LIA IVY

Charles was a constant thorn in your side when you were just competing against each other from separate garages. Now he’s your paddock next door neighbor, your supposed collaborator, and the only person who you can truly be compared to. Equal machinery and all that. The truth is, he’s good at what he does, which only makes it so much worse.

You’re having a good season, a great one, even. You’re not a rookie, but it’s your first year with Ferrari, your first year with a car that isn’t a tractor. It’s just that you’re constantly being compared to and overshadowed by him. It’s awful and exhausting and you sit in the briefing before the race glaring daggers at the side of his head.

He’d slowed you down in Q3. You were on a flying lap and he got in the way, left you starting in 9th when you were on track for your best qualifying yet. He’d said it was an accident, and everyone else believed him. Including your own race engineer. You think maybe if you stare hard enough you could actually light all the product in his hair on fire. Then he has the audacity to come up to you after the meeting, to lay his hand on your upper arm softly. You wrench yourself out of his grip, turn to him with a snarl. He must take it as surprise rather than what it really is, because he has a soft smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, again, about quali,” he says, and you spot a camera over his shoulder and fight the urge to roll your eyes. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you, yes?”

“Crash out at the start,” you tell him, raising one brow. There’s a smile on your face and venom in your words. “And take Max out with you.”

“Anything but that,” he says.

He winks before he breezes past you, and if there hadn’t been so many people around, you think you may have actually slapped him this time.

…..

You collapse into a chair in a swanky restaurant that night, resting your chin on closed fists, elbows on the table. Lily, jumps when you do. Alex is sitting across from you, doing a bad job of hiding a laugh behind his hand.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you tell them, knuckles digging into your cheeks. “I’m going to pass all the cars between us tomorrow and ram him into the wall.”

“No, you’re not,” George says as he sits down, Carmen following behind. “Because when you do pass all those cars tomorrow, you’re going to want to stay in the race.”

“I was going to qualify second,” you groan. “I was, seriously-“

“I know,” George says, patting your shoulder. The waiter has appeared at the end of the table.

Alex points at you. “She’ll have a shot of tequila, please.”

“She has to drive tomorrow morning,” Lily reminds him.

“And we have to sit through dinner tonight,” George says.

You slap his shoulder, glaring daggers at him, now.

“Did he apologize?” Lily asks.

“Of course!” You snap. “Because he’s fucking Charles Leclerc, and-“

Before you can launch into one of your tirades, Lily waves her hand. “Forget I asked. Never mind. This subject is banned until the weekend is over- we’re all here, this is supposed to be a nice dinner.”

You sigh and slump into your chair. “Okay, mom.”

Once the conversation starts, though, and you have your shot of tequila, you forget about Charles. You’re here to spend time with your friends, not worry about your teammate. It’s the first time in a while that both of their girlfriends have been able to make it to the same race. You’ve been looking forward to it all week, and you refuse to let Charles sour it. Besides, they’ve all heard it before, they don’t need to hear you complain again.

The next day, when you take 5th and Charles takes first, you don’t let him see you cry. You sneak out of the celebrations as early as you possibly can and head back to the hotel.It’s just so frustrating. You’re trying so hard, giving it your all, and it’ll never be enough. You want the podiums, the trophies, the champagne spraying in your face. You want it all, everything Charles has. He takes it for granted.

When you open your hotel room door, there’s a giant bouquet of flowers on the dresser. For a moment, you think maybe it’s from your family, or maybe George and Alex, a sympathy present for a race that held so much potential. You slip your finger under the flap of the envelope and pull the card out of the white flowers.

Sorry about Quali,

CL

You throw the flowers and the note in the trash and cry yourself to sleep.

…..

Lily tried to convince you that the flowers were actually supposed to be an apology, but you’d refused to see it as anything other than what it was- a way to get in your head. So at the next race, you leave it all on the track. You manage to qualify 4th- not the best you’ve ever done, but you feel pretty good about it. You feel even better that Charles is starting in 7th. He’ll be stuck in the midfield, in the dirty air, while you fight with the big dogs. You’re on cloud nine, floating around the garage, thanking your crew and your engineers and offering drinks on you if you get a podium on Sunday. It wouldn’t be your first, but it would be your first in a while, and it would really crush Charles, you just know it.

“Congrats,” he says, standing next to you in the media pen.

You think he waits to talk to you until there’s cameras around. It makes him look good, being nice to his teammate. You can play the PR game too. You plaster on a bright smile. Behind Charles, Alex raises his brows at you. You tone down the smile and he gives you a thumbs up.

“Thanks,” you say, shrugging slightly. “Sorry about seventh.”

He shrugs. “Could be worse.”

You head into the lion’s den just after that, hit with a barrage of questions about every aspect of the weekend. How does it feel to be starting fourth? Good. Do you feel good about your chances tomorrow? Yes. How’s the car feel? Good. Are you hoping for a podium? Always. What did you give Charles to convince him to let you qualify higher than him this weekend? What?

The reporter who asked it is sneering at you. Your media handler balks at the question, fumbles to grab your arm. She’s afraid you’re going to snap, but to be honest, you’re too dumbfounded to find the words. Maybe he doesn’t deserve a response anyways.

“She didn’t give me anything,” Charles says, grabbing the microphone from your hand, and now you’re seeing red for a different reason. “She didn’t need to. She did it all on her own.”

