#tee's thoughts

I was in a writing rut around the time I began writing this fic. However, the inspiration for this one came from what someone correctly referenced in a reblog from when I posted this story here.

As I mentioned in my notes on AO3, this story was inspired by a playthrough of Final Fantasy VIII on my Switch. The scene in particular was the first flashback with Laguna and his friends having drinks in the Galbadia hotel lounge after a mission while listening to the beautiful pianist Julia playing. Laguna admired Julia in more ways than one, but he never thought he had a chance with her. However, that changed when Julia approached him and invited him to her room for an intimate conversation.

Thanks to that scene, I came up with the idea of Mario and Pauline in a similar scenario. I chose Pauline as the love interest because of the music connection, although Pauline was a singer and not a pianist. I also had the setting in Brooklyn/New Donk City since this was before the Mario brothers ended up in the Mushroom Kingdom.

Basically, as the synopsis states, the story is about Mario being infatuated with Pauline and him visiting the jazz lounge she performs at every Friday evening after work. Yet, that one night changed everything as Pauline seemed to notice and might have taken an interest in him.

I wrote the story similar to how the flashback in Final Fantasy VIII played out, but I added some of my own ideas and used references from the Mario series. My two favorite sections were Pauline's performance and the conversation between her and Mario in the dressing room. It was those two moments in which I didn't want to stop writing.

I did love writing this story, and it helped reignite the spark to write again. With that said, I am not making any promises, but I have an idea or two for a sequel and may consider it should there be strong enough inspiration.

~~~

SNEAK-PEEK

You start to boil the custard filling, and forget Felix’s hand is stuck to yours, despite the weight, and fail to warn him when you turn on the flame. Luckily, Felix’s skin is semi sensitive, and he jumps away from the heat before it can do any real damage–besides the ghostly-burning feeling that hangs around his knuckles.

Unluckily for you—Felix could argue this was pretty good luck for himself—he accidentally yanks you back to, your weight tumbling back into a bag of flour and towards the ground. Just before you can fall to the floor, your body freezes midair, and you dare to peek out of your screwed shut eyes.

Felix hovers over you, lips just above yours and eyes boring into your [E/C] ones, and you’re breathless. He glances from your eyes to your lips, and thinks about what it would be like to kiss them again, to kiss you again. He searches your features for something—you don’t know what, but you know his face when he’s looking for something—and blinks, breaking the long, far too romantic stare for ex lovers, “Are you okay?” His voice is low, and despite the words, he doesn’t sound extra worried. He sounds like he’s got a heavy heart, or he’s contemplating something.

His gaze makes you feel a way you never thought you’d feel because of Felix ever again, and you find yourself breathless. “... I-I’m fine,” you barely get out, your eyes still stuck on his, and you hate that you have the urge to kiss him. To be held by him, loved by him, to be his again. You almost want to curse with how hard your heart is beating

Oscar knew the only way it would’ve got in the room was through Lando, and he struggled to see how his teammate could’ve even carried that… thing. It would’ve been bigger than him. Then again, it would’ve explained the out-of-context post on Lando’s Instagram earlier that day.

Oscar continued to stare at it for a few moments longer before he heard shuffling coming from the bathroom. Lando walked into the room, steam curling out of the bathroom behind him. A large hoodie hung off his shoulders - Oscar presumed Lando had raided his case again - and trackpants. Lando followed Oscar’s eyeline to the teddy, and a large grin broke across his face.

“I present Bruce Junior! You missed parental rights by losing miserably in the tiny car race.”

Lando sounded somewhat pleased with his achievement, even though Oscar knew deep down that the bear would be promptly rid of by the next morning. Lando wouldn’t be able to travel with it anyway, but he also wasn’t the type to trail around with anything bigger than a wheatbag.

Oscar just nodded slowly.

“Right… I don’t think I’m too sad about that really.”

Lando just shrugged, his wet curls bobbing on top of his head at the movement.

“He’s great at wrestling.”

Oscar turned to Lando, one eyebrow slowly climbing up.

“You wrestled your supposed son?”

It seemed Lando didn’t think that one through. A small, sheepish grin appeared, the same one Lando always used when he was in trouble for breaking something at the MTC.

