Genuinely One Of The Best Fics I’ve Ever Read… I Felt Like I Ascended While I Was Reading.
genuinely one of the best fics i’ve ever read… i felt like i ascended while i was reading.
pop rocks and green tea
word count: 20k
warnings: depictions of violence, 2x15 warnings (torture, drugging, spencer dies for a second, religious trauma), ANGST, hurt/comfort
summary: "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." (Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, Chapter 9)
there's very little in the world that will not make sense to doctor reid once he finds interest in it. most things come easy as they go, rubik's cube solved forwards and backwards — upside down and right side up, questions of physics and doctorate dissertations coming in triplets the same way that the notation rings in an empty performance hall with a musician.
in his life, to understand is power, and power is protection against those that have once hurt him. no harm in the present, he understands. not from them. not ever again. the only harm in the present is from the unsub and the unknown.
the absence of light still scares him. he tries not to think too much about that.
knowledge is power. wisdom is efficiency.
to profile someone is to understand them.
to profile you should be to understand you.
yet, beady eyes and charming smiles, you cause the rational to burn irrational — the known to become unknown. there is always something you know that he doesn't.
no, not simple facts of life or statistics that could save your life.
the void of your eyes is always too dark under the sun — the absence of light.
the shine of your hair is always too dim under the light — the absence of life.
you can do the one thing he can not, and he does not envy it. no. he does not crave to understand or to contain it. there is no dark need creeping up around his throat begging him to cage you and sing for him only.
it is simple curiosity.
charming as knowledge, preening with the night sky.
he fears you just as much as he must know you.
and well, doctor reid is never one to back down from nonsense that he must make of sense.
somewhere when he was a child, he thinks he has met you. your face is far too fresh in his mind to be more than just a passing face, but far too familiar to be someone who he no longer remembers. perhaps you are a face seen in dreams — dreams that on occasion give him deja vu, but it never quite matters. it doesn't quite matter, actually. he's truly not much better off knowing just who you are. perhaps a fond memory or a lost face in his past is plenty fine on its own. he simply hopes he will never encounter you in his line of work — even if it seems that he will some day. people in his dreams are never quite the best. people in his dreams are part of his past and always circle back to his future.
but the dreams of you come in strange flashes — a grin with too much teeth, a laugh with too little air. a song with too many keys. a voice that carries a little too much — a voice that sings too many notes. there is something that doctor reid should know about you in his dreams, so he tries talking to you, but there is no voice ever.
all there ever is is a nice cup of coffee at a local coffee shop — and an image of you frowning at him.
he wonders if he should seek counselling for such a matter, but it is much preferred to the sound of screams in his nightmares that jolt him awake and the constant watch for voices that have plagued his family. he worries that he will hear them too one day. that the voices will eat at his mind and ruin him. the same way they had ruined the man on the train — the same way it had eaten so many of the unsubs that he knew.
to be in your mind is never too much a good thing, but is it really a sin to listen?
you manifest the differently in his reality as you do in his dream.
you passed him on your way to morning work — stumbling up the stairs to the metro, phone tucked to your belt the same way that morgan has it, briefcase overfilled. its a cliché in the same way that he's a nerd who looks the same as ever.
a student internship in the BAU. you didn't ask. he didn't either.
hotch mumbles to gideon about how you shouldn't be here considering clearance, and when you are asked, you do not know. you tell them in pure honesty that you had been sent here because of your post-graduate dissertation. a paper on reading people. a paper on just about everything that the BAU did. too much brainpower at such a young age. you should not be in the department, but hotch isn't given much time to complain before everyone is called out and you are left.
with me. spencer finds himself saying to you.
you tag along, dissertation handed to doctor reid as he tells gideon, and you fiddle with your fingers — three rings on your left, and four rings on your right. berkeley then stanford then harvard. your resume shows too much yet too little. degrees in humanities until your doctorates where you had changed to psychology. an intrigue in the art of lying and manipulation. the psychology of acting and the need to control everything. perhaps it is a strange subject to be let into the fbi for, but no one on the plane comments on it.
a killer. a man who calls and kills.
a man who kills in the name of god.
god.
a strange word, truly. reid doesn't believe in anything the same way gideon does, and while the way you recite verses from revelation feels like there is truth in your faith, the grimace on your face after indicates anything but. is that the truth? or do you lie the same way your dissertation writes? do you use the art of manipulation to get what you need? what you want?
what does he want?
you don't have a goal, doctor reid.
scary words to be told by someone who was his age when he joined the bau. do you have one? you don't seem to either. he tries snapping back at you, really, but it doesn't work how it is supposed to. how are you supposed to react? someone your age should snap into an argument. argue back with him. someone his age should know better than to snap back. but when you only give him a half-shrug and grin when he argues back. it almost feels as though he's the one who never grew up.
perhaps it is jealousy. he had first started out when he was your age yet he didn't slot in nearly as nicely as you do. it almost feels like you've become one with the team. an entity with a lack of shape. a non-newtonian fluid that slots in the cracks that the team is yet to be missing. an adhesive that somehow sticks the team better than the rest of it does. someone who slips through the cracks to reveal the lack of continuity. the team should work well already, so why then do you reveal the worst when you let go? perhaps you are here to prove your dissertation and not to help.
do you wield a gun? why do you hold on to one?
your fingers wrap around the grip and you stare at the unsub from behind him. reid begs you to slow down, but you aren't fast enough — not enough survival in the bau, a case requiring too much agility that you have not yet developed. training could do nothing for it, so when the unsub catches wind of you, it goes without saying that the intern lives even if he passes. perhaps you were doing it on purpose. perhaps those dark eyes of yours with too much pupil and too little iris. the sound of you yelling his name rattles through the night, and he is gone.
will he dream of you when you are right there? or will his dreams come to haunt him?
when he wakes it is a dark room. you are in the back, tied and half awake, and he is on the chair, fully clothed, stuck staring into the eyes of an angel of some sort. raphael. the angel's name is raphael but he's not even congruent with modern teachings, your mouth earning you a snap of the gun in russian roulette. you fear not even death, eyes glimmering and mouth uncontrollable as you dive into the history of the book of enoch and tobit, spitting out scripture upon scripture of archangels that do not include raphael. you earn a second shot and a third as you drive the unsub mad, your eyes in equal desperation as he finally lands on the fifth, turning around and aiming it at reid as you hold your breath and bite your tongue finally.
"Psalm 31:9. I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue: I will keep my mouth with a bridle, while the wicked is before me"
he pulls the trigger and you watch, eyes trained as spencer lets out a breath in relief.
he mouthes at you to keep it shut while you fiddle at the restraints, staring as the unsub knocks spencer back out, barrel of the gun jammed into the side of your head as you're next.
you wonder if you'll see spencer again in your dreams.
doctor reid, with formality.
when he rouses again, it is to the smell of smoke and fire, and your eyes are staring at the door. spencer does not speak. he's learned that it is most likely best for you not to, but you open your mouth again.
exodus 20:7. you shall not misuse the name of the lord your god, for the lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses His name. you spit out verses like they've been beat into you. like you know something that spencer can not read in between the lines. he knows the footnotes and cross-references. he knows every verse in the bible if he really willed for it, yet you feel like a disobedient child, thrashing and choking up the ten commandments, you shall not murder stinging on your mouth as the whip comes down on your foot. It is as though you know this feeling.
spencer winces and tries to open his mouth, but you leave no space. you can not stone me. for you are not sinless and clean. john 8:7 and 9. they kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, "All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!" at this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. it is scripture upon scripture until the sole of your foot has become bruised, and the man tires, only then is your foot restored and you are given your body once more.
"1 Corinthians 14:34. The women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission, as the Law also says. If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church." he spits back at you, and you laugh.
Acts 2:17. And it shall be in the last days, says God, that I will pour out of my spirit upon all flesh and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.
spencer can not bear to see the abuse you suffer, and when you laugh and laugh, cursed as the man tells you to be quiet, you spit that he has no authority. he is not your husband. he is not your father. he is not your brother in christ, for no brother in christ is a murderer, you curse.
"And you are not sinless, woman."
the lord spake unto moses saying, "speak unto all the congregation of the children of the lord " and say unto them, ye shall be holy, for I, the lord your god, am holy" spencer finally gets a word in, and your neck snaps over to stare at him, almost as though he were not speak in the conversation.
spencer gets beat, and you are unsurprised when the man leaves and leaves a reddened sole that near matches yours.
he is no charles. you mumble, bruise on your foot as you mumble quietly. for we are all slaves of god.
perhaps in some way he still is.
no. you mumble. for we are made in his image, and in his image we are made. male and female.
spencer can not offer you words of comfort, your eyes glazing over as you stare up at the wood of the ceiling, eyes closed as you are gone.
when the man returns, spencer asks for his name while you heave, heart racing and body flushed. you are not sick, no, but perhaps your body is struggling under the stress. an offhanded comment he had once documented from his dream reminds him that you do not do well under stressful situations. a body that shuts down and decides it is no longer worth it.
tobias is his name, and you cry and beg to not be injected, whimpering and shaking, squeaming in his hold as he straps you down to give you the injection. it is the first time that spencer has seen you in tears since meeting you. you had not cried at the abuse nor at the kidnapping, but you squirm and cry at the needle being forced into you, half of the dose forced into you as you cry and cough, body eventually going soft, and when tobias sees spencer's foot, he knows he's next.
you manage to force out a clean out of your lips with glassy eyes as you focus on him, eyes wounded and hurt as you beg tobias to let you sit closer to spencer. stronger in two, you cry. would he not offer even the mercy of letting the two of you pass as one? was it a sin to love someone?
he moves you after arguing with his father, and you manage a weak limp before you are at reid's feet, glassy eyes and slow blinking in your system as your body resists the drug.
reid is delirious. he is weak. father is leaving again. there is no way to stop it, and he has to live it out, and his mind is gone. he is out. he knows he is. he is stuck in a memory, and he does not know where he is anymore. he was somewhere. he was doing something. he was... something. where is he? he must be somewhere important. he is barely conscious when the sound of a beating rattles through the room, and he is stuck staring as you are dragged by the hair and a camera is set before you both.
nothing outside of a beating. you mumble. the drug will numb yours.
you stare into the camera through heavy eyelids, and you watch as reid struggles to focus.
"Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."
you cough as you feel your skin crawl, and you know it'll come to a point where the two of you will not return. you will claw and force your way back like you have learned to, but the doctor next to you will not. it will force through his bones and pure will not be enough. he will never be the same after this, and in such a way perhaps it is your fault for not pulling the trigger in the field. it matters not if you're only an intern. if you pass then you pass. the doctor has to live.
Spencer Reid has to live.
"Can you really see inside men's minds? See these vermin? Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."
"No."
"I thought you wanted to be some kind of savior."
"You're a sadist and a psychotic break. You won't stop killing. Your word's not true." You mumble. Again. You can do this. Just like the first time. Just like the second. You are better than this.
"The other heathens are watching. Choose a sinner to die, and I'll say the name and address of the person to be saved."
"I won't get choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher." You cough.
"Can you really see into my mind, girl? Can you see I'm not a liar?! Choose one to die, and save a life. Otherwise, they're all dead." He pulls you up by the collar, and you clench your fists.
"All right, I'll choose who lives." Spencer mumbles. "Stop hurting her."
"They're all the same."
"Far right screen." He mumbles.
You go limp against Spencer's leg as you're dropped, and when the door clicks behind you and the silence meets you, you're blinking and heaving, crack from your wrist alerting Spencer as you stumble and hop on over, one wrist free as you turn on the camera, mumbling under your breath to the team as you slur half your words and cry about a cabin in the woods, mumbling about drugs and how you're sorry you didn't stop Reid from going into the cornfield and how you'll accept any form of punishment going your way. You're slurring half your words and praying the team understands. Maybe the red of the camera hasn't turned on at all.
you look strange like this, spencer thinks. there's so much fragility that he can't help but assume that this is really how you are. perhaps all of the acting you had written on had only revealed that you are no better than anyone else when it came to abuse. he will be gone until late night, if he is not wrong. three bodies at once is not something to be done quick. perhaps tobias does not want to kill still, but it matters no longer. he feels it too. the drug in his system has done something.
by the way you're crying, he almost wants to console you.
kid.
doctor reid.
do you have the strength to tell me a story?
i'll tell you a dream I once had.
anything to get my mind off of the drug.
i dreamt once, a long time ago, that i would become famous. fame that would act in musicals and sing on a grand stage all for me. my mother's dream was for me to become someone's pretty and compliant wife. but i dreamt of velvet curtains and pine wood floors and a crowd that would applaud whenever i finished my show.
and now?
and then i dreamt of books. pages and pages of books. research that would engulf my life, days and nights in ranges of literature.
and now?
i dream... i dream of survival. i dream that we make it out alive.
the two of you watch the murder of the first on the camera.
"Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for this. You understand me? He's perverting god to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you."
you blink lifelessly, tears slipping and dissociating out of a fear, body going limp when you slack back next to reid, and he stares at the screen as he spaces out. gone. he's back in the middle of nowhere, memories stuck on replay as he knows he should break out to find you, and it isn't until you're crying and begging not for a second dose, bawling that wakes spencer up when you're squeaming and gasping for him to put the needle and drug away, voice raspy and breaking as he forces the needle into you, reid stuck watching, unable to tear his eyes away from it as half of the drug is pushed into your system and your bawling turns into quiet sobbing, sobbing turning into half-sniffles until you're gone completely.
reid squirms with the injection into his system, and he slouches down and passes out next to you.
It's night when you wake first, eyes dead and pupils small as you feel Spencer rouse next to you. You're shaky. The second dose should have been enough to cause you to go into shock and nearly die, but the seizures have long grown to be things of the past and god-forbid this be your first rodeo because as soon as the screen flashes with a message about a virus, you're widening your eyes and bracing yourself for another beating. If the drugs can't help you, then god help you with the beating.
"No. No! They're trying to silence my message!" Tobias— Charles yells.
i can't control what they do. i'm not with them. i'm with you. Spencer whimpers.
"Really?" He laughs, and you watch as he turns on the video from earlier from Gideon. You should hurt him, truly. You should bite the bullet and just risk death because it doesn't matter unless—
"Do you think you can defy me?"
I don't know what he's talking about.
"You're a liar!" He raises a brow at your raised sleeve, and you flinch as he forces the fabric up on your arms before checking Spencer's. "You're pitiful! Just like my son. This ends now. Confess your sins. Confess!"
i haven't done anything. tobias, help me.
You watch in horror, yelling as you watch the man beat him up.
"he can't help you. he's weak."
tobias.
"Confess your sins."
help.
"It's the devil vacating your body."
You scream, forcing over to Spencer as you break your wrist out again uncomfortably to do CPR, mumbling quiet sorrys to him as you press your lips to his to force the air back into his system, numbness in your wrist no longer mattering to you as Spencer coughs back to life, and you don't care if the barrel of the gun is pressed to your head as Spencer is forced to watch.
"You revived him. How many members in your team?"
"Seven." You whisper, voice breaking. You aren't one of them. Not technically.
"The 7 angels who had the 7 trumpets prepared themselves to sound" Tobias mumbles to himself, and you lock eyes with Spencer who's still on the ground.
"Choose one to die."
You're gaping and swallowing air like a fish, and you whisper quietly.
"I don't know their names." Your voice breaks. "I don— I don't know their names. I'm not— not one of them."
you're crying again, and it really makes reid wonder if anything you do is real at all.
"Aaron Hotchner." Spencer exhales. "Him first. Genesis 23:4. "Let him not deceive himself "and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense."
"For god's will."
You're on the ground mumbling to yourself, crying and coughing, your wrist starting to turn purple, and Spencer glances at the way you hold it up to him with a sad smile, laughing almost pitifully.
you dislocated your wrist.
"Yeah." You laugh, humming quietly as you look almost fond. "Fun stuff. I'll pop it back when we're saved."
you?
"Yeah." You hum, resting your head on his thigh as you help the chair back up. "He didn't notice."
too focused on me. what about your wrist?
"I can do it myself." You hum, leaning on his thigh. "I'll get scolded, but it'll be better than this."
Spencer doesn't say anything else, and when Tobias returns and you're both offered water, you're unsurprised that he still doesn't notice that your wrist has been broken free, but when another shot is injected to Spencer you're begging the poor man to leave him alone, a dose returned to you as you fight the depressants in your system with a furrow of your brow and with the last bit of strength, you pop your wrist back into place, without too much of a thought as to do anything else, and you go in for the kill, screaming and shrieking as you steal the gun from his pocket and pull the trigger between his brows, sobbing and wailing as the blood pools underneath you and steal the key to let Spencer out.
He's too sluggish to move comprehensibly, and you hear Tobias' voice behind you, your fingers smoothing over his wound, your discolored wrist dark against the glow of the room as you weep, hands stained with blood that isn't yours and an internship ruined all thanks to your foolish choices, and when Spencer drags himself over to hold you, you're sniffling and coughing into his arms, apologizing for the blood on your hands and the drugs in his system.
You force his hand out of the man's pocket, needle in hand as you take out the last of the drug and force it into the leaves, the sound of the rest of the BAU approaching as you squeeze the needle in your hand and throw it as far away from Reid as possible. You can't let him lose himself too. You can't let him do it. His future is too bright and yours has always been a clawing upward that you've grown used to.
Your hand finds his instinctively, squeezing for comfort.
spencer feels your hand in his vaguely, and he tries to make a sound of complaint when he sees you dump the rest of the drugs, but it doesn't come out. the sound of the bau hobbling on over and the sound of your cry and begging doesn't register to him. it barely does. he's truly past it, and when gideon brings him in and you hobble behind him with a stretch of your back, it almost feels as though the narcotics were a part of your daily life. he does not understand you. he fears he never really will, and perhaps the closest you will ever get to being honest with him is when you started crying over the shots in your system.
"Kid."
you shake your head and tell him you'll be fine. just run a detox kit on the two of you and you'll teach spencer the rest.
"Detox?"
detox.
you sit in the same ambulance as spencer because you refuse to be separated, and you let the drip run through your system. you have the medics flush everything out of both your systems, and while you think you're going insane the first 24 hours, both of you are booked into a treatment facility before you're out in a jiffy. you assure the workers that your relapse won't happen considering you no longer have access to these drugs, and you visit reid every day just in case you do somehow think of it.
i don't get it. i need it. i know i don't but—
its just the drugs talking. we can do a reward system or just give it some time. you'll forget soon.
when you return to the office first, you're offered a job by hotch. it almost feels ironic for you to accept a job that nearly killed you on the first day because of a misfiled paper, but you accept it anyway.
"Reid needs you."
you know. he needs them too.
you continue to visit him every day after work, telling him about the cases you had been reading and the work that had become new, and he lets you fiddle with his hands to calm the both of you. a germaphobe. he never should have let that needle touch him, yet he couldn't argue. neither of you really could. you couldn't either. the two of you are clean from everything else but the drug, and it's appalling that you had recovered so fast. he wonders just how much of you you had been honest about in the fbi profiling when you had first been introduced to the team. he's certain hotch must know more about you, but whether or not the drugs had been part of your past is only for hotch to know.
you seem shattered.
spencer notes the lack of rings on your fingers now.
when the two of you are back in the office, you toss him a teabag instead of the coffee, and he raises a brow at you.
skitterish. he's anxious, and he's sure maybe it has to do with the withdrawals, but you hold your hand out for him to squeeze. there's something, maybe. he isn't that peeved by you when you end up sanitizing your hands before holding it out for his, and he squeezes in increments as the two of you sort through the following cases. your hand becomes an extension of his in a way, and while hotch doesn't understand why you're required to be by him at all times, he understands to some degree that perhaps you know better than everyone else in the team how to deal with it.
it'll be good for him.
"I doubt it will."
it helped me.
you start to understand doctor reid to some degree, you think. there's something so strange about him willingly holding hands with you. perhaps a blood bond had been formed when the two of you had been drugged by the same needle. he learns to hold hands with you longer, and when it's awful, he squeezes and asks you if you have sugar or something else to get his mind off of the drug. the withdrawal is bad, he thinks you know that much. the sugar in his system helps him calm a little. sometimes its tea, sometimes its sugar. sometimes its just squeezing your hand until he calms a little more.
sometimes it's holding headphones over his head while he tunes out the noise, and sometimes it's his hand looking for yours instinctively. when the noise is too much and he slams the window closed, you have headphones popped over his ears as he maps everything out, frustration evident on his face as you squeeze at his hand from the chair, blinking at the map.
not particularly bright, but particularly good at both reading and acting. you'd never go off script. not once. you're truly only good for interrogation at this point in time, and perhaps observation, but you tag along with him and emily to the shelter. when reid's being rude you just slap your hand over his mouth and apologize to the poor woman, dragging him off to look around while you hand the case over to emily.
you're not my babysitter.
trust me, until you know how to handle yourself, i am.
you apologize to emily and smack reid when he tries to argue back, and when reid tries smartassing with you, you just tell him to shut up with a hand over his mouth — something you know he despises.
emily, you've barely known me—
you slam a hand around his mouth, eye twitching. forgive him, trauma response.
you let emily do most of the talking when you head back, forcing a slice of gum into reid's mouth as you wave him off with a flick of the wrist, brow raised as you glance back at the case files.
spencer wonders what the discomfort with your dismissal is, but he takes your hand back up again because you can't deny him for too long. you know how skittish it is to be off the drugs, and it's an awful handful of days. on occasion it lasts into weeks, and you squeeze spencer's hand back when you need it too. always better with a friend. you can keep telling yourself that, truly.
you need it sometimes too, staring quietly from the confines of the room as you're told that the unsub died in the line of fire, thumb brushing against the back of spencer's hand as you let out a huff, mumbling quietly case after case until you grow numb to it like the rest of them. new face. you grow to become someone that isn't a new face, and when reid's begging you for the drugs in his system, you're holding him back, mumbling as he groans into his hands about not having anything to kick in his system.
you hand him a cup of tea and pop rocks, dumping it onto your tongue with the opening of your mouth on the plane as you kick your feet back. a new case. not a day of boredom in your new world.
it's case after case and running after running, pinching reid to get him to shut up when he says something mean, apology stumbling past your lips almost as though he were some troublesome child you were taking care of for the time being. and when he finally frees himself of you to grab a drink with his friend, he's snapping his phone off at emily's calls, panic on his face when you show up at the very bar a handful of hours later, waving hello to his friend before sliding down on reid's lap.
i'm not done talking to him.
you're on the job. you mumble back to him, letting his hand wander. drunken man, you think. too handsy.
His friend lets out a laugh as you start chatting with him, and you swat at Reid's hands each time they trail too close to your pelvis, squeezing it at one point when he raises a brow at you.
what?
"You're getting too handsy." You hold his wrists together as you set his drink down, and you crack a smile as his friend when he laughs. "Hm?"
"He seems real fond of you."
"Trauma bonded." You hum. "You see it too, huh?"
"Not sure where he got it."
"Sure wasn't from me." You let go of Spencer's hands, and he brushes the exposed skin of your upper thigh absentmindedly, humming quietly. "I threw out the last two before we were taken."
"He seems quite affectionate."
"No. Not quite." You hum, hand held over Spencer's as you click on your phone. "I doubt he knows it."
"He couldn't know even if you died."
"Perhaps I'll be gone by the time he realizes it." You tilt your head as Spencer blinks at you, and you hum, laughing as you rest your forehead on his.
"I hope he doesn't. For his sake."
i'm still sober, you know.
i know. you laugh.
stop excluding me.
we're not.
you're unsurprised the case is by a woman, and you're even more unsurprised when she's carried off after barely harming the final victim. you stare blankly and let gideon talk to the both of you, and you laugh airily, telling gideon it wasn't that deep for you, but reid would need some time. you catch the look in gideon's eyes, but you don't comment on it. it's alright. you'll stick with reid. you're close enough for you to grab him every morning anyway.
"Kid."
"Hm?"
"You ask for help when you need it, all right?"
"Alright."
spencer doesn't say anything until gideon is walking off, and his hand finds yours out of habit, mumbling quietly to you about how all you were was an actor, but you don't comment on it, laughing instead.
and when the open mic calls for someone to join him to sing, you hobble up without a second thought, a drunken curl on your lips, mouth open as you sing, and spencer thinks back to when you had cried with a quiet voice that you dreamed of things once a long time ago. a dream that would break you and ruin you to pieces. it seemed to matter enough to you at the time, but it really should not matter. especially not when you're spinning and spinning on the stage and swinging to the beat. you suit the stage the same way he suited books. a dream that you could both never truly pursue the way you wanted to.
even if you did, it would only end horribly now that you are where you are.
spencer brings you down from the stage, swallowing a grimace at your sweaty hands but taking them anyway, eyes trailed on you as you giggle at him. a gentle glow of everything yet nothing. he wants to understand, maybe. he can't, though. he doesn't.
you knock out on the jet on the couch in the back on spencer's shoulder, and he finds himself brushing the back of your hand as he stares out the window. if anyone notices, no one says a thing. cut a little slack for the poor boy, huh. cut a little slack for the youngest ones. ignore the held hands and brushing of fingers. ignore your caging in in order to grab something from an upper shelf. ignore that boy genius gets his iq slashed in half whenever you blink at him with eyes bigger than usual and ignore that whenever you brush past him his voice stutters and his ears go slightly red.
ignore it all for the sake of the boy.
he tries rationalizing it. it's unsurprising for him to be calming down when holding hands. a study by harvard revealed that the pressure of holding hands stimulates the pressure-sensitive pacinian corpuscles in the hand, which send signals to the vagus nerve that conducts signals to the hypothalamus, which then lowers the heart rate and blood pressure and contributes to the neurological management of stress responses. it's that simple. truly. it's just a biological response. he's just having a biological response. he's completely having a biological response.
lots happens for a reason, and lots happens for no reason. spencer tries not to think too much about the smell of your shampoo that he memorizes or how you have a slightly different shade of lipstick that he tries not to point out. small, minor changes. the same way you show up at the metro station seven minutes earlier to be able to catch the same cart as him or the coffee you always have in your hand at the station. he tries not to notice but he unfortunately does, and he truly just plays it off as a normality.
he notices when jj changes lipstick.
"JJ! New lip?"
well, apparently not.
but he tries to convince himself that its transference. it has to be. there's really no reason for him to have a racing heart and strange levels of dopamine rush to his head whenever you squeeze by him in between cases. its simply because he's gotten used to holding your hand when fidgety and the fact that you had saved him when he nearly died. it's really all that is. it shouldn't be more than that. he isn't allowed more than that anyway.
he's just stressed now that gideon's gone and someone new is in the team. he's just upset that gideon left the same way his father did and he's clinging onto you who presented yourself so nicely to him after the two going missing and considering that you both had the whole drug exchange, he finds that perhaps it's just easy to cling to you. it's so easy to just rely on you when you're so vulnerable to him.
he finds his hand in yours under the table in the jet, your eyes closed and knocked out against the window whenever.
it could also be a fear response from him. the chemicals are the same, so it would only make sense that he— oh, who was he kidding. it couldn't be fear. he wasn't scared of you. it wasn't as if you were the one whose mind short-circuted whenever he walked by or handed him an overly sweetened cup of coffee with the exact amount of sugar needed for some reason. you're not the one whose heart lurches whenever he's handed a pack of pop rocks he's sure that you'd like to have instead of him. it's hard not to remember things about you.
it's hard not to just love you when you're so easy to.
you make it too easy for him.
pack of gum held out to him to chew on, telling him that it helps with concetration despite having no true proof for it. you tell him it helps you so it might help him. you don't think too much, and neither does he really when you're holding his chest down and pressing your forehead to his when he wakes from a nightmare, breathing and racing heart rattling in his ears as he matches his breathing to yours on the jet, amused look from everyone as he flushes red and tries to bury the embarassment.
"Nothing to be embarassed abOW—." You hum, jolting as the plane jumps, yelping as Spencer holds a hand to steady you.
"Sitting on the jet floor is kind of nasty, doctor." Morgan raises a brow at you, and you blink up at him.
"Let's hope the clean up crew we hire actually do their jobs, then." You thank Spence as you squeeze between him and Rossi. "At least my pants are dark."
The case is simple, really. Find the one who kidnapped the boy and return him to his parents. One had already passed, so the team tries to speed the process up, and you're put with Morgan and Reid to stay overnight at the home to camp out, so when you're jolted awake by Reid having a panic attack and crying your name, you've got your hands in his hair and he's breathing into your shoulder while Morgan apologizes to the family.
scary. scary, scary, scary. he isn't used to the fear that rattles through his system, and he lives the same dream again and again. dead boy behind the washer. dead boy behind the washer in the basement. step down the basement and be unable to save the boy. haunt his life and stare quietly at the still legs of the boy while his dad watches.
relive a nightmare that he was both part and not part of.
the boy is safe, found in his arms when they sweep the house, and you squeeze spencer's arm gently, eyes relieved as he closes his, boy's forehead pressed to his as the two of you make it out of the house, your phone ringing through to hotch to tell him that you have the boy. the blanket and swaddle in her arms wasn't a child, it was just items. in a way, it was saddening, your eyes weary as you stared at the arrested woman, hand finding reid's to squeeze and let go of.
you alright?
i'll be fine... you?
i'll cross that bridge when i get there.
you're unsurprised when he requests a handful of days to stay back, and you find yourself with him on the couch of his hotel with morgan and rossi, watching a match as you tear open another bag of chips.
"You're not supposed to be here."
you flash him a grin, shrugging as you offer a chip, shaking his head as the three of your forcibly inject yourselves into an investigation that he insists on keeping to himself.
it's a lot to dig through. it's a lot, and when spencer finds himself deeper and deeper down the investigation, rattling his mother and thinking its his father, he finds himself squeezing your hand under the table while you all profile, shoulders sunk back with a weariness that you don't like seeing, trying his best to wrap up the case.
he gets through it anyway, hand finding yours as you squeeze and finish up the case, and you hum quietly as he closes his eyes finally on the plane, mumbling quietly to himself as he thanks you for quiet support. hands finding his in times of fear, acting both as a calming agent when you touch him and a stimulant when you don't. to be everything yet simultaneously nothing. a paradox and an oxymoron.
but the truth is spencer knows why he's this way. he knows why he acts this way, but he has a little moment or two in which he doesn't believe it. he really refuses to. he understands it because he's read textbook cases, and he knows as a matter of fact that he isn't feeling this way because he's scared of you. he knows, but it doesn't stop him from pretending he doesn't anyway. because having you all vulnerable to him and not knowing how you feel about him is enough of a risk as is.
not to mention that he isn't allowed to be fraternizing with his coworkers.
but it doesn't stop him from caring. it doesn't stop him from slipping you breakfast on the metro on the way to work, and neither does it stop you from handing him a doughnut after your lunch break. it stops neither of you from ripping open a pack of pop rocks while listening to the new cases or him from handing you a cup of tea. it stops nothing because there's nothing to be stopping. he understands that much, at least.
but it's fine to care for one another.
it's fine, and there's no reason not to, so when morgan's calling you about how spencer's locked himself in the lab with anthrax, you're terrified. you're there with hotch, pinching your fingertips between your knuckles, biting and letting go of your tongue as the military sets up a grey zone between the houses and you're on the phone after hotch hangs up with reid.
You call him after, upper lip bitten as you listen to the line ring and start.
"Spencer." You mumble, voice breaking as you get him on the phone line, Morgan's hand on your shoulder as you bite back tears. "Are you okay? Breathing?"
i'm fine.