Which is true, and nice of him to say. Objectively. But he’s not saying it because it’s true, or because he wants to be nice. You can already picture his devoted fans, clipping the video and making TikTok edits that make him look like a saint. He is, in their eyes. In everyone’s eyes.

You leave the microphone with him and stalk back to your driver room.

You run into Charles in the hallway later, when you’re slinking your way to catering to try and find something good to eat. He’s just- there, all of the sudden, broad shoulders taking up all the space. You try to slip around him, but he moves with you.

You look up at him, raising your brows and throwing your hands up. “What, Leclerc?”

He raises his brows, too. “Just wanted to say sorry. For what he said. It’s not true, you know.”

“Yes, Charles, I know I didn’t… blow you or whatever to get you to let me qualify better,” you say, and he rears his head back. “Can you move?”

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. “Look, I just wanted to say-“

“I think you’ve said enough,” you snap. “You said it all, live on camera. The whole world heard it.”

“I was just trying to stand up for you.”

“I can stand up for myself,” you say, throat feeling tight. “I’ve been doing it my whole career. No need to step in now. And honestly, we both know you get off on being the savior, so cut the shit.”

You finally find a gap and slip around him. You walk out of the garage and all the way down to Williams. Nobody stops you when you head to Alex’s room- he’s there, and George is too.

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” George says, as Alex holds his arms out wide. “Fucking bullshit, the whole lot of it.”

You nod and collapse into Alex’s chest. Neither of them comment on your tears.

“At least Charles stood up for you,” George says brightly.

“Fuck off,” you say, and Alex slaps his shoulder for you.

…..

They call a red flag three laps in, and your team calls you into the pits before you can even figure out what’s going on. You’re in third, having moved past Lewis in the opening chaos. Your heart sinks, knowing that when the race restarts you’ll have lost the lead you’d built up. You search the big screens as you pull into the pit lane, trying to figure out what’s happened, and then your heart sinks even more.

It’s a Mercedes, crumpled against the barriers. They only show it for a second, and you can’t hear any of what the commentators are saying. You hadn’t caught the number or the helmet, and- it’s either Lewis or George.

As much as you like Lewis, you’ve been friends with George since you were little. He and Alex had taken you under their wings, accepted you when a lot of the others wouldn’t. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as they help you climb out of your car.

You flip your visor up and look to the nearest mechanic. “Who is it?”

He stares, blankly, and you already know.

“Who is it?” You ask, louder, looking around the room frantically.

“S’George,” someone finally answers.

“Is he-“

“We don’t know yet,” someone says, gently. “Just-“

The panic claws at your chest. You haven’t felt like this a long time, not since Lily called you from the hospital when Alex had appendicitis. You can’t breathe, can’t see, can feel your fingers.

There’s a ripple of noise, applause from the crowd. You look at the TV, see George, standing strong and holding up a thumbs up. It should be a relief, but the panic doesn’t fade. Suddenly someone’s hands are on your shoulders, guiding you into the hallway. Fingers brush against your jaw, unbuckling your helmet and wiggling it off your head. You gasp for air, and strong hands hold you steady.

“Breathe, breathe, it’s okay, he’s okay,” Charles says.

You should be shocked it’s him, but right now all you can feel is panic. You grab onto his wrists, looking for an anchor in the storm. He doesn’t let go, just holds onto you, squeezes your shoulders until you start breathing slower and slower. He only drops his grip when you drop yours. You wipe tears and snot and sweat from your face and sigh.

Suddenly it hits you- it’s Charles, holding onto you, witnessing your panic attack. You take a couple steps back.

“It’s okay,” he says again, reaching out. You brush him away. “Hey, how about we go sit, yes? Have some water?”

“I’m fine,” you sniffle.

“You’re not.”

“Why do you care?” You ask, tears springing to your eyes again.

“Because you’re my teammate,” he says. “Because your friend crashed and you are upset.”

You roll your eyes. Charles has the audacity to look confused. Like he doesn’t know.

“You don’t have to act like you like me, Charles. There aren’t any cameras around,” you snap.

Charles blinks once, then again. “What?”

“You can drop the act,” you say as you cross your arms over your chest. “I already know you hate me, you don’t have to pretend. You can go.”

Charles looks utterly and completely perplexed. For a moment, you falter. He hates you. Why does he seem so confused? It’s not that difficult to understand. Why had he even come back here with you in the first place? He could’ve let one of your crew members help you, or left you to deal with it alone. What the hell is going on here?

“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice soft. “Why would you think I hate you?”

“You’ve hated me since I got here,” you remind him. “Actually, since before I even signed the fucking contract.”

“What are you talking about?”

You stare at him, wide eyed. Is it possible he doesn’t even remember? Maybe he hates you that much.

“When I came to the factory for contract negotiations,” you start, “you made it very clear I was the last possible person you wanted as your teammate.”

You’d been leaving the factory. He’d stopped you in the hall. Sounds like you might be my new teammate, he’d said. Hopefully, if it all goes well, you’d replied. Any advice?

He’d looked around, checked to see that nobody was there. Then, voice low and serious, arms crossed, he’d said, this is the last place you belong. If you know what’s best for you, you will not sign that contract.

You’d left that day heartbroken and with a vendetta against him.

Charles’ eyes go wide when you repeat his words back to you. “I did not say that.”

“I think I’d remember,” you tell him, trying again to shove past him.

“No, no, I mean- I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, insistent, grabbing onto your arm gently. “I- that was before they hired Fred, yes?”

“Yes?” You answer, furrowing your brows at him.