“Well… he does have extra padding?”

Oscar just snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement before walking towards the bed and flopping onto it. He’d had barely a second before a deadweight was propelled on top of him.

“Oof, Lando!”

Turning his head, he was met with tufts of white fur and one of the ridiculously shapeless paws of Bruce Junior. Lando was giggling from beside of the bed, a triumphant look on his face.

Oscar tried to kick the bear off him, a look of mild annoyance on his face at its inability to budge.

“I’m sure this thing has bones.”

Lando just laughed, diving on the bed beside him, stealing one of Oscar’s pillows and clutching it lazily. He just stared as Oscar struggled to get the bear off him.

“I’m glad you’re getting along…” Lando mulled, a smug grin slowly climbing on his face. “Since you’re on uncle duties tonight.”

Lando vaulted himself off the bed and ran across toward the opposite end of the hotel room.

“What! The hell I am!” Oscar struggled violently against the bear before managing to stand up, grab a paw, and attempt to run after Lando.

After a few stumbles and several near faceplants, Oscar had managed to pin Lando to the floor, the bear stuffed between them, threatening to cut off both their oxygen supplies.

"Good morning."

Max grumbled even more.

"It is absolutely not."

Oscar shrugged, pulling the tape from his bag to start on his wrists.

"The sun's out, better than the rain."

"I don't care." Max huffed, tugging harshly at the boot lace to start on try five hundred of tying them.

"We only have an hour of gym today."

Max swore under his breath. "Still don't care."

"The canteen had an edible new recipe of muffin."

Max inhaled harshly. "It tasted like they used salt instead of sugar."

Oscar stared at the tape starting to snake around his right wrist.

"Yeah… at least it resembled a muffin."

They both fell into silence, Max's frustration at the simple task of tying his shoelaces filling it. It didn't mean much; Oscar was more than used to the grouchy lock beside him.

Once his right wrist was completely covered in the tape, he looked back towards Max.

"Do you need me to teach you how to tie your laces again?"

Max shot him a warning look. "I'm not a child. It just keeps coming undone."

"Mhm."

"I think it's defective. Throwing a mutiny."

Oscar looked at the ragged laces, evidently been through a few tough training sessions and games. Max also wasn't the type to overly care for his boots. Yet, the laces weren't damaged that much.

"Uh-huh. Not the wearers fault or anything?"

Max stopped trying with the damned lace, throwing it down to stand and stare down at Oscar. He crossed his arms against his toned chest.

"I'll have you know, smartass, that-"

The door to the locker room slammed on its hinges, hitting the plaster wall behind it and shuddering from the impact.

Charles appeared beside them in a few seconds, carrying two smoothies, a Gatorade, and a muffin.

"I come bearing gifts!"

Oscar dived for the muffin and Gatorade, shoving half of the baked good in his mouth before the other two had a chance to react. Max looked at him, disgusted, while Charles looked offended.

"That was mine- anyway, here," he palmed off the other smoothie to Max.

Max took it, sipping at it before looking back at Charles.

"So… what about 'thanks Charles, your thoughtfulness is really touching!'"

Oscar snorted, muffin crumbs spraying onto his shorts.

"You only willingly get us stuff if you've done something wrong. What's the catch?"

Charles looked wounded. "What catch?"

Oscar raised an eyebrow, and Max scoffed.

"There is always a catch."

Charles pouted, opening his mouth to refute the statement before dropping his eyes to the ground.

"I may need someone to help convince Coach that it was not my fault that six balls landed in the tree yesterday…"

Max stared at him.

"Annnddd, there you go ladies and gentlemen." Oscar shoved the last part of the muffin in his mouth.

Charles whined. "It wasn't my fault!"

"How much of it was?"

Charles chewed his bottom lip. "Uh. About… sixty percent?"

Max raised his eyebrows.

"Okay! Maybe like eighty percent, but I was teaching banana kicks. The trees were just inconveniently placed!"

Oscar snorted. "Our halfback everybody."

Both Max and Oscar clapped half-heartedly.

