I don’t usually scroll into the naruto fandom, but i rewatched the entire series this week and i felt like looking at what other people were saying. I was going through the anti-hiruzen hashtag ( because that man deserves the worst and was a horrible person ), when i realised something that was really surprising ( to me at least ). When people take a look at the decimation of the uchiha clan and all that led up to it, they rightfully blame Hiruzen and Tobirama, but also weirdly Itachi. Which is really surprising to me because i’d never seen itachi’s involvement in the massacre as anything but unwilling . Granted, this is a very small portion of the fandom, but it still stuck out to me. So i wanted to give my two cents on it.
First of all let us remember that Itachi Uchiha was 13 at the time of the massacre . 13 . A CHILD. I can guarantee you that he had no say in the final decision or in the long process that led to this decision being made. And whatever power you might argue that he might’ve had, would not have been authentic or truly his own. Itachi was part of the Anbu, and had been since the age of 11. The Anbu were loyal to the village, and were taught to be mindless puppets who obeyed orders without question and pretty much gave up on their identity. What’s worse is that the one controlling the Anbu at the time was Danzo. That is extremely alarming when taking into account the man’s personal relationship with Itachi. We can assume that Itachi has been under Danzo’s titular since his enrolment, given the mans interest in the Sharingan and the fact that he was the one who appointed Itachi as captain and assigned him to the Anbu in the first place. There was no way he had any true say in what happened. He was a puppet. A sword used and then left to die.
What’s more, Itachi was in a position, where he either had to take his clans life, or see his village plunged to war. It was literally said that “ an Uchiha coup would lead to intervention from other villages and ultimately start another World War”. As someone who was present during the third shinobi war and was heavily traumatized by it how was he supposed to support that. He started acting as the third hokage’s spy, because he wanted to find a peaceful solution . But that was impossible. On one hand the Uchiha’s had been oppressed since the beginning of the villages foundation and were rightfully outraged and fed up. On the other hand, the third Hokage who was unwilling to resolve that issue, was enabling his council who were asking for a military response . Do y’all see the position he is in? Once again, Itachi was a child when all of this was happening . Can you imagine the sort of pressure that is for a 13 year old? Asked to join in a revolution against a system you’ve been groomed to follow since your earliest years, a revolution that will very well lead to a world war; or tasked with the extermination of your entire family in the name of protecting the village.
Itachi was a child failed by all the adults around him, and was put in a position he never should’ve been in. He didn’t deserve any of it, and while i do understand people’s outrage at what happened to the Uchiha’s ( i get it i am very much against all of it too), i truly believe that people’s anger is misguided .
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i have to say i am devastated with the way the zc debacle has come to end. there is a very serious conversation to be had about fandom etiquette in media spaces, especially in the media platforms where the people involved might come to learn about the fanfictions written about them.
this time the breach didn't come from a stupid jorunalist who published about fanfiction, or a media admin bringing up the topic with the drivers themselves, it came from you, the readers, pushing it up on every fucking platform i stepped in for the last 4 days. you were in the comments of the video oscar uploaded of him playing in the sim, in the mclaren comments section. their official tiktok, and i have seen so many people talking about it on twitter too. like. i get you love it, but what happened with zc is really scary. i know the f1 drivers have a very, very low chance of seeing this type of content, especially when the fics are locked. but you should have known that the other side of the equation (in zc's case) are people whose job is to be chronically online and they see everything that gets posted to their name.
you should not be talking about fanfic in places where the people involved might see them. and that's it. no exceptions.
i have seen people talking about my own fics out in the wild, and while it doesn't bother me personally, i know i am an outlier, and that probably comes from the fact not many people know and read my fics, because who knows if suddenly all the comments talking about zc these past days were about one of my fics, i too maybe would have freaked out and deleted everything and myself from the internet.
i get that people want to talk about the things that they love, even when they're fics; finding people out in the wild who like the same thing as you is such a joy, i know. but you should learn that there are places to do so. like here tumblr where you know drivers have the least chance to find it, and you could even stumble upon the actual author and become friends with them; or in private discord servers where you share things with your friends.
but these breaches in containment are what have pushed so many authors to abandon writing lately. the zc author isn't the only one who gave up on this hobby, and it's so fucking sad to see.
im sorry it's so funny to me how aemond and aegon are having a telepathic argument about which of them was their mother's favorite child and all the while she literally traded them both in a heartbeat for helaena's life weeks ago
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FLIP FLOP for bloodsport. (Chocolate scene? Bed sharing scene? Anything!!! penny for ur thoughts) PLEASE AND THANK U
from here.
↻ FLIP FLOP: send me a scene from one of my fics and I’ll describe or write it from another character’s POV!
this turned kind of long (2k) so i just did the scene where charles comes with great gifts.
Max didn’t expect this.
When he read the news about the unfortunate Ferrari Le Mans situation he didn’t expect it to end in this: Charles’ car in his driveway.