“And before they changed the staff, before they-“ he sighs. “I had a shit year. I was worried the next was going to be the same. I was trying to warn you.”

Now it’s your turn to blink once, then again. “No, you…”

“I swear,” he says. “On my life, I swear.”

He draws a tiny cross with his finger, right over his heart. You take a step back and drag a hand down your face. Your head is spinning, tilted on an insane axis.

“You thought I hated you, all this time?” He says, brows furrowed. “I sent you flowers, after the quali thing-“

“I thought you were playing mind games!” You cry out.

He’s reaching for your arm again. This time you let him. His fingers dig into your skin pleasantly- not enough to feel bad, just enough to know he’s there. It’s like the fight has suddenly left your body. He doesn’t hate you. He sent you flowers because he really was sorry.

And you threw them in the trash.

“So when I stood up for you with that reporter, you thought…” he trails off, then laughs. “What, you thought I was- this is why you reacted so badly. This explains so much.”

“Yes!” You say, nodding. “Why are you so fucking ominous with your warnings? Why were you so cryptic?”

“English is not my first language and I had to be careful about how I said it, there could have been people listening!” He says, laughing again. “You didn’t listen, anyways.”

“No, because then I wanted to prove to you that I could handle myself, that I deserved the seat!”

“Of course you deserved the seat,” he says, wide eyed. “That was never a question.”

The two of you stare at each other for a beat. Then you double over in laughter, tears streaming down your face for a different reason. Charles joins you, his laughter mixing with yours for the first time ever. The noise of it sends a jolt through your heart.

He doesn’t hate you. How crazy is that?

…..

When you run into Alex in the paddock later, he’s staring like you’ve grown a second head. Actually, with the intensity of his stare, you think you may have grown two extra heads. Maybe even a third eye. He comes to a stop in front of you, and you cock your head at him.

“Hey, Al,” you greet him. “Have you seen Georgie? He’s not at Merc.”

“Yeah, he’s… he’s at the stewards, doing a debrief,” Alex says. “He said he’d meet us at the driver briefing.”

“Oh, cool,” you say. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine,” Alex says, eyes flickering across your face.

“That’s good. I’m glad,” Charles says from his spot next to you.

His arm is slung around your shoulders, his race suit tied around his waist, just like yours. You take it in from Alex’s viewpoint- the proximity, the fact that you’re even letting him touch you, and the look on his face makes sense.

“Hey, did you know Charles doesn’t actually hate me?” You ask Alex, and next to you, your teammate laughs.

“I told you that a million times,” Alex deadpans.

“Huh. Weird.” You shrug. “We should go, the briefing starts in five minutes.”

Alex trails behind the two of you, quiet the whole way there. Charles peels off when you arrive and stops to say hi to Max. George is already sitting down in a chair near the front. You sit down next to him, eyes tracing over him like you’re looking for injuries. Alex sits on his other side.

“I’m fine,” George says, nudging your shoulder lightly.

“Excuse me if I’m worried,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Alex opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, someone sits down next to you and elbows you lightly. It’s Charles, a cold water bottle in hand, extended towards you. You take it eagerly. His knee nudges against yours, and you nudge him back. You thank him, opening the water bottle and taking a drink.

“Mate, I think I hit my head harder than I realized,” George whispers to Alex.

“Nope, you’re seeing correctly,” Alex says, holding his hands up when George turns towards him. “I don’t know either!”

…..

It turns out that when you’re not busy thinking Charles hates you, and hating him back, he’s actually pretty fun to be around. The two of you have nearly everyone else bewildered for the next few races, because you’re suddenly attached at the hip. You’ve always been civil in public, but this is a different story.

In briefings, Charles saves you a seat, and Alex and George have to fight over who gets to sit next to you. You eat lunches and dinners together in the paddock, out in the open at a patio table. Charles brings you coffee in the mornings, and you bring him pastries. During breaks, the two of you can often be found hunched over your phone, watching YouTube videos together. You have a surprising amount in common. You wonder how you never saw it before.

Charles even takes you with him to play padel one morning, brings you a half hour early to try and show you how. When George and Alex show up to play against you, they stare at you in confusion for a solid thirty seconds.

“You don’t understand,” Alex says over lunch with you and Lily later that day. “He had his hand on her waist.”

Lily is the only one who hadn’t been surprised. She shrugs.

“He was correcting my posture,” you say. “Alex is just mad that I beat him.”

“Charles beat me, you were just on his team,” Alex corrects. He’s not exactly wrong. “Come on, like, two months ago she hated his guts. Tell me this isn’t crazy, Lil. I think we need an intervention.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about the intervention in front of the intervention-ee,” you say, stirring your pasta. “Intervention-ette?”

“She’s fine,” Lily says, smiling at you. “She’s just finding out that hate and love are a lot more similar than you’d think.”

You drop your fork, wincing when it clatters. “I don’t love him.”

Lily cocks her head at you. You freeze. Alex is looking back and forth between the two of you like it’s a tennis match. You can feel your face growing hot.

“I don’t,” you repeat. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

Lily blinks, feigns surprise. “I never said anything about romantic love.”

You swallow. “Yeah, but that’s what you meant-“

“That’s what you assumed I meant,” she says, and you blink.

There are butterflies in your stomach- where did those come from? You definitely don’t love Charles. Like Alex said- two months ago, you hated him. Well, you hated that he hated you. You hated the way you thought he was treating you. But now, in a different light, his actions seem a bit endearing. You’re just swept up in the new friendship, that’s all. Lily’s reading too far into it.