Charles pouted again. "Stop it! You have such little confidence in me."

Max rolled his eyes, turning to walk back to his locker before half tripping on his untied shoelaces.

"Oh, for the sake of all!" Max cut out the words threatening to finish the sentence.

Oscar snorted, moving to grab the tape for the next wrist.

"You've been trying to tie that still?" Charles asked, perplexed.

"It is not my fault the bunny is having a tantrum."

Charles crouched, grabbing Max's boot and tying the lace quickly.

"Mhm."

Max glared at his boots. "Traitorous son of a-"

"Let's go!" Charles clapped, slurping his smoothie and walking out the locker room.

Glossary:

Lock (Max): The player that wears no. 13, essentially a third forward. They're usually one of the top tacklers in a team, controlling the midfield. They focus on size for tackling and passing skills of the back rowers.

Half-back (Charles): The player that wears no. 7, and is the main playmaker and tactical player of a team. They direct attack, structure, and make decisions on field. They are usually the primary kicker (long kicks, short attack kicks) and plan field position. They act as a link between the forwards and backs.

You had tugged on your comfiest sweatpants, a warm jumper, and had burrito'd yourself so deep in the blanket you didn't know where it ended and your skin started.

You hadn't slept for weeks, the stress of your nine to five job, which in reality was a five to nine, taking its toll on you.

Yet you'd managed to finally deal with the big project you were working on and could sleep for as long as your body physically could for the next three days. You'd been so overwhelmed and exhausted you hadn't even considered anything but sleep, even half forgetting that food - your precious, underrated, cherished nourishment for the stomach - existed.

You slowly extracted yourself from the cocoon of warmth you'd created and seedily walked towards the apartment door.

The pounding on the door was quickly matching the thudding of your head, causing your face to scrunch up.

Opening the door wide, a look of pure frustration on your face, you came face to face with Lando and Oscar. Lando, clearly well past his ability to hold alcohol, hadn't noticed the door had opened and continued to try and knock, his fist lazily coming and hitting you on the nose.

Pain flared up your face, and you clutched your nose with an indignant cry.

"Lando! Ow!" He had realised a second too late that his first had made contact with your nose rather than the solid wood of your front door.

He gasped, his eyes growing comically wide. "Y/NNNNN!" He slurred.

He threw his arms around you, pulling you hard into his chest. You gave another squark as his uncoordinated limbs tangled around you.

"I'm sorrrryyyy!"

You stood frozen in his arms, staring over his shoulder to find Oscar still leaning against the door frame, eyes closed and body fighting the pull of gravity. It was no surprise to see Lando stoned, but Oscar being more than a little tipsy was a sight you thought you'd never see.

His cheeks were flushed a bright pink, hair completely tasseled, and shirt crumbled. If anything, he looked cute.

You sighed, moving a hand to pat Lando's back.

"Come on, come inside." You half dragged a clingy Lando towards the guestroom. He whined like a little kid when he saw the made bed and clean sheets.

"Wannttt youuurrrss." He slurred against your neck.

You sighed deeply. Lando was insufferable drunk. Oscar had just pattered slowly behind you, watching with his eyes barely open. He had hovered behind you, inching closer to your warmth. If anything, you thought he looked a lot more vulnerable drunk.

You turned to drag Lando further down the hall to your room, turning to see Oscar waddling after you. You kicked the door wider, moving to the side of the bed. Lando flumped onto the bed as soon as he was close enough, cuddling into the sheets. He shoved his nose deep into your pillow, inhaling heavily with a small content hum.

Oscar stood by the edge of the bed, staring at Lando burying himself under the covers before bellyflopping onto the opposite side. His limbs, an uncoordinated mess, sprawled out like a starfish, his right arm slapping Lando in the back of the head. Lando made a disgruntled noise before a few soft snores escaped him.

You watched the two drunks fall asleep in a record few seconds, dropping your hands onto your waist.

"It's my bed… so."

You jumped in between them, their warmth immediately enclosing you. You sighed contently, before shimming under the sheets.

You closed your eyes, content with being half squashed between them. Before you could turn onto your side to continue your interrupted sleep, two arms sneaked around your waist, and a leg found its way between yours. You jumped slightly at the contact, whipping your head to see Oscar pulling you towards him.

