racing together in karting. Your families weren’t friends but you two gravitated towards each other after a few years of hard racing and a fair share of head butting. Your shared love of cats really began your relationship.
You were usually the only girl at the track so you were subject to endless teasing from the other boys about many things, including your close friendship with Max. It didn’t really matter though, you or Max ran them off track eventually and the comments and snide remarks stopped.
Your relationship with Max never grew from more than a friendship, except for that one time when you were thirteen and you shared each other’s first kiss behind a building behind a building before a race, for good luck of course. You and Max ended up sharing a 1-2.
Max ended up joining the Red Bull Driver Academy whilst you joined the Mercedes Driver Academy. The rival academies were of no concern to either of you and had long ago figured out how to manage your relationship on and off track.
Max ended up making his Formula 1 debut a year earlier than you. This was when he properly made Daniel’s acquaintance.
Daniel. Charming. Loud. Handsome. Cheerful. The Australian had the motorsport world wrapped around his tattooed fingers, including Max. Many of your phone calls with Max that year involved a funny anecdote about Daniel’s antics that week.
You joined the grid a year later, driving for Williams and wanting to prove yourself for the Mercedes seat. No one was more excited than Max, eager to have his childhood best friend and now F1 best friend in the same place for twenty something weekends a year.
You finally met Daniel that year. He was everything you thought and more. His kindness and genuine nature surprised you, having pulled you aside for coffee and a quick chat during pre-season testing. After all, it wasn’t long ago that he was a young, nervous rookie.
You were sucked into the shiny whirlpool of Daniel Ricciardo soon after. Hangouts with Max in his Monaco apartment on off weeks turned into the three of you spending hours on each other’s living room floors. On the days where distance separated the three of you, Facetime calls and gaming sessions were the norm.
You and Daniel started seeing each other three years into your F1 career. At this point, you had lost the last of your baby fat and had grown into a beautiful young woman. Daniel had always thought you were beautiful, but recently, you had become something otherworldly.
It started after someone’s birthday celebration in some Monaco nightclub. You and Daniel danced together as you always had, but Daniel’s grip on your hips was tighter and the way he leaned down on your neck was closer than he had ever been. He eyed off other men, daring them to try and take a piece, knowing he’d come out on top.
Max was oblivious to the entire situation, too blind drunk to notice the lingering touches as you and Daniel helped him into bed at the end of the night.
A light hand on your hip, a longing glance in the dim light of the kitchen ended with you in the guest room, wrapped in Daniel’s arms as he worshiped you until the early hours of the morning.
Daniel greeted you with a cup of coffee, an old Red Bull shirt he kept at Max’s, and a joke that you looked good in the red and dark blue.
You two started up a breakfast in the kitchen, bringing out a hungover and bleary eyed Max from his room. Max didn’t catch the look shared between yourself and Daniel, a silent agreement to not tell Max about the night before. Max ignored the Red Bull shirt with the giant 3 on the back, chalking it up to not wanting to wear alcohol ridden clothes, rather than a sign of Daniel’s claim on you.
You and Daniel continued seeing each other for the next year. Well, “seeing” each other in loose terms. You kept it casual, aware of the challenges of romance as an F1 driver, more so between two drivers and even more so when you’re the first female F1 driver in what felt like forever. Still, for what it’s worth, both of you never saw another person.
Max began catching on soon enough. A flash of pink fabric behind a closing door of Daniel’s room, much too small for one of Daniel’s loud shirts. Fading bruises on your chest, only noticeable up close on yacht days in the summer. Max seeing Daniel going into your room late Saturday night and seeing you two walk into the paddock together the next morning.
Safe to say, Max was confused. He wasn’t upset that you and Daniel were hanging out without him. It would be more weird if you two weren’t. But the nature of your relationship was confusing to him, enough for him to begin digging.
Now, Max wasn’t one to snoop, but he’s known you long enough for you not to care. You were in the shower after some shared training which was good enough an opportunity for him. Your password remained the same, but Max scrolled past the games he’d play on your phone to your photo album. Nothing out of the ordinary, some dumb selfies and pictures from the paddock and Monaco.