You tell her as much, and she drops the subject. Alex seems happy to move on, a bit unprepared to handle the whole conversation. But Lily watches you, and you can’t help but feel like maybe she knows something you don’t.

…..

It sticks in your head, is the thing. Hate and love are a lot more similar than you think. And to be honest, it sort of makes sense. Both very strong emotions, both making your chest feel tight and your cheeks feel hot. You’re not in love with Charles, though. You can’t be. He’s just- a friend. He’s a friend, and it’s new, and of course you’re going to spend time together. You’re getting to know each other! This is normal, this is teammate bonding like you were supposed to do when you joined the team.

It’s not weird that Charles introduces you to his family when they come to one of the races. It’s not weird that you’re inviting him out for drinks when you go out with George and Alex after a race. It’s not weird that you start actually playing padel and asking him to help you practice- it’s fun, and he’s good at it, that’s all.

Then you’re out at a club in Monaco one night, surrounded by other drivers. You go to leave, Lily tugging on your hand. The two of you are having a sleepover without Alex. You’re saying your goodbyes, waving and smiling and-

Charles grabs onto you, hauls you into a hug. He’s a little tipsy, you think, but not drunk. You laugh and lean into the hug, wrap your arms around him, breathe in the smell of his cologne and laundry detergent. Then he pulls away, puts his hands on your shoulders, and kisses both of your cheeks.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. Lily has to drag you away as you giggle before you make a fool of yourself. Charles waves and smiles brightly when you turn around. You burst out onto the sidewalk and cover your face in your hands. Really, it means nothing. It’s just his way of greeting people or saying goodbye, it’s a thing he does. But your chest feels warm and your head is swimming, and it’s not the alcohol.

“Oh, shit,” you say to Lily, who’s smiling at you.

“Love and hate,” she reminds you.

…..

You swear Lily to secrecy, and though she loves Alex, she would never sell you out, thank god. You’re determined to act like everything is normal. You can’t be in love with your teammate. That would be crazy. It would be awful. It would be everything that everyone has ever said about female drivers, all confirmed. You’d get torn apart on the internet.

It’s not easy, though, because it’s Charles. Because he’s sweet and kind and handsome, and he cares about you. He doesn’t hate you. He wants to spend time with you, all the time. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you think they’ve got it backwards. Maybe there’s a second part- presence makes the heart go crazy.

When you qualify in pole position for the first time in your F1 career, you have a panic attack. It’s a massive one, one that has your legs giving out and leaves you hyperventilating. It’s bad enough that Charles almost goes and gets George or Alex, but you beg him to stay with you, so he does. Eventually, he just wraps you up tightly in his arms and holds you there until you can breathe again.

“I’m not going to be able to do it,” you sniffle, as he runs his hand over your hair and rocks you from side to side. “I’m gonna crash on the first turn and then everyone is gonna be right, and I’ll lose my seat, and then-“

“No, amour, that is not going to happen,” Charles soothes, chest rumbling against you. “It is not. You are going to do just fine.”

“But what if I don’t? What if I can’t win, what if I don’t do it-“

“Then you will try again next time,” he says, so sure of it, like he can see the future. “You are starting on pole tomorrow. It’s scary, I know. But it’s just another race. You just… go out and give it your all. The same way you do every weekend.”

“You’ll keep them away from me?” You ask. Charles is starting third.

“No,” he scoffs, a laugh bubbling up from his lips. For just a moment, your heart breaks. Then, he says, “I will not need to. You will be so far ahead you’ll forget anyone else is even there.”

You laugh, press your teary face into his chest. “Shut up.”

…..

You check your rear views before the race starts, something comforting running through your veins when you see Charles behind you. You can’t see his face, can barely see his helmet, but you see the red. Then the lights go out, and he disappears in a blur. Give it all you got, you hear, unsure if it’s your race engineer or you or a voice in your head. You hold your breath for the first few turns, maybe for the whole first lap. And then your race engineer is talking about gaps and clean air and tire management, and you’re looking ahead, trying to see what car you need to try and pass next, trying to tell if you’re in DRS range, and then-

There’s nobody in front of you. Clean air. You’re in first. You’re leading the Grand Prix.

When you come careening over the line at the end of the race, when you see the checkered flag first, when you spot your crew on the pit wall, you swear your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Your race engineer is yelling in excitement. You think you’re yelling too, but you have no idea what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter.

You pull the car into the first place slot and climb out. You have to wrack your brain to remember what you’re supposed to do- it’s been so long since you’ve won a race, back when you were still in F2. Hug the team, get weighed, shake hands, grab the hat- Someone grabs your arm. You spin around and come face to face with Ferrari red. Charles.

He pulls you into a tight hug. Your helmets knock together. He’s saying something, over and over again.

“-told you, I told you, I knew you would do it,” he says. “I’m so proud of you.”

Charles takes your helmet and balaclava for you when you finally get them off. He takes his off too, and his face is red, dimples deep as he grins at you. He’s finished 7th, he tells you. Got passed in the first lap and never recovered.

“-told you you didn’t need me defending,” he says, and you’re laughing, shoving his shoulder. “You did so fucking good-“

The butterflies are going crazy in your stomach. You want to kiss him. The helmet has left a little indent on his cheek- you want to run your finger over it. But there are so many cameras and people watching, and suddenly you’re being pulled away from him, sent to the cool down room. Then it’s shaking hands with Max and Lewis again, watching the race highlights, basking in the excitement of it all. There’s the podium, the champagne, the trophy that you don’t let go of until you get back to the Ferrari garage. The giant group photo with the trophy, more champagne dumped over your head, Charles lost in the sea of red somewhere. It’s all such a blur.