"Osc?" You whispered into the darkness, watching his face scrunch up slightly.

His eyes stayed closed, and little snuffles escaped his nose. He stopped tugging you when you were flush against his chest, and he buried his face into the pillow behind your head, nose half buried in your hair. A deep sigh escaped his lips before he soon began letting out little snores.

2. Heat

Lando dumped the plate of ill-presented noodles on the table in front of Oscar. Lando, in a past moment of intelligence, had decided it was time for both of them to try the black packaged instant noodles.

Lando watched as Oscar looked up from his phone, set it beside him, and stared at the bowl. He plonked himself in the chair opposite his teammate, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Whoever loses rock, paper, scissors has to take the first mouthful.”

Oscar groaned, already accepting his terrible ability in rock, paper, scissoring. Both threw their object when Lando yelled shoot, his rock decisively beating Oscar’s scissors.

Oscar sighed, moving to pick up the fork and staring regrettably at the bowl of red, worm-looking noodles in front of him. He swirled the fork, gathering a clump and bringing it towards his mouth.

Lando looked at him expectantly, watching as the noodles went slowly into Oscar’s mouth and disappeared down his throat. Oscar stared at Lando for a few seconds, face absolutely blank, before red bloomed across his cheeks and his eyebrows rose.

Lando leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Oscar to do something to indicate the level of hotness. He had to ignore how Oscar’s cheeks were bright red because that didn’t mean much with him.

“Well!?” Oscar’s eyebrows didn’t move, still perched in that exact spot they always found.

Lando slightly panicked, stared at only the small, almost unperceptible twitches of Oscar’s eyebrow. He couldn’t tell if this would be the end of Oscar, a silent but agonising death from noodles, or if he actually enjoyed the savage red worms.

Lando couldn’t take it anymore, grabbing his own fork and shoving a mouthful of the noodles in his mouth. He immediately choked on the spice, spluttering on the rest of his bowl. He coughed, the entirety of his mouth burning. He was sure smoke would be pouring out of his ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, like a volcano ready to explode.

Oscar looked up, watching Lando struggling before letting out a loud laugh, choking himself on the kicking heat in his mouth.

“Grab the milk!” Lando grabbed at his throat, pointing dramatically at the fridge.

Oscar stumbled to the fridge, took out the bottle and didn’t bother trying to find a glass. Flicking off the lid, he poured the liquid down his throat, sighing as the heat started to subside. The bottle was crudely pulled from his hand by a desperate Lando, before he chugged the milk.

“Never again!” Lando swore, hugging the bottle to his chest.

“I told you it was bad.” Oscar snorted.

“You told me shit! I can’t read this,” he gestured to Oscar’s forehead before trudging back towards the table with the milk bottle.

3. Battles

Lando, for their few hours off, had challenged Oscar to a sim battle. He’d tried to convince the engineers that it’d help for the upcoming weekend, but he didn’t know how convincing he was. They just shrugged and walked off, leaving the two up to their own devices.

Oscar had sat back in his seat, watching as Lando fiddled around with his settings. He’d let out a quiet sigh, stretching his leg briefly before fiddling absent-mindedly with the steering wheel.

When Lando had finally deemed himself ready for the match, he’d looked over to see if Oscar was ready. Except, he’d turned to find Oscar’s eyebrows raised. They hadn’t even started, and Oscar looked smug. Smug. Lando didn’t even know what Oscar had to be smug about. It’s not like he was currently staring at the screen, seeing OP81 plastered in the top three spots. No, because if both he and Lando looked at the screen, it would be Lando being smug.

“What?” Lando asked, completely deadpan.

Oscar glanced over, his face scrunching a little.

“What?”

“Why are you smug already?”

Oscar laughed, confused. “I’m not?”

“You clearly are! Your eyebrows are smug!”

Oscar snorted lightly, still looking genuinely lost. “What have I got to be smug about? We haven’t even started.”

Lando huffed, turning to start the race. Oscar shrugged lightly before turning away from Lando and gripping the wheel.