Two photos caught his eye. The first, a dark room illuminated by the flash from your phone. You were lying against your sheets, hair messy on the pillow behind you. You were smiling, eyes tired, but there was an unmistakable hand with a rose tattoo around your neck - Daniel. The second, less obvious but still recognisable to Max. The morning light was streaming through your window and a man sat on the edge of your bed, his back to the camera. The defining curls were definitely Daniels and the muscles on his back were the same ones Max had been admiring for years.
Max put the phone back where he found it. He had the confirmation he wanted but it didn’t settle the heavy pit in his stomach. Both you and Daniel were attractive people, there was no denying that. He’d even caught himself looking at you both several times throughout the years. Sometimes he was delusional enough to think the looks were reciprocated, but that would be in his wildest dreams.
The feeling was no longer confusion. It was a strange myriad of emotions he’d only felt in fleeting moments, quickly shut down by his brain. The dam is open now. A feeling longing for his best friends, the people he loved most and could never define his relationship with. Jealousy, not directed at a single person, but perhaps at both of you in a way Max could not understand yet. Betrayal, for not being told or trusted enough with this information, when Max could tell the both of you anything.
You could tell something was bothering Max, but you never pushed. He’d come to you when he was ready. Years of knowing Max has taught you enough of his emotional processing. Still, you brought it up to Daniel one night in bed. He assumed it was stress at Red Bull, but you thought otherwise.
It came to a boil at Daniel’s apartment one night. The three of you organised a casual homemade dinner. You answered the door with dishevelled hair, blaming it on training earlier in the day but if anything, it was from certain activities prior to Max’s arrival.
All three of you had a few drinks that night. Max was sober enough to know what was happening but had enough alcohol to count as liquid courage.
Max sat on a beanbag on the floor, eyeing you and Daniel on the couch. You sat on the end with a glass of wine, Daniel right next to you, thighs touching yours despite the spacious couch.
I know you two have been hooking up.
Shock. Panic. Backs against a corner. Words stuck in a clogged throat.
Apologies streamed out, from you and Daniel. Your hand ended up in Max’s hair, your other holding his hand. Daniel on Max’s other side, holding his hand and arm. Tears came from all three of you.
Max sat there, almost numb and resigned. He was hurt, but he also hated seeing you and Daniel like this. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the heightened emotions or the unholy combination of both.
Consequences be damned. The three of you will emerge from the aftermath later, like always. Max just needed his people.
Max leaned in to you and cut you off mid sentence with a hard kiss. Another round of shock, then confusion from which emerged a feeling of familiarity. These were the same lips that touched yours all those years ago. This was Max, who always had your back. Your Maxie. You kissed him back and the grip he had on your hand tightened.
Max pulled away, breathless and eyes wide. But breathing was you, and breathing was Daniel so he pulled Daniel in by the curls on the back of his head. Daniel pressed in as much as he could because this was Max. His Max, and when he had no one, he always had Max.
They had each other that night, making up for emotions and lost time, where nothing else mattered but the three of you.
Max lay in between you and Daniel in the sobering dawn light. You leaned on your forearm, running your fingers through Max’s hair. Daniel lay half asleep, cuddled into Max’s side.
I need you. Both.
Max spoke those words into the ceiling. A crossroads, that would forever change the trajectory of your lives.
Daniel blinked sleepily at you. Another silent communication, that perhaps Max was the missing piece between the both of you; the catalyst for the next step.
We’ll have you.
Always.
You layed back down, tucking yourself into Max’s side. Daniel tightened his grip around Max’s waist and drifted off into sleep.
Life became a little simpler after. You all kept your own apartments, but every night was a sleepover with your best friends. Things eventually started migrating between places; toothbrushes in mugs, each other’s hobbies and crafts and everyone’s favourite snacks having a permanent stash in each other’s apartments.
