#mini event}

He’s never really gotten sports. He’s learned the rules of basketball over the years — because of course he did, Steve quizzed him until he could name positions like spells — but it’s still mostly a blur of bouncing orange chaos. What he does get, though, is that Steve’s good at this. Not just good, but home in it. The whistle, the clipboard, the stupid backwards cap he wears like he’s still twenty.

The whistle blows again. “Alright, water break!”

Eddie claps a few times, partly because the kids do and partly because Steve’s looking his way now, that post-game glow already making him unfairly hot in the worst fluorescent lighting known to man. Steve jogs over, grin splitting his face.

“You came early,” Steve says, breathless and flushed.

“Traffic was light. And, you know, I like to watch you yell at children. It’s a real turn-on.”

Steve laughs, that kind that makes his shoulders shake. “Yeah, I bet. You’re lucky you didn’t have to see me break up two fights earlier.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Eddie says. “I’ll make sure to pick a fight next time just so you can practice.”

Steve rolls his eyes and sits beside him, still radiating heat. His hair’s damp at the temples. Eddie’s tempted to lean in and taste the salt there. Instead, he passes over the cup.

“Coffee,” he says. “Extra sugar. For the hardworking coach.”

Steve takes it and pauses. His thumb brushes over the side, where two letters are scrawled in Eddie’s messy handwriting: CH.

He quirks a brow. “What’s this? CH?”

Eddie grins. “Coach Harrington.”

Steve snorts. “You labeled my coffee like I’m in kindergarten.”

“Please,” Eddie says. “That’s not labeling. That’s branding. You’re official now. Local legend. I’m thinking merch: mugs, shirts, maybe a whistle that says ‘World’s Hottest Coach.’”

Steve hides his smile behind the cup, trying to look unimpressed, and failing miserably. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, eyes glinting. “And yet, you still put up with me, Coach.”

That earns him a shove to the shoulder, gentle and familiar. Steve doesn’t even realize he’s still touching him — hand lingering, thumb tracing circles like it’s second nature.

Eddie looks at the kids — laughing, sweaty, alive — and then back at Steve, who’s watching them too. There’s that look again: proud, a little wistful, and totally his.

He thinks about how Steve used to be so terrified of ending up like his dad: all bark and silence, all expectations and no joy. But now, standing in front of a bunch of loud, messy kids who adore him, Steve’s become everything his father never was: patient, kind and quietly fierce.

Eddie leans closer, voice soft. “You’re good at this, you know.”

Steve hums without looking at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “You found your thing.”

Steve finally turns, eyes catching his. There’s that stupid, heart-melting smile again, all sunshine and disbelief. “Guess I did.”

The whistle blows again, and Steve’s up, jogging back to the court. Eddie watches him go, shaking his head. He lifts the empty cup Steve left behind, tracing the inked initials with a thumb.

Admiring from afar was never really an option when your hand lived permanently in his, or you’d wave to him from your window each morning on his early paper-run. You became just as constant in his life as the beating of his heart.

He’d seen each era of you- when you’d cut your own bangs, when you’d dyed half your clothes black and then threw them away, when you’d tried skateboarding and scraped your knees almost clean off by the second week. 

And somehow, he’d managed to love you through all of them. 

But here, now, this current phase of yours?

He detested it. And he couldn’t tell if it was here to stay or not, if you’d morphed into someone he barely recognised.

Yet, your hand was still in his, pulling him away from school with a whine.

“When did you become such a stiff?” you accuse, dragging him to an abandoned bus stop, pulling out a half used pack of cigs.

He straightens as you pass him one, giving you a sharp shake of the head.

“I really think you should quit that, you know? It’s not good for you.”

You shrug, giving him a dramatic eye roll.

“I’m dying anyway. We all are.”

His body betrays him, by giving you a slight smile.

“You’re morbid. And you’ll live for longer if you stop all this.”

His voice is lower, quieter. And you curse him for his hypocrisy.

“Lay off it. I’ve seen you doing that shit your Dad used to do, mate.” you counter, your voice strained, and he grimaces.

It’s a fair comment- Oscar Piastri is no saint. But he hates seeing you becoming more like him, like his father.

It used to be bad.

And when it was that bad, he would imagine you finding him curled on a dirty mattress, surrounded by dwindling packets and a smell you didn’t recognise, and he was ashamed. And somewhere, just deep enough, it motivated him to stop. 

Or at least to learn the art of restraining.

The reason why you don’t know that Oscar Piastri is in love with you is not because he is scared of rejection. It is because he is scared you will reciprocate it, and you will end up killing yourself trying to beat his demons. 