Five laps in, and Lando had somehow spun, and Oscar was ridiculously too far ahead. When Lando had glanced over, the same eyebrow raise was settled back on Oscar’s face.

“Stop! Stop projecting your smugness!”

Oscar quickly glanced over.

“I’m not smug! I’m too concentrated on not binning this corner.”

“Your eyebrows are doing the thing!”

Oscar sighed. “I am not smug, I’m concerned about your suspension.”

Lando stilled, because oh. Oh.

They were concerned eyebrows?

“But they don’t look any different to the smug ones!”

“Have you seen my smug eyebrows?” Oscar challenged.

Lando huffed indignantly. “Yes! The goggle soccer thing.”

Oscar shrugged. “Okay, fair, but that was a good reason to be smug. You’ve seen me with a soccer ball before.”

Lando huffed again. Those eyebrows were exactly the same if he remembered correctly. How did one eyebrow raise have about fifty emotions attached to it?

4. Karaoke

Lando had cursed the entire media and marketing team for the media content for the weekend GP. He’d thought when they’d been forced to finish the song lyrics for the Austin GP years ago, that’d be the end of singing. How wrong he’d been.

When they approached the idea of karaoke, Lando and Oscar had tried to stage an uprising. Both were five seconds away from running opposite directions and hiding to escape the horrific idea.

Yet the team had wrangled them up and sat them on a couch, thankfully this time without the hats, feather boas, and odd objects scattered around them. Lando and Oscar had just exchanged long-suffering looks before trying to muster up some form of a smile for the camera.

It started like most of the media did, with Lando trying to wrangle up enthusiasm and trying to shove it onto Oscar. It had started relatively easily, with classics like Hotel California, Sweet Caroline, or even The Nights.

Lando had managed to get in, but by the second song, Oscar had managed to turn it around and surprise everyone in the room totally. Lando had been belting his lungs out to a Justin Bieber song when he heard Oscar’s lower voice join in. He’d swivelled his head around so fast he was sure he heard a snap coming from some muscle. His voice dwindled out completely, leaving just Oscar to carry the song’s ending.

Oscar turned to look at him, his eyebrow raising slightly. Lando just stared at him, electing to say nothing and make Oscar stop.

“Okay, good, we have lovely harmonies, next!” Lando managed to choke out. Oscar just nodded solemnly before moving to tap the play button.

During the next few songs, every time Lando so much as moved, the same eyebrow reacted. A small, uncomfortable shift: eyebrow up. A pause to catch his breath that was longer than five seconds: eyebrow up. A random pause for Lando to contemplate his life decisions: both eyebrows up.

Lando was spiralling, and by the end of it, he’d sung about twelve percent of the lyrics, and spent the other eighty-eight trying to figure out if Oscar was judging him, hating it as much as he did, or if he was always that talented at singing.

Since when did Lando feel so threatened by an eyebrow raise?

5. Lego

Lando never particularly minded Lego. He didn’t always have the patience to build an entire set by himself. Or really just one bag. But he still could appreciate it from afar. Riding in the life-size ones at Miami and the podium car at Vegas were extremely fun.

Yet, he knew Oscar loved Lego, so he thought building it as a media activity wouldn’t be too bad. He could always start pestering Oscar if it got too boring anyway.

What he didn’t expect was the level of competition that would ignite between them as soon as the media team said, ‘best MCL40 wins’. It quickly became all-out war.

The issue, however, was that Lando never took up Lego Technic building. Staring at the pieces in front of him, Lando felt the prickly feeling of being utterly lost swirl in his stomach. Looking over at Oscar, the feeling intensified. Oscar was completely invested in building his replica, and Lando already knew it would look similar to the real set.

Lando groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair.

“I can’t even build a Lego set with instructions, how do I build one without?” He pouted, Oscar only briefly looking up.

After a few more seconds of moping, Lando began to try to piece together a remotely recognisable front wing. He wouldn’t admit the level of struggle it took to find pieces that worked well enough to take the curved shape, and then fit onto the nose of the car.