"Please don't do this again. We'll get you fixed up and then we can go back to before." You mumble, chewing your bottom lip as you lock eyes with him through the glass. "Tell us more about the lab. Please. I need to hear you ramble or else my brain's gonna keep reminding me that—"
"Dr. Nichols is a former military scientist, which means he's most likely secretive and most likely a little paranoid. He would have protected the cure, and probably would have hidden it from his partner. So look for something innocuous, something you would not suspect." Reid starts, and you rest the phone between your chin and shoulder, scribbling down notes on your copy of the file.
"He has breathing problems, right? How about an inhaler?" You mumble. "I had Garcia pull medical records."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You mumble. "Is the doctor inside with you?"
"Yeah. I'll have her look." Spencer mumbles. my head's a little dizzy.
i know, spence. hold on for us, please. You nod at Morgan as he leaves, and you squeeze your palms, eyes focused on the way Spencer looks out the window back at you. He nods at you as he steps out, and you follow him in the decontamination chamber, facing the other side as he strips to be cleaned from top to bottom.
He suffers, though, and you're stuck sitting in the ambulance as he's rushed to the hospital and the samples are processed, one sigh in relief for when hotch tells you the suspect's been detained, and another sigh in relief for when spencer's given the cure. you stay by his side when morgan comes to visit, and you flip through one of your more recent books, chin on the side of his bed as morgan hands you a cup of jello.
"'s he alright?"
"Cured." You hum, peeling open the jello to eat at it, shifting from the bed audible as you look to the side.
having jello without me?
"Maybe." You bite down on the spoon, raising a brow.
i want a bite.
You laugh, shaking your head at him. when you're healed, spence.
but it's so easy. it's painfully easy, even. you make it so easy for him to wonder what you're up to. it's so easy. too easy.
he ponders over it on some days, and when you find the dog tags to hand to morgan with a grimace, he spots the slight grimace and slanted eyes that you hide away after you go back to searching. he understands it all, he supposes. he did not at one point. it is much easier to know who you are when standing face to face with you as opposed to the spots and dreams that filled the cracks between the visions of you.
he keeps a hand on your lower back and leans his head on yours as the two of you head back on the jet, quiet circles drawn into your skin. you lean back, visibly sunken and drained, squeezing his hand on the way back to your apartments, humming quietly and pressing your cheek to his before you both make it back to your rooms. this is so easy. loving and trusting you is so easy.
but the universe always finds different ways to prove you both wrong.
four hours of sleep is nowhere near enough, and when you split a cup of coffee with reid as you both sit at the homicide, your eyes struggling to stay awake as one twitches, you think you're going to go insane. hotch is missing, there's a serial killer loose for a surgeon's son, and you've flipped through so many files with reid that you're starting to hear shit. you're sure your hallucinating when emily tells you both that hotch is in the hospital for a stab wound from foyet or someone, and you're blinking at spencer as you run through the profile with the father. he should remember. it should come easy.
it comes with difficulty, you suppose, but when you're walking out with the doctor and get tackled by reid, you're staring at his bleeding leg as he stares at the unsub. in a way you probably could have avoided this, but you wince as spencer shoots at the unsub, your own jacket coming off to stop the bleeding from his leg. he tells you and the rest of the team to go find emily and hotch, but you stay back after they leave, lifting him with ease as he sputters, face impossibly red.
when did you even—
don't worry about it. you laugh, humming. you'll be fine.
you hear a faint whistle that you assume is from morgan, and you're off to the hospital with spencer.
you take another jello cup to share with spencer after he gets the bullet removed, and you listen to jj as the doctor tells reid he'll be fine as long as he stays on crutches. you help him into it the first time, and you end up bringing him home. you end up half-moving in to take care of him for the few weeks, cooking and cleaning and huffing as you have to drive through the streets of dc, but it comes naturally to you too. you find that caring for spencer is so painfully easy that you're a little embarrassed.
you most certainly don't say much when garcia gives you a wiggle of her brow and the two of you wiggle your fingers for a cookie from her tin.
"These are for Hotch."
You feign hurt, holding your hand over your chest. "That's evil."
"I get shot in the leg and I don't get any cookies." Spencer huffs. "You know he's gonna hate the attention."
"It's cookies, not cake. He's probably gonna pretend like nothing happened, anyway."
"Well, it doesn't mean we have to." You pout at the cookies as Spencer offers you a lollipop.
"I think maybe we should." Spencer frowns.
"I don't roll that way." Garcia swats your hand as you reach for the tin again.
"I've been thinking about it? The entire time I've known hotch, I don't think I've ever seen him blink."
You pause to think, blinking slowly. "Holy shit."
"I know. It's weird." Garcia scrunches her nose.
"Classic alpha male behavior."
"Do you think he stared down foyet?" You mumble.
"Maybe. If it would save his life."
"Do you think he stared the whole time, like with each stab?"
"I have no idea. Is he ok?"
"I wouldn't be, but... I'm a blinker." Spencer sighs, and you pat his thigh, getting up.
JJ comes in shortly and you're both whisked off to another case, sitting in the station, your hands moving the pins around as Spencer speaks around the whole case, telling you what to write on the board and what to leave out. You think you're fine with this. He sorts out his thoughts by explaining everything to you, and when the case is wrapped up, you fake a gasp in offense when you catch him counting his cards, replacing a card of your own and winning the game to get back at him.
he lets you.
he call you a cheat later when you're walking back to the apartment, pulling out the card that you had replaced in your hand as you pretend not to know what he's talking about. he snaps his fingers as the card disappears and you find it in your belt, and you blink at him with wide eyes that spencer thinks he can get used to. he'd prefer it if anything. to surprise you for the rest of the days as you both head to work together.
you learn to tone down the character in the way you dress, but you don't say too much when garcia's flown in for the newest case involving choking and internet culture, your quiet glancing at the screen making you pause. it's all a game to get a rush of dopamine to your head, but you don't say too much. you never really do. you fiddle with your ring and glance at the bruises on the boy's neck, staring quietly as morgan tackles him.
Reid and morgan have no luck getting to him, so hotch is forced to pull them out.
Hotch suggests Penelope, but you decide that it's slightly easier for it to be you. You fit the profile, and while Penny would be much more comfortable in some way, you had the decoration on you to prove something. You don't remember the last time you ever had the heart to wear your rings. No. You do. You just don't like to think about it.
You open the door, humming as you tilt your head. "You ever done drugs?"
"Someone get her out of there." Hotch groans.
"Because tbh when I was crashing out back when my family passed away I really considered just—" you make a click sound with your tongue, drawing a line past your throat with your thumb as you tilt your head, sitting down slowly. "But the drugs gave the high that came with it, so I thought I could just... keep doing them. Tried choking myself too. It was fine until it wasn't enough."
The kid shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "No way."
"I don't recommend it, though. The drugs. The road of recovery is rough." You sigh dramatically. "You overdo it and suddenly you're regretting your choice, crying in paralysis about how you might actually want to live — also, by the way, the flush that comes with getting everything out of your system is a whole different level of hell. I thought i was going to die from that alone. Always hoped maybe there was something to live for. I miss my parents, but it's something you learn to live with. I think it does get better. Do you miss your mom? Ugh, mine used to make me such good lunches. Sometimes when kids bully you for having a bad lunch that means it's really good. Okay, that's off topic, omg, so sorry. Love the whole goth vibe. Where do you shop from? I don't know. I feel like Hot Topic doesn't hit as hard as it used to. I know the choker's from there, though. Figured I'd ask since, well. Y'know. By the way, love the nails."
You flash the painted nails — black. Done fresh while you were waiting for Reid and Morgan to crack him.
"You a cop?"
"Oh, heavens no." You lower your voice. "I actually find the worst part of my job to be working with the cops, but don't tell my superior. I'm an agent. FBI."
"You?"
"Yeah! Can you believe it? It's like the FBI is just letting anyone in these days." You laugh. "Nice earring too. I love the one earring look."
"Thank you. Got it on eBay. Supposed to be johnny d's from that one movie."
"Sick!" You gasp. "I got all of my rings from a thrift."
You show the boy as he observes, and you watch as his gaze lingers on one of them.
"Isn't that one nice? Apparently it was from a movie set. Found it on ebay."
"Yeah. Sick."
"Oh, by the way. My friend outside, Penny, was trying to break into your laptop and it's actually shocking how good you are at that kind of stuff. The firewall? The anonymizing service? uber cool. And the e-shredder? I gotta know where you're getting this stuff. You're like a cyber genius."
The kid shifts in his seat, and everyone watches as he actually speaks up. "The anonymizing service was from some guy online."
"I know! That one site, right? The one that looks totes sketch but's actually legit? I use it too. On my personal, though. Ugh, I got hacked once back in college and it took ten years off my lifespan to try to fix my laptop."
"No way."
"Got it immediately after. It was awful." You sigh. "I make one mistake and there goes like decades worth of games pirated— oopsies I wasn't supposed to say that with so many cops around."
The boy laughs, and the door clicks behind you.
"Oh, there's my boss. Say hi to Hotch. Isn't he a little scary? Did the boy's dad ask for him?"
"He's lawyering him up."
"I see."
"Was this an interview?"
"Not quite, as you didn't really give anything out." You give him a handshake, nodding as you glance at the earring he slipped you.
"She's not your friend. She was trying to trick you." His dad grumbles.
"That's all made up, sir. I told your son some stuff I could get re-evaluated over." You hold both your hands up, catching Christopher's wrist before he leaves, holding the earring up.
"You sure you wanna give this to me?"
"I think you deserve it. Wear it at work for me?"
You laugh, cheeks warm as you hum. "I will."
You watch as they leave, smile dropping when you know they won't turn back.
"Hotch, but I need a car to tail them in quiet." You mumble. "That boy's being manipulated."
"And you know this because?"
You stare at the door, quiet, finger brushing the earring. "I just know."
"Munchausen by proxy." Reid mumbles. "That's how the mom died too, isn't it?"
"Password's his mom's full name. He misses her." You call, taking the jacket on the chair. "Penny, text me his— actually, no. Send half to the home address. I wanna visit the mother's grave. Send me the church address? Or the..." You lock eyes with Spencer, and he nods.
"Cemetery. Hotch, do you mind if—"
"Stay." Hotch stops you, holding his hand out. "Morgan, Emily, Church. We'll check the house. Stay here. You've done enough."
You huff, staring at the earring. "Will I get to see him?"
"We'll bring them both in."
"Okay." You mumble.
They bring the boy in to you, and you are given one chance. A small promise to write to him, and offer him an item of equal exchange. You're not supposed to, you understand, but you slide one of the rings off of your fingers, holding out the metal to the boy's palm as you hold onto the earring.
"You want it back?"
"No. You can keep that one."
You nod. "Hope I read it right."
"You did. How did you know?"
"You kept glancing at it when we talked." You laugh. "I had a friend who used to stare a lot at things they wanted. I stare a lot too."
The flight back is quiet, you think. A lot of silence, and you twist at the rings on your finger, hand strangely lighter without one of them.
do you have time on friday?
hm?
Spencer mumbles, quiet as he sits next to you. friday.
why?
new place opened up two blocks down.
alright.
spencer spends the most time in between the books, watching as you look through old donated journals and diaries, peering into people's lives that was once private to them. in a sense you don't seem to care that there's a need for privacy, and neither do you really care when you tell spencer you don't mind your diaries being donated when you pass away. you even tell him that he can read through them when you pass.
but you wander around too. spencer takes you around to the jewelry that's been donated, old with age, pretty little gems and dazzling rust with purple. you insist that there's nothing that catches your eyes, mentioning that the loss of that one ring was symbolic that you had made a difference in someone's life even if it was small.
but there's a pair of old wedding rings that you find your gaze lingering back onto at the new place. it's old, yes, and there's hundred of years worth of items here, but the wedding rings catch your gaze again and again, and at one point you pick it up to bring it around with you while spencer looks at the books.
spencer notes it down, yes. he found that you started carrying a box around with you somewhere into the fifteen minute mark, and you refuse to show him what you had picked up, but from the looks of it, it's most likely something that could really only hold jewelry. A ring box, most likely.
what are you holding?
oh, um, rings. you open the box to show him, and he blinks.
huh. real gold.
and the silver?
it isn't tarnished, so i'd assume some kind of gold. possibly white. he holds his hand out for the rings, and you find yourself giving them to him. they're pretty.
you nod, taking them back from him.
did you know world war two popularized men from the west wearing their wedding rings? prior to that, most men would either not have a ring or not wear it. they started wearing them to remind themselves of their wives and kids at home. oh, and according to a plethora of sources, the most popular wedding ring material is yellow gold. spencer hums, watching as you put the box back down.
well, that makes sense.
he takes a second glance at the box, noting down something as the two of you walk off.
You find the exact box with a ring missing the next day on your desk at work.
"Hey. Everyone's already in the room. Ready?"
you look up at spencer, yellow glistening on his finger as you glance back down at the box.
aren't you supposed to get down on one knee?
do you want me to?
you shake your head, sliding the ring down your finger, joining the rest of them at the round table.
you hide your hands the entirety of the time that you cover the case with the team, fingers fiddling with the ring as you run through everything with hotch. he sends you to the police station with spencer, and you find yourself back in the back and forth back and forth of it all. it's so easy to fall into a pattern with him.
it's so easy to fall into a rhythm with you. it's so easy to show affection and exist around you.
it's so easy to share a look with you and split a room, arm wrapped around your waist and nose pressed into your shoulder, groggy twilight on both of your faces as the two of you squint and you find penelope in your arms, cooing quietly at her as you rub the blood from her hands. it's easy to get lost while in the job, you think. she's strong. you have to repeat it so that she believes you.
spencer settles next to you on the couch, closing his eyes and throwing his head back as you knock out on his shoulder while fiddling with your ring.
neither of you are conscious enough for this.
and it carries the same in every other case. in every other case, the two of you are wrapped up on the plane, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, device in your hand, newspaper in his. a cup of tea brewed to eerie precision on your side, a bag of opened candy on his. a sweet tooth that gnaws at his cheek — a need for peace that eats at your brain.
you listen to reid talk. everything — the numbers, the facts, the stats. everything reads like an audiobook or encyclopedia, and you tilt your head slightly when spencer hands you a photo of the women, and you start drawing lines over the plastic. reid notices it before you do, but you have the facial symmetry crafted before he does, picture stuck up on the glass board as you have lunch, watching spencer snatch it up and thank you for it.
you don't do much for the rest of the time, straw pressed to your lips as you drink, staying on call with penelope as you click through your device. it's those damn phones should be a quote on your feed. The only thing helping you at the moment to kill the boredom of when you're not on the field. hotch is still hesitant to use you at times.
and it's not that he doubts your capabilities.
you're put on the field, hand finding the victim's as she asks you why she wasn't just killed, and you swallow back words and let reid tell her that it was only about power and control, your own words comforting her when you tell her that it fades. it doesn't mean that it will leave, but you will learn to step over it. you promise it to her.
you find time during the drive back to run your hand through his hair as he drives, pinching at the way his curls coil around his head, hum on your lips as you call him pretty. so pretty.
you don't miss the way his cheeks tinge pink as he catches the reflection of white on your finger.
but the unsub gets away and morgan snaps, but you understand that to some degree. you're sure that you'd be in the same situation, and when jj's berating him on an emergency line, you're understanding, gun in hand when you finally find the girl, and you think for a moment that there really isn't much of a space for you.
reid sees it too, the way you let go of your gun, staring as morgan heads into the house and everyone wires him. you understand it well.
reid would say that you've always slotted nicely. you've always fit between the cracks, and when the cracks would fit each other, you would slide away until they would click, and you would be stuck staring on the side. you're just a strangely fluid person in a sense.
but it's a little much to ask of you to fill in for jj's position. it's not for you.
yet you find that garcia tries anyway, and when you're finally called out for the metal band on your finger on the plane, you're staring at everyone and blinking.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Vintique on third." You hum. "Loved them, but didn't want to splurge, but they so magically appeared on my desk at work the next day. Speaking of rings, though. Why have a married couple have sex before stabbing them? What the hell?"
"You know, the stabbing of the wives is almost certainly piqueristic. The unsub gets sexual gratification from penetration with a knife. Most piquerists are impotent... men like Albert Fish, lain Scoular, Andrei Chikatilo... so for him, it could be a substitute for sex." Spencer hums. "The rings were really pretty. Pure gold. Well, not the white one since 18 karat white gold is only 75 percent pure gold."
Everyone's eyes find his ring finger, and Morgan gasps.
"My man!"
But the case isn't too strange. You tell Emily you can step in, dressed up nice as you take off the vest and opt for a purse, Spencer's eyes worried as you tell him you'll be fine, tapping the ring on his finger. You lie your way through the unsub while fiddling with your ring, tapping through to let Morgan and Hotch tackle the man to the ground, only going quiet when the barrel of a gun finds itself on your stomach. you think you hear Spencer yell something in the background, but you pull the trigger in your purse, letting someone pull you away as you exhale and ask if the unsub will live.
are you okay?
i'm fine. you hum, hand finding his as you run your finger over his ring.
He runs the hand to your cheek, coolness of the metal making you close your eyes as you hum.
"You'll protect me, won't you? As my husband?"
"Of course."
Spencer tries to ignore the way that he likes the way you call him your husband. Yours. It rings nicely in his mind — like a child receiving praise. He can practically feel the neurotransmitters in his brain enforcing his behavior to be good to you. to be good for you. it makes him a little nauseous, but he refuses to fight it too much.
It's only logical that he likes hearing good words.
but you never miss the opportunity to tease him anyway, tugging on his sleeve to avoid his hand, name on your lips sweet as he blinks and swallows when a pretty girl passes him, quirk of your lip upward when he tries to make up an excuse, a wave of your pretty hand shutting down his entire brain. it's a little concerning to him — furrow of his brows and a pout on his lips when he realizes what you're doing.
we're together. he pouts.
"I know we are." You hum, bumping him with your hip as you circle around to Hotch.
"Town meeting in the church. I want us all there."
"Got it."
you're not too sure what to make of the blonde girl, and you're unpleasantly surprised at her attitude once admitted into the BAU. you stay civil with her, but never anything beyond that. you don't have much to say when spencer gets sassed at by her, raise of your brow and she shuts her mouth.
I'm used to it, you know?
it isn't about you.
he furrows his brows, and you press your hand to his forehead.
but you find that you understand something else. spencer reid has no protection against pretty girls, and it doesn't matter who he stares at for a second too much, you always find yourself fiddling with your ring and looking to the other side. you understand the biological need to do so, yes, but it doesn't sting any less.
but nothing changes.
spencer still finds himself next to you at most times, pink finding yours under the table on the plane, tilt of his head and lick of his upper lip whenever you beam at him, gold on his ring finger glistening and never rusted. it's honestly incredible that the two of you never give away anything about each other or come even remotely close to having to explain the rings. reid sympathizes with the men, and you hold the women in your arms.
it almost feels like it was made for this.
the charade you both play almost feels real. it's real only when on the field, and when the two of you return to your apartments side by side, it's all fake again. he can spend nights with your forehead pressed to his in the comfort of his couch while you try to help with his migraines, and he can sit back as you take care of him with your life, but he'll never quite get to hear those three words break past your lips. you'll never say it because you feel like you don't have to, and he'll never say it because he'll never be able to read your emotions the same way you read his so he can never quite confirm that you love him the same way he does.
does he really love you? does it really matter? the cat remains unknown until the box is opened — your relationship remains neutral until someone grows cold. you don't know if spencer really did love you at all. it certainly eats at you and chews you from the inside out. you don't know if his moment of realization had just been of realization or of boredom. an overanalyzation of the stars in his supernova. a breaking of his universe because you were too close. he wonders it too, the lack of light present in everywhere you walk. someone who would swallow his universe alive until all that was left was dark matter.
a blank stare and a pinch of your own skin always seemed to do the trick. but you've always got a handful to work with when he was around, his migraines have grown worse as you bring him to doctors, pout on your face and gentle stare on his as he sits through brain scans. you have him drink tea and take care of everything that you can to help him. you're wonderful. you bring the best of the best for him. a wife's affection, really.
the first migraine causes you a near heart attack when he knocks a man in the back of his head, and when the first doctor tells him to consider something psychosomatic and he storms out, you're stuck chasing after him. you'll find him a better doctor. you'll get him the best of the best, and the best of the best do you find after a painfully long period of bad migraines and drinking your tea instead of his coffee. you're just so wonderful.
emily passes away and comes back and all you're stuck with is taking care of spencer, lowering his caffeine intake, quiet running of your thumb under the bags of his eyes, a gentle frown on his face when he struggles with her loss. you struggle in your own way, but you've never been a priority in the team, so no one points out who you are or what you're there for. you're only there when people need you. you aren't required.
you forgive emily quicker than spencer because you understand.
but spencer's migraines are better. slightly better. he meets a new doctor who actually looks into the symptoms thanks to your annoyed pushes, and sometime along the way, you're given the right to his medical records the same way he's allowed yours, and then it all really just goes downhill for you from there. you know the way that spencer scrolls through his phone for payphones to call with the researcher — same look on his face when you had actually looked him in the eye the first time ever.
it's his fault, really.
it's transference, he knows. the doctor taking care of him is just transference, and he knows you catch the way his calls linger for longer than they're supposed to and the slight flashes of pain at first when he doesn't go to bed, but you get used to it. fluid to fill the cracks. you'll fill not only his, but also everyone else's cracks. he feels not enough for you. he fears he turns into something that isn't himself. fill the cracks that he knows you can with something that is not either of you. you should no longer be filling the cracks for him. he should do something for you.
he understands his reasoning is flawed in that way, but he knows not to deal with it. perhaps he does not want to seem weak before you.
but it doesn't stop him from sobbing into your arms, quiet digging of his nails into your biceps on nights that are too silent, gasping into your shoulder when you run your hand down his back. it doesn't stop either of you from playing your part, acting like you all have it under control. acting like it's completely fine — the way you just shatter and break is completely fine. the way he contemplates the drug long gone in his system as you teach him how to cope with the loss.
and you trust him so much. you trust him painfully much, and it almost makes him feel undeserving. even with a hand on your lower back and a kind gentle hum on his lips, grimace on his face as you stare at death upon dead, he finds that he doesn't want you to see the same gruesome life that he does. it's unfair to you. not that you cannot handle it — just that he wonders maybe you could avoid it. even if you had signed up for training and ended up in the department.
but there's a visible shift in your dynamic with spencer. you can take him to all the doctors you want and let him cry his heart out, complain and throw a fit that you'd like for him to be reviewed by someone else, but no one will be as good as maeve. you can fuss and cry at home, but he won't ever understand the sense that you just know. you can feel him slipping. slipping through the cracks and through your fingers, and you think there's so much that you don't want to touch, but you can't decide that.
you don't get to decide to take away something good for spencer just because it's something bad for you.
he'll analyze and profile you. you know that. he'll notice that you no longer seem to care, smile not as bright, water bottles replaced with thermos and thermos of tea until the flavor is too far gone to be able to still taste the tea. he'll notice the way you never discard of the tea, but he won't comment on it. he'll never comment on it again, because as soon as work is over or it's sunday, he's rushing off to call maeve, and you're stuck in the office, staring and scratching at your phone, eyes weary and tired, visible signs of age sliding between the fine lines of your portrait, and at one point, maybe you'll find something that you care about again.
it hurts more to be like that, you think.
to love and then be betrayed.
but you still want him so bad. so. painfully bad.
it's unfair how attached you've grown to someone you thought would be your forever only to end up as another piece of your life. how could you ever? was it unfair of you to hope that someone who tasted even a fragment of what you endured prior to it all to understand you even just a little bit? does it not matter to them at all? you're sure it doesn't. spencer's never one to dwell on his heart more than he has to.
Now, all he dwells over is Maeve.
those three words. "I love you."
you watched him freeze up from the car, body paused in the seat when you noticed the lack of gold on his fingers, and you think there's something that clicked in your mind when you did. it's an announcement of affection that you wish spencer would push away, but he doesn't. it doesn't surprise you. it should, but it doesn't. it almost feels like it was perfectly expected of him to act that way. to just accept that someone loves him the same way you do.
it couldn't be the same way you do since they've never met, but you're sure spencer loves her the same way.
you press your tea to your lips, bag of pop rocks left on the round table as everyone files in, a brow raised when spencer enters last, strangely giddy, beaming at you when he sits down with his own mug of tea.
call went good?
yeah. we're meeting up soon.
fun.
if he notices the lack of enthusiasm in your voice, then he doesn't comment on it, taking the bag of pop rocks to down as everyone files in.
"3 days ago, Bruce Phillips was found dead with his blond hair dyed black."
You think you tune almost everything out for the most part. You go through the case, sort through it all, blink and watch as Spencer seems to be as focused as ever. He's meeting up with her in a couple of days. You'll be fine, you suppose. It'll be fine. Everything is supposed to be fine, and when you're getting forcibly sentenced to rest by Hotch, you think it's fine. You'll be fine.
You'll work through the case and look back at all the puppets as you lower the two humans from the strings, and you wonder what you would look like put up on the stage. There is a fear that settles uncomfortably in your stomach, you think. That somehow on that stage it could have been you. You don't know how the victims will survive it, and when you step into the elevator in the dark of night with the rest of the team, you barely go through anything.
"Where's Reid?"
"He said he had something important to do."
You blink quietly at your reflection in the metal, closing your eyes.
"He's seeing the girl he's in love with."
"WHAT."
"Wait, wait, wait. Babygirl, isn't he in love with you?"
"Apparently not." You chew on your inner cheek. "I need a drink."
"Well, you're welcome at mine." Rossi mumbles. "Scotch."
"Vodka."
"You'll learn."
You huff. "Fine."
Maybe ranting to Rossi about your love life wasn't the smartest thing in the world, but you honestly couldn't give any less of a damn if Spencer was dragged through mud after all the stunts he had pulled on you. You grumble and pinch your brows, moping and throwing your head back over the sofa as you sit to sober up. Jesus christ, get a grip.
Rossi tells you that sometimes it's fine to let go.
"Yeah?" You fiddle with your ring, scotch long forgotten on the table.
"Sometimes the best remedy is just letting go."
"Thank you, wise italian man with three wives." You mumble. "I can't wait to be divorced in my twenties."
"You're still young, don't worry." Rossi hums, pressing his drink to his lips. "You want me to reccomend someone to you?"
You glance at the ring on your finger, humming. "It's fine."
you wonder sometimes why reid had gotten tired of you. was it tired? you don't know. he seems to have gotten tired of you. maybe it was just rude of you
maybe the lack of title was—
no. not quite. he's your husband. there was not a lack of title. there was a lack of papers. lack of hard evidence that you weren't playing around with each other in your youthen stupor. there was a lack of nothing. it was just spencer being stupid, you think. it was never your fault. you were more in tune with his smotions than he was, and he knew your mind better than anyone else.
he did not know his own heart, and you suppose it's your fault for ever thinking he would.
you think you're bitter towards how spencer treats you now comparably more than when he did prior to the arrival of maeve. but you're not mad at maeve. you couldn't really be. you and spencer never legalized your relationship, and it's not unheard of to be fascinated with something new — spencer was always fascinated with something new.
but it doesn't really make it hurt any less.
spencer meets maeve in the restaurant, and garcia tells you that apparently he had taken off his ring in the cctv footage. an empty finger to meet a girl that you felt replaced by. wow. what a way to ruin a girl's day.
not to mention how he carries around that beat up book that maeve had reccomended to him — still.
you find it ironic that he's moved on yet you still haven't. what is there to move on? did he owe you the courtesy of a break up if you were never really anything?
the one day you don't bother answering your door.
you spend your days at he shooting range, perfecting your marksmanship, and you wonder if this is the universe's strange way of telling you that you're just screwed. you find that it's hard to hide quiet sniffling and hot tears on your cheeks with frustration that you can't lash out. quiet anger that bubbles in the back of your throat when you start opting to go out on the field more than staying back to analyze — to use your degree since you wasted it all anyway, and hotch lets you.
you ignore the look of hurt on spencer's face when you request of it outright, desperation reeking off your skin, and you become so painfully distant that you wonder if spencer felt like you were supposed to just stick around and wait for him when he called maeve all day like that and expect you to stay around. he's not stupid. you're almost sick of the way that you've never been babied once since joining, and all everyone does is protect him in their own way.
it makes you bitter towards him, you think.
you're glad you're on the field rather than hidden in the police station with spencer. you don't think you could bear to face him or whatnot. it would be unfair for you.
you wonder if you should request to stay back when maeve's kidnapping case comes up, and you swallow slowly when spencer's mind shuts down, and maybe you're just cursed to be stuck as some kind of queen piece that has no purpose now that the player's gotten their pawn to upgrade into a queen. actually, maybe you're a pawn. maybe you're just the pawn that stayed desipte it all in the game of chess. you know as a matter of fact that you could never be as smart as maeve is — which is why you're not really bitter towards her. she doesn't know of your existence the same way that spencer didn't once mention you in… well, anything.
you spend most of the case working through it with everyone else, and you're the first to notice that maybe it's a female stalking maeve rather than a man. it's not a… well, it is a romantic stalker, probably. you don't really know. you're all for it, but less in the case where maybe maeve deserves a stalker and more in the okay well, good for her, love wins, or whatever. you're quite frankly too spent trying to figure out what's going on with the case to really care that it's a woman. you're trying not to throw up when spencer offers himself as collateral, and you're having the worst moment of your life when things happen.
spencer's so in love with her that you think perhaps you never really existed to him at all. nevermind that he's somehow got his ring on and that diane might freak out at the thought, but you don't know. you don't really understand it. spencer reid is in love with maeve donovan and you don't seem to matter at all in his eyes.
one thing leads to the next, and by some strange situation, everyone's on a rooftop of some kind and you're kind of staring at nothing in particular as you stare at the kidnapper. it's a woman, and you feel like you shouldn't be surprised, but you still are. you've read her unofficial paper before — as you did with maeve. when you first figured out who maeve was, you had done a quick read on her research. it was easy to read — her paper. you wonder just how obsessed diane has to be with maeve for her to be jumping her and kidnapping her to this extent. maybe maeve sought companionship with spencer.
you hold your gun up in the back with everyone else, and it's really spencer's call as whether or not to shoot, but there's an instability in the way that she's speaking and shaking, and you think maeve is going to make the wrong choice of words and accidentally tip off diane and then both of their brains are going to be blown out and you don't think that's a really good idea.
but you also don't really want blood on your hands.
is it such a sin for you to desire to not kill? is the blood of tobias hankel not enough?
is a bullet between the forehead not a testament of enough blood you've been stained with?
you stand behind spencer, gun in your hand as you blink and stare.
will the blood of maeve's life dirty your hands any more than everything already has?
There's a gun pressed to Maeve's head, and you have a clear shot to her assailant.
you want to be selfish. maybe. you want to just. you'd like to— you don't want the love of your life stolen from your hands and it tears you apart, but you don't even need to look when you know the answer. it doesn't matter if you love spencer, because you think you know something that they don't or whatever and he can try to de-escalate the situation all he wants. you think there's something that he knows that you don't. there's—
there's nothing.
what are you being so philosophical for? there is really only one answer.
You pull the trigger before Diane can.
The woman falls to the ground, probably dead. you don't know you don't really check. It's. You don't like the weight of a second life on your hands, collapsing into the cement of the rooftop immediately, too short of breath to watch spencer pull a fainted maeve into his arms, breathing growing erratic and mouth hanging open as someone catches you, the voice ringing in your ear as you stare at someone, tears burning at your cheeks and every emotion except for relief on your face, oh, oh, oh what is this — is this, is it , oh it's been such a long time you almost forgot this feeling, didn't you — you're sorry? what are you saying? You don't know anymore. what is going on? you can't— you can't breathe. what is this—
oh, there— there's—
the world turns black, and you wake up alone.
without your ring. alone. well, penelope's by your side when you're staring into the white, blinking slowly without a lifeline because once again there's an iv plugged into the back of your hand and you swear to god if you have to pull the trigger on a man one more time, you're going to kill yourself.
you don't even realize you're crying until Penelope is holding you.