Daniel liked to begin mornings by bringing in coffee for the three of you. He blamed the Italian in him when Max protested one early morning and tried to bury himself further into the sheets and you.
He was an extrovert and a lover at heart, so it wasn’t a surprise when Daniel’s personal team found out about the relationship first. The public would never know, they were long ago used to seeing the three of you out and about, even when the catch ups turned into dinner dates.
Daniel was a giver, proven to him on the night Max won his first championship. A quiet moment on the balcony of his hotel room, watching you and Max slow dance, the lights of the city reflecting on your slinky black dress. He realised he would give anything for you and Max.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Characters: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Additional Tags: soft, Domestic, they're just enjoying each other's company ok, Fluff, Let them have fun
Summary:
"And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars and why I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words"
In which Joe and Nicky spend some time on the Amalfi Coast enjoying each other's company and being deeply in love
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a comprehensive “guide” to sin in Catholicism - for the TOG fic writers
DISCLAIMER: I AM GOING OFF WHAT CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL AND GROWING UP IN CATHOLICISM HAS TAUGHT ME ABOUT SIN. IF YOU REQUIRE MORE INFORMATION SEEK OUT A PRIEST OR A THEOLOGIAN OR THE INTERNET (ALTHOUGH THAT MAY LEAD YOU DOWN A RABBIT HOLE)
pls feel free to add on in the comments section :)
Sin
Committing an action or thought that goes against the teachings of Catholicism
Teachings can include the Bible, 10 Commandments, whatever the Catholic Church says is right
Examples of sin: murder, lying, cheating on your partner
Original sin
When Adam and Eve ate from the fruit of the tree of forbidden knowledge, sin entered the world through them
Every human being born since then is born with original sin
Original sin can only be washed away through the Sacrament of Baptism (which is what you need to be part of the Catholic faith)
Absolving sin
Sin can only be absolved by a priest or someone higher up in the Church hierarchy through the Sacrament of Reconciliation/Penance
The priest acts as a direct line to God, allowing him to remove sins which you confess to
Reconciliation will only forgive sins which you have confessed to or completely forgotten, not sins that you are deliberately holding back
The priest is forbidden to tell anyone else of what you confessed to, even murder
The Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick also has a similar effect of forgiving sins
If someone died with sins, they would go through purgatory (sin cleansing) which is a period between death on Earth and going to Heaven
Mortal vs Venial sins
These are the two types of sins
Mortal sins
Extremely grave sins e.g. murder (although the Catholic Church does not give an exhaustive list of sins and which category they fall under)
For a mortal sin to exist, it must satisfy these three criteria
Grave matter: the matter is evil and immoral e.g. murder, masturbation, divorce
Full knowledge: the person must know that what they’re doing is evil and immoral
Deliberate consent: the person must freely choose to do this action
Think of it like this: a Catholic person has their own unique relationship with God but when said person commits a mortal sin, their relationship with God is completely cut off until they confess to that sin in Reconciliation
A person who dies with mortal sin intact is sent to hell
Venial sin
Lesser sins basically
A venial sin will weaken a person’s relationship with God but will not destroy it however, going to Reconciliation will restore and repair that relationship
Jesus dying for our sins
Jesus dying on the cross can result in a deep rabbit hole with many different interpretations and different symbolic meanings depending on which way you focus on it so therefore we’re doing it through the idea of sin and what I remember from high school religion classes this is going to be so rough
Jesus dying and resurrecting can represent the idea of Baptism as Catholics come to new life in Christ through Baptism
Jesus’ cross represents human sin, therefore he died carrying our sins and for human sin
As mentioned before with a Catholic’s relationship with God, Jesus dying restores the relationship between God and the human race so that we could be forgiven of our sins
Revelations
I’m going to say right now I do not know much about this
Revelations is the last book of the Bible, most famous for detailing the end of the world
This specific point is also covered briefly in the Nicene Creed
At the end of the world, God with Jesus at his right hand, will judge every soul and deem those worthy to join him in the new eternal kingdom of God
This is depicted by Michelangelo in the Last Judgement