At one point, Oscar looked up from his, in Lando’s opinion, though he’d never admit it out loud, award-winning replica to stare at Lando’s… very much not award-winning front wing. Oscar didn’t say anything, just silently raised an eyebrow and watched as Lando sorted through miscellaneous pieces to try to build the nose of the car.

Lando looked up once he noticed Oscar was staring at him. The first thing he clocked was the raise of the eyebrow, and the way Oscar wasn’t even continuing his car. Lando immediately felt defensive, looking down at his mess of a car.

“Stop judging, Osc!”

Oscar shook his head. “I’m not judging, I’m just trying to understand the thought process.”

Lando scowled. “There is no thought process. Clearly. Take your judgement elsewhere. Creative liberalism is not made to be mocked.”

Oscar laughed lightly. “I’m not judging! I’m trying to understand why your front wing is curved inwards and not outwards.”

Oh.

Lando looked down at the front wing. He could understand how Oscar thought it looked more like a smiley face than a curved-in wing. Honestly, it looked more like a Twistie than a wing.

Lando looked back up at Oscar, his eyebrow still raised, but a look of amusement in his eyes, and a small twitch of his lips. Lando narrowed his eyes slightly. “Rigghhtt… now what do you call that expression?”

"You're an idiot."

Lando needed to start a dictionary of Oscarisms and eyebrows. He couldn’t understand his teammates' eyebrows and expressions at all, especially as they didn’t change angle, direction, or height at all between differing expressions.

1. Overthoughts

Lando sat on the bench at the back of the garage, mindlessly swinging his legs and staring down at the phone in his palms. He considered skipping the song playing through his headphones, his finger hovering about the next button. Movement out of the corner of his eye had him turning to look towards Oscar’s side.

Oscar had been missing most of the day, which Lando had found a bit odd. Oscar was usually always around in the garage, trying to get the maximum out of the car and himself before a weekend. Yet, Lando hadn’t seen him at all.

Until now, that was.

Oscar stood tensely near the back of his side, turned to stare at the back of his car. His shoulders stood stiff, his fingers fidgeting slightly by his side. His engineers stayed clear of him, working around the car.

Lando quirked an eyebrow, watching as Oscar seemingly zoned out, his face turning slightly in Lando’s direction. He could see the pinched expression on Oscar’s face, the way his jaw was set, and his eyes bored holes aimlessly wherever he stared. Lando noticed the raised eyebrows, twitching slightly.

Lando pushed himself off the bench, walking slowly towards Oscar.

“Hey, Osc?”

Oscar’s eyes flew to Lando, trying to school his face into a blank expression. His eyebrows dropped, and his lips smoothed out from where they had been pulled tight.

“Yeah?”

“Are you… okay? You haven’t been around all day.”

Oscar tried to push the tension away from his shoulders, Lando could tell. He shrugged.

"Yeah."

Lando fought every urge to roll his eyes. He knew that if Oscar was wound tighter than a spring, something was clearly wrong.

"Uh-huh."

Oscar glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"There! They're doing that thing again?"

"Whose doing what thing?" Oscar frowned.

"Your eyebrows. It's ticking - you're frustrated, annoyed, and a tad stressed." Lando nodded once, proud of his analytical deductions. "Please let me hide before you throw something, I'm already suffering from that ball to the jugular."

Oscar tried to fight the small lopsided smile that ticked at the edges of his lips. It didn't last long, the edges dropping again. Lando nudged his shoulder as Oscar dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I think I messed up." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It was nothing big!" He hastily added.

"Just… one of those dumb little things you overthink but everyone else has probably forgotten, you know? It's just… frustrating."

"If you haven't forgotten about it, it obviously means something to you."

Oscar ran a hand down his face. "But it's stupid!"

Lando just nodded slowly, fiddling with his fingers.

"Yeah, well, welcome to being a Formula 1 Driver. Great to have you join us." Lando mock saluted, a stupid grin crossing his face.

Oscar just huffed, the smile crossing his face and holding.

"There we go!"

Oscar raised his eyebrows in question.

"Better."

"Oh, for goodness sake." Oscar rolled his eyes, walking off with a half-hearted birdie in Lando's direction. Lando still heard the small laugh as he exited the garage and considered it a win.

And huh.