You finally stumble back to your driver’s room, in a rush to change out of your race kit and grab your stuff. Someone has rented out a bar- they apparently did it when you qualified on pole, and didn’t tell you for fear of jinxing it. You text George and Alex, tell them where to meet you. With your stuff in hand, in a pair of sweatpants and a Ferrari sweatshirt, you finally stop and look in the mirror.

F1 Grand Prix winner.

There’s a knock on the door. You open it and find Charles standing there, in a very similar outfit. The line on his face has faded, but his hair is still a mess. You step back from the door and give him room to step inside. He’s staring at you, a soft look on his face. You’re holding your breath again. It’s the first lap. You just have to make it through the turns, get out ahead into clean air. His lips are parted, eyes wide and sparkling.

His hands are shaky when they cup your face. Yours are even shakier when you fist your hands in his sweatshirt. But the kiss he pulls you into is steady and sure and true. You melt into him, shoving your hands under his sweatshirt as he pulls you close with an arm around your waist. You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, let his tongue slip into your mouth.

When he pulls away, his eyes are wild.

“We have to go,” he says, squeezing your hip. “You have a party to be at. Also, you are so pretty.”

You can remember the way he looked at you at the start of the season. How you thought the fire in his eyes was going to burn you alive. You’d stoked your own fire to burn him up first. Now you’re blazing, and you never want the fire to go out.

“I can’t believe I thought you hated me,” you say, muffling a laugh into his chest. “You’re coming to the party, right?”

“Of course,” he says. He cups your face in his hands again and presses another kiss to your lips. “And tomorrow, you are coming on a date with me, right?”

You laugh, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Of course.”

“Perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead and then letting you go. “Come on, winner. You have so many people waiting to buy you drinks.”

…..

When you walk into the bar hand in hand with Charles, Lily slams her hand down on the table.

“Pay up, boys,” she says, a wide grin on her face.

“Never in a million years did I see that coming,” George says.

“I’m never betting against Lily ever again,” Alex adds.

Max leans down over the table, holding his hand out, too. George and Alex groan and start pulling cash from their wallets.

“Hate and love,” Max says, a smirk on his face. “Very thin line, huh?”

woo! enemies to lovers, classic trope in the bag! come say hi and let me know what you think. send me a dm or drop me an ask to be added to the tag list!

oscar does everything he can to make you feel good and comfortable. he sits in a chair next to your bed and reads your favorite book aloud and holding your hand all the time because he knows you get clingy when you’re sick. he also sets an alarm so you don’t forget to take your medicine, whispering “there you go, my sweet girl. you’re doing so good.” while giving you water and stroking your hair with his free hand. oscar doesn’t leave your side until you are fast asleep, and even when you’re apart he tries to be as present as he can.

★ — MAX VERSTAPPEN (33/1)

max goes crazy, it’s hurts him seeing you like that. he calls every doctor in monaco to get them to see you and buys everything they tell him you need. he can’t get sick, so max keeps his distance “i just want to get under the covers and hug you until you feel better.” he complains, hands itching to touch you but you won’t let him. when he sees that your favorite water is running out and there aren’t anymore tissues, he makes a quick trip to do the shopping and ends up buying a lot more things than necessary. he doesn’t leave without a huge bouquet of your favorite flowers that then places in your nightstand when you’re sleeping.

★ — ALEX ALBON (23)

alex finds out you are sick only thanks to your mom who tells him, and he immediately shows up at your door. he’s angry, a well-prepared speech on the tip of his tongue, but once he sees how bad you’re feeling, alex forgets all about his anger. he guides you with a hand on your shoulder back to your bedroom and stays with you all day even if he doesn’t know what to do. alex panics when you run to the bathroom to throw up, but follows you and strokes your hair through it, words of affection leaving his mouth. “what you want to do? it will make you feel better.” so you two end up cuddling in bed after doing your skincare, watching your favorite movie.

★ — DANIEL RICCIARDO (3)

daniel doesn’t let anyone come near you or disturb you because “she needs to rest and if i see anyone bothering her you’re out of the house.” he takes care of you but he also lets you know how upset he is that you are sick, listing all of the times he told you to be careful and take care of yourself. daniel constantly checks your temperature to ensure you are okay, leaving kisses all over your face and making you giggle because that’s the only way to tell, according to him. to help you sleep he brings out his guitar and signs you a lullaby until you stop cringing and, eventually, fall asleep.

★ — MICK SCHUMACHER (47)

mick treats you as if you’re made out of glass and are going to break at any moment. he’s more scared than worried and you have to assure him that you are going to be okay, that it’s just a simple cold. he hugs you like you’re going to disappear whispering “i wish i was the one sick and not you.” which makes you feel so loved. he stays glued to your side until you are no longer sick, and even then he stills checks with you that everything is okay.

"Can I help you?" She asked mildly. "I can't give you mates rates anymore, you know that, right?"

Tony let out a sharp laugh, which Y/N was sure bordered on sounding bitter.

"I need your help," he said instead, pushing himself up to walk over to stand in front of her.

"Nice to see you too," Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop herself from smiling a little at the familiarity of the situation - who would've guessed that she'd miss getting called on to look after the Jets. Y/N turned away from him and reached up into one of the higher cupboards, bringing out the first aid kit that she had kept in there since she first met Riff. "Baby John again?"