"You'll be fine! You'll be fine!" Penelope holds you, and you stare at her, shaking your head.
"Penny. I wanna go home."
"I know, sweet girl. I know. You'll be there soon."
You laugh, grimacing at the way your body hurts.
"He said he'd protect me. Guess who lied."
"He can't lie for his life. You know that."
You sigh, letting your head sink into the pillow.
"What happened?"
"You passed out from a panic attack."
"Not from killing." you close your eyes. "Did the doctors give a diagnosis?"
"They can't. You don't have anyone to sign for you."
"Right. Security went up."
"He was angry, you know? That he couldn't sign for you." Penelope frowns. "He asked me if I could fake a certificate for you two."
"I feel like I should pretend to be surprised. Did he leave as soon as Maeve woke up? I know she passed out too." you sit yourself up, groaning as you roll your shoulders. "Where's the doctor? I want my diagnosis — and, Penny?"
"Yeah?"
you smile. "Alone."
"Alright... but um, don't be surprised if I hack, alright?"
"Of course." you nod.
You decide two things that night.
One, your hand is tired of holding the gun. You don't think you ever liked the feeling of it even after killing Tobias for killing Spencer. It's just not a weight that you can grow used to. You can't possibly bear to exist with it, you think. It's not a world that you belong in. It's not a world that you like existing in. You don't particularly enjoy the fact that you just had to shoot Maeve's stalker through the skull either. Two deaths too many.
Two. You no longer want to stay.
Penelope takes you home, but you're barely stepping foot in your apartment before you're calling a cab to go to the BAU office, and you wonder if everyone else has headed home. You think they did. Though, you really hope that Hotch is at least there so you can resign to his face. You don't think you're so adamant on leaving that you'd do it without seeing him one last time.
It's 11pm when you make your way to the office, resignation paper, badge, and gun in hand as you find Hotch's office.
The lights are still on, strangely enough, and when you glance at everyone's empty desks for the night, you think it was oddly good timing on your end to come in right after a case that had you passing out with no real victim. Spencer's probably visiting Maeve, and everyone else probably clocked out on time for once. How nice.
You knock before entering.
"Hotch."
He glances at you.
"They let you out already?"
"Urgent business. Also, it was just a panic attack. My vitals were all normal." You nod. "It won't happen again."
"You're supposed to be on break for a couple of days."
"That's the thing. There won't be a need for an eval or wait." You place down the gun, the badge with the box, and you stare at your ring for a second too long before speaking. "I'd like to leave."
"Is it because of the—"
"No." You shake your head, sliding your ring off. "No, no. It's not. I just. I think you know I never really wanted to be on the field like I have, and I'm nowhere mentally strong enough for that role. I'd like to quit before it kills me. I think we both know that I nearly died my first day on the job."
"Are you alright?" He motions for you to sit, and he steps over to shut his door.
"I'm fine." You nod. "I am. I really am."
"Did Reid—"
"Hotch, please" You mumble. "I just want to return to academia and studying instead of practice. There's so much instability in this job, and I can't do it anymore. I'm not strong like you are. I never was."
He stares at you, pinching his brows. "Where will you go?"
"I'll find somewhere." You smile. "I'll be happy there. I've saved up plenty from this job."
Hotch gives you a sad smile, you think. You understand.
"May I visit?"
"With Jack, if you must." You hum. "I'll be out tomorrow. Please tell Straus I'm sorry I didn't go to her."
"You don't need to."
"Yes, I know." You hum. "Do you think I could stay hidden for long?"
Hotch looks at the envelope.
"I think he will find you."
"I hope not."
He exhales. "Stay safe. I'm here if you need me."
"I will." You laugh. "Tell the rest of the team that I'm just recuperating at home? Tell them I don't want any visitors for a few days."
Hotch nods. "We'll miss you."
You linger at the door, looking back at Hotch, smile on your lips that doesn't reach your eyes.
"I'll miss you guys too."
Spencer sits in the other wing of the hospital.
"Are you sure you're okay? It couldn't have—"
"I'm fine." Maeve smiles. "Shouldn't you be checking with..?"
"She's strong. She'll survive." Spencer mumbles, fiddling with the gold on his finger. "She also took me off of her authorized lists. I had signed that she would be able to take care of my medical needs with her a while back, but I suppose that she took me off sometime ago without telling me. It was my fault."
"Your… ring." Maeve swallows. "I didn't know you wore one."
Spencer stares at it, twisting the band absentmindedly. "It's… a couple's band. Matches with hers… bought it at an antique store."
"Spencer, do you love her?"
"Wh- of course I do!" He pauses. "Of course I love her. Everyone does. It's just… she knows that."
"Are you sure? Have you told her?" Maeve mumbles. "I don't think you love me the same way you love her. I love you, Spencer."
"I do too—"
"No." Maeve stares out the window of the bed. "You love her. Think it over. You're smart. Sometimes feelings don't need to make sense."
Hotch doesn't have it in himself to tell Spencer— it's hard to break the news. it would be like breaking news that emily had passed away all over again, and it wouldn't be all that worth it. reid would have to find out on his own. he would. and when he does. when he does, he'll stop and stare, unbelieving in hotch's words with a desperation in his voice that they heard when maeve was at gunpoint, running a hand through his hair at news broken to him last and the box that had once carried your rings that truly has him staring and wondering if it was at all worth it.
"Why didn't you tell me." Spencer clenches his jaw, and Hotch stares. Just stares.
"She told me not to."
"So you didn't?"
"Reid, you would have stopped her from moving." Hotch places a box before him.
Spencer shakes.
"Hotch. You knew that I messed up, and you still—"
"Reid."
"I loved her. I love her."
spencer loves you, loved you, is loving you, oh god forbid anyone tell him anything. he's in love with you and it was his fault for ever thinking that maybe you would have understood without him telling you. you understood his heart. you should have known that he loves you. but maybe knowing isn't enough. maybe he should have said it— no. he should have said it. he should have told you that he loves you the same way maeve had told him. you overthink as well. he knew that. he knows that.
but you do understand him. he's far too hurt to be able to chase you down after leaving the way you knew it hurt the most, so he settles with sitting in his flat and staring lifelessly at the books you had bought for him. you did not touch anything in his apartment. not your clothes, not your belongings. it was as though all you really cared to clear was the desk at work so someone new could join the team.
he settles with trying to see your apartment, blinking when someone new has moved in and he apologizes, mentioning that his friend had moved and didn't tell him — he supposes. he thinks. it's not the truth. you had just planned to leave him in the dark just like that. it was a deliberate chance to twist a blade into his stomach the same way he had twisted it into your heart. he wonders why you didn't just shatter him on purpose.
the new tenant hands him a letter that was left behind with his apartment number on it, and spencer realizes, he thinks. you had just wanted to stab him through the heart and carve a piece of him for yourself after he had left yours hollow and empty. you didn't quite do it, though. the letter hurts, yes, but in a way he felt deserving of it. you tell him at the end that the silver would look nice on maeve's finger.
he doesn't have the heart to open the box to find out if your ring is in it.
and suddenly, there's no interest in maeve at all — and spencer reflects on it in a way. he knows now. it was never really transference with you. it was transference with maeve. it was simply because he had gotten so caught up in making a new friend and calling her all the time that he had forgotten how he had gotten to that point in the first place. did he ever truly love maeve? surely it hurt to hear how she was the prettiest girl in the world to him when you were wearing a ring meant to match his.
how could he ever think of someone else in that light? when you were right there?
when the hurt fades, all he has left are his days in his flat where he traces through the books you had bought him. he traces your writing in the margins of your literature, and it reminds him of when he had to send his mother away all over again. he isn't allowed the joy of keeping someone by his side. not with his father, not with gideon, and now no longer with you. it didn't matter if you had been waiting. people grow tired of it immediately. people need air. you had forgotten that. spencer had forgotten that.
it was stupid of him to ever think of someone other than you.
spencer dreams of you sometimes. leaving without a reason, walking out of his life with most of your belongings packed from your place with the knowledge that you had just told hotch you were leaving, never to be seen again after you had been pushed to the hospital and he wasn't allowed to hear your diagnosis. disappearing from all his records, being denied access to how you were doing now. it wasn't witness protection, no. he would have known if it was. you had just chosen to disappear from his life forever on a random thursday afternoon. the same thursday he was supposed to tell you that he was wrong to ever make you misunderstand that he loved maeve more than you.
he hasn't taken his ring on his finger since finding out that you had just packed and left. he doesn't know why. he mourns you. perhaps he does, and perhaps he had been right such a long time ago when he was still somewhat young and fresh, ramble of how the feeling he was expressing was most likely his own cocktail of romance, but he had been slow. he knew, yet you had not waited. it was not worth it anymore, perhaps. he understands that. you learned to start moving at your own pace and claw your way to stability, and a government job that required you out on the field at all times was not worth the pay.
you could make comfortable money elsewhere.
he knew that much. your passion had never been quite to be out on the field saving people. your passion had always been in reading people and knowing people. in the smoothing of papers and fluids of ink. you had always loved something much different than he did. you always loved something that he had used as a tool to continue upward. he could deduce a million things about you and none of it would make sense because as soon as you flipped the page you would once again become blank and leave him wordless.
you belonged in ranges of books, not the shelves that hosted you on late nights when you did not want to sit alone in your apartment.
you belonged in rows and rows of scripture and poem and psalm that could not even begin to be described with mere pen and paper. it had to be parchment and quill — ink and letters delivered by carrier pigeons that no longer existed. you belonged in a world that he had long forgotten he was once part of. a world that he doubts he could ever step foot back in without something that affects him enough. he's not going to step back into it. not until there is a point in which he knows he can retire and calm down. his papers would never be the papers that you write. your papers would never be papers that reach his hands.
and then hotch leaves.
he wonders if he could ever step away from it all. a second life or death moment. a moment in which he was... alive, perhaps. he understands the tension between him and cat well. its just a shame you're no longer here to untangle his mind after a long day with your fingers carding through his hair. its a case you would have jumped on. a woman who was better than acting than anyone else. he feels like he lost something when he had met her. it was an encounter you would have listened to him ramble and told him what kind of a person she was, but you weren't there anymore. you hadn't been for a while, and when he's in prison, unable to reach out to you, he wonders if it was at all worth it.
you would not have let it happen.
hotch would not have let it happen.
he spends a lot of time wondering what you're doing. he wonders if you still make your tea with a thermometer so the green doesn't become bitter, insisting that tea made at home is better than one at a coffee shop — and he wonders if you still keep packs of pop rocks on you because you refuse to have food and substitute it with sugar so your blood sugar doesn't drop. he wonders if you still lounge in bed until the sun is halfway in the sky, only leaving for brunch in the mornings, and he wonders if you've made friends. perhaps you connected with past ones. he wonders if you're doing better now.
you have to be. for him. you have to be.
it comforts himself to know that at least one of you are doing better.
maeve is there when he's freed. he understands, yes, that he was… dumb to even… oh he doesn't try thinking too hard about it. he thanks her, yes, and it's not really her fault. his fault for taking off a ring that tied his heart to yours so he could try and pretend he didn't care. he wonders if she thinks any more badly of him. he doesn't think she does, but perhaps she's realized too that his heart wasn't ever really for her to begin with.
He glances at the ring he's kept safe for so long, lack of luster causing a frown on his face as Maeve glances at it too.
"You never really told me the truth, huh?"
"No." He mumbles. "I got caught up in your confession, I suppose."
"I see."
He pauses, staring at Maeve as she tilts her head.
"Did you tell her thank you for saving my life?"
"She left before I could."
"You should have been honest with me."
"She had never—"
"And yet you had a ring." She hums. "Did you pretend I was her? Because I told you I loved you?"
"I just… wanted her to tell me she loved me, I suppose." He blinks, suddenly quiet. Ah. So that was it. "So when you said it to me, I just—"
"You should tell her."
"I won't ever get to see her again."
"You should tell her you love her." Maeve hums. "She was waiting for you to say it first."
"I couldn't have—"
"Then maybe she was hoping for you to." She hums, pausing, smiling. "She's doing good. I met up with her last time she was here."
"She was here?" He hates the way his voice breaks.
Spencer understands you more now, he thinks. The time he spent thinking over his emotions and not his mind for once was strange. Isolation did a number to him. He understands himself better now. Maybe he just wanted you to be vulnerable with him first before he could even believe that you liked him even more than you did with others.
It was stupid, yes. It was painfully obvious to everyone that you liked him more than you did the average person, and it wasn't exactly something you bothered hiding. Perhaps you had just been waiting for him to say it first since he had treated you differently too. He knew it, but he just refused to admit it. He didn't need numbers or probability to prove that you loved him. He loved you just the same. The band around your fingers should have been proof of that.
It really shouldn't have been something he ever doubted even once.
So when he gets forced back into the swing of the thirty day sabbatical, his final thirty is a gift from the team.
A carefully picked location — per Garcia's request.
Garcia chose this one, which he finds interesting considering that he's never left too far for guest lecturing before, and Garcia had never shown even a remote amount of interest in his sabbaticals, but apparently the university had really wanted him to provide insight in the lecture, so he was requested by… someone… in the university. Spencer isn't too sure, but he trusts Garcia enough, so he's on a commercial flight to meet with the university.
"It'll be a good breath of air. Besides, when's the last time you had a proper vacation? Don't you dare try to come back before the thirty days are up. I will have prentiss kick your ass."
"Yes, Garcia." Spencer mumbles. "And you're sure this will be good for me?"
"Oh, I know it will be good for you. Thank me later."
It's strange he's somewhere he's seldom been, and the rain reminds him of Seattle, but not quite. The university wasn't really known for their curriculum on criminology, but the psychology program was apparently well respected. He respects it. The campus is gorgeous, and his guide takes him around and lets him know some local places he can visit.
The lecture goes nicely. He quotes books and literature, and he explains the case studies they've all done, analyzing behavior and explaining classic serial killers, but the students seems much more invested in his face than what he's teaching. Which he's grown used to, in a way. He could try and pretend he doesn't understand it, but he doesn't. At least not in that way.
He almost misses when Morgan would call him pretty boy to his face.
He stays behind to check out what they have, though. There's a small neighborhood a little bit southeast of the university quite a nice little street to wander on, and Spencer finds himself stopping to look around. The name reminds him of things you had said once. Quite mumble under your breath when you had passed Pike Place in Seattle about how you liked it better in…
He stops at a coffee shop, ordering a pastry and coffee (sweetened. of course.), and he leaves his last name. He doesn't know what compels it. Well, maybe so his name feels a little more common. He's older now, so his name's dated with him, naturally, but he still finds himself using his last name.
The lady is kind enough — as she can be. She writes his name down and asks if there's a design he'd like on his cappuccino. (He asks for a heart), and he finds himself at the end of the coffee shop, ripping open a pack of pop rocks to dip his tongue into. He started carrying them around ever since you left. The popping on his tongue reminds him that he's not as numb as he believes he is. There's a starbucks across, but his guide had insisted that he try the local place. Been around since forever and still hasn't closed. Apparently it has surprisingly good prices too.
"Green tea for Reid?"
Spencer turns around at his name, watching as you step past him to grab the drink.
The words come out before he can think.
"You're buying your tea now?"
You freeze up in place.
"Latte with vanilla for Reid?" The barista raises a brow.
"That's me." He takes it, staring down at you as you stay still. "Talk to me."
"I don't see what there is to talk about."
"You hide behind a false wall of bitterness mirroring how I hid behind science and logic to not need to face how stupidly in love with you I was." Spencer swallows. "We both know there's stuff to talk about."
You blink up at him, raising a brow.
"Did Penny send you?"
"She suggested the university, yes. But a professor had reached out—"
"Then there's no need to talk about it. You'll go back to your job in a few days—"
"Twenty five."
You raise a brow.
"Twenty-five days." He swallows. "I… went to jail, and as an exchange for taking me back, I have to take a sabbatical for thirty days every now and then."
"And you decided all thirty days here was the move?"
"Garcia did."
and when he senses the pause you want to slip from, he speaks again.
"I know you're bitter about how horribly I treated you when I was calling Maeve three times a week and almost always on a case, and no, I don't expect you to forgive me or anything, but I miss you. I really do miss you."
"Oh, look at that. Doctor Spencer Reid using pathos." You mumble, checking your watch.
Spencer catches the familiar glisten of your ring.
"Listen. You can act like you moved on and no longer care about me all you want, but I think you know deep down that you're still clinging onto bits of me that I left behind, and the ring and your name is no coincidence—"
"Doctor Spencer Reid." You glare. "I don't appreciate being profiled like that."
He stops, clenching his fist as he stares down at you.
"I'm no different."
Your eye finds the ring on his finger, and you sigh.
"I hope you have fun here, and if the universe wills, may we meet again."
"And if I force it?"
You stare up at him.
"I think I know—"
"I don't know, Doctor Reid. I might just have to kick you out for it."
There's no real malice in your words, Spencer finds. There never has been, and he's almost comforted to find that even after all this time, you're the same as ever. The constant of your existence and the growth of you as a person. You dress warmer now and there's not an ounce of unhappy exhaustion on your face, and it almost feels like it's alright. You're doing wonderful on your own, all without ever needing to rely on him.
But he's grown too, he supposes. Years ago, the stubble on his face would have bothered him. A breeding ground for germs that have more "if's" than letting it be. The scar on his thigh from a blade in prison, and then bullet wounds all over. Bruises that he would have never got back when you were still with the team. In a way he's grown after being away from you too, and maybe it would be better if you both just grew on your own, but it doesn't. He doesn't want it to be.
"Tomorrow at Four in AERL 210." You grumble, but Spencer finds the ghost of a smile on your face.
"I love you." He hums, eyes full of affection.
The way you turn back to frown playfully tells him everything he needs to know.
And the tension is gone, he thinks.
In a way maybe you're resentful of him, but he's found that time's changed him beyond recognition. He doubts you had expected him to look the way that he did. There's a mess in his hair and a unclean look that you had always joked about him growing into one day, and maybe it's a testament to how well you knew him emotionally. The same way he knew how your brain moved and operated and not your heart.
but that was what made the two of you work so well. to know the part of someone that they themselves did not know as well. It was a testament of some kind.
to be vulnerable enough with someone that they know you better than you do yourself.
he wonders how you ever found it in yourself to forgive him of his crime, but perhaps time has healed you — and he has no intention of undoing all of that healing. he'll leave you alone after the thirty days if that is what you wish for. he's not one to force himself upon you after all the harm he's done, after all. he's shattered beyond repair, and you were not quite there to fix him up this time. he owes a lot of his life to you, he supposes.
it also amuses him that somehow you had written letters to his mother as well, telling her how you've been. he didn't know why he didn't search there, but when he had visited her after jail, she had told him about some professor writing her letters about her works and how wonderful her son was. it warmed his heart, after all. maybe he didn't know it was you, but it only made sense that it would be. after all, there is something only you would do that no one else would. he doesn't deserve you, in many cases. but ultimately you are the one who gets to decide.
He arrives twenty minutes before lecture with a cup of green tea for you, and you hand Spencer a clicker and a pack of pop rocks before telling him to file through the slides. He listens, and you tell him he'll be lecturing since you'd rather wring his brain dry when you can spare teaching. It's an excuse, he knows, because you'd never do anything to harm him, but you might joke about it. He finishes the slides in three, and he asks if there's anything else he should talk about (you tell him no— and when the class files in, you have a hand on his shoulder and a look on your face that can really only mean one thing.
"Class, meet my husband."
Emily Brontë once wrote “He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and we were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. He’s always, always in my mind; not as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
and spencer knows, somewhere an english teacher is rolling in their grave crying that it was never meant to be taken in the context of romance — catherine and heathridge were raised siblings, after all. but he supposes that finding a love where your soul's at rest needs not to be forcibly romantic for everyone.
It just so happens that his was.
More Posts from Icarus-hates-the-sun and Others
May I request a Levi x Reader angst fic? Just barely any fluff, mostly angst going on lol. The reader is a traitor, formaly working for Marley, but betraying them in secret and putting their loyalty on Paradis. The reader is also a shifter and married to Levi for a couple of years. That love and care however is gone once readers identity is found. He truly despises them, insults them, maybe a bit violent with them, and outright tells them that they mean nothing to him anymore and hate them to bits. Readers punishment is to hand over her titan to Erwin, and they agree instantly, broken over everything, believing its all their fault. Once Erwin inherits Readers titan, he breaks down and screams, crying, because Reader was innocent the whole time. They never betrayed Paradis. Never killed anyone, never harmed anyone. They finaly know why they betrayed Marley, the abuse being to much for them, enough to just leave them behind for Paradis. Just... loving and caring as they all saw them. But now the damage is done. They wont come back, they're dead, believing that they died, hated and despised, with no one to mourn their death. Everyone regrets everything.
author note :: i was thinking of leaving this in my drafts but i already wrote it and may as well post it. it didn’t end up going the way i hoped but yeah i hope it’s ok anon. anyways ANGST. ANGST, ANGST. as always i love feed back :-) ⟹ all of the headings with the years are just meant to mean it’s a different moment from that year so those moments don’t happen right after each other i hope that makes sense!! word count :: 7.2k warnings :: canon typical violence, death
845, i.
Everything is falling in place when it shouldn't.
Sun never makes itself known in Liberio yet here it is shining down onto the bustling streets. You half expect for it to crash down and burn into the hundreds of civilians going about their daily business yet nothing of the sort happens. It's typical sunlight and you curse yourself silently for your sinister thoughts.
Secretly the voice at the back of your mind still whispers frantically but you don't wish to hear what it has to say. Instead you choose to drown it out with the sound of Zeke's voice. Finally deciding to pay attention to what it is he's been droning on about for the past ten minutes.
"Soon, soon, soon." He sighs dreamily looking a little delirious.
"Soon?"
Your question catches him off guard, he lightly shoves you with his elbow scoffing in annoyance.
"Did you sit here to not even listen to me?" He turns to take a sip of whisky and the hearty gulp he chugs shows his mild irritation. You assume he's been rambling on about Marley's plan to infiltrate Paradis. You have to admit that the idea of destroying those demons from the inside is amazingly well thought out. However it's all he's been able to discuss for the entire week now and frankly you're getting a little exhausted of it.
"I zoned out..." Quietly placing your glass back down onto the wooden counter you sigh closing your eyes. It's too early to be drinking and you don't trust Zeke enough to slip into ignorance and leave yourself vulnerable. Men are to not be trusted, especially Eldian men. The thought of Eldians triggers your flight of fight response, you want to shrivel up into a cocoon and never come out until the world is rid of the monsters. The lowest of the low, the dirt in between the crevices of Marleyan soldier's boots. That is what Eldian's are.
It's ironic coming from you, your entire family labelled as undesirable Eldians yourself but you, you know you're different. An honorary Marleyan is what you will become. What you are. The treacherous imps who are but an ocean away are the true evil.
Eyes flicking to Zeke he's lighting a cigar. Old habits die hard and he's yet to quit this self destructive custom of his. You couldn't care less if he chooses to cut his lifespan short by ten years, it's his own choice to make. A disgusting cowardly choice but it's a choice fit for an untamed man like him.
The Island Devils are said to be the bad apples but you can't help but stare at your fellow citizens from time to time and wonder what it is they could be hiding. If a demon slipped through the cracks you wouldn't be surprised. Sly in nature, persuasive in tone, that is how devils go about their daily lives alone The hymns they drilled into you all the way through elementary school echo and rebound in your mind.
Locking your bitter thoughts away you have to push yourself to not punt Zeke in the mouth when he teasingly blows a puff of hot smoke into your face.
Fingertips grazing with his he freezes at the sudden contact giving you the perfect opportunity to slip his cigar away and take it in between your lips. You allow for it to linger there but you aren't foolish enough to inhale its contents.
"Zeke, my dear friend. We shall soon be met with the fruits of our own labour but I assure you that discussing Marley's plan constantly will be of no benefit for you nor I."
The day you and Zeke had met had been at warrior training camp. Zeke was a miserable, unmotivated oaf. Always tripping and falling behind the rest of the warrior cadets. You felt rather bad for him, if you were born as unskilled as him you don't know what you would have made of yourself. Zeke, the only child of his parents ironically only ever ended up rising through the ranks after handing them over to the Marleyan government. His father and mother had been conspiring an escape plan but were executed immediately alongside their fellow team members once Zeke had outted them. Unexpectedly he was spared, the fact he turned on his own parents showed where his loyalties were. To his surprise, he was even allowed to continue his training with the other warriors - only this time everyone kept an increased distance away from him. The warriors weren't informed of what he had actually done but everyone had a gut feeling. Everyone apart from you stuck with that feeling. You thought strategically, If he were to become an enemy in the future you knew being close would come at your advantage.
The day you and Zeke had met your mother died, his mother passed away the same day. At least that's what he had told you.
The two of you bonded over the little things, told each other stories about your life at home. Reminisced about what it was you missed.
Then it all came crashing down the day Zeke confessed. The day he told you he killed his mother and father by handing them over to Marley. Your knees buckled underneath you, crashing the floor he tried to grab at you but you thrashed around in retaliation kicking and screaming not understanding why he did what he did. Yes, they were traitors but they were his parents and if the monster had the nerve to turn on the people who gave birth to him who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you or to Marley.
Zeke doesn't know it but ever since then you take the opportunity to sneak the occasional glance at him. Every single time you narrow your eyes in malice. If there's a man in Liberio who you don't trust in the slightest it's him, he must think the feud between the two of you from childhood has been put at rest but it hasn't.
Zeke takes another swig of his alcohol. On this occasion he downs it entirely slamming the glass down with vigour.
"ONE MORE GLASS BARTENDER!"
846, i.
Another day of extensive training is about to end, your back is layered in uncomfortable layers of sweat and the same can be said for your forehead. Kneeling down in the under layer of the forest you're hidden waiting to strike. Going up against the elites is nerve-wracking but you're sure you can pull it off so long as you stay calm during this game of hunters against prey.
It's simple enough if you can conceal yourself and stay out of sight. The robust trees that surround you act as decent enough camouflage and your green cape paired with them lets you veil yourself, keeping you further into the foreground, blending into the environment.
No one will be able to catch you if they can't see you.
All of a sudden your previous thoughts are thrown away when you sense something in the atmosphere has changed, the hissing of the wind behind you isn't natural.
Turning to your side you don't bother to cover up the sound of leaves rustling and branches cracking, your priority is slipping away fast enough to hide again, a tug can be felt at your cloak and your reaction time barely covers for you, your gear fastens itself to a low enough tree branch and the descent is mind numbing. Your breakfast churns in your stomach but you ignore the uneasy feeling, leaping and diving wherever you find a small enough gap. You believe you can outrun your huntsman.
That is until you sneak a glance back and your muscles nearly tense up in pure astonishment, you've been kicked in the teeth just by the man's presence. Captain, Levi slinks behind you weaving through the gaps with increasing speed, he's gaining momentum and all the while his face stays relaxed, this isn't even his full effort.
Terrified you dart upwards and then left, a corner comes into view - Levi should assume you've turned into it and so you rashly choose to dart back down. Much to your hard luck you find that his senses are well adapted, the direction of the wind is enough for him to trace your whereabouts.
The pursuit resumes, and he stays disturbingly relentless.
Arm shooting to the right you think perhaps making it look like you're aiming to fly somewhere else again will completely catch him off guard, he can't expect for you to pull the same trick twice.
Setting your plan into motion your finger pulls at the trigger but you startle when the cable doesn't come out, it's jammed. Panic seeps into you and to make matters worse your gas is running out.
Without warning you're thrust into the body of a nearby tree, the bark scrapes against you and scratches begin to form anywhere you've made contact with the jagged surface, you want to admit defeat but the warrior inside of you denies Levi the pleasure of seeing you beg. In its place you deliver a harsh kick to his thigh, you're aware he's injured it and you're certain there are no rules to say you can't play dirty. Your boots hammer against leg hard enough for him to give out and let go of your body, but then you realize you lost this game from the very moment your grapple hooks broke, you have nowhere to hold onto.
Before you can even let out a shriek of horror Levi's shot back to you, he frantically accelerates and by a miracle humanity's strongest is able to grab a hold of you again. This time you don't dig your heels into his leg and you allow for him to clutch you by the torso.
Within a minute the two of you descend towards the forest floor and Levi throws you into the dirt furiously.
"You could have died. Being foolhardy will only lead to an early death." He barks as he directs his blade towards your neck.
"Am I dead yet?" Whispering back your gaze isn't trained on the blade but right up at him.
His nostrils flare up, his hair sticks to his forehead haphazardly and the knuckles that hold his pointed blades are white in tangled dissatisfaction.
Grabbing you by the hips he flings you over his shoulder choosing to not continue with the confrontation.
"I know what you're up to." His voice is still rugged from the pursuit and it takes you a split second to register what he's said.
Your eyes widen and your breath hitches in your throat, no way, there's no way in hell he knows. He's sharp but he's not a mind reader.
Your position means he can't read your face seeing as you're facing his back, instantly steeling your features you let out a breathy laugh.
"And what may that be?" Silently you pray he's worded himself ambiguously to catch a slip up.
"Being gutsy, you think that makes you a good soldier. It doesn't."
Relief floods you. He doesn't know.
"Soldiers need to be brave." Your retort makes him grumble.
"If you die with no meaning by being reckless what's the purpose of being a soldier?" His question has you stopping and thinking on what the correct answer is.
Unable to think of an answer you ask another question.
"Are you saying your previous comrades died without meaning?"
"No. Their deaths fueled me slay more titans."
"So if I died back there who wou-" He swiftly cuts you off showing no inclination of wanting to hear what it is you have to say.
"I'll cut your tongue off if it's stupid." He clearly isn't serious about the threat but he does mean it when he warns you to not overstep.
Despite the consequences you say what's on your mind. "I just wanted to ask who would give my life meaning if I ever died. I don't have siblings and my parents died long ago."
Silence follows and the crunch of his boots against the muddy leaves tells you he probably doesn't wish to answer your question.
"Sorry-"
"I would. I would give meaning to your life." He says it with such ease you almost want to admire the enemy but you know he's said it because he feels he has to.
"You barely know me but I hope one day you can stop thinking everyone has to rely on you." You say it with taunting understanding.
Another bout of silence follows. Only this time the two of you feel warmly comforted, he doesn't understand how you've seen through his facade but it's easy for you to spot another liar.
846, ii.
Brows drawn back you observe your surroundings attempting to mask your scrutiny. The place is running amok with uncontrollable Eldian folk. The stench of unadulterated sin makes itself known but you seem to be the only person able to smell it. Eren bumps against the table you're sat at and your face twitches a little but you say nothing. You're yet to get used to these people's lack of manners.
At least that's how you force yourself to think. To be truthful, you don't quite understand what it is these people have done wrong. Ever since you've arrived you've been nitpicking at every single minor inconvenience or possible issue. A girl stole a potato and broke it into uneven pieces to share and you attempted to twist the story in your head to make her look like an unfair, greedy voracious demon but... you found yourself finding very little to actually be angry at. These people are essentially normal in every way of the word, they aren't demons and you can't help but feel yourself slip away from everything you once knew as reality. You're finding it difficult to believe what years of Marleyan education taught you, the hymns that were once drilled into your brain permanently are but a vague memory.