And you will end up exhausted, and high, and you’ll both be miserable.

He knows you deserve more than him. He wants you to have better.

He’s trying to be better, for you.

“I don’t do that anymore. I’m not that person anymore.”

You snort.

“I’m not your mother. You don’t have to lie about it.”

He gives you an offended glance.

“I’m serious. And I’m serious about you, too. I don’t think what you’re doing is healthy.”

You tense, your shoulders raising slightly.

“What? What am I doing, if you’re so superior?”

‘You go out, every night. You don’t show up to school. You talk to anyone, everyone, just to see who has something they can give you. An invite, somewhere. You drink more than you eat.’ The list seems endless, but he bites his tongue.

“Is it ‘cause I’m fucking Lando? I know you guys still haven’t got over that thing that happened last year, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s not gonna break my heart or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.” you state, with some barbed laughter, and he groans.

“I don’t give a shit about Lando. You can go out with anyone you want.” is his decisive reply, and you turn to face him, unbothered by the smoke billowing into his screwed up face.

“So, what’s your problem then, Piastri?”

He sighs, considering what to do. And then he plucks the cigarette from your mouth and places it to his own lips, giving you a shrug as he exhales.

“Hypocrite.” you murmur, under your breath, but your cheeks are warm.

You make a mistake that evening. You’re not sure who’s face it is your eating, but it isn’t Lando’s, and you’re not enjoying it. And you also feel really sick. So with a shove, you push yourself away from the man who smells like liquor and saunter, unbalanced, to the open door of the club.

As soon as you make it outside, you vomit into a dead patch of grass by an overflowing bin and crumple slowly to the ground, clutching your stomach. 

And through tears, you open your phone, typing up his name.

He picks up instantly.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Oscar. What are you doing?” 

He listens to your poorly timed sniffles.

“Are you crying? Where are you?”

“Yeah, I’m crying. Why wouldn’t I be crying?”

You make a strangled laugh, and he sighs loudly.

“I’m coming to get you, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t. I’m having fun. You’re just boring.”

He hangs up after that, exasperated.

When he arrives, you’re no longer outside.

Instead, you’re sitting on the lap of a boy Oscar recognises, someone in his Politics class.

His jaw slackens, approaching.

“Hey, let’s go. C’mon.” he says, just louder than the music, extending an arm.

The boy tightens his grip around your waist.

“You her boyfriend?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t like me very much.” you add, with a childish pout, before giggling.

He finds it ridiculous that you can think that, considering he’s here.

And his heart is breaking into pieces that he’ll never find, watching you like this.

“Then she’s alright here, okay?”

Oscar’s brows furrow.

“Let go of her, prick. She can barely talk.”

The boy obliges, standing up. He squares up to Oscar, neck tilted, and Oscar tries not to falter.

“She can talk just fine. And considering you don’t mean shit to her, maybe you should just leave.”

It hits harder than it should. It aches.

“Hey,” you protest, “I never said that.” 

It’s clumsy, and slurred, but you mean it. You’d never say that about him.

You take a step towards Oscar, frowning, and he offers you an arm to steady yourself.

But as you reach to take it, the other boy holds you back, with a possessive grip on your shoulder.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate- he punches him, square in the face.

When he turns and lands one to Oscar’s eye, you sober up pretty fast.

“What the fuck are you doing? Stop it.” you yell, pushing your hands against the boy's chest, throwing him off balance.

With that, Oscar grabs your hand, and you run out, into the cool evening air.

The next morning, you’re convinced your head must be split in two. You awake in a room you recognise, but it isn’t yours.

“Mornin’” whispers Oscar carefully, as you sit up.

His hair is messy in a way that makes you feel funny, but the bruising by his eye clearly makes that dissipate.

You get up with a mumble, walking towards him. He’s sat on his bed, but it has no duvet, and you see he clearly gave it to you. 

You try not to think about it too much.

When you sink next to him, your fingers brush his face instinctively. He doesn’t flinch, but he blinks quickly.

You hate how pretty you think he is, even when half of his face is purple.

“I’m sorry.” you mumble, your palm still pressed to his cheek. You almost want to kiss him.

His eyes flick away from yours to your outstretched hand, before staring back at you.

“Why did you call me?”

You hesitate.

You don’t know why.

“I’m sorry.”

He sighs, shifting away from you.

“You already said that.”

“I mean it.”

He pauses.

“I don’t care.”

You inhale, your lips quivering slightly.

“I won’t call you again.”

He huffs, exasperated.

“I’m not saying that. I’ll always come, if you need me. I just want to know why you need me.”

You don’t answer, and you have to fight yourself from reaching out again.