"What?" When Y/N turned around again, Tony's nose was scrunched up in confusion until his eyes landed on the first aid kit and he shook his head stiffly. "Nothing like that - well..." he caught himself and sighed again. "Riff's planned a rumble."

Y/N's heart jumped in her chest and she felt her grip on the first aid kit loosen involuntarily, her throat running dry.

"With-" she cleared her throat, wetting her lips. "With the Sharks?"

Tony sighed again and nodded his head.

"He's got a gun."

This time the kit really did fall from her hands, landing on the floor with a thud.

"He's what?!"

"It can't go ahead," Tony said, almost pleading with her.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Yeah - but he thinks I've betrayed him, deserted the Jets and all that, since I said I wouldn't get involved with it."

"When is it?"

"Tonight," Tony said regretfully.

"Fuck," Y/N breathed. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Talk to Riff?" Tony said immediately. "He'll listen to you - he always did."

"You know it's different now - Riff broke up with me, remember?"

"Yeah, but it's not like he did it because he stopped loving you," Tony pointed out, sending another stab into her heart.

"Has Graz tried to talk to him about it?" She tried.

"It's not like that between them and you know it," Tony scoffed.

"What's... what's it about, anyway?" Y/N picked up the rag on the counter and began to wipe it down, just to have something to do with her hands as her mind raced with thoughts.

"At the dance last night," Tony's suddenly doing his best to avoid Y/N eyes entirely. "Bernardo tried to start with me."

"Why?" Y/N asked. There's a sudden flush on Tony's cheeks and he cleared his throat, lips beginning to tug into a reluctant smile.

"I... I was dancing with his sister - Maria. He... wasn't a fan," Tony said, though he didn't look the slightest bit ashamed about it. Y/N snorted out a laugh.

"I'm sure Riff wasn't too pleased either," she said knowingly.

"Nah - he hasn't actually said anything to me about it," Tony shrugged. "Think he thinks I just did it to mess with Bernardo."

"You better not have," Y/N said sharply. "Maria's lovely - they all are, I've never understood Riff's problem."

"I didn't," Tony promised her. "I love her," he stated simply with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "And she asked me to get Riff to call of tonight's rumble so..."

"Oh - well, good to know that you wouldn't be bothered about stopping it if your girlfriend hadn't said anything," Y/N couldn't help herself from saying.

"That's not fair! You know Riff, he doesn't listen to anyone!" Tony hesitated. "Well, except for you."

"Riff's avoiding me anyway, he won't talk to me, especially if I just tell him to call off the rumble."

And even though she knew her words were the truth, she couldn't help but also think about where she'd be most likely to catch him before the rumble - where the jets would usually go to prepare before their fights.

The door jingled, signalling another customer and Y/N was grateful for the interruption.

"Just..." Tony groaned frustratedly. "Try?" He begged, walking over to the door as it had begun to swing closed again.

Y/N didn't look at him, but gave a single, silent nod of her head.

//

As it turned out, Y/N didn’t have to try and seek Riff out, because when her shift ended that night, there he was. Right outside the bakery, leaning against the wall, lit cigarette between his lips and a would-be-indifferent expression on his face.

It was a sight that was so painfully familiar from their time together, back when Riff would walk her home every night after a shift. He hated the idea of her walking back alone in the dark - and Y/N knew he still hated it, and also that he still cared about her because she would often catch glimpses of the other Jets, walking a distance behind her or hiding behind corners.

Something that would be utterly terrifying to almost anyone else, Y/N was sure. But the thing was - for a while, they had been her boys. And Y/N knew that it was Riff who’d sent them, just to make sure she got home okay, to make sure no one bothered her as she walked.

But this evening it was just him, waiting where he always used to.

“I feel honoured - I hear you already have evening plans.”

Riff’s expression tugs into a slight smirk and he drops the cigarette he’s holding to the ground, crushing it with the heel of his shoe.

“Who told you? Baby John?”

Y/N smiled a little, shaking her head. “Tony.”

Riff’s smirk faded.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed. She tilted her head to the side. “You walking me home or not, Jet Boy?”

“Depends - you gonna try and talk me out of rumbling?”

Y/N just laughed and set off walking. Sure enough, Riff was quick to jog and catch up with her. He offered her his arm silently and Y/N took it.

“I’ve always come back fine before,” Riff breaks the silence at last.

“This is different, though,” Y/N said.

“Why? Because I’ve got a gun? I’m only gonna use it if-“

“No, because you came to me.”

Y/N peaked at Riff from the corner of her eye to see him frowning a little.

“I always came to you before rumbles.”

“Yeah. But that was before, Riff,” she pointed out. “You’ve been avoiding me since you ended it, even when you’ve had full on brawls. But tonight you came to me again before a rumble,” Y/N tugged on his arm, forcing him to stop in front of her. He refused to meet her eyes. “That’s how I know it’s different.”

“Ever thought I just wanted to see you, girly girl?” Riff tried to inject some of his usual confidence into his voice but Y/N isn’t fooled. She knew him too well for that.

“I know you did,” Y/N agreed gently. “But you never did until now.”

“You used to be so shy when we met,” Riff chuckles and he tried to make it sound bitter, annoyed. But there’s nothing but affection in the sound. “Convinced that I didn’t like you.”