You feel disgustingly under-dressed and out of place, you don't belong here not when you're meant to hate these people, not when you're meant to despise them. You should be fighting the urge to shove their heads onto pitchforks or to skin them alive and feed them to pigs. Everyone back in Marley told you to control your impulses but now you're here and you've settled down even having the opportunity to converse with these individuals, share their pain, share their loss, share their suffering, you wonder why you have no impulses to control. Have they brainwashed you? Or is it that you're the real demon in this situation?
Fingers mingling with each other on your lap you sit hopelessly alone. Interacting with the so called enemy is much harder than you expect. Worry consistently bubbles in the pit of your stomach and every night is spent tossing and turning evaluating then reevaluating who the bad guy really is. At first the task of daily interaction isn't a big deal, you find it easy enough to approach members of the team and fake interest in their lives until the original plan falls through. You do become invested in your team members lives and stories that it comes to the point where you don't have to force yourself to smile at their jokes or to sympathize with their tales of grief. You become one of them and you swear you're meant to feel like a traitor but eerily you feel like you belong.
Nevertheless you try your best to stick with what you know. You're nothing like Zeke, you're loyal, capable, faithful and trustworthy. Never will you turn your back on Marley.
Rising to excuse yourself from dinner you think you've just about made it and escaped finally able to hide away in the confines of your bedroom but your lips form into a straight uncomfortable line at the feeling of someone's hand latching at your wrist. You're halfway down the hallway just a few more steps away from your bedroom. You hope it's one of the rookies.
"Oi, come here."
Head shooting backwards your eyes land on Levi, his dark curtains fall in front of his eyes - you note that he hasn't trimmed them as he usually does. Despite his size his grip is firm and your wrist squirms around a little trying to manoeuvre out of his bruising grasp. He seems to notice he's underestimated his strength once again and loosens his hold on you. Narrowed eyes analyse your anxious form, they're grey and in this lighting almost glow appearing silver. For a brief second your mouth is left ajar by the delicate but rough manner of his face.
"Everything Okay?" He doesn't typically seem to care very much about anyone, the question activates your senses and you're on full alert but the eye contact you make with him seconds later slows down the gears in your mind, they only whir and hum in anticipation completely coming to a halt.
"Yes, yes everything is okay." You're playing around with the hem of your shirt and you silently question when you were ever this nervous around anyone. You're a Marleyan soldier for heaven's sake not an unrestrained, unsupervised child left to play in a park.
Despite your clear inability to cushion and shield yourself from your Levi's stabbing gaze you attempt to appear as nonchalant as possible.
"I'll be going I just feel a little —" At first you had thought to fake you were ill but at the feeling of a sudden strike of pain you hold onto your stomach, the ache burns into your abdomen and without permission it travels higher up towards your ribs. "A little unwell." You manage to wheeze out. Hand placed onto a nearby cement wall your thought process is hasty speeding up by the second. Have they figured you out and had you poisoned? No, you barely ate anything today.
You hunch over feeling the bile crawl up your throat, on reflex you clamp your eyes shut not wishing to anger a superior by acting insolent and disposing of your dinner in the hallway. Shaky palms reach hesitantly for your lips and you force yourself to keep it in. Levi would commit a murder if you heaved and gagged letting it all out in front of him.
You motion towards the door trying to emphasize that you can handle yourself in the privacy of your room. Tears bite at the sides of your eyes and your vision is so blurred you can only make out the faint outline of the man who was just in front of you.
"Relax. I'll clean it." Your hair is brushed away from your face securely held back and you can't hold it in any longer, the acrid storm surges through your throat, you retch at the harsh sting it leaves behind. Breathing heavy, perturbed and anxious you gasp in all the air you can get.
"I knew you looked ill." His hands hold your jaw gently, the pads of his fingers are calloused but his touch remains soft. A tissue dabs at your mouth wiping away the excess untouched sick.
Just like the sick which surged through you less than a minute ago you feel something else entirely tear into you. You can't put a finger on it but it's dangerous for you to not feel contempt.
847, i.
Your heart accepts what your mind has been ignoring for months on end when Levi looks you square in the eyes after a heart wrenching expedition. The vacant look on his face is enough for the guilt to consume you whole but he doesn't know that. He doesn't know of your sins.
The wagon of corpses reeks of death and desperation. It's rotten and the smell is sickening. Forcibly you stop yourself from feeling any more grief. The despair isn't yours to go through.
Your first ever personal loss outside of the walls and you've learnt Paradis is not home to demons. Cheeks burning in mortification you can't formulate any thoughts on your own accord, instead they continuously emerge in bursts and finally a single thought sticks out from the rest - Are you aiding in the destruction of innocent human life?
The both of you are sat on guard duty with the corpses, half of the team has been wiped out in one sweep. Your trembling hands don't seem to want to steady any time soon and you sit there with your guilty conscience strangling you slowly, your airflow is getting shallower. Shorter, quicker breaths leave you. The imaginary gash in your chest is bottomless, and your lungs push and pull in a power struggle.
Levi's coarse hands abruptly hold onto yours and the floodgates open again, he doesn't know what you've done to him, done to his soldiers, done to his people. If he knew who you really were, would things be different?
"This was out of your control."
Do you tell him?
The question sits in your mind for a while until you shake your head. He takes it the wrong way and think you're responding to him.
"This was not your fault." For the first time in months you've heard his voice crack under pressure.
"Pe- Petra she- I could have taken one for the team and died instead of her." All that remains of your dear friend is her blood soaked cloak. Her body was one of the few that had to be hauled away earlier to decrease the carriage's load.
The fabric still smells of Petra, smells of honey and chamomile and the simple soap offered at the base, but it still smells of her.
Firm hands grab your shoulders and Levi's fingers dig sorely into your flesh.
"Don't."
"But I- I didn't contribute as much as her and she has family who are alive." Hiccuping you try to bare with the fact that you'll wake up tomorrow and not see her preparing breakfast for everyone else. You know you could have propelled her out of the way just in time if you hadn't been so taken aback by the entire situation.
"You were her comrade. She made the choice to die for you."
You want to reach out, sob into his chest and yell that you regret it all, scream and tell him about the secret you've been hiding. A sorry excuse of a comrade you are to let her die on the battlefield not knowing your true identity. The tears roll down your cheeks and Levi feels his heart constrict and squeeze as he comprehends the lack of regard you have for your life. "It should have been me." Is repeated over and over again, your eyes are raw and bloodshot, the vicious wind sinks its teeth into you.
"Then die."
"If you're willing for her life to have no meaning. Die." The words he spits out are as cutting as the bitter wind. He feels cheated and you're finally able to come to your senses.
He's faired much worse but you doubt he's ever acted out the way you have in front of another person. In this never-ending void of darkness locking away the dull ache caused by deafening loss is the best choice for everyone.
Much like the night you had been sick he takes a grip of your jaw and directs your face towards his, this time he's not as gentle as before but you conclude that it's because he's drained, completely exhausted from the battle. The eyes are the windows to the soul but Levi's window panes are shattered, completely crushed by the weight of the constant burden he has to carry.
"I'm sorry." You croak out the apology. He grits his teeth because he doesn't want you to apologize but he doesn't voice out his opinion. As a substitute he presses his arms against you, the terribly raw panic is murdering you. Levi's gruff voice is a mixture of faux irritation but mutual understanding.
"Cry." He allows for your head to loll against his shoulder.
As the dark envelopes both you and him the scent of the dead only becomes more and more pungent, recalling fond memories of Petra and the others you know your heart settles on a decision before your mind does. You're a two timing back stabbing traitor for this. What you hated Zeke for you have become yourself.
Disloyal, unfaithful and fickle.
That day you place your loyalties with Paradis.
847, ii.
Levi's wiping down one of the kitchen tables, you're kneeled on the floor scrubbing vigorously. The others have already given up, panting they've left using the excuse of fetching water from a nearby well. Your back aches but you find cleaning reassuring and somewhat of a decent distraction.
"Why do you like to clean?" You're used to Levi asking you abrupt questions by now, after all the two of you have been acquainted for well over a year now. Through that year he's learnt about you and you about him. When in the midst of what looks to be humanity's final year's, twelve simple months is enough to form a bond worth a decade.
"I'm not good at a lot but I am good at cleaning."
"You know that's not true idiot." The tone of his voice indicates that your answer doesn't please him.
"But I do think I'm good at cleaning? Maybe not as good as you but I am half decent."
"Not that. You're good at much more than half the people I've ever met." He sneers, his footsteps edge towards you. "Purely being a good person is a talent these days."
You suppress a flinch because you aren't a good person at all. Neither are you that middle ground between good and bad. Rough around the edges and uneven, you're shards of glass ready to slash and hack away at him if Marley somehow lures you back.
The confession, if you could even call it that catches you by surprise and anger fills you. You almost want for him to not trust you and call out your bluff. It's a little unnatural how badly you want for him to realize the truth.
Your head turns up to stare at the man who's a few steps away from you. "Or am I just good at acting genuine?"
You don't even mean to snap at him and you don't even realize you have until you see his eyes widen and mouth part in imperceptible surprise. Biting your tongue your attention is diverted back to the wooden floor. Driving your washcloth into the crevices and dips of the floorboards you ignore Levi's leather shoes which now stand right in front of you.
"Are you questioning my judgement of character?"
Be born in Marley, That's what you had done, trained to destroy people you thought to be devilish entities, foolishly chose to grow attached to the so called enemy. Your mind lingers onto a specific thought and you're deathly afraid to be thinking it in the first place but there's no more avoiding it.
Falling deeply in love with Levi is your worst mistake to date.
"What I did. It was out of my control." you reply, voice hard.
"Not disclosing what it was?" He asks.
Your silence is his answer. Kneeling down to where you are he disarms you, the washcloth is taken out of your hands and he places it onto a table.
"You are a good person." His voice is brusque and he states it like it's a fact, something you should know. Hot tears threaten to spill over, he's stupidly naive for not rethinking that opinion of his. Lips thinned and eyes watering you don't know how to feel.
"Levi. I'm sure you'd like to think that but I am not."
"You love the members of the corps unconditionally I can see it in the way you look at them."
"Sometimes you look a little sad when you stare." The last sentence he adds in has your pulse racing. He's right, you often feel miserable thinking about how everyone would react knowing who you really are.
"I'm not interested in bad people." He sounds distant saying such warm words and it takes a moment for them to actually sink in. You don't quite believe you've heard him correctly. The dread sinks to the bottom of your stomach and the feelings you've buried at the back of your mind hit you like a tsunami. The thought of him feeling the same way for you, is agonizing.
"Stop being ridiculous." The uncertainty is killing the both of you.
"Loving you is not ridiculous, if you don't feel the same way you can say that and I'll step away. We'll be back to normal."
"No, no, no. You don't get it. You're just saying that." Your voice quivers and the intensity of this new revelation is too large for you to cope with.
"Why would, you," He begins, voice just above a whisper, "ever think that way?"
"Why would you even look twice at me?" You reply.
"Because I worry for you."
"You worry for everyone."
"I worry for you the most."
Instead of letting you respond to him this time he carries on speaking.
"We both know we feel the same."
You already knew you were in love with Levi, you didn’t need for him to tell you. You knew you were in love when you tried to memorize his facial features, you knew you were in love when his laughter was the cause of your laughter, you knew you were in love when you threw yourself in front of that abnormal for him.
That's when you begin to understand what all his signals meant. You now knew why he'd let you stare so intently, you now knew why he laughed particularly hard when it was you who had made a joke, you now knew why he scolded you and nearly broke down at the sight of your injured arm after that specific expedition.
You know it. He knows it. You both know what this will lead to.
But you still lunge onto his lap, you still press your wobbly lips against his. You still choose to surrender yourself to him and he still reacts by taking a hold of your shaky hands which lay on his chest. He envelopes them in his warm grasp. Slowly but gradually the ice thaws and dissolves. Heartbreak, anguish and suffering when one of you loses the other will be the end of your romance, you're sure of it. Hell, the both of you are in the middle of a war but your heart flames up thinking of all of the possibilities.
Perhaps it'll play out the one way you wish for it not to.
Could your ending be in betrayal?
848, i.
"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded hus-"
"Cut the crap and kiss me." Levi's crude interruption isn't appreciated by Erwin but everyone knows Levi doesn't care all that much for formalities and hates being in the spotlight for too long.
Gripping him by the collar of his suit your lips are a centimetre away, he stops you tightening the hold he has on your waist. His lips gently press against your collarbone and his breath meanders towards the shell of your ear.
"Swear you won't die on me."
Gulping you look away apprehensively. You know you can't promise that.
“Oi, I’m expecting an answer.” His voice flickers slightly.
Forefinger holding your chin up you see your soon to be husband close to tears, he valiantly blinks them away. Levi has never been one to make his pain public and your heart twists in your chest as you realize just how much of a hold his feelings for you have over him.
"I can't promise that, you know it'll only hurt more." The strange bitter taste in your mouth won't let you comply with his request and by measuring his reaction you see his eyes cloud in an unidentifiable emotion, you're sure it's nothing positive.
"We may not have a happy ending Levi but we'll always have a happy middle."
Levi scoffs in derision, he has to think your attempt at being meaningful is ridiculous.
You lean into him and it's all so heart-wrenchingly familiar yet foreign. His body sags comprehending that not everything will go the way he wants it to. One of you is guaranteed to leave first.
Hands finding purchase in the cloth of his white dress shirt Levi doesn't cringe at you creasing the fabric as he usually does. He allows for you to call the shots this time, your lips brush faintly against his before you nosedive into him. No resistance is felt and he replies almost immediately. Everyone applauds as his fingertips press into the back of your skull and you find that this is all incredibly hideous. The innate disloyalty you feel, you throwing your entire life away for this man but you find yourself not caring. To hell with that miserable life crammed with sin.
Levi smiles against your mouth, you assume you're meant to magically smile back but you can't make yourself. It's uncomfortable relishing in the undeserved happiness knowing it won't last forever.
The world you live in isn't ideal nor is it forgiving.
Momentary joy is all an antagonist can hope for.
849, i.
Jean can’t take his eyes off the newly weds.
You’re cooing into your Levi’s ear gently, his cheeks flush scarlet at the feeling of your hot breath against his skin and he scolds you for having the gall to rile him up in public.
Jean sniggers finding some sort of odd delight from the interaction - he’s never seen the Captain this content and at ease.
849, ii.
You don't know why you've dragged yourself out of bed just to stare at your husband's face but you have, despite the toll life has had on him he seems sound for once. His breathing peaceful yours is anything but that. When it's dark the weight becomes heavier, your skin tingles and your throat burns aching for release.
Eyes blurring your hands shake reaching out for him but you can't find the courage to make contact. Nothing will ever warrant plaguing him even more with your existence.
The memories become increasingly bitter.
"If we make it out of this alive we'll have children and they'll look just like you."
"I want them to look like you." had been your reply.
Levi winced not seeming to like the idea.
"No, I want them to look like you. You're beautiful."
How wrong he was for thinking that.
You, beautiful? He'd stab himself ten times over if he knew just who exactly he had said those words to.
850, i.
Zeke had betrayed you after finding out who you were to Levi but you half expected that he would tell him the truth at some point regardless of that fact.
Tear stains travel through the mud and grime on your face, Levi's eyes are indifferent as he twists his wedding ring off his finger flinging it into the surrounding rubble.
Without your permission he yanks your arm forwards intending to take your matching ring away but you hold on digging your heels into the dirt beneath you.
"You disgusting bitch. Give me it."
You scream, high and awful, he continues jerking at your arm the muscle throbs crying out for him to stop but he doesn't and no one steps in to put a halt to any of it. Levi having had enough grabs at your neck ruthlessly. In any other circumstance he'd be labelled callous or cruel but everyone on the battle field shares a similar empathy for their Captain. Neither they or Levi had expected your disloyalty.
"I said give me the ring if you know what's good for you." His fingers slide around your neck, his seemingly low words cling onto the little respect he has left for you.
"No." Your defiance has his eyes hardening in and posture tensing. "I'm not handing it over."
Levi says nothing, he only holds onto your throat tighter, if he really keeps at it your windpipe will be crushed in no time. You know he's holding out on purpose, he's still giving you a chance. He expects for you to stand your ground, say you never deceived Paradis, say something, anything to make him let go of you.
"Marrying you... It just happened somehow. I know it was selfish of me." He squeezes harder. "I know it was. I'm sorry Levi." Gasping and breathless you clench and unclench your fists finding it too difficult to explain.
Your mouth opens, you want to tell him you haven't seduced him like he thinks you have, tell him you dropped that plan of yours long ago but then you falter at the last second. It's typically hard to tell when Erwin's infuriated but it's painfully obvious when you make eye contact with him over Levi's trembling shoulders. It's enough to tell you to give up. Enough to tell you that you're beyond redemption, you've ran and hid long enough.
"Hand over your titan." Levi says nothing to Erwin's proposition, the hold he has on your neck loosens but his silence is sickening. It means he agrees.
This is fate's idea of a cruel joke.
But you agree, on the basis of one condition.
"Fine but-"
Levi cuts in, all regard for you devoid from his system.
"You're in no place to be making demands." He snarls, his patience quickly running thin.
However Erwin urges you to continue speaking taking you aback.
"If it's not too much maybe we can accommodate your final wish." Erwin had always been thoughtful in nature and you thank him for even bothering to show you a sliver of benevolence.
Everyone's looking, all eyes are on you. Some are blinking away tears, others are disgusted unable to stare at you for more than a few seconds at a time. Levi falls into the latter.
Brazen with not an ounce of shame you mention the ring again. "Let me keep it." Your left hand covers your right and underneath the flesh is the last symbol left of your union with Levi.
Whispers and murmurs orbit you, none of them are kind and Levi loses it.
His reflexes are paralyzing, he's back at it clawing your neck mercilessly but you don't scream or shriek as you did previously. You take it, you let him unload his frustration.
"Levi. Let it go for the sake of humanity." Erwin says pointedly. Irritation pricks him, he wants this over and done with and your rebelliousness doesn't look as if it'll be tamed any time soon unless you're given what you want.
Levi's face is crimson, the fresh blood from the expedition still steaming. "Y/N, I'll saw your arm off if I have to." But, you know he's already given into Erwin's orders when he throws you to the ground letting you crash and wheeze for breath.
850, ii.
Levi's been appointed to guard you for your final night alive. The room feels wistful as you think back wondering if the life you lived was respectable.
"Why did you stare at me when I slept? Did you think of killing me?" Half commanding and half pleading his voice cracks. He coughs attempting to cover it up.
You jolt not expecting the interaction at all and you're not the slightest bit surprised that he had seen you all those nights staring so deeply. He'd always been a light sleeper. You turn your head up hoping he's looking at you.
He isn't.
"I wanted our children to look like you. I think you're beautiful."
It's now his turn to recoil, only he does so in repulsion remembering the familiarity of those words. They had left his own lips not too long ago.
"I'd never have children with the likes of you." He sounds tense then.
You understand. No one would want to have children with someone as hated and as despicable as you.
"I know." You whisper faintly.
850, iii.
When Erwin's eyes glaze over unable to focus on anything in particular Levi assumes it's him growing used to the titan powers. What he doesn't expect is for his Commander to bang his head against the floor unrelenting screaming your name.
Pairs of hands move to stop him but he thrusts them aside wailing. Levi stresses trying to figure out what it is you could have done in the wake of your death.
But Erwin Smith. Courageous, brave Erwin Smith, who never cracked at loss of life for the sake of humanity, who always eloquently spoke to everyone around him at all times, finds himself slumping down to his knees and weeping for you.
The warm blood from his self inflicted assault still trickles down his nose, a tremor shakes through his entire body when he thinks of breaking the news to Levi.
The edge in Erwin’s voice grows dangerous.
"We made the wrong choice."
Erwin can't word it any better than that.
But Levi understands right away, he wishes he didn’t, he wishes he was ignorant enough not to.
Hange sticks an arm out aiming for his shoulder but he stumbles away nearly falling back into the floor not wanting to be touched by anyone.
He finds that he is not human enough to cry. It’s that or he’s not human at all without your presence.
854, i.
Levi has grown old without you, lived to see months and new seasons without you by his side. Over time his eyelids have become heavier, the corners of his mouth naturally droop and he remains perpetually somber.
Sometimes you visit him in his dreams, each time you make a silly comment about how his grey eye bags make him look like he’s been punched in the face. “Levi Ackerman, I swear if you don’t sleep soon!” You cushion the blow by whispering sweet nothings, reassuring him that you still think he’s beautiful.
Occasionally you add in that you don’t blame him for the past, but those conversations only last for a few seconds at a time.
“I don’t blame you.” It always starts off with the exact same phrase.
“I should have listened to you.” Levi’s tone is stern and uncompromising .
“Lev, I was never going to tell you to spare my life. You tried to listen to me, I could tell you wanted me to deny it.”
Levi refuses to answer you, he still thinks he’s at fault.
Not a day goes by where he doesn’t think of that ring. He regrets throwing it away recklessly into the rubble.
Some day he’ll return to Shiganshina to find it. The idea sounds laughable but he has to find a reason to smile as he fights for his life.
That is what Levi thinks as two set’s of jaws snap shut onto his legs, a flurry of red surrounds him. His throat constricts at the feeling of his thighs being ripped away from the rest of him.
“I tried.” He whimpers to no one in particular, eyes blank and losing meaning.
“I know Levi, I know.” The same voice from his dreams soothes him.
“Do not despair. Find me again in another world.” The biting wind adds in.
Levi’s eyelids flutter shut unable to do much else.
He’s unsure if he has the courage to face you again in another lifetime.
dealing with the worst case scenario
your condom breaks
you feel a lump on your breast
your friends are ignoring you
you’re stranded on an island
you got rejected by a crush
you get into a car accident
you got stung by a bee/wasp
you got fired from your job
you’re in an earthquake
your tattoo gets infected
your house is on fire
you’re lost in the woods
you get arrested abroad
you get robbed
your partner cheated on you
you’re on a ship that’s sinking
you fall into ice
you’re stuck in an elevator
you hit a deer with your car
you have food poisoning
your pet passed away
you fall off of a horse
you or your friend has alcohol poisoning
you have toxic shock syndrome
your house has a gas leak
my songs that would protect me from vecna would be cherry wine by hozier because that shit pulls my heart strings over and over again- crying listening to it rn
✶ THE EX EFFECT
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.
i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏
“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.
Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.
Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.
So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone.
And now he’s bored.
Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down.
No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.
Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.
Except there’s already someone there.
He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.
“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face.
“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”
The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.
“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”
“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”
Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”
“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”
“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”
That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes.
He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”
You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”
He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.
“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex.
You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.
A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.
The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.
Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit.
Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”
“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”
“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.
“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”
With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles.
“Who cares?”
“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”
You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge.
He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.
You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.
“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”
Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.”
“Shut up and dance.”
And so he does.
Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus.
You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.
The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.
Two kids dancing badly and not caring.
“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.
“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in.
For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.
Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.
This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost.
It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.
“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”
Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.
“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar.
“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?”
“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”
“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”
Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.
But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird.
“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”
He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”
Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”
Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.
He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.
On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”
There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.
When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.
Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.
“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”
“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”
“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”
He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”
“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”
Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.
You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”
“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”
“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”
You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.
Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind.
It happens gradually, like most real things do.
You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.
You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.
It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.
Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you.
Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.
He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.
And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.
It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.
Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.
You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.
But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.
Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.
Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.
It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.
Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.
He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else.
He hadn’t apologized.
Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.
You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed.
Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly.
You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.
“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”
He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain.
He likes that.
The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”
“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.
In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on.
Trying to prove something.
The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.
She paddles against it. Wrong move.
Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami.
He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister—
He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.
Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.
“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.
Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current.
You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres.
It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.
You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go.
Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.
It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother.
Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling.
And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water.
“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon.
Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides.
Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”
And that’s how they make up.
Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.
“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.
You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”
He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under.
But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him.
You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you.
The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her.
“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.”
It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow.
“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop.
“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—”
A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not.
And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing.
In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be.
A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it.
“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.”
It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.
“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take.
“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.”
You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.”
“You are?”
“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar.
The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth.
He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.
The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm.
Better. You make him better.
“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.”
There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment.
“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice.
Friends.
Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.
The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.
More specifically: To you.
It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.
You with your boyfriend.
A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.
He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe.
Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races.
You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness.
The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.
You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.
“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.
“Have not.”
“You look taller.”
“I’ve always been taller.”
You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”
Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”
The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand.
You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t—
“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.
Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t I like big weddings?”
“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?”
“Because I love him.”
He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar.
“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”
You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri.
He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face.
“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”
And there it is.
You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make.
But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece.
For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good.
“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in.
It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones.
He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses.
“O…”
You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone.
“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”
You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.
“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away.
He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.
You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku.
He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.
He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life.
That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.
Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”
You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”
He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”
“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.
“Oi!” you protest.
He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.
“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.
Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them.
“That was expensive,” you whine.
“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds.
You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger.
You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.
Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon.
The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him.
A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be.
“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”
You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?”
Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.
“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”
“You don’t have to be, O.”
He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"
You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.
You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.
The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs.
“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble.
The makings of a person who deserves—
Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.”
“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years.
“Please, no—”
“We gotta have it out—”
“No, no—”
Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come.
You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”
“It’s not—”
“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.”
He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears.
You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday.
“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”
You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall.
“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.”
A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time.
“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—”
“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”
He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his.
“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.”
Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”
His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.”
You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.
“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.”
“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—”
“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”
And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar.
Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race.
Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.”
“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”
The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.
“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”
You laugh bitterly. "I'd rather die."
He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.”
You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him to close.
“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”
“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.
He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—”
“I love you, Oscar.”
“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!" He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible."
He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask.
He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”
You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast.
You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but…
“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”
Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.
“No.”
You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”
Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you.
You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.
“And I’ll watch,” you add.
Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch.
The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you.
The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on.
Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park.
You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.
He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.
He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well.
Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.
He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team.
His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here.
And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.
A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.
You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day.
It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind.
“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative.
Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic.
“Do you love her?” she asks outright.
He fucking hesitates.
His throat feels dry.
“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape.
“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.
Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits.
Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him.
“You’re right,” he says quietly.
“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”
Oscar knows his sister is right.
Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.
“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae.
Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.
You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes.
Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.
As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye.
He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.
And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid
I hope this email finds you well.
Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead.
You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya.
And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.
This is stupid. Bye.
— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one
Hey,
Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this.
Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.
I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.
—O. (Doha International Airport)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year
Happy New Year.
I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible.
It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view.
You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.
Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo)
Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you.
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: You're in my dreams
I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.
You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.
I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.
—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: Hahaha
I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
It wasn’t you.
You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.
Still thinking of you.
—O. (Silverstone Circuit)
***
To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: If I had said yes…
Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.
I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.
And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just
wonder.
Sometimes.
Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)
The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.
Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.
His breath catches.
He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.
They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.
He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts.
He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.
Oscar wants to fucking hurl.
He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.
You. With those emails.
He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.
“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself.
There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.
And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest.
He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on.
For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of.
But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed.
You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology.
Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—
A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.
He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret.
His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away.
He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.
Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.
You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again.
Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes.
“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble.
Accusation. Question.
Fact?
Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far.
When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar.
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”
He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation.
You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why.
His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere.
“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.”
“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it.
He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”
“Oscar.”
“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”
The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote.
You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat.
He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—”
You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know.
No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something.
“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”
“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”
“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”
You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.”
“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—”
Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his.
It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.
When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that.
In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.
His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him.
In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.
When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.”
He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐
hi im atrociously sobbing and i cannot stop
The Burden of Being
Summary: There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.
Pairings: miya osamu x reader (romantic); miya atsumu x reader (familial); akaashi keiji x reader (platonic)
Content: angst; fluff; inaccurate portrayal of how amnesia works; there is a hospital scene; fem reader; reader eats meat; reader has depressive symptoms that are, for the most part, amateurly addressed; reader attends therapy; alcohol as a coping method; undiagnosed alcoholism; unhealthy coping mechanisms; cigarette smoker Akaashi; cigarette smoker Osamu; amnesiac Osamu; pro volleyball player Osamu; the characters are all in their mid to late twenties bc this fic covers the time span of 2+ years; long passages written within parentheses are memories; there is a mentionable size difference between Osamu and reader where reader can wear his clothes and it be too big for them
Word count: 22k+
A/n: the premise for this fic was born after binging The Bear; she's gone through 4 drafts, 2 of which were completely scrapped and rewritten, and strayed much further from the initial plot than I imagined, but she's here! Thank you The 1975 for writing About You which I binged just as hard and would rec listening to it while you read! Sets the vibe, you know? Anyways, I've talked too much (obviously) but if you read, know that I love you!
The day was Tuesday, the most unforgettably forgettable Tuesday to exist.
Your downstairs neighbor was doing laundry. Or upstairs. Someone was doing laundry that day because you remember the scent of down. It lifted into your bedroom, pressed into your sheets, and made it harder for you to wake up despite your phone’s incessant vibration.
A shounen ending song, the season finale. A matcha roll. A nurse who spoke with her fingers and head tilts. A walker with tennis balls at the bottom, an annoyed cab driver, and a tourist who smelled too strong of American deodorant.
They were all there. You remember.
The hospital was the same as ever. It had ample seating, not too busy, which you recall eased the burden on your heart (only slightly) if it weren’t for the reason you were in the hospital to begin with.
An elderly woman sat at the end in one of the chairs pushed against the wall, sucking on a candy that smelled like guava when you passed. Her walker was parked right next to the seat and someone, probably her daughter because she was younger but they looked alike –they shared the same nose– sat beside her on her phone.
There was a man in an obscenely large overcoat sitting in one of the middle aisle seats. You remember because you couldn’t help but be quietly jealous of his wear considering how cold it was in the lobby. And finally, a teenager who was crying on her phone, holding her stomach as she did. Her tears gave you courage, allowed you to slip them quietly down your cheeks and soaked them up with your sleeves when you got your moment alone, away from the rest of the family.
You weren’t there when Osamu got hurt. He was by himself in the restaurant, opening it up and getting it ready before everyone else arrived just like how he always insisted.
You weren’t there. But you do remember.
Ma held you in her arms the moment you turned the hallways. She was on her way to the cafeteria, grabbing something for Atsumu to eat. Her head was downturned, a doleful cadence in her steps, and it was obvious that she’d spent ample time shedding tears, but there was a quiet peacefulness to her. Acceptance.
Her phone call had been quick like a debrief. She mentioned an accident. A fire, a gas leak, and despite your gasp, quickly told you not to worry because the doctors said Osamu would be fine. She said to come when you could, because she was there and Atsumu was on his way and he was going to be okay.
Then when you arrived, she immediately started crying. She had pulled you into a hug, devoured your body into hers as she pressed her head into your chest to weep.
She cried before she even got to say hello. And you didn’t know then, but there was a hierarchy for the pain.
Atsumu bore Osamu’s, Mama Miya, her sons’. And with you on the outside, with you being the last arrival, you held all of theirs.
And gods, do you remember the pain.
Ma had warned you that Atsumu was attached to his brother’s bedside. He was hunched over in a chair pushed back so he could burrow his head into the crooks of his elbows. The steady rise of his back meant he was asleep, probably cried himself to it. It had been a long journey from Osaka to Hyogo, and just the news of his brother’s incident, the weeping he must have done in public and bedside, you didn’t even question his exhaustion.
With your eyes on Osamu’s still figure, you moved to rub your hand soothingly along the length of Atsumu’s back. Comfort him was your thought process. Comfort your brother because Osamu would have wanted you to.