Sure, there was a thought. He talked about it with a friend, what they should do in this situation, how bringing in a rookie from the academy would damage both team and said rookie. No one going into a potentially winning car without enough experience is going to come out any happier. No, if they wanted a real shot at winning, they’d reach out to someone experienced, someone who’d won before, someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who would not be a concern to the team, but an asset. That’s how you win the race, full trust in each other, to allow full focus on what matters: the race. It’s how Max won three years ago, it’s how anyone wins this. Trust and stability in the team.
Thinking he would be their preferred candidate was ridiculous. He didn’t think or hope for that. It occurred to him, amused, but never beyond that.
But the truth is that Charles’ car is in the driveway, and that he’s taking a significant amount of time getting out, meaning there’s probably some apprehension to this decision.
It can’t be easy for him either, giving up the dream of driving with his brother after what happened last year. The fact that they sent him, that they didn’t call—it tells Max enough. This is not just any favour. This is a plea. This is a cry for help.
—
“Hi,” Max says.
He hasn’t seen Charles since the wedding, since they shared one glance, one look and it felt like war. Like something snapped, like something that he thought they’d ended came right back for him.
Maybe they never really ended it at all. Charles is here, after all, even if he doesn’t look like he wants to be there.
Truthfully Max doesn’t want him to be here either. This is not how things are supposed to pick up, Charles undoubtedly coming to ask him for a favour for his team.
“Hello,” Charles returns.
Max waits, patient, but there’s nothing else coming out of Charles’ mouth. Tongue-tied he stands there, looking only moments away from sprinting back to his car.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Charles holds out the chocolates like some kind of peace offering, like without them Max would say no. He seems to think so. “I brought chocolates.”
Max glares at the box, confused. What the fuck do chocolates mean when you haven’t talked in years and someone’s about to ask you to drive their car?
“I don’t like chocolates,” Max lies. “Come in.”
—
“Do you want something to drink?” Max asks, as Charles sits down in his kitchen. He looks very much uncomfortable, not like a drink would help with that—unless it’s a particularly strong one. That’s not an option, given Charles has to leave too tonight, preferably.
“No thank you,” Charles answers. He looks scared, almost, out of place in Max’s kitchen. This is new for them. They were never very good at asking, they just took from each other.
Max takes pity on him.
“I already know what you want to ask,” Max says, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms across his chest.
“You do?” Charles breathes with relief.
“Yes,” Max smiles. “I do read the news every now and then. I’m sorry about Arthur. I hope he recovers well.”
“So do I,” Charles argues, ignoring everything else Max said. His eyes narrow down on Max when he continues. “I read the news. They are saying you want to come back. That you miss it.”
“They are always saying that,” Max brushes it off. Some of the rumours are true. Sometimes Max gets bored. He’s not good at standing still. Rarely, the media gets it right.
“You are in shape,” Charles points out. Max can feel the way Charles’ eyes linger over his body.
He smirks. It’s too easy. “Thanks. The answer is still no.”
Charles doesn’t look particularly surprised to hear this. It’s a shit bargain. Max doesn’t want to help his team, doesn’t want to drive that car—he doesn’t want to win Le Mans again, not for Ferrari.
“You don’t want to drive,” Charles states.
“No, I want to drive, just not in your car.”
Charles misses the obvious, latches onto the wrong end of the argument, and sighs with frustration.
“It is not a bad car,” he argues.
“I know that. You have made a lot of progress, but it’s not a Porsche or Toyota. I like to win,” Max shrugs. It is the truth. He does like to win, doesn’t bet on a losing horse, but—
Charles frowns. “What happened last year—” he tries to defend, but he is pulling at the wrong end still. Max is not going to do his team a favour. He is not going to come because the team asks, because they need a miracle.
Maybe the drama of last year is making Charles uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the way he’s firing blanks, every argument a dead end. Max spares him the misery.
“I don’t care what happened last year Charles,” he interrupts him. “I won’t want to drive your car.”
“The car is better this year, we went a different direction in development, more reliability, less—”
He speaks like a true driver, like the facts will make the difference, like they can make the stars align simply by forcing them. But Charles could come here with a rocket ship in tow and Max still wouldn’t jump aboard—not unless Charles asked him.
“Technicalities don’t help,” Max says. “The answer is no.”
Defeated, finally, Charles nods. “Right. I will leave then.”
He’s already out of the chair, making his way through Max’s house, on his way to leave. Max knows he won’t, knows he didn’t drive seven hours just to forget his anger, to forget why he wants this, why he needs this. He just needs to tell Max about it.
“I’m sorry about your brother, again,” Max tells him.
“Thanks,” Charles says finally. The breathless smile he gives him is completely empty. He stares at Max, as if that’ll do the trick, but then pushes the door open, and then he’s gone.
—
The house is quiet after Charles leaves. An eery kind of quiet, one that shouldn’t be there. Two years without seeing each other and it ends like this. One short conversation. One disagreement about something they’re both passionate about and someone slams the door.