“And you spent the whole time we were together determined to change my mind - figured you’d be proud of yourself for it,” Y/N teased. Riff finally lifted his gaze to meet hers and it’s the softest that Y/N has ever seen him look, save for the night when he first told her he loved her. “Please don’t go tonight - please call it off, Riff,” she whispered, and it’s instinctual how her hand raises to rest on his cheek, her thumb caressing the scar beneath his eye.

“I can’t,” Riff said gently and he turned to press a kiss to her palm. “It’d be too late now anyway.”

“You ended us because you were scared to hurt me,” Y/N reminded him and she hates herself just a little for the way that her eyes fill with tears. “This is it. This is you hurting me. Seeing you go into this - knowing you’re going to get hurt. And over what? Territory? Tony dancing with a Puerto Rican girl?” She tried to gulp back her tears, tried to calm her shaking breath. Riff noticed her struggle and tugged her just a little closer to him, winding an arm around her waist and kissing her palm again. “You said to me once that - that you were destined to die young. I’m sorry that I couldn’t make you change your mind.”

“That’s not you, Angel,” the pet name is achingly familiar and Y/N closed her eyes, feeling Riff’s other hand come up to brush away the tears on her cheeks. “I’m gonna come back to you, I promise.”

And there’s a resoluteness in his voice that hadn’t been there before, despite all of his suave confidence. A vow, as though now he has a reason to come back from the rumble. He has something to loose.

“You know you’d like Bernardo if you weren’t always trying to fight him for no fucking reason,” Y/N said after a moment and Riff laughed a little and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Come on, girly girl, let's get you home.”

This time, he held out his hand for her, and Y/N couldn’t not accept the offer, allowing his fingers to wrap tightly around hers.

“I mean it, though! I mean, Jets, Sharks - you do realise you have a common enemy in the police, right?” Riff just chuckled again, squeezing her hand.

“We’ll see.”

It’s not far to Y/N’s apartment, and they walk the rest of it in silence, Y/N’s mind plagued with thoughts of the worst case scenario for the evening to come.

When they reach the door, though, they loiter awkwardly, unsure of how to navigate parting on these terms.

“And you’re sure there’s no way you can call it off?” Y/N asked at last.

“They’re on our turf. They gotta respect that - you know that.” Riff said, injecting his usual confidence into the words.

“There’s enough of New York for all of you,” Y/N reminded him. She gnawed at her bottom lip. “I don’t want any of you getting hurt,” she whispered at last.

“I’ll come to you - tonight, after the rumble,” Riff said abruptly. “So you know I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Y/N agreed. “And I know you’re gonna go through with it no matter what but… don’t let it go too far - please,” she begged. “I know you Riff - I know you don’t want that. You don’t want anyone getting seriously hurt.”

There was a moment of hesitation that crossed his face before he, at last, gave a stiff nod of his head.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed, letting go of Riff’s hand to reach up to the clasp of her necklace. Riff raised his eyebrows but did as instructed without question. Y/N unfastened her necklace and slipped the charm off of it and into the palm of her hand, her fingers closed momentarily around it as though by doing that she could store all the luck in the world inside of it for Riff. But then she reached over and carefully lifted the chain from around Riff’s own neck, unfastening it and threading her charm onto it so that lay beside the four leaf clover she knew was all he had left of his mother.

Y/N carefully slipped the necklace back around Riff’s neck, her fingers loitering a little too long where they made contact with his skin before she pulled back. Riff opened his eyes, hand coming up to play with the new charm.

“Doll-”

“Now you have to come back to me. Because I’m not going to a fucking morgue to get that back,” she said fiercely. Riff grinned at the words before glancing up at the darkening sky, and the smile slipped ever so slightly.

“I…” he hesitated before setting his jaw, grim determination on his face. “I shouldn’t’ve ended it. I know that was… dumb. But, if you’ll have me, I still-“

Y/N reached forwards and covered his mouth, scowling at him.

“Tonight. You tell me tonight, when I know you’re safe and I also know you haven’t done anything utterly stupid.”

Riff nodded and Y/N dropped her hand.

“Tonight,” he said and Y/N repeated the word in confirmation.

“Tonight.”

And with a swift kiss to her forehead, and another to her cheek, Y/N watched her Jet Boy disappear into the night.

//

Naturally, Y/N had known all along that she would never be able to fall asleep that night - not until Riff came, at least. She had tried to convince herself that she could, though, by changing into her nightwear and settling into bed with her book.

Not that she was paying any attention to the words on the page whatsoever, far too distracted with her concern for what was happening across town somewhere from her. A concern that only grew as the minutes dragged sluggishly by.

By the time that the frantic knocking came, she had given up all pretence and was instead just pacing back and forth in her room. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the sound - Riff would have just come to her window, as he always did, so as not to wake her flatmates. There had to be something wrong.

Y/N rushed to the door to her apartment and flung it open, greeted by two familiar, red-faced and panting figures.

“You gotta come - it’s Riff,” Anybodys gasped out, Baby John nodding quickly next to him, beckoning with his hand.

“Is he okay?” Y/N asked, though she was already halfway out of the door, not pausing to grab her shoes or a change of clothes.

The three of them sprinted down the steps of the apartment building.

“He’s hurt bad - we got him to Doc’s but he’s just been asking for you,” Baby John filled in.

“How bad?” Y/N asked, the three of them practically sprinting down the near deserted streets of New York. The pavement is cool and rough beneath her bare feet and she knows that she’s going to regret not bothering with shoes the next morning but right now it’s the least of her worries.