Was it bad to say that, inside, burrowed deep in your selfishness, you felt relief? There was a certain calmness that Osamu had been lacking lately, like a Tuesday morning where he finally, begrudgingly, gave himself an extra day off.
It wasn’t until you felt liquid dip down your neck that you realized you were crying.
Dark hair sweetly tussled to the side, one hand held in Atsumu’s and the other loosely laid over his chest. The scene was a rewind to the past, a replica of a childhood stored in the photo albums you’ve perused more than once in the Miya family home, when sharing beds and staying up until dawn led them to sleeping in until noon. When was the last time you’d seen him so… calm?
If only there weren’t any bandages on his head. If only it didn’t take these kinds of circumstances to finally close his eyes, to allow himself an unlabored breath.
You pulled up a chair and situated yourself amongst them. Atsumu at Osamu’s right, and you at Atsumu’s. Rolling a hand over Osamu’s thigh, you tucked the blankets in, pressed it into the crevices, his soft body heavy under your ministrations. Neither of them noticed you. Osamu only shuffled slightly, tilted his knee to the side and then clenched Atsumu harder. Atsumu responded immediately and scooted in. You stayed beside them, observed from the side.
There was no bitterness to your actions. What they have is something different and sincerely, for them to even love you so much that their bond bent, that they made themselves flexible to fit you in, it had always been enough.
Atsumu was who you called when you couldn’t talk sense into Osamu. And Osamu was who you turned to when Atsumu’s pride refused to allow him to fully run to his brother.
Ma came later. She brought a matcha swiss roll for the both of you to share and Atsumu a complete bento. It roused both of her boys up. Atsumu woke up first.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, the one still joined with Osamu’s and though he woke with his nose in the air, his freehand started reaching for you the moment he recognized you were there.
Your tears brought on his. His yours. Yours Ma’s. You held each other close and you whispered, because Atsumu could not bring himself to speak, words of consolation.
“He looks okay,” you muttered, eyes closed because you couldn’t chance a glance to look at him, to really, really look at him. “He’s going to be fine. He’s so stubborn. He’s going to be okay.”
Whether the words were salt or sugar on wounds, it was hard to tell because all that emptied from anyone’s eyes were tears.
No one expected to be here. Who did? Even when you watched Osamu sign the insurance policy and signed your name next to his just in case something happened. Something could never happen to you or Atsumu or Ma or Osamu. These were precautions to ease the heart, not the premise of a tragedy.
But even then, it would be dishonest for you to admit that Osamu’s accident was the most devastating part. You’re only being truthful because true pain began when Osamu woke up.
Atsumu noticed first. Even with his back to his brother, it was instinct that forced him to turn around. His groggy eyes were barely open. You could only see a slit of gray, drowsy and clouded like an overcast morning as his hand patted the edges of his bed as if in search of something. Of Atsumu.
The dutiful brother forewent everything. You, his ma, his bento, and immediately bent down to reach for his brother with both hands. He was at his side immediately, a cup of water brought to Osamu’s parched lips without a word before you could even recognize that Osamu was awake and against all disbelief, that he looked okay.
You took the napkin that was neatly folded atop of Atsumu’s bento, the one that had somehow been passed onto you and quickly made your way to Osamu’s side. To Atsumu’s side. And when Atsumu’s hand pulled back and Osamu resigned himself to a weary groan, eyes shut to take a physical break from all the hurt you were sure he was feeling, you handed Atsumu the napkin. He wiped the corner of his brother’s mouth with a gentleness you had never seen him bear.
An eerie silence persisted in the room as everyone held their breath. Osamu did so because of the aches and everyone else as a life vest because one wrong exhale felt like this reality could slip away.
It did. Frighteningly quick. Relief dissolved from your chest like cotton candy in water and all was left was this cloying and overbearing feeling of inconsolable despondence and disbelief because how? How did you end up here?
Osamu flinched when you pressed your hand against his thigh, a quick jerk that you surmised had to do with the fact that he had his eyes closed. You twisted your palm and stroked up, a move that you had done many, many times before, a premise to sex, a plea for comfort, and instead of him falling prey to your touch, he jerked out of your reach. There wasn’t even enough time for you to react because Atsumu had gripped your hand away between clammy fingers.
You looked between the two boys with a heart going brittle.
“What’s wrong, Samu?”
Said man took one quick glance at you before settling his gaze on his brother and a foreign expression passed him. Insecurity. He pressed himself deeper into his pillows and it forced Atsumu forward and you back as Osamu passed a glance to his mother.
He looked like a boy. And between exchanging glances at his mother and brother, Osamu couldn’t seem to find it in himself to return his gaze back to you.
Atsumu gripped his brother’s shoulder, “Samu, Samu. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re here.”
Osamu responded silently with a glazed stare that made Atsumu sputter. “Samu? Ya feel okay? Can ya tell me how ya feeling right now?”
The question seemed far too much to handle because all that was received was silence. Atsumu was hardly holding himself together with the tears that spilled from his eyes onto blotted, pink cheeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to move forward. You wanted to help carry this burden, hold Osamu like you’d done many times before, but the world felt skewed. Instead of being at his bedside, you felt like you were standing outside a window, watching the scene from a distance.
“Do ya… do ya know who I am?”
Ma broke first. You remember reaching backwards and gripping a wet hand full of used tissues, the fibers sticking to your skin.
“Samu. Samu.” Atsumu repeated his name over and over again like prayer, an incantation meant for miracles. “Samu. Say my name.”
“Tsumu.” The small croak was accompanied by the mildest glare, a small fire of insult always and specifically reserved for his brother and Atsumu choked.
“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s me. Ya remember our birthday?”
“October.”
“What day?”
His face pinched momentarily.
“What day, Samu?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Atsumu tried to deflect, “just try to think about it. What day is our birthday, Samu?”
“Atsumu…” Ma finally gained the strength to speak, a tiny chide that she was too exhausted to actually give any weight.
“Fifth,” Osamu pushed himself to sound out, like the word was a foreign tongue.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Atsumu brushed his brother’s hair with his fingers and the sight was disconcerting because despite how close they were, how they were one part of a whole, they had never been so careful. A childhood of roughhousing and testing limits proved invincibility.
Bruises and beatings and cuts that they wrought on eachother and yet there Atsumu was, tending to his brother as if he’d been his caretaker all his life.
“Ya recognize anyone else in the room?”
“Course I recognize Ma, ya idiot.” He coughed in between, stutters forming one worded sentences, but the attitude brought on the brightest smile on Atsumu’s face.
“Yeah, and who else?”
You remember moving to lift your hand, the one pressed against your lips to keep them from trembling, the one that wasn’t holding Ma’s, to provide a shy wave but thank the gods it stayed. Because when Osamu finally urged himself to look at you, instead of the ardor and the sweet groggy expression right before early morning kisses, he winced in pain. You muffled the sound of shock, but no one noticed with Atsumu’s screeching chair as he rushed to hover over Osamu’s anguished figure.
He writhed for an achingly long moment, though it must have been just seconds. You would have ran off if Ma didn’t force her grip on you tighter but once Osamu could melt back into his hospital bed, Atsumu turned his head.
His expression was tight and so desperately trying to be controlled despite himself. But you weren’t an idiot because beyond the glassy edge of hurt and worry and fear, if you dove deeper beneath the well of tears that pooled in his eyes, was blame.
Atsumu turned his back to you and pressed his brother’s head into his chest as he rubbed large strikes across his back. “It’s okay, Samu. Sorry I pushed ya. Ya did well. Ya did good. Ya gonna be okay.”
And before Ma could stop you, you ran out the door with the excuse that you were going to find a doctor. You turned down the hallways, heedless of direction, where you were able to find what you thought was a secluded cove. The torment was gushing, a pain that you’d never felt or could even begin to understand. No matter how you expelled the misery, in tears or heaves or wracked out sobs, the hurt never abated. It was limitless.
Because for some ridiculous reason, this felt like all your fault.
You were only able to spend minutes crouched in the privacy of your corner until a nurse found you. It must have been a usual sight because she hovered over you, a quiet calm in her voice, as she led you away with a bottle of juice in one hand and into a room where no one else was. She said nothing, only passed napkins your way and didn’t blame you when you couldn’t find it in yourself to express gratitude. Afterward, she pointed down a long hallway and told you that when you were ready, that’s where the waiting room was.
Ma came by maybe an hour later. The pain at that point had swelled into your marrow, aching at every movement you made, but the bubbling river of tears had turned shallow. Now they were silent streams. You had spent the last half hour in solidarity with the teen who cried to her mom over the phone, catching glances every time a sniffle turned wet, and seated in the spot with a lingering guava and menthol scent.
Ma sat where the grandmother had, you beside her. Without glancing up, she placed the matcha roll in your hands, half eaten but notably uneven because you had the larger half.
Her touch lingered. It stayed. When it prompted more crying, the reality that you were a pitiable sight, that this wasn’t just shared between you and the girl with her arm around her stomach and the wordless nurse, the swollen bones in your body bursted.
Ma’s cold hands easily maneuvered you into her bosom. She held like you’d seen her hold Osamu in pictures when he was sick, like how she held Aran when he cried after coming back home after being away for so long.
“We’ll get through this.”
It sounded like an empty sentiment but if anyone were able to make the impossibles come true, it was Ma and Ma alone. You barely believed her, but maybe. Most likely not, but maybe, she was right.
So you nodded into her chest but she only clicked her tongue behind her teeth.
“Together,” she told you sternly, “as a family. I don’t want to hear none of that.” Ma held you tighter when she felt you pull away. “Ya’ve been my daughter for a long time now. Even if the two of ya never got married.”
You’d been trying to be so strong. For Osamu because it was obvious. He was your partner for life, and though the vows were never spoken, you had lived them. For all the good, the bad, the happy, and the sick.
But Atsumu, his pain was tenfold and you had to do something, even if it was to tread the thorny footpath to be by his side, even if it was just your hands cupped open so you could help carry his misery.
Then Ma held you like she was strong enough to piece you together again and you trusted her. Your wails were muffled into her cardigan and she rocked you back and forth despite the arms of the uncomfortable chairs in the way.
“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t–” your breath ceased, words lingering in the air because living it is already unbearable enough.
“He does.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Ya think a love like the two of ya had is that easy to forget?”
It wasn’t. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to. But the way Osamu had winced in pain at the sight of you, and Atsumu’s imperceptible glare, maybe it was best to be forgotten.
Ma took your silence as agreement because the circle of her arms loosened. She pulled back so that she could wipe your tears with a bent index finger.
It was jarring seeing the puffy rise below her eyes. She had always been beautiful in your opinion. A simple charm for life and the zest derived from raising two wildly vivacious boys kept her young. In a single day, she aged a decade and you wondered how you compared.
“The doctor is on their way. Come on,” she tapped you the same way she did whenever Atsumu started an unnecessary argument, “let’s go see what they have to say.”
Atsumu’s expression flashed in your mind, hesitation clenched her cardigan tighter, “but Atsumu…”
“Don’t be mad at Atsumu,” your throat had lurched when she looked away from you, head tilted to the side as if you had just slapped her across the face. “He’s going through a lot. He doesn’t know what to do.”
And you remember how your grip relaxed, how your arms had fallen into your lap, diminutive and so, very exhausted. Never did it cross your mind to be angry at the way any of them ached. Not Ma, not Atsumu, and especially not Osamu. If there was anyone you hated, it was yourself for even being there.
Ma said you were family. But Atsumu and Osamu, of course, they would always be her boys.
Osamu was asleep when you reentered the room and Atsumu held your hand as if nothing had ever happened. He stood up immediately when the doctor stopped by, eyes forward. Something had changed that day. Atsumu was a different man.
He’d have neverending stories of when he was captain at Inarizaki, and he liked to pass time by retelling another instance where he had to wrangle control of Bokuto, or Sakusa, or Hinata. Atsumu’s passion and sense of righteousness were great qualities for a leader, but his clumsy delivery always made him the butt of Osamu’s (among others) jokes.
That day had changed him. His footfall was sure despite his blemished expression as he listened faithfully to the doctor, only ascertaining everything you had already deduced.
It all made sense, logically, scientifically, situationally.
The fire was still being investigated but from the report, it had loosened the foundation of Onigiri Miya and it caused a beam from the ceiling to strike him flat against the head. He’d been knocked unconscious before the flames could even consume the restaurant and if it hadn’t been for the regulars and the community that had memorized their favorite restauranteur’s habits, no one would have even known he was inside.
As you all waited for Osamu to come to again, you’d rationalized the incident repeatedly in your mind. Reality though, was never as kind.
Because even in the tepid fluorescent light, you couldn't convince yourself. This could not be real.
It’s not. You knew this, but Osamu spoke with such vindication, honesty in every breath that even he had you fooled.
“Ya traded out Kageyama when we were six points down in the second set.” Osamu recited to his brother at his bedside, in the same spot, in the same clothes, in the same battered expression. “And I remember cheering ya on from the bench when ya set the winning point to Aran against Russia.”
The silence that followed was cold. A shiver started at the dip of your shoulder blades, and wrung you out like a towel squeezed dry.
The doctors had said something like this would happen. Memories could return a little misplaced, as if you had just moved everything two inches to the left because it exactly was as Osamu said.
In the 2020 Olympics, Japan faced Russia in the first round. They won the first set, but struggled hard in the second. To prevent risking their lead, Kageyama was subbed out for Atsumu. The tides had turned and they won with Aran scoring the last point.
Yes, Osamu was there. But rather than on the bench, he was outside the arena. You were manning the register and he’d stepped outside the final moments of the match, standing there with his arms crossed like a dad, cap in one hand, and head tilted at the enormous screen that streamed the ongoing match inside.
Atsumu was the one who made the first sound. It was strangled and faded when his brother gave him a peculiar look. Then he glanced at his mother, urging answers out with his eyes, staring at everything before landing at you. His face contorted in pain, but Atsumu saved him. He grabbed his brother’s cheeks, hair glued to his skin, and he pressed his forehead against his brothers, and nodded.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”
That was the extent of what you could take and you ran out of the room, droplets of your tears mingling with the tile’s speckled pattern, and when the door clicked again, you didn't have to look up to know who it was.
“I’m sorry.”
Through your blurry vision, the world graying, darkness descending right before your eyes, it was like you were speaking to Osamu himself.
“He looks happy for the first time and I’m so sorry.” The Atsumu-Osamu amalgamation held your hands desperately.
Their individualism had always been easy to parse, especially with you being devotedly in love with one and having developed a brotherly affection for the other, but you allowed yourself this. If your heart must break, let Osamu herald this pain. No one else.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He pulled you in by the shoulders and hugged you. He sniveled wet breaths into your neck just as you darkened the cloth on his back. “It’s the first time I feel whole.”
The sting reappeared between your nose and you found it harder to breathe so you clutched him tighter in a feeble attempt to expel all the excess tension that had ballooned in your chest.
“I know.”
Though the fact did little to ease you, you'd never been able to compare. What is Osamu’s had always been Atsumu’s and vice versa, too. Joint custody in all things: pride, success, pain.
Memory.
“And I don’t want to break that yet. Not for him.” Not for me he said silently. “And I love ya and I know ya love him. Ya love him so much and he loves ya too but–”
But I love him more. I love him in a way you could never.
“I know.”
Osamu would pinch your lips shut if he were really here. He’d never stand for your way of thinking because comparing yourself to his brother was a thought he never entertained.
That’s like apples to oranges or whatever that saying is. I chose ya. I choose ya for the rest of my life and I just happen to be stuck with that guy for life.
You took Atsumu’s face in your hands. Wet cheeks stuck to your fingers as you collected tears along your lash line until the world blurred just enough that blonde turned dark brown and golden rays faded to gray.
“- but I don’t want to take this away from him yet. Ya heard the doctor. He said we could try some exposure therapy so that his memory can unwonk itself out again, but ya saw that didn’t ya?”
Tears burned down your chin when you gave a somber nod, “I did.”
“When he was talking about being in the Olympics, I… I just–” he bit his lip, the memory painful, “ –and he got all those details correct, I just couldn’t tell him no.”
“I know.”
You couldn’t either.
“We’ll start the therapy when everything settles down. Maybe he’ll start remembering things on his own but it’s been a lot for him to deal with. The injuries, his memory, the shop–”
You shook your head and the man before you paused. He looked surprised with his mouth open for breath, but the foremost expression did not hide how he felt yesterday.
Your thumb started at the plump of his face and swiped up to the ridges of his cheekbones. A clean slate.
“It’s okay. Osamu will be okay.”
Your love was Osamu’s choice. Atsumu’s will always be shared.
After that day, you kept your presence minimal. Only occasionally stopping by, slowly relinquishing the things that the old Osamu, the one that knew you, valued. Each time, he’d hold the item like it was foreign. You watched from the corner of the room, like a diminutive decoration, maybe even a broom, and spectated as Atsumu helped him pull item after item.
The black hoodie, stained at the cuffs, and chewed strings at the ends, the one he had first shared with you.
(The night descended softly, like the flutter of silk sheets, and before you knew it, you’d been in Osamu’s front seat talking nonsense and sharing an assortment of leftovers he’d brought from Onigiri Miya. You’d only been talking for a couple of weeks, slowly getting to know each other outside of customer and cook, but it’s been months of patronage. When Osamu texted you after his shift and found you still awake despite your early start the next morning, he invited you out for a drive.
You’d heard him before he arrived, the worn out truck of his announcing his presence. He had the audacity to apologize for the poor state his vehicle was in, as if it wasn’t endearing, as if he didn’t make you feel like a princess when he held his hand across the console for leverage.
And here you are now, at a hilltop overlooking a beautiful city you’d moved to in a drowsy silence. His presence is calming, a knitted blanket that softens the bite of the night air. It doesn’t stop you from shivering though.
Osamu notices immediately, head snapping to you when you do.
“Ya cold?” he asks, but regardless of your answer, he’s taking action. The man braces a hand around your bare thigh since you’d only come out in sleep shorts and shirt (though you still made sure to check yourself in the mirror before heading out) and just the warmth beneath his touch makes you ache. You lean closer, just a slight movement over the console for any residual heat he has to offer, the seats of his vehicle a sharp contrast.
“Still working on fixing her,” Osamu explains, “she’s a little off in some spots. Her heater don’t work and she leaks some fluid every hundred kilometers but she’s still a beaut.”
Your smile makes Osamu pause. His body is turned as he tries to reach for something in the back, but just the sight of your expression makes him stop and fully face you so he can take it in.
You think it’s cute how he talks about his car, how despite all her flaws, he can see her value. The world has been hard on you, but he gives you hope. From the moment you met eyes on him at your office and when you walked into his shop months later, greeting you with a fond welcome because he remembered you, he makes you think that he can see your true value too.
And with the way he leans in, his eyes glancing between yours and your lips, his hand unknowingly dragging up and down for the feel of more skin, you think he does.
The kiss is chaste, so innocent like the first drop of sunlight in the winter. It warms you from the inside out with a crisp feeling that makes you feel renewed.
Barely a second, but Osamu has you wishing for more. You’ve noticed he has a tendency to do that, to have you eager and hungry for all that he has to offer. How from just one bite of his catered food to your office, you couldn’t help but visit his shop as well.
Though your lips have parted, your faces have not. Osamu’s lashes are long from this point of view, and his skin looks lovely in the moonlight. You’re so close that you can see the small veins, blue and greens below his eyes. The colors are so distracting, his breath so warm across your cheeks, you can’t help but stare, memorize everything before the chance to do so again is taken from you.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
His husky words create a vortex of desire, consuming you wholly. You can’t help but squirm in your seat.
“Like what?” You’re doing your best to keep it cool, but you can hear the fray in your voice, reedy and needy and wanting. It’s scary to even think of the power he has over you.
“Like,” his pause forces you to glance at him and you see it too, a mirrored expression of yearning. It’s so intense the way your barriers break. It’s scary. You want to pull away, escape the emotions that are hardly within your control but he tilts your chin with an index finger and thumb. The motion is so gentle, the slightest touch with the heaviest of meanings, and he continues to stare. Maybe even admire. “Yeah, like that. Ya gonna make me go insane.”
“Me too,” you whine. It’s unfair, so unfair what he can do just with his eyes.
His expression hardens. The corners of his eyes crinkles as he glares his sight down on you, “don’t. If I kiss ya again, I don’t know if I can control myself. Ya don’t know how bad I want ya.”
“I’m right here.”
Your reply induces a vexed response. He has to breathe heavily through his nose as he fully moves his fingers to cup your cheeks. You watch as his chest rises, the breadth of it expanding as the tendons in his neck protrude at the action. Then he looks down on you from a head that’s tilted back and you see it, the subdued hunger that you’re sure he’s trying to persuade back inside. It’s frighteningly beautiful. The attraction beckons you forward despite his grip on your face keeping you still in your spot.
“Why?” You have to ask. What is all this discipline for when clearly, it’s reciprocated.
“Because,” Osamu grits. His hand travels to the back of your head and you can feel the strength of his grip, the promise of more beneath his fingertips. “If I’m gonna wreck ya, I’m gonna wreck ya right. So quit being the devil’s little thing, and let me take ya out on a real date so I can have ya properly.”
You pout but his thumb moves to push the plump of your lips back in, “no, ya hear me? Ya keep those pretty lips in. Be good and I’ll promise I’ll treat ya even better. Ya okay with that?”
His dominance, the assuredness in his words but the ragged pitch in his voice, as if he’s hardly holding himself together, as if he wants this just as bad, or maybe even more than you do has you finally agreeing despite the fact that you’d give it all. Forget the shame or the ladylike propriety of saving yourself for when you’re sure. Lust is a persuasive speaker, but Osamu, he is a promise you want to ensure you’ll have.
“Good,” Osamu is pleased with your ascent.
His attention returns to his back seat and he pulls out a black hoodie for you to put on. When you pop your head through the collar, you don’t expect the confident man to suddenly be so bewildered, mouth agape and wrist hanging dumbly from the 12 o’clock position of his steering wheel.
“What?” you ask though you know the answer. It’s a giddy feeling to know there is a power balance between the two of you.
“Ya, uhm, ya,” Osamu coughs into his hand, turning his head away before looking back at you. “That shit’s old. All stained up and ragged but. Ya make it look good.”
You look down, sleeves well past your hands where you notice blots littering the cuffs. You can’t help but bring the strings up to eye level. There are teeth marks indenting the aglet and you give Osamu a dubious stare.
He shuffles, a nervous chuckle, “like to chew on them sometimes. Keeps my mouth busy.”
Then without a second thought, you bring it to your mouth to chew it on your own. If he won’t kiss you, an indirect kiss has to suffice. His agonized groan is worth it.
Osamu takes you out on an official date the very next day.)
Osamu spared one second for the article of clothing and tossed it to his night stand. You pretended that he didn’t just break your heart.
The next item was Vabo-chan, but not the same one Osamu had brought into your shared apartment. That one faced its demise after a neighbor’s dog ran inside when you accidentally left the door open and used it as a chew toy.
(“What are ya doing on the floor like that?” you hear the door to your bedroom creak but petulantly refuse to acknowledge him. His steps thud, hollow over the cheap wood of your home.
“Hey,” he nudges you with his foot, “ya asleep? Ya gonna hurt ya back if ya stay like that.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Are ya crying?”
“No!” Denying but not hiding, you curl into yourself even further.
Osamu bothers this time to actually hold you with his hands, gentler, more patient. He softens his tone too, “hey, hey. What are we doing?”
He waits for you to react, doesn’t continue pressing further and refuses to leave you alone.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” you lift your head up, fresh tears as you admit your failure. You expect Osamu to comfort you, abate the sting of your own proclamation. He stares at you for a moment before he starts laughing in your face.
“You hate me!”
“Hey, now that’s going too far. I don’t hate ya.”
“But you think I’m stupid.”
“Just occasionally. Like when ya make impulse decisions.”
Hearing him makes you scream into your palms. Osamu laughs and urges you into his lap.
“What’d ya do?”
He’s so mean to know you so well, all the good and the bad.
“Tell me. So we can cry together.”
You press your face into his shirt, using it as a napkin to wipe away your tears, ignoring his mild grunt of disgust when you do. “Remember when Vabo-chan got eaten? Well I bought you a new one to replace him because you were sad.”
“Did ya?” His voice sounds so surprised, it makes breaking the bad news feel even worse. “That’s mighty nice of ya. Doesn’t make ya stupid.”
“Okay, but—“ You scramble off him, knee digging into his thigh that he makes a noise of pain, to get a box tucked underneath the bed. Your hand runs across the frayed cardboard where it had ripped open from your excitement. Hesitation stops you but Osamu places his palm on top of yours. Careful and encouraging and though you know he’s going to laugh at you, you finally open it up but stop yourself by placing a hand on top of the item.
“I was so excited! Because they don’t sell him anymore, just the vintage ones that are super expensive.”
“I know.” He’d been talking about it with Atsumu and his Ma, conversations you’d overheard on the phone.
“But I saw it and it was super affordable so I bought it without thinking, but,” you look up at him and he smiles. It makes you hide your face in the box but he’ll eventually admit to you later on how cute you had looked then. How distraught you were on his behalf and that then, in that moment, he’d truly felt loved. “Don’t laugh!”
“I won’t.”
Your constant hesitation brings on Osamu’s impatience and he tries to pry your fingers away, “okay. Seriously. Don’t laugh or I’ll cry.”
“I told ya, I won’t.”
The plush comes out on your own accord and before he has any time to process the sight, you begin overexplaining. “It’s a counterfeit! They gave him a nose and his name is Bavo-kun. I’m so stupid!”
Osamu’s too quiet, expression unreadable as he looks at the stuffed toy. Your heart is teetering on the edge of a cliff, so close to falling off and on the verge of tears once again. Then he bellows out a solid bellow from the gut. Before you can crumble into embarrassment, Osamu pulls you back against him, squishing stupid Bavo-kun between you two and holding you tightly against his chest.
“I love him,” his voice turns wistful. “Bavo-kun.”
“I hate him. He’s so ugly.”
“That ain’t right to say about ya kid.”
“What?”
“Look at him.” His eyes fall to your chests, forcing you to take in the hideous sight of your failings. “He’s got ya nose.”
“That is not funny, Miya Osamu.”
“Oh no, Bavo-kun. She used my full name. What are we gonna do? Ma’s mad.”
You slap his chest. Bavo-kun is collateral damage, “don’t call me that!”
Osamu’s humor is all sorts of fucked up. His laughter is excessive, shaking the both of you that he loses his balance and you guys fall to the floor. A hand of his comes to cup your cheek, acting as a buffer before you thud onto the ground and with your heights at the same level, tears drying out, you can finally see his expression clearly.
He reminds you of gemstones at moonlight, the sparkle of something beautiful. Light cannot replicate it, only refract it. And though it’s close-lipped, his smile pulls you back from the edge, melts you to the ground and anchors you back with him.
“I love this life,” Osamu confesses, “This family. I love ya and our little mishap.”)
The way Osamu’s eyes had lit, you couldn’t help but clasp your mouth to hide the smile that blossomed beneath. It was devastating how despite it all, his joy elicited yours.
“Vabo-chan!” Osamu looked to his brother in an eager excitement. “Remember how we begged Ma to buy us this when we were little?”
“Yeah. Then we had a sleepover every night with the four of us. Tucked them in with their own pillow too”
Osamu lifted up the plush’s hands, fondness tight in his expression. His eyes roamed, though they were elsewhere, remembering the memories he never lost.
“Wait a second,” Osamu’s expression hardened. His hands traced over the lines on the Bavo-kun’s face, flipped him over to read the tag, and when it didn't provide the information he wanted, he turned the toy over again to face it directly. “This ain’t Vabo-chan. The hell is this fake shit?”’
Atsumu was quick to return to damage control the way he had been these past couple of days. He plucked the toy and tossed it to a chair on the side and told Osamu not to worry, that Vabo-chan was back in Osaka in Atsumu’s home because Osamu was kind enough to lend him his when Atsumu left the one he owned on an airplane.
New memories. Fake memories.
Lies.
You were out before anyone could stop you. Not that either of the boys would have since in the midst of this whole facade, all you were was a burdensome truth.
You laid in bed accompanied with misery. The emotion made for a poor cuddle partner but it kept you company as you shivered and wailed into pillows that hardly smelled like the Osamu who knew you anymore.
Ma called. The image of her worried eyes made you answer, but when she’d update you about Osamu, how she’d first tell you he was getting better and then, as if an afterthought, urged you to visit him, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that you didn’t want to hear it.
So you started ignoring her calls. She was persistent, as expected of a woman who raised a set of rowdy boys all on her own. She knocked on your door between two minute intervals, called and texted in the gaps between and you made excuses like you were busy working over time to catch up on the job you’d left behind.
All untrue because you’d emailed your supervisor that you’d be on an indefinite leave of absence with no explanation. There was no part of you ready to meld back into the real world again. Your world had ended, your existence ceased and now it was your duty to find your place again.
Ma’s final message was an update that Osamu was getting discharged from the hospital. She mentioned that the family would be moving to Osaka at Atsumu’s insistence. She wanted you to come by before they left.
You didn’t.
With the money you’d gotten from selling Osamu’s food truck, a phone with a dying battery lost beneath your bed, you traveled in the opposite direction to Okinawa.
It was supposed to be healing. You were supposed to recreate a new identity here, find yourself in the beaches, among the company of strangers, smoothened into fine stone and drawn back to shore after getting caught in the riptide.
But here you are, with misery steeped so deep within your bones that it’s turned you bitter.
You leave your budget lodging only because your stomach tells you to and the measly mini fridge of your studio had nothing but flat soda. There’s no reason to look in the mirror, a quick scrub across your face is enough to remove the crust from your eyes and dried drool from the corner of your lips.
The convenience store is just around the corner from your temporary home. You’ve been trying to maintain your elusive nature, hoping you can leave the island as folklore, by limiting your patronage and entering the establishment at various times.
It’s the first time you smell fresh air, and admittedly, it does feel good against your skin. Much more palatable than your room which was already scented by mold when you entered. There’s birds singing and even the scent of smog excites your stale senses.
The world is so effortlessly beautiful.
And that’s what makes it so cruel.
You push your way into the convenience store, the aggressive movement rattling the bell above.
By your last visit, you’d memorized the aisles so you stroll on through with a single basket in hand. The thought process is careless as you pick out which shelf stable meals you’ll have for the week. It’s not until you reach the cold beverage section that this mundane visit turns into something interesting.
You squat to level yourself with the bottom shelf, debating whether or not you had the energy to carry a full twelve pack the half kilometer back. Just the thought of it hits you with a sudden feeling of fatigue that you cannot help but groan and press your forehead against the fridge door.
You’d spent the past two weeks alone so just the quiet call of your name has you jumping up defensively.
Akaashi looks down at you unimpressed.
“What are you doing here?” You look around, fearful that Atsumu or another one of Osamu’s volleyball confidants might be around. “Are you following me?”
Akaashi is an acquaintance at best, an Onigiri Miya fanatic at most. You hardly had a chance to have a conversation with the man when every time you saw him, he spent most of it with a face stuffed full of onigiri.
Your reaction flattens his expression even further.
“No, I did not take a three hour flight all the way to Okinawa only to watch you buy alcohol in your,” Akaashi pauses, “sleepwear.”
He has a point so you settle in the defeat by glaring at him.
“I am on a company retreat,” he finally explains. “You are far from home.”
“Retreat,” quick to use his verbiage, “yeah, I’m on a retreat, too.”
He eyes you then glances to the fridge door. You glance along with him and notice that the oils of your skin transferred onto the glass panel and do your best to hide your embarrassment with anger instead.