Things haven’t really changed or ended. Things aren’t really over. Max is confident he’ll be back. He’ll have seven hours in the car to eat himself up about it, to really think it through, to wonder why just why Max let him in but didn’t agree.
He’s almost got it. It wasn’t a call—Max would’ve said no—but he came out here. It was personal, it’s always personal between them. A connection that lasted so many years can not just be undone. Charles should know better than that.
—
“You are here again,” Max observes, looking at Charles on his doorstep. Not more than an hour has passed since Max watched the Alfa Romeo disappear off his driveway.
“I threw away the chocolate,” Charles says.
Max frowns, looking at Charles up and down. There’s a distinct lack of chocolate on him now.
“That is what you came here to say?”
“No,” Charles says quickly, followed by a deep breath. “No, I have something to say.”
Defensive, Max crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.”
He watches Charles fidget, hands finding the ends of his sweater to hold onto something. He is nervous, but they are above showing each other mercy in situations like this. They’ve never been very good at that, giving, at being generous, at wishing the other well. There was always something else between them, the idea of a fight lingering still, even here, on Max’s doorstep.
“Can I do it inside?”
—
Charles looks about moments away from spilling tea all over himself when he sits down. He’s even more nervous now, setting the teacup down.
“I don’t want to ask you,” he starts to admit.
“Then don’t,” Max reasons.
“I don’t want to ask you, but,” Charles tries again, and this time, Max is patient. “Don’t you see it? I have no choice. I want it to be Arthur, but it can’t be him, so the team—everyone. We are asking you. I am asking you.”
Max is not wholly unaffected by the way Charles emphasizes it. He is asking. He wants something from Max, something impossible. He wants this. Wants them to work together—something they’ve never done. Something Max didn’t ever think was possible, didn’t entertain the thought of until he read the news a couple days ago.
“Why can’t you find someone else?” Max tries, still. “No one wants to drive your car?”
It’s not a full no. Max is about as thrilled to driver Charles’ car as he is to get a root canal, but to drive with Charles, that is—
That is something he could consider. If it’s Charles asking, if Charles wants him to be there, then maybe—
He never thought there’d be a chance to fix things up. They ended things the way they did because that was the only way it could end. Cold, abrupt, the way all friendships in Formula One eventually die when one of you leaves. It’s an age old story. Someone goes first and someone is left behind. Someone is upset and someone is guilty. They take turns playing the parts.
“I can find someone else,” Charles says. “There are people, reserves, of course—we can find someone else, but—”
Charles takes a sip of tea before he continues.
”You know, its like this—I want three of myself in the team. To drive, I want complete control over it. I trust Ollie, he is good. He is careful, maybe too much. But he does not make mistakes. I trust him.”
Max gets it. You want someone there that you can believe in, that allows you to close an eye at night while they drive. The only way you win this race it to trust the people you do it with, to trust that they’ll be you when you’re not the one behind the wheel.
Charles coming here to ask this of Max means only one thing.
“You trust me?”
“No,” Charles laughs with it. “But on track I do. I always knew where to find you. You are predictable, to me. I know how you drive, you see what I see, so I know you’ll do what I do.”
Max falls silent.
It is perhaps the nicest thing Charles has ever said to him, and it is not even nice. It is fact. This is what hasn’t ended, what hasn’t changed. Max can look in his rearview mirror and know exactly where he’ll find Charles. He knows where Charles will cut him off, where he’ll send him off, knows Charles is elbows out the way Max is. No one knows Max like this. No one but Charles.
There is trust in that, in going wheel to wheel, in allowing someone close enough to push you off. Only trust allows that.
Only that kind of trust brings Charles here, asking for a favour. Only trust gets Max to agree.
“We have never worked together,” Max admits.
Charles’ breath of relief is loud. It’s a lot to ask, still, for people who don’t do favours, who don’t really do anything but the tangent connection in the past.
“No,” he agrees. That’s all. It’s fact. They’ve never done this. It doesn’t mean they can’t.
“Do you think we can?” Max asks. He thinks so, hopes so. If Charles trusts him the way he says he does, then it should be possible.
”I don’t know,” he admits. “Do you want to find out?”
it's kind of crazy climate change has occurred at such a remarkable pace that I and everyone else around my age can remember a completely different climate in our childhoods. I truly watched winter gradually disappear in my life.
"You're too young to remember this, but there used to be so many insects outside that you would have to clean them off the windshield after a long car ride" is the kind of sentence that would have been in a cheesy scifi short story earlier in my life, perhaps submitted to a literary magazine and accepted to show support for its environmentalist message - now it's something I've said in earnest.
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YOU. WILL. WRITE. oh you want to write so bad. all the motivation is here. the plot is so good. words come to you so naturally. YOU ARE GOING TO WRITE. RIGHT NOW.
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