“Why didn’t you call Lando?”

It feels like a hit below the belt.

“‘Cause he’s not my boyfriend.”

He throws his arms up, clearly frustrated now.

“Fuckin’ neither am I!”

You wince, from his tone, but also from your headache.

He shrinks a little, at your reaction, but his face is still seething.

“You can’t keep doing this to me.”

You don’t really know what he’s saying. You’re too scared to ask.

“You’re one of my only real friends-” you try, but he throws you a look so dark that you swallow your words.

“I don’t like who you are anymore. I miss you, and you’re right here.”

Maybe the truth of his words are why they hurt you so much. But nonetheless, you feel anger rising like bile in your throat.

“Thanks, for bringing me home. I’ll see you later.” you say, with some finality, before getting up and walking out of the room you used to spend afternoons doing maths homework in.

It’s not even a week before you find yourself miserable, somewhere where the music is too loud.

This time, instead of being wrapped around a stranger, Lando is pressing his curls into your neck.

Under the strobe lighting, you think he almost looks a bit like Oscar.

When his lips meet yours, it’s all too easy to imagine it’s someone else's with your eyelids shut.

“Y’know, I’m taking a liking to you.” he drawls into your ear, and you laugh.

“Wow, you’re so sentimental.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m serious. I don’t like that you’re messing around with other guys when you’re annoyed at me. How come I’m your favourite, but you refuse to date me properly?”

You shrug.

“It’s not like we’re going to get married, what’s the rush? You gain shit from being someone's something.”

It’s just that no one is this god forsaken town is worth anything, you think.

Well, apart from Oscar. But it seemed like he didn’t want to even be associated with you anymore.

Not talking to him for so long was slowly killing you, it didn’t feel dissimilar to having withdrawal symptoms.

You just couldn’t get him out of your head.

And with that, when you look up, you swear you see him.

He’s dancing with a girl that looks nothing like you, her body pushed up against his.

And you know what that wild look in her eyes means, what that hand on her thigh is telling her.

When you feel your own eyes blur, you realise something is very wrong. So you blink, once, twice, and you see the boy in front of you very much isn’t Oscar.

But the image sticks with you, and your stomach curdles.

Lando is still talking, but you stopped listening.

“I’ve got to go.” you mumble, untangling yourself from him, ignoring his outburst of protest.

The more you imagine it, Oscar kissing someone that isn’t you, the worse it feels.

And soon, tears are falling down your cheeks, and you feel rather stupid and rather evil.

Your heart twists with the realisation that you might just love the boy from two doors down, the boy you’d cheated off in tests, the boy who had taught you how to tie your shoelaces.

And you’d treated him like shit.

You’d watched him battle things you could've helped with, and you barely tried. And all he’d done, the second he saw the same in you, was jump to your aid.

And you’d let him down one time too many.

But you couldn’t help but hope his kindness would extend a palm one more time.

Even though he deserved more than you could give him. Even though he was owed someone he didn’t have to patch up.

Someone who wouldn’t get him a black eye and then try to kiss him after.

Still, you walked past your own house, those extra forty or so steps, before arriving at his door.

You knock like a stranger. He doesn’t greet you like one.

“Come in.” is his instant response, and you hate him for letting you in so quickly.

He hates himself for it too. But he can’t help it, when you look so beautiful in his doorway, even with wind-swept hair and smudged eyeliner.

He sits beside you carefully, looking at you in a way you can’t decipher.

“Kiss me?” you whisper, all in one exhale.

His expression doesn’t change.

“I’m not doing this. I’m not being this person for you. I can’t let you make me lose my mind again.”

You shake your head.

“Oh, come on. I’ve never tried anything with you before. If I just wanted someone to-” you begin, but you stop.

“What do you mean?” you finish, curiously, and he groans.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter. The bed is still set up. You can stay in my room again.”

You sigh.

“Oscar. Look at me.”

He does, because he can never not listen to you when you’re so direct.

And instead of a glassy expression, instead of blown pupils, he sees you. He sees a light in your eyes which he’d long since forgotten.

When you breathe, he can’t smell alcohol. Your lipstick isn’t smudged.

It’s just an older, messier, version of you.

The you he loves. The you he almost gave up on.

“Ask me again.” he says, but it’s not really a demand. It’s almost a question.

You don’t open your mouth.

Instead, you gently rub your thumb over the faded mix of green and yellow under his eye, and then place your lips there. An apology, an offering, and a promise, all in one.

You can’t help but admire his face when you shift away from him, but that doesn’t last long, because he pulls you back into him, swallowing your sigh of surprise.