“What,” you challenge, feeling awfully prickly today and poor Akaashi is the one you get to take it out on. Who else? Certainly not Ma, or Atsumu, or Osamu or the nice landlord who handed you keys without question. Of course, you’re particularly nasty with yourself as of late, but if you can share the beating with someone like Akaashi whose deadpan nature is persevering, then so be it. Now that Osamu’s erased you from his life, it’s not like your social circles will ever collide again.
“You look…” Akaashi doesn’t spare you any grace. His eyes roam over your figure, disgust especially contorting his features when he witnesses the sight of your shoddy pants that have seen better days. In fairness, so have you. “Maudlin.”
Despite not knowing the definition of the word, you gather context from just the tone of his voice and it immediately makes you frown.
Defensive, you’re quick to retort. Because who is he, baggy eyed Akaashi, hangnail ridden Akaashi, squinty and blind Akaashi, no owning hairbrush Akaashi, to speak of your current condition?
“And you look like your retreat isn’t retreating.”
You get up, discreetly rubbing your self portrait in sebum with a pants leg, and impulsively decide that you deserve the 12 pack thanks to this new inconvenience. The pack slams against the glass door when the suspension forces it back too quickly. Akaashi moves to help but you cast a glare before he can.
“I do not need help,” you supply.
His reply is nonplussed, “you do.”
“I don’t,” and now the corner decides to catch on the gasket. Akaashi ignores your small grunts and your quiet insistence, pulling the door wide open.
You thank him begrudgingly only because it’s the socially acceptable thing to do but the man doesn’t let you stray much further.
“What if I bought another pack?” That catches your attention. More liquor, less lucidity, less opportunity to remember you’re sad. It seems to be a curse these days, the power of memory, and for once, you think it’s quite unrelenting. “And I paid for your items? Will you let me camp out wherever you’re staying?”
“There’s only one bed.”
“The floor is fine.”
“It smells like mold.”
“Let’s buy a candle before we leave.”
There’s a desperation that you recognize, a solidarity between two persons barely hanging on and the least bit put together. It shouldn’t be so exciting to find someone as miserable as you but isn’t that what they say? Misery loves company.
“Holy fuck,” you grin at him, sardonic, “I don’t remember liking you so much, Akaashi.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
It’s a stupid response, a very Akaashi response, so you giggle manically and kick a pack with the toe of your shoe.
“Grab the 24 pack. We’ve got some retreating to do.”
Akaashi is running away from his responsibilities and so are you. He locks himself in your studio without a mention of its disarray and happily sleeps on the flat futon provided by your temporary landlord with a single fitted sheet and your neck pillow. The amenities offered are quite militant, but considering the price point, you cannot complain and neither does Akaashi.
Neither of you mention what sorts of horrors plague your sleep, a respect for each other’s privacy, because despite enjoying his company, life did not bring you two together out of kindness.
There’s a reason why the underneath of his eyes have swelled to a charcoal gray the same way you cannot help but begin your mornings with a beer. The two of you watch reruns of old childhood shows and every so often, Akaashi wordlessly gets up to go outside for a smoke. You thank the heavens there’s no balcony so you wouldn’t have to face the familiar sight of a back lazily bent over a railing and the slow wisp of smoke. He comes back inside with the hint of tobacco on him and you think he’s noticed how it makes you choke because the first thing he does is wash his hands before sitting next to you again.
He chooses to abide by the code of silence until the fifth day. It’s an evening where the bed has been stripped bare, the room emptier than it already is.Your dirty clothes had been piling up but it had been a struggle to clean them when laundry felt like a hug, the firm press of a collar and a lost nape. The two of you lie on the floor and bide time while you wait for the linens and whatever paltry laundry either of you have dry.
Akaashi dons a white undershirt and sleep shorts, you in a shirt that doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t belong to anyone actually, because its owner has abandoned it too.
He holds a half eaten Okinawa style onigiri in his hand and the sight is so familiar you don’t pay him any mind. Your thoughts are gluey from the alcohol so it takes an extra line for the jokes to settle. Laughter is muffled by your forearms where you’ve placed your chin, laying on your belly and big toe tracing a gap between tiles on the floor.
Even the sound of Osamu’s name takes longer to process.
But you still remember. You devotedly will.
“These onigiris taste different from Myaa-sam’s,” Akaashi says beside you.
You lay a cheek on your arm and look up at the cross legged man. He finally got his glasses and other belongings from his previous room yesterday. A smile is already plastered on your face because the liquor makes Akaashi funnier than usual.
The joke never comes.
“Did you ever want to talk about it?”
His question prompts self reflection. Talk about what? What was there to say when the two of you have been so busy running. Immediately, you scramble to get up onto the smooth surface of the stripped mattress to put some distance between you two.
“That’s why you’re here, right?”
Beneath glasses, Akaashi’s eyes have a pointed edge to them.
“What do you know?” It’s suddenly so cold now with the space between you and there’s nothing to cover you up. You can only pull your knees to your chest.
“Nothing.” Akaashi turns to look at the TV. He watches the scene play out until it cuts to a commercial. “Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He’s been uncharacteristically tight lipped.”
Akaashi says uncharacteristically but you’re not surprised at all. This sounds exactly like the Atsumu you know now. It fouls your mood and has you reaching for your emotional support sake from the nightstand.
“He tells everyone to entertain Osamu lest he get a traumatic episode.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No,” Akaashi watches your face deflate so he tacks on that Bokuto has.
Tension coils the muscles along your bones. It makes you feel frigid so you gulp down the rice wine in hopes that it warms you up from the inside out. Akaashi only watches. He never mentions your drinking habits. You don’t say anything about his smoking tendencies. These were the boundaries you were supposed to respect, but the man keeps on pushing.
“I heard you sold the food truck.”
“How else could I afford all this luxury?” Your hands stretch out to broadcast the shoebox the two of you call home.
He’s used to your defensive sarcasm by now, only taking a singular bite from his onigiri. “So the branch in Tokyo?”
You laugh. “Not happening.”
Then you finish the whole bottle with an aggressive gulp. You flatten yourself against the bare mattress. You ignore him, pretend you’re alone, pretend you’re okay, and you accept the dizzying fall into slumber.
When you wake, the laundry is brought in. It smells exactly like down and a headache. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you it’s midnight so you drink a bottle of water and work on fitting the sheets to the bed. For your efforts, you reward yourself with another can of beer. Then another. It only takes two for you to fall asleep again.
The both of you don’t broach the topic. He reels you back in with a sense of normalcy, the routine of bumming it in front of the TV and the unhealthy eating habits. Even when you blurt out that onigiris are now banned from the house, he only provides a knowing blink.
Slowly, the space between you two skitters away. He coaxes you in like a stray with indifference and eventually, he’s sat cross legged in front of the TV while you lay next to him on your belly.
The duration of your lease is running out as the month dwindles away into repetition. There’s only a couple of days left but you’ve run out of alcohol and food. It’s a weekend night with prime time television over reruns and you’ve gotten particularly attached to this drama that you started halfway through so Akaashi and you head out one evening to prepare for the last couple days of indulgence.
You should have known Akaashi had something planned when he veered to the left with the excuse of wanting to try out a different store.
Once you heard the quiet roar of waves crashing, you had to pause. A rush of trepidation overcame you. Akaashi was already halfway through the crosswalk when he turned around and noticed you weren’t there. He urged you with his eyes, sharp still below the frames of his glasses. People walk around him and you cannot help but notice their peeved expressions. The sound of cars whiz past and the waves do nothing but recede and crash and it’s all so much to take in.
“No,” you shake your head.
You want to run but where do you go? Forward? Away? Where else because there is no going back.
The crosswalk sign starts blinking and there is renewed severity in Akaashi’s expression. He beckons you with an outstretched hand.
It reminds you of Atsumu, the way he had reached for you the first day at the hospital.
It reminds you of Osamu, the days he’d pull you out of bed when you slept in.
“Come with me,” Akaashi says.
That is all you need to go. The dramatics are uninhibited as you make your way to him, blind with your head bent as one wrist wipes away incessant tears and the other is extended to catch his hand. He takes it. It’s a foreign union with his spindly fingers that are long enough to twine around your wrist like a restrictive vine but you relinquish yourself to it.
Because, this whole time, all you’ve wanted is this: promised, unselfish companionship.
Akaashi leaves you on a bench and returns with meat pies bought from a nearby food truck. The smell of it saturates the area in an appetizing scent of fried deliciousness that has your stomach gurgling. You’ve not had a single healthy meal since you arrived in Okinawa but the alcohol you’ve imbibed religiously for the past few weeks welcomes the offering.
“Have you wondered yet what is going on with me?” A bus whips past you two with an uncomfortable gust of warm wind. You want to pretend that you didn’t hear Akaashi over the sound of the engine, but his silence is imploring.
“Always,” you say.
Akaashi entertains you with a small huff, “you could ask.”
“But then that would breach our secret NDA. Which you have breached by the way. You owe me another 24 pack.”
“Considering I no longer have a job, we might have to put that on hold.”
You reply only with a wide eyed surprise.
“I put in my resignation yesterday.” Akaashi admits. His hands glide up his thigh to clear the grease from his fingertips. “Do you want to ask questions now?”
There’s a lot of questions running through your mind. First of all, why? Why quit? What was the reason? Why did it take you in your pajamas buying alcohol before noon on a foreign island for him to do so?
“Yes, but I won’t.”
“You’re aberrant.”
“I’m assuming that means ridiculous.”
“Close.”
“Share whatever you want to share. I won’t…” you almost hand the crust of your meat pie to Akaashi out of habit. You press it into the napkin instead, crushing it with the pressure of your fingers. “I don’t want to force anything out of you if you’re not ready.”
Akaashi hums. It’s a sound similar to when the understanding of a concept finally dawns on someone. He kicks his long legs out. The Oxfords provide a bouncy noise and it’s only now that you see how aberrant Akaashi is. Near the ocean shore, he wears business casual dress with slacks and though unpressed, he still dons a button down with elbow pads. Freaking elbow pads. You must look ridiculous next to him in your novelty shirt and pajama shorts. It’s been difficult wearing anything that doesn’t have elastic lately and jeans leave for no room to breathe.
He pulls out his cigarettes from his breast pocket and when he remembers, he turns with a silent tilt of his head, asking permission to smoke. You only nod but turn your head away quickly. The gradual exposure to the smell is one thing, but the sight of him smoking might be another step you’re still not ready to take.
The cigarette crackles twice in two long inhales and he makes a point to blow in your opposite direction.
“I’m told that literary composition is not my forte.” You remain quiet, respecting the beginning of Akaashi’s soliloquy. “People tell me that I’m not meant to be an author. The world, actually. My short stories weren’t selling so I tried my hand at writing fanfiction for Meteo Attack, the manga I edit and hardly anyone read it. I even got hostile responses for my characterization.”
He needs another two inhales from the admittance. You don’t blame him.
“My boss and I had been working on a training plan the last two quarters so I could move to the literary department and the night before I met you, we were announced our placements for the next quarter. Mine didn’t change, still editor, still in manga. And when I asked, my boss said he’d be an idiot if he let me leave. I was too good at my job to change positions now. I went on a manic binge, slept through my alarms for the scheduled office activities, saw you, and figured you’d be the best excuse I could have to avoid my boss and coworkers for the rest of the trip.”
The sound of the lighter flicks once more. You listen to the quick initial inhale and the lengthy one that follows.
“My intention was never to quit. It was just like you said, retreat. I wanted to abscond myself of responsibilities for a moment but then I ate the onigiri I bought and I remembered. I remembered lots of late nights in Hyogo with you and Myaa-sam and Bokuto. And it made me think of you.”
“If it’s pity you’re offering, I don’t need it, Akaashi.”
“It’s not. I’m offering another contract. A business one.”
You turn to him and find that the smoker had finished his cigarette already. He gathered saliva in his mouth and discretely spit it on the floor before turning back to you.
“Let’s open Onigiri Miya up again.”
The idea sickens you because just the name of the restaurant brings back an onslaught of memories you’ve been trying to avoid. Osamu in his tight arm sleeves and black apron. His musk after a long night. His weary smile that would worry you only for a second until you realized it was satisfaction that compelled it more than anything. The sweet and salty scent of sticky rice and the starchy feeling on your hands whenever you would swirl your fingers in the buckets of dried grains that Kita would present to you. Long days, long nights, and Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.
“There’s no way. I have no clue how to even begin starting a business.”
“You say that but do you even know if your job will be there when you get back home?”
That was also another pertinent issue you were still planning to avoid.
“There is an Osamu out there right now who doesn’t even know that Onigiri Miya exists. The world is telling you you’re forgotten and there are people out there willing to accept it. But did you? Did you forget?”
His intensity brings on a delicate quality to your voice, “of course not.”
Osamu could forget you, but you? Forget him? The erasure of his existence was something so foreign of a thought that even just the mention of it strained your heart raw.
“I didn’t either. Do you want anyone else to?”
Your response is incomprehensible as you blow snot into your grease laden napkin but the point comes across. For all the weeks you and Akaashi have spent together in the apartment room, he touches you a second time ever, hand atop yours once more.
“Then let’s open Onigiri Miya back up.”
It’s minutes later until you can gather yourself up again and even longer for you to seriously entertain the idea. The night is quiet and you’re thankful there are no passersby to witness this embarrassing exchange.
You think of everyone that Osamu had brought into your life when you walked into his. All the customers and friends and neighbors that offered you joy and small gifts worth living for. Atsumu was okay with throwing it all away, abandoning it just like his high school motto had endorsed.
But they were the ones who found Osamu. They were the ones who saved him, who forced the firefighters to break down Onigiri Miya’s door when the fire began to consume. If not for the community he fostered, he would not have had the second chance he has today.
There’s an Osamu out there that does not love you, that you may never learn to love without being hurt, but there was an Osamu that was beloved by all. If you had to do it for anyone, you’d do it for him.
“Fine.” Akaashi does not move, eerily still as if to not startle you to backtrack. “We can give this a try.”
You settle in with your choice and finally, with a bit of courage, you ask “I know what I am getting out of this, but what are you?”
“A flexible schedule so I can write my novel,” the man beside you answers frankly. Then in a softer voice, he adds, “and maybe I can finally open that branch in Tokyo.”
You cannot help but crack an amused snort. Akaashi joins you with his singular chuckle.
“That seems ambitious.”
It is so grossly, overwhelmingly, exceedingly ambitious to run a restaurant and more so, to even consider a second location. Promises are easy to make on tear-stricken nights amongst the salty air of Okinawa, but back in Hyogo, the air is severely stifling.
Even with more than half a decade of partnership with Osamu, it is a steep learning curve managing all its operations. Your ex boyfriend did not make it seem easy. No, not with the long hours he’d pull or the days when he’d lash his frustrations on you. Some days, even seasons, happened to be more difficult than others but to have first hand experience all on your own is novel.
Akaashi moves in the day you guys arrive. The two week unofficial dry run makes the decision easy. He fills in the space that has been left behind, screens all the voicemails that you’d avoided when you were gone, and confirms that you are officially jobless by looking through your emails too.
What is better than one jobless, mid-twenty travesty who is one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown? Two jobless, mid-twenty travesties who are one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown. It’s a support system, hardly structural but functional enough.
It includes a lot of spontaneous frenzies, you and Akaashi both. He teaches you to be quite efficient with your distress. A prolonged yell helps relieve the pressure and it compels the other to join. You teach him the benefits of isolation. Sometimes, it’s simply best to take some space, to cast away the burdens for a night and relearn how to breathe.
It takes a year and a half to open the restaurant with the help of Onigiri Miya’s neighbors. Their support does not come without payment though. They ask questions you’re unprepared for and no response is ever safe. If you say you are fine, you’re scrutinized with a watchful eye, just waiting for proof of a lie. If you admit that you’re struggling, there’s pity. Some are more vocal about it than others, a patronization in their tone that never used to be there before.
The price may be steep, but it’s worth it because Hyogo ward was Osamu’s community. They carry the pieces of Osamu that you know, the ones that made the alleycats fat.
(Osamu frequently gets yelled at by the Shizuku, the florist, three doors down. She blames him for the rising cat population. Osamu laughs it off. He always did and frequently, there is a cheeky quip that follows. He says something about catnip.
Something like, “ya sure ya ain’t the one growing catnip in there?”
It taunts the woman even further, but malice never burns their interactions.
A grudge on Osamu, though easy to promise, is impossible to uphold. Not when he delivers a bouquet of onigiri right to her door the next day. Not when he accidentally tips a pot over while obnoxiously perusing through the abundance of greenery, hoping to find catnip within the collection. Not when he looks at her sheepishly, swiping his hands on his apron as if dusting away any evidence and says, “now how did that happen?”)
Shizuku’s a savior, by the way. If left to your own devices, Akaashi and you would work yourselves to the point of exhaustion but Shizuku comes in during lunch and always provides tea in plastic cups. Eventually those cups turn into a beautiful ceramic set when Kita drops off your first order of rice, a visit in disguise.
His barley eyes that were always warm to you darken at the sight of Akaashi. Their greeting is stiff which you thought just had to do with their taciturn personalities but it wasn’t until Kita pulled you into the alleyway, Akaashi left to finish painting the front, did you realize it was out of protectiveness.
“I was glad to hear from ya.” Kita leans against the waist high wall that separates two lines of shopping streets. “But I didn’t know how to feel when I found out ya were calling me about business.”
“I know,” you say, eyes cast down low. Kita has a way of making you feel guilty with so little words. He’s disappointed, you know despite his level tone, because you never called. What was there to discuss? You figured if Osamu could forget you, if Atsumu can cast you away, then there was nothing to expect out of his friends either.
“I won’t say anything because I know ya already feel bad but Gran and I were worried about ya. It’s good to know that you’re okay.”
You shrug. Okay is hardly what you’d describe yourself when you’re barely hanging on just like the threadbare sheets from the studio in Okinawa.
Kita crosses one muddy boot over the other, “and what ya got going on here, it feels like the right thing.”
It’s hard to make of what you feel, decipher the feelings that manifest inside because the days have not gotten any softer. The pain is ambiguous and persisting. Whenever you feel like you’ve made progress, another strain emerges like a new variant of the same virus. You’re doing this for Osamu. But Osamu…
“Have you talked to him lately?”
Kita’s lips line into a solemn expression. He stares you right in the eye and you hold yourself strong because you know he’s testing whether or not you can handle his answer.
“Not recently. Atsumu’s kept their distance from here. If I do see them, it’s when I stop by Osaka.”
“And…”
“And he’s good. He plans on going pro,” Kita shakes his head, “or Atsumu says, going back to pro. He tells him he took a break.”
You nod slowly. So that’s what you were. A break.
“But it ain’t him.”
The farmer’s voice is barely above a whisper and for some reason, it is gut wrenching. You have to lean against the wall with him in case you topple over. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, the admittance that the Osamu you had was someone real. And maybe that’s why you’ll never be okay because you’re chasing after validation that has already been erased while he chases other things, of dreams unfulfilled.
“This,” Kita points to the restaurant in renovation, “this is him, but…”
He never finishes his sentence. The irony of it makes you laugh.
“Well I’ve got another delivery to drop but don’t be a stranger now. I’m serious. I ain’t letting ya. And visit Gran once in a while, will ya? She needs someone to talk to because I think she’s about had it with me.”
Kita hugs you goodbye and by the end of his visit, you think Akaashi’s gained his approval. When he leaves, he gifts the two of you the tea set. They are black with white and brown intricacies. Two of them have geometric blocking designs and the other two have one lone stalk of rice, bent gracefully by the wind.
Akaashi and you sign up for onigiri making courses where you eat them for every meal. So much so that even Akaashi of all people gets tired of it. The craft does not come easy to either of you despite your business partner’s penchant for it and Osamu’s intermittent lessons over the years. When you did help him out on the days he was short-staffed, Osamu would have you ring up customers up front, smoothly mentioning how your pretty face would help them rack up tips when you knew it was just to keep you out of the kitchen.
(He flusters you with a wink and an encouraging tap on the ass, laughing when you look back. He flings his glove into the trash can and makes his way to the handwashing station, thinking it was worth it just to see your cute pout. You know he’d wasted boxes of gloves since you’d been together just for one quick touch. Your eyes would be enraptured by the graceful jerks of his chest and the curl of his lips and later, at close, when the two of you were finally alone, he teases you about it. He asks you if you were hungry, what with the way you devoured him with your eyes. You bite his arm just to prove how hungry you were.)
“Quit drinking the mirin. That is foul and we need it.” He hides little revulsion in both tone and expression but your time with Akaashi has you immune to his harsh delivery.
You take another swig out of spite even if you didn’t plan on having another sip. It is, in fact, foul.
“This is the only thing that has alcohol in this apartment.”
Akaashi snatches the bottle with starchy hands. The residue imprints the shape of his palm onto the neck of the bottle, furthering his irritation. “Then drink something that does not have alcohol.”
“No,” you slump with your chin on the table, leveling your gaze with the practice oblongs you’ve just made. “I am sad.”
They’re lumpy and if they’re not lumpy, they are mushy. If they are not mushy, then the filling is peeking out. All in all, completely imperfect and not suited for a restaurant succeeding Onigiri Miya. Just the image of his disappointment discourages you because these were not up to his standards and certainly not to yours.
“We just need more practice,” Akaashi tries to console. “Maybe we could buy molds.”
“He didn’t use molds.”
“Unfortunate. We’re not Myaa-sam.”
“Neither is he.”
Akaashi doesn’t respond. You don’t say anything more either. If anyone is tired of your deploring, it is him and he already has to handle you enough. But it’s true, isn’t it? No one is Osamu anymore, not even the one out there who is probably doing practice sets in a gym, who wears a uniform that’s less than five years old, who has no recollection of you.
“Everyone’s going to be disappointed because it tastes nothing like the ones he used to make. They’re going to hate us for even disgracing his name.”
Akaashi’s had enough. He drops his practice roll, the heavy weight of the thud clattering the utensils on the table. You’re about to reprimand him but the man talks over you.
“Do you think that’s why people will come? Because of Osamu?”
The answer seems obvious that you can only gesticulate.
“Are you inane?”
That hasn’t been a word of the day so you haven’t learned that one yet but you can take a guess what the right answer is. “No?”
“People want to come and support you. Everyone knows Osamu’s gone off elsewhere doing whatever he is doing now. You’re the one honoring his memory. You’re the one keeping him alive. You are the reason they’d walk through our door now so get your act up.”
You glower like a child, unsure how exactly you feel. That sort of pressure seems daunting but comforting at the same time. You want to do him right. Is it really better than not even honoring him at all?
“You’re mean,” you settle on saying.
Akaashi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, “do you want to scream about it?”
You smile, “yeah.”
His mood lightens, “me too.”
“Okay, but it’s late already so we should probably scream in some pillows.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
The journey continues like that. Ups and downs. Ebbs and flows. Akaashi handles operations and finances. Your first job at the local government helps you complete the clerical stuff like having the proper documentation and paperworks. Your most recent job in IT helps you develop the website while Akaashi words out the marketing. You set up all the socials, design the uniforms, and the last step is to decide on the name.
The night before the opening, you have a dinner for everyone that helped as a thank you and soft launch. You and Akaashi slide in and out of service with Shizuku, Kita, Gran, and some of Akaashi’s friends like Konoha and Kuroo and Kenma as guests. It’s a small gathering of every single member of the community that never forgot about Osamu sitting around a massive table you’ve made by pushing the smaller ones together.
“Lovely what ya did with the rice, here,” Gran says beside you, a seat she had claimed.
You tilt your head to the side, “that’s all Akaashi.”
“Fine cooking, dear.”
“I followed a good recipe and had a little luck.”
“Ya better hope not,” Kita laughs and it’s comforting to hear the quiet trickle of his humor knowing fully well that Akaashi’s been accepted into the family. “Or else ya gonna have some unhappy customers.”
“Will ya tell us now what the name of the place is? Hard to advertise if I don’t know what it’s called,” Shizuku demands.
Her impatience started when she walked right through the door, but you wanted to wait for the right time when everyone was already gathered together and broken bread, heart happy and stomach satisfied. It’s how Osamu would have wanted it. It’s how you do too.
“Fine,” you say, dragging the word out with little bite in your tone.
You pull out the uniforms you’ll be wearing tomorrow. It looks not much different from what Osamu used to wear, plain black shirts with lettering on the upper left portion of the chest. Everyone lifts up from their seats to witness it.
o.mo.ide
Miya Osamu, Onigiri Miya, memories that you’ll always keep close to your heart.
There’s tears that escape, from you no different. There’s more that follows when you show them the corner right by the entrance dedicated to Onigiri Miya. You want everyone to know whose walls these actually belong to, whose essence and soul brought his dreams and yours to life, that without him, this would have never been possible.
Kita helps you kick everyone out knowing that you and Akaashi have a long day ahead. People promise to visit tomorrow just to show their support as they bid you goodbye. Gran slips an envelope of cash between your hands and quickly loops her arms around Kita’s so you can’t make a scene.
Akaashi is quick to have a foot out the alley back door after cleanup. He nods his head out, “are you ready?”
“Yes.” You run your hands through the crisp fabric once more as you shuffle your bag over your shoulder.
And the two of you leave. The black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door waves as the door slams shut. There’s a black cap above it with the original character snaps against the wall from the wind pressure. They sway in the dark, until finally they lose momentum and settle in the dark.
They stay. They always will.
The support is so overwhelmingly kind. People show up in droves that Kita has to come in later in the day with an emergency delivery because your forecasts had been so off. Compliments come one after the other, of the design of the store, the food, and even yours and Akaashi’s service. Cheery employees were no longer in, it seemed. Everyone loved the stress-ridden ones instead. More relatable, they’d explain.
The novelty slowly wears off, but you maintain a generous rotation of regulars. Of course, Shizuku always arrives. She retains her habit of having afternoon tea with you and Akaashi. She’d bring along Hayashi, the man who owned the ice cream shop behind your store. He’s a grizzly man with a barrel chest with a right bicep so plump from years of scooping ice cream. The two are the neighborhood’s newest gossip. Flowers and ice cream. Looks like they do go together.
And you think that you have finally have this life handled. You and Akaashi settle on this pleasant routine of wake, work, and rest and the mundanity has you fooled. Still, after all this time, it takes so little to disrupt your small ecosystem of peace.
You hear someone compare o.mo.ide as a mockery of what it used to be and it sends you into a spiral. You listen with a crazed expression, hands busy scrubbing tables but ears listening like a hawk.
Osmau never needed consolation like this. He had been a master of quick glances. He was always multitasking, mind on the next task as he was still in the process of finishing the first. And his eyes never missed anything, not when you’d try and sneak into his office unnoticed to surprise him for break or how he’d always know when someone was taking their first bite. He’d watch from the corner of his eyes and he’d wait for that precious moment. It didn’t take much to make Osamu proud. Just a single hum. He’d beam from ear to ear, and as if shy from his sudden display of emotion, he’d tuck his chin into his head and pull the brim of his cap down.
But then again, this was his forte and not yours.
You start sleeping in and waking up late. You lose the habit and Akaashi has to pick up after you. In order to make it up to him, you offer to close the restaurant on your own. His response is a simple scan to check that you’re okay, but he has little energy to say a word, probably expended it screaming in the walk-in freezer when he couldn’t get you out of bed. So he goes.
You don’t even wait a full five minutes after he left to lock the doors and ignore any knocks from customers who know your regular hours.
In the silent kitchen, you situate yourself atop the recently wiped down stainless prep table, a bottle of sake in one hand and Kita’s teacup in another. A shot glass is much too small for your preferences.
“Cheers,” you raise your glass in the air. This might be your sixth one, so just the image of your hand and solo teacup is enough to make you giggle. “This one is to…”
Your gaze is glassy and there’s no one here, but the alcohol reminds you that you’re not lonely. An image of Osamu appears before you like an apparition and the sight brings on a void of yearning. You throw back the shot and quickly pour yourself another.
“To you.” This time you clink the tea cup against the bottle, already hollow in just one sitting. When the burn dies down and settles in the pit of your stomach, you begin to kick your feet.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Haven’t spoken to you in a while. Think about you every day though.”
It’s weird because you thought that with this place being saturated by Osamu’s very essence, you’d find his face everywhere you look. He’s more of an idea now, lately. A feeling you carry, memories that you play before you go to sleep. It’s difficult to accept because it feels like you’re losing him. The old Osamu, the one you knew, the one you loved. The other one in Osaka, Kita’s accidentally slipped that he likes to read as a pastime and that they’d recently visited Panama. Osamu never bought books unless they were cookbooks and that was more for aesthetic than anything. And the one you knew had never been to Panama, more so even mentioned it at all.
What you have left is the remains of his legacy and the bare bones of a former flame. You crack open another bottle. Here’s another shot to that.
“Life sucks by the way. I don’t blame you for it. I just wanted you to know. This wasn’t my dream. Yeah, I can hear you. You know, you know. But I haven’t told you in a while so you’re going to hear me say it again. I just wanted a cushy, IT job. I’d be your sugar mommy and force you on vacations, pay you for any lost wages. Any reason to have you all to myself. That’s what was supposed to happen.”
Another shot to missed opportunities. That one has you feeling woozy that you have to lay on your side but your drunken mind fails to realize how cold the stainless steel would be against your cheeks. It makes you squeal and then you can’t help but giggle, laughing at your own stupidity. That’s what’s nice about inebriation. Instead of being so serious about yourself, you can just laugh.
“And in the middle of it all, I knew that one day, I’d get absorbed into it. That’s just what you do. You say Atsumu is charismatic, but I don’t think you ever realized the power you had in just being. People get caught up in it and that includes me. And I imagined myself working hard so I could leave early from work just so I could help you in the kitchen. And then working part time until eventually, we woke up together and ran it together and did it all. Together. As a family. Ma would help when she has the time but you know her. She’s got clubs and activities and neighborhood responsibilities. And Atsumu would try and hang out but not do any work so we’d just ignore him until he ended up whining his way into the kitchen. I didn’t imagine…”
You look around the backroom. It’s nothing like how Onigiri Miya used to look. There are some items you’ve inherited like the pots and pans with their grease-stricken bellies and the three step ladder with The Little Giant (Akaashi actually wanted to throw this one away but ladders are surprisingly expensive) labeled on the top step. Everything is paltry pickings compared to the care Osamu had when working with his suppliers. It was hard enough with Kita’s endorsement to find something within your budget so you’re left with limp greens and off brand soy. And no Osamu.
Time for another shot. Should you make a game of it? Every time you thought you felt sorry for yourself, should you?
“No,” you giggle as you get up, answering your own question, “then I’d get really drunk and you’d get mad at me for that. Anyways,” you shoot it, neck craning back so swift it makes you dizzy. Your body bends wilted just like the spring onions you were talking about and you have to close your eyes, groaning and giggling, unable to discern discomfort from pleasure.
“Mmmm, what was I saying? I don’t know.” Suddenly, you’re crying. There’s a mess on the prep table that you have no idea how to clean. Over a year now and you’re still not over Osamu and you’re missing the rest of the Miyas especially too.
“This is so hard and fuck, I feel so alone.” It’s heartbreaking to hear how much you pity yourself when there have been so many people in your life that have supported you. Like Akaashi who has dealt with your disaster tendencies and Shizuku and the neighbors and everyone that has made this possible.
But they can’t fill what you’ve secretly been trying to reclaim. Of a family that had loved you, had accepted you with open arms. The ones who held you when you needed them most but… Fuck. You just weren’t enough. You lacked the strength to hold their pain, so much so just by being, by existing, you burdened them.