“Well… he’s conscious,” Baby John offered, evidently not wanting to have to be the bearer of bad news.

“Well that’s something,” Y/N muttered.

When they arrive at Doc’s, the rest of the Jet’s are clustered inside, not talking save for a few awkward murmurs here and there. Graziella and Velma are also sat inside, looking solemn and worried. The girls stood up when Y/N rushed inside.

“You’re here,” Velma sighed with relief. Y/N nodded mutely.

“He’s downstairs,” Graziella said, reaching out to grab a hold of Y/N’s hand. She gave it a quick squeeze and what Y/N knew she hoped to be a reassuring smile.

As she headed to the door to the backroom, she heard Baby John ask:

“Is he doing any better?”

She shut the door behind her quickly, not wanting to hear the answer.

“Y/N? That you?” Tony’s familiar voice called.

She rounded the corner at the bottom of the steps into Tony’s room and couldn’t help a slight gasp.

Riff was laying on Tony’s bed, his shirt discarded on the ground, though Y/N could see it was entirely soaked with blood. There was a deep gash in his torso, which Tony appeared to be in the process of cleaning out.

“We managed to get the bleeding to stop,” Tony filled her in with undeniable relief in his voice.

“What the hell happened?” She asked, stepping closer. Riff’s eyes were shut lightly, though seemed to be flickering slightly as though he was coming in and out of consciousness.

“Stabbed at the rumble - Bernardo… I tried to talk him down, explain everything you know. He just wanted to fight. He started on me and I think that was what… set Riff off - I wouldn’t fight back, see?” Y/N just nodded mutely along with Tony’s shaky words. “So Riff told him that he’d fight. I don’t really… know what happened then? There was a knife on the floor, then Riff was pulling one out of his pocket and then…” Y/N tore her eyes away from Riff to look at Tony, who was struggling with his words. “I managed to get hold of it. I wouldn’t give it to him - he was just wrestling with me for it. He managed to get it free, but when he turned… Bernardo’s knife…” Tony shook his head. “He didn’t mean to do it - I mean, his face,” Tony swallowed thickly. “We’re just lucky that he wasn’t aiming any higher,” he shook his head stoically. “I lost it then, started fighting him properly. Then there were sirens and the police had found us, so everyone else scattered. Anybodys yanked me back before I could… before I could do any worse to him than he did to Riff.”

Y/N just nodded silently.

“You think he’s going to be okay, though?” Y/N asked, hating the hopeful lilt in her voice.

“I hope so,” Tony said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“And Bernardo?”

“Alive. Sharks carried him out and he was still conscious.” Y/N nodded her head.

“That’s good,” she whispered faintly. Then she remembered: “Maria - weren’t you meant to…”

“I couldn’t leave him,” Tony said, gesturing at his best friend, laying on his bed.

“Go find her. I’ve got it. I swear.”

Tony stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly.

“You’ll… you’ll come find me if…”

“Of course.”

And Tony was gone, rushing up the stairs of his room and outside into the cool night to make amends with Maria, leaving behind him Y/N with a pile of medical supplies and Riff.

“So much for being careful, huh?” She couldn’t help but murmur into the quiet of the room.

“Promised you alive,” came a raspy, weak voice. “Nothing about careful.”

“And I thought you meant alive-alive, not… one bad cough away from the grave,” she said, though couldn’t hide the relief she felt at actually hearing him speak. Riff’s lips twitched up into a slight smile and he shifted on the bed before groaning in pain. “Stop moving! I need to bandage you,” she scolded, placing a hand gently on his chest.

Riff at last peaked open his eyes.

“You came in your nightclothes?” He asked, smiling a little. Y/N rolled her eyes.

“That’s not even the part you’ll find funniest,” she told him as she began to carefully wrap the pristine bandages around his wound, giving a soft apology when he gave a hiss of pain.

“Oh yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah - didn’t even get shoes on my way out of the flat,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his and grinning. Riff huffed out a laugh, but immediately groaned in pain. “I’ll see if I can find some painkillers,” Y/N said as she finished tying the bandage around the stab wound. She stood up, turning to face towards the exit where the actual pharmacy was. But Riff’s hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around her wrist, stopping her.

“No just - stay here. For a sec,” he said. And when Y/N looked at him again, there was genuine fear on his face that she would leave him.

“I don’t want you to be in pain,” she said, leaning over and she pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

Riff raised his other hand, which Y/N hadn’t noticed had been clenched into a fist and he slowly moved it towards her, wincing with every small movement, carefully opening it and allowing the chain to dangle from a finger.

“This way you’re the one who has to come back to me,” he said.

The necklace was tinted rusty red in parts, likely from how tightly Riff had been gripping it in his hand. Why he had taken it off to hold instead of wear about his neck was a question that Y/N wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to.

“I’ll always come back to you,” Y/N vowed, taking hold of the necklace. “And I’ll stay for as long as you let me.”

“Forever, then?” He asked, his voice hushed and embarrassed, vulnerable in the way he often was when it was just the two of them, without any of his jets to see him.

“If you want that,” Y/N agreed, grinning at him. She lent down again and moulded their lips together as gently as she could. Riff’s hand rested on her cheek, pulling her closer, a sense of desperation in the kiss. It felt as though he was making up for lost time, or perhaps that was just Y/N’s imagination.

They broke apart, though Y/N kept her forehead rested against Riff’s, close enough to feel his breath fanning against her lips.