And maybe this had been a ploy to simply gain approval and find some self-worth again, to show them that the love you have has value. It had been distracting enough while you and Akaashi prepared for the grand opening but only for so long until you fell into this sort of misery again. How long would the next pocket of happiness last? Could you find a stable source of bliss ever again?
Sometimes, as difficult as it is to think, you wish you never…
No, you shake your head adamantly. For all this anguish, for all the ache you’ve accidentally caused the Miyas, you want to selfishly keep all the memories, even if Osamu has to forget, even if you know how it ends. You don’t want to change a thing.
You grab the extra aprons in the back except for the black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door and slump into the office chair in the back nook. It was a simple office with just a desk and a file folder cabinet. You cover yourself with the aprons, your impromptu blankets as you wait for the inebriation to tide over. The open sake bottle stays on the prep table with the finished one and your used tea cup and you make a mental note to hide your drinking from Akaashi who’s been passively limiting your intake lately.
You fall into a light sleep when a meowing out the alley door rouses you. The office chair snaps as you ungracefully rise. There’s remnants of your misery in the form of crusts at the corner of your eyes that you blearily wipe away.
He stares up at you with a single meow as a greeting when you open the door. The cat sits on his paws like a well mannered customer waiting to be let in. A gray puffball like a ball of lint straight from the dryer, his gold eyes blink up at you and maybe it’s the hour or your halfway sober state or just life in general because you think it’s a sign.
Many of the cats had left when Osamu did too, venturing into more fruitful alleyways that can get them the fixings that they. You’re quick to pick him up but you do it a little aggressively that his limber body bends to evade your hands. Instead, he enters o.mo.ide and you’re able to lure him in with a few slices of fish.
Akaashi is not amused when you get home, especially considering the late hour and cat in your hands.
“No,” Akaashi greets, eyes hardened, aimed at the feline creature who has taken to resting his chin into the crook of your elbow.
“But, Akaashi, look at him!” You turn your body to the side so he can witness his complete cuteness.
The man is not impressed, only closing his book, an index finger marking the pages he left off, and crossing his arms. “No. You can hardly take care of yourself.”
“But they’re low maintenance,” you mention the fact you had quickly googled before unlocking the front door, “and he was crying outside our door because he was so hungry.”
Your roommate weighs the cat with his eyes and before he can complete his calculations, you add, “if I wasn’t there, he would have starved. He needed me.”
Akaashi finds something in your expression and you think it’s this new energy, this purpose outside of yourself or Osamu and after a drawn out glare, he finally sighs. It’s a world weary sigh, the kinds only parents of rowdy and impossible children should only make and you take note that you’ll make it up to him somehow.
“Okay, fine,” he extends his hand for your new friend to sniff, “what’s his name?”
You smile, “Mumu.”
An homage to your boys, your favorite twins, and Akaashi cannot help but sigh again.
But Mumu quickly becomes your new best friend, much to his benefit. Even though Mumu never quite opens up to him, he has to worry about you less and you spend more of your time laboring efficiently at work so you can go home and play with silly things like lasers and a little rattle ball he likes to roll around. There’s energy to do your share of household chores now, and despite the slow trickle of business lately, you’re unbothered.
At the end of the day, the success of the business does not define you or your love for Osamu.
The stability lasts only for a few months because you arrive home unannounced, closing the shop early when the pelting monsoon keeps people locked in their homes.
You opted to take responsibility for the day, allowing Akaashi a break. His trust in you has slowly renewed considering it’d been a while since you dipped into the restaurant’s liquor stash. You knew he’d understand the shortened hours considering the weather but he hadn’t been prepared because when he got home, he was watching a livestream MSBY volleyball match. There was this understanding that had been established when he moved in because the both of you knew that you’d be powerless to the demise.
When you see Osamu on TV, that split second the camera had panned to him, you felt gravity warp. Your heart constricted and condensed while it felt like that floor beneath you had slipped away and you were just as helpless as any other leaf victim to the storm.
Akaashi tries to turn off the TV, but you manically topple over him, not wanting to miss what little camera time he might have.
“I don’t think this is good for you,” Akaashi’s eyes doesn’t leave you as you continue to watch the game. You agree, but you can’t strip your eyes away from the stream. You can’t believe what you’re seeing and you have to continuously wipe away your tears just to be sure, to ascertain that what you’re viewing is really true. It’s him. It’s him and this is the closest you’ve seen him, the closest he’s been to this home in basically two years and he looks so different.
“He grew out his hair,” you observe.
All you can do right now is play spot the difference. What parts of him do you still know? What is gone forever? Osamu’s hair is near shoulder length and you think he might have gained Atsumu’s salon habit because it’s curlier and fluffier than you knew. The color in his eyes have lost their luster, making them appear darker like a smoky quartz and he’s bigger. He’d always had a stronger upper body but you can tell he’s far more defined than you’d last seen him. He looks. Good.
You feel so small knowing how well he’s moved on without you. There’s always this small spark of hope that can’t help yourself from holding onto but seeing him on the screen, living a dream that he had once left behind, you figure it must be your turn to be abandoned for something else.
“He looks good,” you nod, trying to be strong. Because that’s all you’ve wanted. You’ve wanted him to be ok, to live out the life he desired, whatever that may be and regardless of how it involved you. “He looks good. I’m so–”
“You don’t–”
“–proud of him.”
The admittance makes you burst, diving head first onto the floor and crying into the rug. Mumu comes to rest between your legs, wary of Akaashi as he does his best to console you which alternates between a hand down your back and simply hovering over your figure.
But then you hear the announcer and how the music stops, and immediately your head lifts up because you know what the sound of those footsteps mean.
Miya Atsumu is on court, serving the ball with just as much assured confidence as you had left him. He passes to his brother where they easily make a point and you watch the two boys celebrate. The camera eats it up, their facial expressions, the way they hold each other in a solidified joy, and you see it. You see the true reason he’s left this all behind. This was the life he was meant to share.
And you were never meant to be a part of it.
It was delusional of you to think that their bond had enough space for you to fit in.
Of course, as much as you tell yourself Osamu’s happiness is the most important thing to witness, it still sends you on a spiral that neither Akaashi or Mumu can bring you out of. Business slows down when you can’t provide proper service and Akaashi struggles to pick up the labor you can’t complete. Days pass in a haze where you burn things by accident and your mindlessness has you putting in two servings of soy instead.
You wallow in your sheets, so worn that the Osamu’s essence has filtered through the gaps and all that’s saturated it is your misery. Mumu leisurely snoozes beside you, happy to keep you company.
Akaashi tries to persuade you out of bed with ice cream.
You shuffle to the side of the bed pressed against the wall and tuck yourself into the crevice, “no thank you.”
He ignores you and opens the door and you whine, noisy and petulant. “This one is from Shizuku and Hayashi. They’ve missed you.”
You instantly sit up, interested because Hayashi’s ice cream had been a favorite of Osamu’s. Whenever he’d have a bad day and their schedules lined up, the two men with their solid stature would gossip in the alleyway, the brick wall separating them. One would be devouring an onigiri while the other relished the fox shaped ice cream he’d always be given as payment.
You’d peek your head out the alley door whenever you could never find Osamu in the kitchen or in his office. The alley was the only other place he’d be and Hayashi would prompt you to come out, sit and gossip with them. He’d leave so he could serve you an ice cream of your own, but you suspect he’d take longer on purpose so that you two could spend some time alone.
(“Have you heard about Shizuku and Hayashi?” Osamu asks once the confectioner steps back into his building. Your response comes for the back of your throat, a soft hum while busy licking the dessert your boyfriend offered. He laughs when he sees you nibble off the candy eye of the animal, leaving him a little lopsided but far more endearing. “Damn, I said ya could give it a try, not eat all of it.”
“I was hungry and you weren’t inside.”
“Ya could have made yaself some food. I’ve taught you enough to be self-sufficient.”
You shake your head immediately, “doesn’t taste the same. Stop changing the subject. What’s going on with Hayashi and Shizuku?”
Despite all the time you’ve spent with him, all the different faces and expressions you’ve been gifted to witness, his smile still disarms you. It’s the right combination of conniving and whimsy that has your heart traipsing the edge of a cliff.
“I was talking to the Grandma that’s got the okonomiyaki shop right there, ya know?” He points with his ice cream whose lifespan is slowly disappearing, “and she told me how she went into Hayashi’s shop and he had a full bouquet of flowers.”
“Oh, that’s nice. I wonder who got it for him.”
Osamu snorts, “Shizuku obviously. Who else would have?”
“Osamu,” you give him a discriminatory look, “are you starting rumors.”
“No, hear me out. Shizuku came by yesterday and was asking me for some cooking tips.”
“You?”
“Yeah, we have a truce right now. The onigiri won her over.” You giggle, snatching another bite from Osamu’s hand. He’s too busy telling his story to even admonish you. “And she was telling me she planned on making grilled mackerel and guess what Hayashi had for dinner last night apparently.”
You hum forcibly, drawing it out and giggle when Osamu gets irritated with you. “Mackerel?” He nods and the image of those two makes you laugh.
Hayashi’s just like the ice cream he serves, a man who longs for the richer things in life. He has women swooning out of his restaurant with his velvet words and Shizuku is a woman who knows what she wants, spritely and tough. She’d be perfect to keep him in line.
“Now that I think about it, they’re surprisingly good for each other.”
Osamu agrees, “Grandma says Hayashi needs to lock it in and get married.”
“Shizuku’s a catch! He’d be wrong not to.”
Your statement dulls the mood because Osamu turns quiet. He hands you his ice cream for you to finish, Hayashi forgotten, and his hands clasp together, right pad of his thumb running over the back of his left. His side profile is soft, round cheeks over a strong jaw.
“Ya know that I–”
“We don’t have to get married for me to know that you love me,” you say quickly. You don’t want him to finish the thought because he gets caught up in the guilt a lot. You’re not certain what it exactly is aside from the fact that he doesn’t want your future to be tied down to one as unstable as his, as if marriage would be the only thing that could permanently hold the two of you together. As far as you know, he’s all you want for the rest of your life and Osamu makes you feel like he thinks the same.
Your admittance relieves the weight on his back. He straightens up, a thankful expression on his gaze when he rolls an arm out to wrap around you. You fit right into the crook of his body, pleasantly warm with your ice cream.
“I love ya, I really do.” You nod. “One day, when I get my shit together, I promise I’ll make ya mine for real.”
He says it like you’re not his already. He says it like this relationship is less than the ones acknowledged by law or the gods or whoever presides over the validity of unity.
He says it like he really does love you.)
Thinking about it makes you cry despite Hayashi’s ice cream. He artfully crafted the gift in a pint that he must have bought from the store because you’ve never seen him sell take-home products. A frog decorates the surface complete with blush, large, round eyes, and the brightest of smiles. Usually the confectionery is an immediate remedy but it looks like your sorrows have fallen so deep that its effects are hardly uplifting. Akaashi hands you a letter made of cardstock in a saturated red and shaped like a heart.
“What’s this?”
“Open it,” is all he replies.
You do as he says and find a poorly drawn replication of what you assume is you, serving a triangular item to a smaller stick figure human.
“That’s from Asako. She missed you when you left early today.”
Asako is the little girl who orders a plain onigiri with extra sesame seeds. Exxxxtrraaaa she likes to say and you entertain her, seeing who can lengthen the word the longest. It’s an effortless game that comes with a high reward of giggles. She comes in on Fridays when her grandparents pick her up from school. They didn’t know of Onigiri Miya then so you never thought much of them, but clearly, she had thought of you.
“I understand that we opened up o.mo.ide in order to commemorate Myaa-sam and everything he’d done for this community, but have you ever stopped and thought that in the process, you’ve integrated into it yourself?”
You hadn’t. You’d been so deeply absorbed by your own troubles that you had never bothered to even look outside of yourself or Osamu.
“We’re operating at a loss right now, but there are people like Asako that rely on us to stay open. And so help me, I need you too. We promised to do this together and I refuse to let you abandon me.”
“Oh… oh, Akaashi, I’m so–” you’re forced speechless by your own guilt.
“Don’t apologize. Just.” Akaashi searches through his vocabulary, “just get better. Have you ever thought about therapy?”
Akaashi introduces you to his therapist but after two sessions, you find that the way he gels his hair back and the nasal hums he provides every time you confide in him is unsettling. The journey through therapy is not so much a journey but more like an illegal obstacle course formed with bottomless pits and thorny vines and a portable bed.
It’s physically draining and mentally exhausting that you need a nap most days. Akaashi hardly yells at you anymore when you fall asleep in the office chair while on break as long as he knows you have an appointment scheduled at the end of the week.
You go through three more therapists. This fourth one, she’s on thin ice, but you’re five months in and she’s managed to get you to stay. She encourages you to reach out to the people you love on your own and to make time for them every week.
Now you spend time teaching Mumu new tricks. He’s mastered the command ‘sit’ and is also very good at laying down. You’ve yet to teach him much else though. Monday mornings are for mahjong with Granny. Sweet as she is, that woman is a good liar and to this day, you still haven’t won a game. According to Kita, no one has yet to beat her. You’ve extended tea dates with Shizuku into dinners after you and Akaashi close. Most of the time Hayashi is there and despite Akaashi’s indifference to their relationship, every night you gossip about the way his hands would linger around her waist or how he’d whisper something in her ear while they washed dishes. When Asako visits, you untie your apron and give her grandparents a break. Only when she is done with her meal, you walk her into the back where you tell her to mind her step and you and lift her over the wall so she can knock on Hayashi’s back door for an ice cream.
People gradually enter your lives, ones that you didn’t have courage to see. With a warning text sent like an afterthought, it’s a welcome surprise to find Bokuto seated on top of your kitchen table, towering height even more pronounced, while Akaashi showcased his skill in a new apron.
“Oh?” you say and at the sight of Akaashi’s expression, all you do is smile and wish them a good time. If there is a time that Akaashi shouldn’t be burdened by you, it would be now. You are in the process of healing after all.
Suna and Aran eventually visit, dragged along by Kita. His small build compared to the two athletes make an awkward remeet amusing.
Suna scruffles your head and cups the fat of your cheeks as a greeting, “hey, Bug. Nothing kills you, huh?”
You’re grateful when Aran saves you, pulling you into a deep hug that soothes your soul. He lifts you up once just to hold you closer, and when he’s done, they all apologize for not visiting you sooner. It was shame, they admitted. Because for Osamu, they were willing to do anything to make him feel better, even if it was to perpetuate lies.
You’re at a space now where you understand because for Osamu, you know you would and will do anything for him too. No one talks about him though. No one dares mention any Miya first, and finally, you’re not compelled to bring them up either.
Of course, it’s just as tumultuous of a ride, even more so now that you’re more aware of your issues. Some days, the social vigor of running a restaurant is so draining that all you can do is keep your head down in the back. Count inventory and roll orders whenever Akaashi places them in. Sometimes it’s even harder than that, where you end up at the convenience store with one bottle of sake. Usually the guilt hits you half a bottle in and you end up pouring the rest over the nearest drain. This time, halfway isn’t nearly enough to ease the pain.
With the amount of volleyball players that have re-entered your life, an old interview of Osamu’s is in your recommended videos to watch. You can’t not click it when the thumbnail is a closeup top angle of his face, long hair pulled into a messy bun.
He stands the same with hands on his hips and in a wide stance but even the way he speaks sounds different. Same voice, different person. Different words.
The comments prove that he has a lot of fans from all over the world. They shout words of affection, recount the best games they’ve witnessed him in and no one mentions a single word about Onigiri Miya.
You’re at a point in your life now that any sort of Osamu brings on a general longing. You miss him so much you’re willing to take whatever you can have.
The realization makes you feel like you’ve lost him again because this place, the venue where you labor yourself until your back is broken despite your lack of knowledge had been a huge part of him. Now it is all lost to his pro volleyball glamor.
Onigiri Miya Osamu will eventually fade from existence. Once more, you begin grieving.
Despite your coping methods, it takes a long time to build yourself out of your rut. The gloom lasts for days and life has a predilection for stacking up your misery.
“Miya–”
Akaashi doesn’t have to finish his sentence. The impact already hits your stomach at the surname. It doesn’t matter which Miya it is. A Miya has stepped foot into this building, the first time since the fire. Suspense boils in your gut and its noxious fumes cut the breath from your lungs.
You’ve thought about this moment in great lengths, anxiously in bed or idle thoughts as you wait for the train. Preparation has never been your strong suit though. The fact is clear with the condition of your restaurant that struggles to even get by.
Blonde hair glistens against the backdrop of an afternoon sun and distracts you from the bells that ring when he opens the door. He glances around the walls with his mouth agape, focusing mostly on the origin story next to the host stand. It’s just a few old newspaper clippings of articles and one image of Osamu’s face. It was one of your few stipulations. He must always be there to greet the customers.
When Atsumu’s gaze finally finds yours, you can’t help but grip the towel tighter in your hands. Misplaced anger simmers right behind your tightly pursed lips. His face is so similar. It’s the closest anyone could get to a clone, and the distinct features you’ve been searching for, the ones that belong to the Osamu you once knew, are not there.
It’s a lot. It’s been a bad couple of weeks.
But Atsumu doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that you’ve worked yourself raw and instead of building calluses, all you've done is made yourself tender.
He passes the backline and you find yourself taking a step back towards the display case as he crosses your first line of defense. He acts like nothing’s changed, that he’s still got free reign of the place and maybe it hasn’t. When he pulls you in, when he mutters ‘I love ya’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over again, you fall apart in his arms.
You fist his shirt at the chest and sob in a way you haven’t allowed yourself since the hospital, since you’d seen any of the Miyas last. You cry into his chest, condense the past years you’ve had to make do with just your hands or sleeves or pillows. There’s rage and pity, but most of all, there is relief. Because as much as Akaashi has sat beside you while you mourned, and how everyone had gathered to remind you of your worth, they could never fill the space that any Miya left behind. None of them understood what it was like to lose Osamu. Not Myaa-sam, or Chef, or Oji-Samu. Youhad borne that misery alone.
You can’t fault Osamu for not choosing you. And Mama Miya has tried reaching out despite your lack of response.
But Atsumu, he could have stayed. You thought there was kinship there, a shared love for his brother. You thought you could have shared the sorrow too. Instead, he’d whisked away his family to Osaka to escape any reminder of the previous life he lived. He took everything and he left you behind.
Atsumu follows you to the ground when you literally fall apart in his arms. He hugs you tighter and he ignores the stack of napkins shelved right next to you, knowing that his shirt is more than enough.
Atsumu is eventually able to get you to a park near the restaurant once you calmed down. You both lay next to each other on the grass and the sun’s power is too strong for your swollen eyes. You have to balance your water bottle over them as shade. Atsumu offers the sunglasses he likes to keep clipped to the collar of his shirt. You accept it cautiously, wary of taking too much.
“I’m sorry.”
His apology is overwhelming and the corners of your eyes overflow, unprepared.
“Don’t,” you sputter out when you have the breath, a sting clinging to the bridge of your nose, “don’t. I can’t take it. Say something else.”
“I–” the way he blunders means he must have prepared a speech and now you’ve thrown a wrench in his plans. “I… uh. It’s good to see ya.”
“Oh, gods. Why are you even here?”
“I wanted to see ya,” he answers lamely.
There’s still anger in your chest and for the past couple of years, you’d been aiming that ire at Akaashi unjustly. Atsumu’s expression from the day at the hospital still keeps you up sometimes and it’s taken months of therapy for you to realize that his emotions were also misplaced. You’d dealt with pieces of the guilt and there’s still a lot that you need to address, but you understand now, that the burden of being was never yours alone to bear.
“Now? When you’ve had all this time?”
“I know. I–” he stops himself from another apology. You’re grateful he’s grown the maturity to keep his mouth shut when asked. “I just wanted to prepare ya.”
“For what?”
“Samu went no contact on me.”
You rise to your elbows in shock, worry prickling prickling your heart, “and Ma?”
“Not Ma,” he shakes his head quickly. “He calls her sometimes, not enough, but more than me.”
“Why?”
Atsumu breathes deeply, worn and weary. He brings his arms back and rests his head on them, eyes up at the sky watching a kite flown by two children, probably siblings. “Why fucking not, ya know?”
“No, Atsumu, I wouldn’t know when you basically went no contact on me.”
Atsumu pinches his bottom lip between his front teeth. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you can see the way they lighten from the pressure. He sighs again.
“I deserve this, I know. But Osamu didn’t. I fucked up but I had no clue what I was doing. Ya gotta understand. Ya were there and ya saw him and how beaten down he was and maybe I did put blame on everyone but myself. I hated Onigiri Miya for even getting him caught up in that sort of mess, and when his dreams lined up with mine, I figured it would be okay. We could leave it all behind. I tried to play God with my own brother’s life and he let me. Everyone did.”
“He listened to you?”
Atsumu shakes his head, “crazy, right? He was lost and unsure, but I was confident, ya know? I just felt so certain I was doing the right thing and I think that’s the only reason why he let himself be led all this way.”
“So what changed?”
“Are ya kidding?” Atsumu looks at you, and when he realizes you don’t have a clue, he turns to face you. “The answer is you.”
It’s a fucked up thing for Atsumu to say. The words erupt an ache in your chest. You curl into yourself, bring your knees up so that you flinch away from the pain but Atsumu grabs hold of both of your hands. He grips tightly in an attempt to siphon the pain.
“A love like yours ain’t something easy to forget.”
You remember the hospital, “that’s what Ma said.”
“It’s exactly what she told him when he left. I don’t know how he found out, but I saw that he looked up Onigiri Miya the day before he left and he’s been gone since. For about two weeks now, I think.”
“No,” you shake your head, closing your eyes to soften the blow of his words but even in the darkness, a stinging, buzzing pain wracks through your body. It’s everywhere all at once but Atsumu holds you through it.
“I love ya. I promise, I do. There wasn’t a day I didn’t regret what I did, but believe me when I tell ya. I do. I love ya,” He takes your hands that have been bunched up into fists and presses them onto the soft skin below his eyes where it’s sticky and wet. “And I’m so sorry I had to put ya through this and made ya go through this all alone, so if ya moved on, if ya got someone else, I understand and I’ll figure something out.”
You try to pull yourself from his grip but Atsumu holds onto you, head bent in repentance and the sincerity of it all spouts more tears.
“I’ll handle Osamu if that’s the case. I know Akaashi’s a really good guy so–”
You take your conjoined hands and jab him across the forehead. Atsumu sputters in shock, letting you go in the process while he tries to soothe the pain.
“Does it look like I’ve moved on, idiot?” You knock soft fists into his chest like a child. “Would I be crying in what I consider my own brother’s arms in a park if I moved on?”
“I just wanted–”
“And Akaashi? Fucking Akaashi? He’s a good guy,” you mock, irritated, “of course he is. Shut up. You know I’m in love with your brother.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Stop hitting me. I said I was sorry already.”
You make sure to put some extra force in that final punch, “you’re going to say it for the rest of your life.”
Atsumu nods gratefully, “of course.”
“And,” the words hurt coming out, “and don’t run off on me again.”
What makes the tears slip this time is forgiveness. Atsumu holds your hand against his chest where you can feel his heart. You’ve missed him, longed for him just as much as you have Osamu and slowly, you feel yourself start to heal.
“He might not need a brother right now, but I do.”
Atsumu kisses you on the cheek and pulls you close. He holds you in his arms with the same exact care he had for Osamu in the hospital, with the same protectiveness of an elder brother.
Finally, you feel understood.
Atsumu spends his off season in Hyogo where you find out Ma has moved back. Akaashi doesn’t take kindly to a change in routines, but he begins helping out where he can along with Ma.
When Ma first sees you, all she can do is hold you at arm’s length, picking her vernacular apart with words that she wanted to say. You just shake your head and let yourself be swallowed by her cardigan comfort. She encourages you to come to family dinner and you have to ask if Akaashi is invited too. She pats his cheek and says of course like the question was unnecessary to begin with.
The world shifts almost exactly the way you imagined it. Life has a funny way of doing that. Atsumu helps around the restaurant and Ma stops by with some of her friends after an activity. She meets Asako who she adores and is adored just as equally. Ma takes ice cream duty from you while Atsumu, because it’s his off season, likes to overstay his welcome at your apartment. Akaashi kicks him out and the athlete tries to use Mumu as an excuse. Mumu, unfortunately, likes Atsumu even less than Akaashi.
Sometimes Atsumu will try to broach the topic of contacting Osamu, something that both you and Ma are against. Osamu has been through enough, you both reason. And he’s probably had his fill of someone telling him what to do.
The restaurant fills and though you know that yours or Akaashi’s food cannot compare, the laughter spills out the doors from friends and family and neighbors that continuously visit. They manage when you accidentally don’t order enough fish, opting for broth and rice and when you run out of beverages, someone offers to run to the convenience store to buy drinks.
It’s not a perfect venue, but it embodies Osamu’s very being, a place that has become a home.
One day, Akaashi is out of town and Atsumu helps you while he’s gone. He’s not as focused as your usual business partner, whose eyes continuously drift out onto the streets and he even leaves early when you haven’t finished clearing up for the day.
“Alright, I gotta go but I’ll lock the door,” Atsumu runs off quickly. “Ya can handle this, right?”
You look at the stack of dishes and the ready to go items that haven’t been put away yet. It’s not much, but it would certainly be easier if he stayed. Unfortunately, his question is apparently rhetorical because the man does not wait for an answer. He reiterates his farewell and with a jingle, the door is shut.
“Okay,” you say, blinking at his figure that eventually passes a corner and disappears. You scan your surroundings, running a mental image of what would be the most efficient process. Wipe down the tables, you decide. Some haven’t been bussed yet so you head over with a fresh rag and empty tray.
Atsumu likes to turn up the music the moment the o.mo.ide closes as a way to decompress. You hum along. It’s a mindless process now that you’ve done it so many times. Clear the tables. Sanitize the tables. Sanitize the chair. Bend down eye level with the table and make sure you haven’t missed any crumbs. You’re not even thinking, just lost in the routine and it’s why the sound of the bell startles you.
It’s so like Atsumu to forget to lock the door. You compose yourself with a slow inhale and prepare for an irate customer who might argue at your innocent error, but the breath expels from your mouth.
You stand there stupidly, hands holding your chest like you’re about to dive backwards into water. It’s that feeling, where two characters catch eyes on a crowded street. Despite everything that has happened and all that separates you, he holds you captive. Your feet are planted to the ground and everything, heart, mind, body, and breath is under his power.
“O – Oh…”
Even saying his name feels foreign because as much as you’ve thought of him, you can’t remember when was the last time you did. It feels foreign on your tongue and you can’t blurt anything out but the first letter, and you witness his demeanor change.
“Osamu,” you say only because you think it’ll make him smile. It does and because of it, you want to fall down on your knees.
Everything, everything that you had observed different about him, his hair that looks like he’s cut but is still longer than you remember, the cut of his jaw that’s sharper, his brows that he’d boast about being strong look trimmed, and even his choice of clothes is different, opting for a sleeveless tee over his favored oversized shirts, all of that is negligent because seeing him once more, you recognize he is still your Osamu.
“Hi,” he greets and your heart flutters. Was this really how it felt when you were falling in love because everything he does brings upon a desire that you doubt could ever be quelled. “Are ya closed?”
“Yes,” you answer honestly and the wilt of his face makes you overcompensate, “but– but it’s fine! You’re come in… I mean, oh…”
This is so fucking embarrassing. “You’re always welcome. Come in and have a seat wherever you want.”
He points at a bar seat with a head tilt. You nod and make sure to lock the door behind him. The bus tub, the rag, you forego it all and pass the swinging door that separates the register and eating area. Your hands perspire at the stress of perfection. It’s a foreign thing for him to be seated while you serve him and maybe it’s you overthinking, but it feels like he’s watching your every move.
Osamu quickly diverts his gaze when you turn around. His not so subtle glancing of the venue, head craned back as he looks at the decorations on the walls and the lighting fixtures you and Akaashi picked, amuses you but you try not to show it too hard. Osamu seems shyer than you’re used to. That’s okay. You’re nervous too.
“Did you come hungry?”
“I did.”
Ease washes over you. Thank the gods, that has stayed the same.
You apologize for the lack of options and Osamu tries to downplay the inconvenience. “It’s okay. I didn’t… Well I did, but I didn’t really come here to eat.”
“No?”
Osamu plays with a stray grain of rice between his fingers. He rolls the sticky piece into a ball, back and forth as he thinks of what he wants to say.
“No, I… To be honest, I didn’t think I was going to go inside.”
“Oh.”
“But I…” then he stops his rolling and he looks at you, like really looks at you. And whatever it is, you feel it too. “But I just had to.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah, well, it took me all up until closing to work up the courage.”
“That’s okay,” you tell him. You pull up the stool near the rear register and situate yourself across from him. The boundary that separates you two is familiar, 76 centimeters of space that you know by heart and it makes conversation flow smoother. “I’m happy you came at all. How was your day?”
“Shit.”
The answer takes you by surprise, him too by the way he stops chewing, lips puckering close together as he ruminates whether or not meant to say those words. But he owns them, and continues on.
“My smoothie spilled all over my cup holder.”
“Oh no. Did you ask for another one?”
“Pretty sure they tried to sabotage me by giving me a cracked cup.”
You break in the most unexpected way. A smile splits your lips and a giggle strikes through your chest. Everything feels so similar, so weightless. It feels like a dam has been broken with just a couple of words.
“It ain’t funny.”
You agree, “I know. It’s the worst.”
“Then why are ya laughing?”
“I don’t even know. It’s not funny at all.”
“It’s not. I had to stuff a bunch of napkins in there.”
“No, it’s going to get sticky!”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Cry.”
Osamu sputters, rice flying from his mouth. He’s embarrassed for only a millisecond, fearful of your reaction, but all it does is make you bend over, sincerely losing control of your body. Osamu joins you, laughing at who knows what, but you’re grateful. For as much pain misery brings, it takes so little for you to be happy.
“Fuck,” he says once he’s able to catch a breath. He says quietly with wonder and it has your giggles soften to match his energy. “I’ve imagined every way this meeting could go.”
Your heart constricts like it’s being pinched from the bottom. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”
“No,” Osamu shakes his head genuinely. You almost apologize. “I thought I’d mess it all up but,” he looks at you and it’s the gaze you had been searching when he had first woken up all those years ago. A quiet ardor, soft around the edges but saturated in passion, “but I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”
“Stop,” you have to hide your lips.
Osamu doesn’t understand, back straightening, “what?”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Saying those things.”
His lips pucker themselves out, “why can’t I?”
“Because,” you blink furiously, willing the tears away because you want to remember this with clarity, “you’re making me too happy.”
He grins too, but it’s still shy as he bends his head down, nodding slightly as he does, “how do ya think I feel?”
There’s a calmness that settles now that your mania has subsided. Your eyes appraise, trying to find more topics to talk about so he can stay just a little longer.
“Are those cigarettes?” you observe the square box in his breast pocket.
He nods as he pulls them out, holding them in his hands as if they were novel.
“Are you smoking a lot?”
He looks at you curiously, “did I used to?”
The past tense makes you stumble, but you do your best to answer him honestly. “Sometimes. Only the bad days. That’s how we knew you were having a bad day because we’d smell them on you.”
He’d lean his chest against the railings like his body was too heavy, curved his body like a treble clef as he smoked. And often you’d find him in the alleyway, a cigarette in one hand and food for the cats in another.
“It’s crazy how I do shit without knowing the real meaning.”
You shrug, “habits are harder to break than memory.”
Osamu nods. A beat passes before he continues the conversation on his own.
“I’ve had this same pack since I left the hospital.” He opens it and reveals only a few sticks missing, “play with it for the most part but I’ll smoke one when I get overwhelmed. I dreamt of you once and my heart wouldn’t stop beating. I had to go outside and calm myself. Nearly gave Tsumu a heart attack when he noticed my bed was empty.”
“He’s a worrywort.”
The sound Osamu makes is not kind. There’s still animosity for his brother, “even more so now.”
“He means well.”
“Sure he does.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your apology takes him by surprise. Osamu shuts the pack and places it back in his pocket. “For what?”
“For, I don’t know.” A lot of things. For burdening him with faded memories, for not being who he needed, for not being enough, “for being in your dream.”
“What are ya saying? It was a good dream. It felt… nice.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods earnestly while looking at you. “I can’t explain it because I really don’t know the specifics, but it felt good. Made me wish I dreamed about ya more.”
The sunset is almost complete, dark orange hues streak the tile floor. Osamu’s been done eating for minutes now. With his plate clean and the conversation running its course, it feels like a good place for this to end. But you don’t think you can part with him just yet. A culmination of yearning and grieving and mourning and aching has led to this and you’ll be damned if it’s over now.
You hop off the stool and Osamu sighs. He matches your movements, slowly getting up, too. He looks ready to leave but you won’t let him go without trying. Not this time.
“Would you like to see the back?”
“Really?” his giddiness prompts yours.
“Yeah, of course.” You lead him to the back and grab your apron. Then you point at the black one on the last hook closest to the back alley door . “Take that apron.”
He hooks his finger around the neck, “this one?”
You nod. “Yeah, that one’s yours.”
He takes it in his hand, shy and foreign in his fingers. It’s different, clumsier, but it’s familiar enough to let your heart burn.
He pulls the fabric over his head and adjusts it along his shoulder. The apron is knotted up by habit, his hands reaching there after the three usual tugs and when he looks up, your stomach swirls at the sight of his beam.
He’s everything you’ve missed in more ways than one, but finally, thank gods, finally. He’s right where he belongs.
MY FAVORITE CHRISTMAS MOVIE TURNED FORMULA ONE 🙏🙏
A Christmas Prince (2017)- c.leclerc
₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡
summary: When a young aspiring journalist is sent abroad to cover a a coronation, she hears rumours about the 'Prince of F1' and goes undercover to investigate them.
pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem! reader
9.8k words
disclaimer: i do not own anything in these films, the only original character is the character y/n.
‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡
You jumped up from your desk as soon as you saw him, and trailed him through the office. “Excuse me, sorry- Ron?!”
He turned to you. “Not now.”
“This will just take a second, I just have some questions about your article? The fashion week piece that I’m editing?”
He groaned, clearly uninterested in giving you the time of day. “Go for it.”
Nevertheless, you continued on. How could someone who makes so many noticeable mistakes have a higher job than you? How could someone so self-centred and rude be in that position of power? “The main problem is that Max wanted 300 words, and you’ve written 600, and also the models and designers you quoted weren’t even at the event so…”
“Y/n,” he sighed, putting a hand on your shoulder. “I don’t have time for you right now, just go off and fix it? Yeah?” he smiled, that punchable, asshole smile, and walked off. You rolled your eyes.
Working as a journalist bitch was not your plan when you moved to New York, but alas, your rent does not magically pay itself. Categorically, you enjoyed your job. Decent pay, good co-workers (minus asshole Ron), and it was pretty cool to be in one of the high-rise offices of New York, especially around Christmas. But… the whole getting to write articles part wasn’t something you got to do. You were an editor now, not a journalist. It was… slightly infuriating to know that someone less qualified got paid more money to write shit that you always ended up rewriting for him, but as we mentioned before, bills don’t pay themselves.
“Let me guess, you’re going to completely rewrite the article and save his ass?” Damon, your best friend, asked.
You faked a smile. “It’s almost like that’s my job!”
He rolled his eyes. “Tell him to shove it,” he scoffed. “Any of us could write that better- with our eyes closed!”
You groaned as you sat down.
“How the fuck are you ever going to be taken seriously as a real journalist if you are such a good editor?” he added. “He’ll never promote you if you’re always going to stay as his bitch.”
The ding of your laptop ended the conversation
Max wants you in her office- NOW!
“Oh fuck,” you said under your breath.
“What?” Damon asked, looking over your shoulder. “Oh… good luck.”
You walked into her glass office, praying to something to make this as painless as possible. “If this is because of Ron’s article-”
“It’s not, sit down. I have something else for you,” she smiled. You followed her instructions and stared at her, unused to the kindness. “What do you know about the Royal Family of Monaco?”
“Monaco?” you wracked your brain. “The King died a few years ago, the new King just got married, and the other two are racecar drivers, right?”
“Exactly, anything about the second eldest Prince?” she mused.
You grimaced. “He’s more loyal to Ferrari than his girlfriends and he’s a royal disgrace?”
She grinned. “Yes! Exactly that! Obviously, Charles moved off from the royal duties a long time ago, but Lorenzo has decided to abdicate since his fiance has fallen ill, in Monaco there’s a rule that the throne can be uncrowned for one year and it turns out Lorenzo abdicated in December last year.”
“So Charles has to take the throne?” you asked. “But he’s a driver there’s no way he’d… what happens then?”
She smirked. “That’s exactly what you’re going to find out! His Royal Highness is due back at the Castle this weekend, but in case he also abdicates, I need someone to write on it! There’s a press conference on the 18th, and I want your boots on the ground!”
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but why me?” you smiled, genuinely curious.
“You’re intelligent, talented, hungry for a story- also none of my regular writers are willing to give up their Christmas,” she admitted. You nodded, knowing you were a last resort.
“Thank you for this opportunity, I won’t let you down.”
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“He’s gorgeous!” Damon fawned over the pictures of him.
You shrugged. “He’s such a douche, I cannot believe people still find him attractive after all the stuff he’s done.”
“Who wouldn't forgive a face and body like that?”
You looked at the photos. Yes, he was conventionally attractive, but his track record of scorned girlfriends, and the semi-awful fashion sense (who , over the age of 12, still wears tie dye jeans?) put you off. “He’s not my type.”
He stared at you. “He’s everyone’s type. Everyone is a Ferrari fan, and everyone is a Charles LeClerc fan.”
“I still don’t see it,” you shrugged.
“You should try to seduce him! Make him your husband and just excuse all the cheating so you can be royal and rich,” he suggested.
“I do not want that,” you scoffed. “Plus, I’m not on the market right now.”
He groaned. “You two broke up a whole year ago. Don’t let him yuck your yum 12 months on!”
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
You walked into Rudy’s, your dad’s diner, you couldn’t but feel the weight of the conversation you were just about to have. You had spent Christmas as just the two of you every year since your mom had passed, you didn’t want to just leave him alone. The regulars raved about the pies as you stepped in from the cold, snowy air.
“The usual?” your dad asked, you nodded and smiled, waving to some of the regulars you knew. “How are you doing sweetie?”
“Good, great!” You smiled, plastering on your best ‘i’m fine!’ face.
“What happened?” he asked, concerned. You deflated.
“I have good news and bad news,” you explained.
“Bad news first,” he decided.
“I won’t be here on Christmas- but, It’s because I got my first story.”
He grinned, pulling you into a hug. “That’s amazing! Your first real story! This is your big break!”
“You don’t mind that I’ll miss Christmas?”
He shook his head. “This is your big break, take it. Don’t worry about me. You go over to wherever, and you make me proud.”
You smiled, pulling him into another hug, and thanked him.
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The flight was long and uncomfortable, thus the joys of economy, and the dickhead that stole your cab wasn’t much nicer either.
You and the rest of the press were all then bundled into cars and brought to the palace.
“First time?” The reporter beside you questioned. You nodded your head, slightly embarrassed about the fact that they could tell, but he just chuckled. “Word to the wise, pick a new career.”
The rest of the car was an eruption of laughter, small agreements, or a scoff. You chuckled along, but you couldn’t help but feel small. You were the only woman in your car, the only new reporter, and-
Woah. Holy shit.
The Monaco Palace.
Any and all other thoughts were pushed to the back of your mind as you stared in awe at the beautiful structure. The wide windows and beautiful pillars, all decorated perfectly for Christmas. Though it wasn’t snowing (like back home), you did appreciate the gesture of making it feel like Christmas. You were enchanted by the palace, it stood tall on the edge of the bay, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the gorgeous scenery.
You walked in behind the rest of the press, a nervous energy buzzing in the air. Prince Charles was an F1 favourite, a master of the sport, and now he had to give it all up for the crown. Everyone was more than excited to see if he’d actually show up, which seemed increasingly unlikely as the moments ticked away. He did every single piece of press Ferrari or the FIA asked him to do, and he seemed to enjoy the majority of them, but the second the palace asked him to do something, he was ‘too busy’. It left a bad taste in your mouth. You were exactly a patriot, but you thought that one should at least appreciate the fact that they were a part of their country, and the people deserved to hear from their Prince, not only through sports interviews. He’d been photoshopped into the palace's Christmas cards for the past 4 years, for god’s sake.
You pushed your opinion of him to the side and turned your attention to the palace. The tall white walls and arched ceilings, the beautiful and historic artwork hanging off the walls, god, you’d give anything to be allowed free reign in here with your camera. Your attention was then grabbed by the PR liaison, Penelope, standing at the panel desk looking increasingly nervous.
After another 30 minutes of waiting, the repress started getting restless. Lorenzo was never late. Hervé had never been late. Pascale was never late. Arthur was never late. Charles was the outlier. He slept with too many women, drank too much, and ‘disgraced the crown’, according to the Monegasque reporters beside you. You didn’t care much for all of the gossip pages he frequented, and only watched F1 on the occasion that your father wanted to watch it. But, it was clear that he thought that following his dreams of being a racecar driver were more important than his duties, and while you understood the push and pull of having a dream, there were also expectations to meet, and he didn’t meet them.
“We regret to inform you that this press conference has been cancelled-”
She was cut off by about 200 reporters shouting and groaning.
You politely raised your hand, and all eyes turned to you. “When can we expect the press conference to be rescheduled?” You asked and the room was alive again, this time, in agreement.
“As of right now, we won’t be rescheduling,” she offered a polite smile as everyone collectively groaned again.
“Well can we at least expect a date at which he’ll be crowned?”
“He will be crowned on Christmas Eve, at the annual Christmas Ball,” she smiled.
“Which is a private event, so what are we to tell your people? They can’t see him getting crowned as their next king? No media are allowed in, no cameras, phones are barely allowed. What will your people think?” you questioned, your voice dripping with condescension. The rest of the reporters cheered you on, no one had stood up against his behaviour before. No one.
She faltered, and then the room started being cleared by security, much to the chagrin of the rest of you. You were kicked out, a collection of grumbles and groans, knowing Christmas was ruined because of some stupid Prince and his childish antics.
You couldn’t go home empty handed. You’d never get a chance like this again, so breaking and entering into the Monaco Palace wasn’t that bad of a crime, right?
You came into a long hallway, the marble walls and floors taking your full attention, until you came across a picture. It was the royal family, a picture of the five of them, taken before Hervé passed. Charles was only 20, Arthur was only 16. Lorenzo was 29. And they lost their father. In the photo, they’re sitting at a dinner table, looking happy. It didn’t look posed, or professionally taken. It looked like it had been taken on an iphone. Charles was smiling bright, his arm around his little brother and his father. Lorenzo’s arm around Pascale as she held Arthur’s hand. Charles was truly the thing that dragged you in. His bright smile, eyes crinkled at the edges, laughing so hard he must’ve felt sick. The way everyone else’s eyes were on him. He was like a magnet. Not because of his good looks or lovably dorky personality, but because of something else. He was just… interesting.
“Can I help you?” a security guard asked, his voice booming and strong. You jumped.
“Gosh! Sorry, umm-yes-no-um-”
“American?” he asked, and you were sure you were busted. But then he smiled. “Follow me.”
You followed him through the halls until you were in front of a tall woman with brunette hair. You knew who she was, her name was Georgia, the palace coordinator. She was terrifying to stand in front of. You’d never felt so judged in your life.
“You’re the new tutor?” she questioned. You just nodded. “I thought you couldn’t come until January?”
“My last job finished up early,” you lied. A sinking pit in your stomach started growing, but you just swallowed it. You’d deal with it later.
“Oh,” she smiled. “Perfect, I’ll bring you to meet him,” she smiled.
What were you getting yourself into?
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Turns out Arthur LeClerc needed a tutor to help with his engineering course. Thank god you’d dated that engineer who wanted to mansplain every single part of a car to you, and you could get by the maths with a calculator. Arthur wasn’t exactly a fan of having someone younger than him tutor him, he felt stupid, you could tell. You did everything you could to reassure him that it truly was alright to need help, and he was starting to come around, but every time you two really started talking, Charles would appear. And yes, Charles had been that asshole who’d taken your cab at the airport. Even more of a reason to hate him.
“Arthur!” Charles called up as you finished explaining a sum, which he was finally getting, but of course, Charles had to distract him. “Sim work?” he offered, popping his head in the door. You frowned. He was clean-shaven, unlike the small goatee and mustache he’d been sporting before. Objectively, he was attractive either way, but you personally preferred the facial hair.
He frowned back at you. “What?”
Arthur attempted to get up to join his brother, but you held him down to his seat with a hand on his shoulder. He sighed.
“What?” you repeated. “Arthur is busy with lessons, your Royal Highness, you can come back in 2 hours, when he’s finished,” you smile politely, though your tone was less than warm.
“2 hours?” Arthur sighed, looking at you with pleading eyes.
“I’m not the one who failed their midterm,” you said, matter-of-factly. He nodded, agreeing.
“Why did you look at me like that?” Charles smirked, walking into the study.
“Like what?” you asked, engrossed in the work, trying to decipher Arthur’s handwriting.
“Like you didn’t like what you saw,” he mused.
You scoffed. “I was just surprised by the baby face, that’s all.”
He frowned, making Arthur laugh. “Baby face?”
“You look like a 12 year old boy without facial hair, it freaks me out,” you pointed out.
Charles left the room with whatever dignity he still had intact, and you and Arthur rather enjoyed the teasing.
“Will you be my guest tonight?” he turned to you, discarding his work.
“What’s tonight?” you asked.
“Some boring drinks and dinner thing with the whole of Charles’s team, and other nobility. It’s going to be such a chore to go without you, please come?”
You smiled. “I’d be honoured.”
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You kind of hated the whole ‘double agent’ thing. You were getting on really well with Arthur, Charles was enough to stomach (in small intervals), and Lorenzo had been too busy to really meet. Georgia had been on you about different things, but you always had to remember that a) your name was in fact not Y/n, but Martha. And b) You still had to be a reporter. You still had to break into these people’s privacy, and make it a story. You were pretty sure what you were doing was illegal in America, so you were just hoping it wasn’t a crime here. As the night went on you snapped pictures of Pascale, Lorenzo, some of the other nobility and some of the important F1 drivers (a friend was doing an expose on one of them for cheating so… yeah). You didn’t catch a glimpse of his Royal (pain-in-the-ass) Highness all night, that was, until he made an(uncharacteristically (not)) late arrival. You also left Arthur to go hang out with his girlfriend, who had surprised him this weekend by arriving a whole week early.
“How are you enjoying the party?” Arthur smiled, walking up behind you as you tried to take photos of the nobility as secretly as possible. You quickly hid your phone.
“Very much so, thank you for inviting me,” you smiled.
“Staring at Charles?” he questioned, noticing how you’d been following him around the room.
“Trying to find something to eat,” you lied. Again, that pit in your stomach grew every single day that you were at the palace. “Not a fan of the meat-jelly.”
He grimaced. “Me neither, follow me.”
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Possibly the best gingerbread cookies entered your mouth soon after. “Wow,” you nodded, and he smiled back. You stared at him. “Where’s Jade?”
“She’s off with her friends,” he answered, but you knew it was a guess.
“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? You hated me three days ago,” you chuckled.
“You’re not like everyone here,” he shrugged. “You’re normal.”
You smiled. “I know I’m, normal, btu so are you-”
“A ‘normal’ 24 year old who has a palace and a crown, as well as an affinity for racing cars. I’m so normal.”
You laughed. “No one’s perfect.”
Then a tall man, who looked a little bit like Arthur, joined you.
“Cousin Arthur,” he smiled.
“Cousin Simon,” he sighed, less than impressed with having to see him.
Simon looked at you, slightly confused. “Was your mother feeling charitable, inviting the chambermaids again?” he joked, but it wasn’t funny. Arthur didn't laugh, he groaned.
“She’s my tutor, actually. And I invited her. Mrs. Martha Whelan, meet my cousin, Simon.”
You stood up and held your hand out to be shook, but he shied away. “Nice to meet you Simon.”
“You can address me as Lord Dukesburg,” he explained, taking great offence. Ah, this was Simon Dukesburg, the man who has been after the throne since Arhtur’s father died. He said some of the most out-of-touch shit about Lorenzo, saying he couldn’t be the King because he wasn’t Herve’s blood-related son.
“I find that nobility who require someone to use their title might be compensating for something,” Charles interjected, making you stifle a laugh, whereas Arthur laughed out loud.
“And what might I be compensating for?” he scoffed.
“I wonder,” Charles smirked. Then someone else interjected the conversation and pulled the both of them away from you and Arthur.
“Simon hates Charles,” Arthur explained. “He’s ahead of him in the succession, since it goes by age, not actual blood relation, he’s ahead of me.”
“So if Charles abdicates, Simon has the throne?” you questioned.
Arthur nodded. You looked up at the two men again, and found Charles already looking back at you. You offered a small smile, which was returned, then you turned back to Arthur.
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“I'm really not sure there’s any dirt here,” you sighed, explaining it for the millionth time to your boss.
She wasn’t having it. You ended the call feeling even worse than before. Honestly, you were one day away from just leaving the palace all together and admitting your crimes. It was eating you up inside, you could barely sleep, barely eat. It was all a little bit too much for you. You understood that reporters had to be cut-throat, but god, it was hard work pretending to be someone you weren't, especially to people as kind as the LeClerc’s. As you walked through the halls of the palace, unable to sleep, you heard some piano music. You followed the sound and found Prince Charles at his piano, incredibly talented. Sadly, it ended the second he noticed you, about 30 seconds of you being there.
“Sorry for interrupting, your Royal Highness,, I’ll head back-”
“Call me Charles,” he smiled.
Slightly blind-sided, you weren’t sure what to say. “That was beautiful,” you smiled.
“Thank you,” he smiled, getting up. “My father made me take lessons. It’s a great passion of mine.”
“I’ve heard your father was a great man,” you smiled.
“He was,” Charles agreed..
“Won’t be easy to replace him,” you mused, hoping he would give you something, anything worth writing the story over.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” he explained. “No one could.”
“Oh god! No, I didn’t mean it like that- just… there must be a lot of pressure on you, I didn’t mean it…” you trailed off and he smiled.
“Well, you’re under more pressure than you bargained for, right?” he smirked.
Shit. He knew. Somehow. He knew. You were bout to get arrested by the fucking Prince of Monaco. How embarrassing.
“My brother can really be a handful,” he chuckled.
You took a deep breath. He didn’t know. You were safe, for now at least. You chuckled. “He’s actually pretty great.”
“After our father died, he took it very hard,” he explained.
“I lost my mom, same age and everything,” you explained, a flat smile on your face.
He nodded. “So you know what it’s like then.”
You nodded. “Holidays are the worst.”
“I’m glad he has someone to talk to.”
“So, now that you’re back… is it for good? Arthur talks about you all the time. He misses you when you’re gone. Is all that talk about abdication just… rumors?” you questioned, feeling like the worst human being in the world for manipulating this family the way you were. They were good people. Maybe yes, they’re rich and commit tax fraud, but good people.
He sighed. “It’s very hard to know what to do.”
FUCK!
Great. So there is a story. Ideal. It’s not like if he’d just said, ‘yes, they’re all just rumors’, you could’ve gone home and never had to think about the awful things you’ve done here, but now you have to stay, to listen to him. Great.
“I heard you didn’t want to give your… lifestyle,” you asked. “Is that true?”
“What lifestyle is that?” he scoffed, slightly amused.
“I don’t know. The women, wine, and cars?”
“Is that what you think I am?” he chuckled.
“I don’t know who you are, Charles, but if your brother is any indication, I wouldn’t exactly believe everything I read. Good night.”
And with that you left the room, feeling like a terrible person, and he was more than intrigued by you.
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Christmas Eve rolled closer and closer, and every night seemed to be one of celebration. You decorated the tree with the family (aka you sat in the corner not eating or drinking because of the guilt, and watched over Arthur, making sure he was alright).
“To family and friends,” Pascale smiled.
“And new friends!” Arthur called, lifting your hand. You smiled at him, thankful that you had a friend there.
“What are your traditions Martha?” Charles asked, turning attention to you.
“Well, my father and I light a candle and we bake my mothers favourite cookies,” you explained, a smile on your face. “I know how it feels to… have someone missing during traditions,” you assured Arthur, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Just then, Lady Sophia appeared in the doorway. Lady Sophia, Charles’s childhood best friend and the leading lady of the greatest will-they-won’t-they story of all time. She wore a beautiful long flowing gown with a present in hand for Pascale. She elegantly dodged cousin Simon’s advances (you applauded her for that), and went straight to Pascale and Charles.
“Sophia, it’s lovely to see you,” she smiled, pulling her in for a hug.
“It’s lovely to see you too,” she smiled, then moved on to Charles. “Charles, good to see you.”
Charles greeted her with his best flirty smirk, and Arthur turned to you, fake gagging, which made you both laugh. All eyes turned to the two of you for a moment, before you quickly shut up, and the greetings continued. Lady Sophia was staying for Christmas, how wonderful. Maybe you could get an early access to their engagement story- god you felt sick with yourself.
You turned to Arthur engrossed in the small toy car he had in his hands, a gift from his father, he spoke about it as you listened, barely noticing Charles over both of your shoulders.
“I remember when you first got that,” he chuckled, ruffling Arthur’s hair. “You were so happy with it, you wanted to be just like dad.”
“Now you are,” you smiled, squeezing Arthur;’s hand. He’d be moving up to F1 next year, in a Haas seat (Esetban Ocon shit the bed, oops), and Arthur was the next best Ferrari junior driver. Arthur beamed back at you, and Charles gave himself a moment to study you.
You were so gentle, so smart, so kind, so… you. He was entranced by you. You were some sort of enigma. He didn’t want to sound full of himself, but women did throw themselves at him, it was a simple fact, and you didn’t. You weren’t interested in him at all, in fact. It was refreshing.
“Charles!” Lady Sophie called. “Will you put my ornament on the tree?”
He (begrudgingly) took his eyes off of you and joined her at the side of the tree. Funnily enough, her ornament was a heart.
“Be gentle with it,” she told him, and he sighed, knowing it wasn’t just the ornament she was talking about.He placed it on the ree and when he looked back at you, you were already engrossed in conversation with Arthur about something else and he thought it best not to pry. You barely liked him as is, he shouldn’t push his luck.
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The day you get bossed around by Arthur LeCerc may actually be the biggest joke of your life. He found out that you were a journalist, and he didn’t even care. He just… wanted a friend, and for you to write the truth about his brother. Which you were happy to oblige.
So, instead of going over aerodynamics, you baked Christmas cookies.
“What’s with Charles and Lady Sophia?” you questioned, shovelling some of the batter into your mouth. Arthur shrugged.
“She’s had a crush on him for ages, but he’s never liked her back,” he shrugged, eating some of the icing. “She’s always trying to get with him though.”
“Simon seems to like her,” you pointed out, shooing him away from the icing (he’d eaten half of it).
Arthur groaned. “Simon has wanted everything Charles has had since they were 3. He even tried go-karting. He was shit though,” he chuckled. “But y’know, everyone wants what we have.”
You cracked a smile. “You are the royal family of one of the most beautiful countries in Europe.”
Arthur sighed. “It was different though, before my dad died, it was-” he cut himself off, trying to to cry. You pulled him into a hug.
“He’s not gone Arthur, you’ll always remember him,” you smiled, he nodded against your neck. “Come on, we need to get these in the oven before I eat all of the batter.”
He laughed, joining you beside the oven.
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The next morning was the children’s fundraiser, where everyone was expected to be a guest. You, again, were Arthur’s, Jade having left a few days earlier to spend time with her family. One of those asshole reporters came up to you, but he got them away, and you knew that by tomorrow, people would already assume you were his new girlfriend, or something along those lines, so you made sure to tell him to talk about Jade in interviews. After the wonderful carol service, Pascale came out to the stage and addressed the public, announcing Charles’s speech.
When she called his name, he didn’t show.
Arthur sighed, grabbing your hand and running you to the Orphanage. There he was, playing with the children. He looked so… happy. He was telling them about every corner in the Monaco Grand Prix, and telling them what it felt like to win it. They all sat around him, listening intently, desperate to hear from him. You took out your phone and took a photo, seeing a tiny glimpse of that same 20 year old boy from the picture.
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“Charles, help me understand why you were unable to carry out your duty today?” Pascale asked, exasperated with her son.
“I thought my duty was to those children,” his words bit through the tension in the air.
“There is much more to being kind than simply compassion,” she sighed. “You need to be strong, a leader. You need to be someone that those people can look up to and say, ‘that’s my king, and he can make the hard decisions’. Not someone who tiptoes around his duties like a schoolboy. Arthur had to give your speech instead. Now every outlet thinks your abdicating and giving the throne to him right when he’s on the cusp of his dreams-”
“I have dreams!” he shouted. “I have a life, I have a dream-”
“And we gave you 8 years to make it happen. You have to grow up now Charles,” she commanded.
“Mother I-”
“Do you seriously think you’re the only one who wants to run away?” she questioned. “The only one who has dreams, and feelings, and a weariness about everything?”
“I’m-”
“This has been the hardest year of my life,” she choked up. “Lorenzo abdicating, you off in god-knows-where racing a car that can’t win, and Arthur trying his damndest to make his dreams come true, while I deal with it all. While I ‘hold down the fort’. You have a duty to your country, but you also have a duty to your family, Charles. I have complete faith in you, and then some. You will be a brave, and compassionate King. But you need to realise that sacrifice is a part of life. One we may have shielded you from, and I am sorry for that. But you need to make a sacrifice here. Royal life isn’t the prison you make it out to be. You can be happy, and you will be. But you need to learn to be happy with what you’ve got, because you have so much Charles. You have your family, you’ll meet someone nice and then you’ll have your own. You don’t need to race cars to feel strong. You need to be yourself. The people of Monaco are looking for someone they know after a year of confusion and shock. You need to be the comforting voice. I know you can be.”
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
“I have faith in you. You need to have faith in yourself. Don’t try to be your father, be Charles. He’s just as wonderful.”
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Arthur wasn’t going to focus, it was 3 days till Christmas, and he was kind of like an over-excited child. You suggested an adventure, and that is how you ended up racing speed boats with Arthur and a few of his friends. You two won, of course, and he may or may not have accidentally shoved you overboard and made you hit your head. But you were probably fine. Probably. You two relaxed on the water for a while, enjoying the Monaco sun asn the sun began to set and all of his friends went home.
Then you felt something hit into the edge of your boat. Another speedboat. Driven by none other than Prince Charles.
“Race you?” he smirked at his brother, his eyes then landing on you. He stopped, almost doing a double take when he saw you in your swimsuit, his mouth opening slightly. You didn’t seem to notice. Arthur did and he rolled his eyes, hoping against hope that Charles and his master-manipulating ways would pass you by and go onto the next person.
“You’re on!” Arthur shouted back, reeving up the engine, and thus the great race of speedboats began. Sadly, once again, Arthur LeClerc is very much not coordinated, so he shoved you off the boat, again. Charles immediately slowed down, turning back to grab you, but he found you laughing. He reached a hand in, and pulled you up onto his boat, grabbing your waist when you almost slipped and fell. You were close, much too close. You could feel his breath on your face, his eyes staring into yours, the look of shock, but neither one of you was asking to stop. It was different, a good difference. He was right there, right in front of you, and you didn’t look at him with annoyance, or anger, or distance. One of those fleeting moments of the both of you truly just being yourselves. Well, you were Marha and he was the Prince of Monaco, soon to be King. He saw every freckle on your face, every small wrinkle line, every flutter of your eyelashes. He loved it. He loved being this close to you. He loved the way you were smiling at him, and once he’d started looking at your lips, he couldn’t stop.
Arthur threw a snorkel at the two of you, making you jump apart, you almost falling off the boat again (actually your fault that time), but you just fell into Arthur’s boat. “No fraternising with the enemy!”
And the race was back on.
Unbeknownst to you, Lady Sophia and Duke Arsehole (aka Cousin Simoin), were riding by on a perfectly sublime boat ride, and saw the three of you enjoying yourselves. You had joined Charles' side, winning against Arthur every time, and then you’d be swapped back, or Arthur would swap.
Lady Sophia didn’t like it one bit.
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When you got back to the palace, Lorenzo was standing at the top step of the stairs, his mother beside him.
“Where have you three been?” he demanded.
“Lorenzo, we were-” Charles began.
“Speedboat racing in the bay?” he finished.
The three of you stood there, silent and still, unsure of what to do next.
“I suggest next time that you ask permission, Ms. Whelan,” he addressed you, and you nodded quickly offering multiple apologies. “And next time, maybe include the other members of the family. It’s not like we've never raced in our lives,” he smiled, before walking off. You had a feeling they hadn’t seen Arthur this happy in a long time. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in you, that you had been the one to help him get himself back.
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Arthur was busy with his duties, so you were given the day off, the day before Christmas Eve. You needed to get to know Charles better, so you could right all the wrongs online about him. He was going for a bike ride, so you followed suit, clearly forgetting about the fact that you knew nothing about Monaco, and the limited cell-service was really helpful. Oh, and when you fell off your bike and cut the shit out of your knee, you really wondered whether it was you or Arthur who was clumsy.
“Are you alright?”a voice called out, a voice you couldn't quite place, until Charles was in front of you and taking a look at your knee. “This looks bad, come with me.”
He helped you up, and while Mont Agel was beautiful, you were in the middle of fucking nowhere, what was he going to do?
Bring you to his secret cabin, of course.
Literally, was this dude James Bond?
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You sat outside on his patio as the sun set. He handed you a glass of water. You thanked him.
“So, now that you’re alright,” he smiled (he’d bandaged up your leg despite the thousands of times you assured him you were fine). “Why were you following me?”
You sighed. “I was curious about Monaco, and I didn’t want to bother you,” lie after lie after lie. You were continuously sick. Maybe that other reporter was right, maybe you did need a new career.
“You couldn’t bother me,” he assured you, an easy smile on his lips.
“So what is… this?” you asked, gesturing to the house. “James Bond hideout or?
He laughed. “No, nothing interesting like that. This is just my house,” he smiled.
“So you’ve lived in Monaco the entire time?” you asked.
“The Palace is a bit too much for me at times,” he explained. “So I come here.”
“That’s nice,” you smiled. “Why do you find the Palace too much?”
He sighed. “Everyone is always looking at me.”
“Everyone is away looking at you in F1 too, you have like, millions of fan-girls,” you giggled.
“That’s different,” he argued. “I’m a driver there, that’s talent and hard work, I was just… handed the throne.”
“You were born into it,” you corrected him. “And just because you came across something easily doesn’t mean you haven’t struggled. I mean yes, it’s a lot of responsibility, but why wouldn’t you want to be King of Monaco?”
“Do we have to talk about this?” he sighed, getting up and pacing the patio.
“It might be good for you to talk it through,” you told him.
“I can’t even go for dinner with my friends without it being an international scandal!” he groaned.
“Like, when you went out with Sophia?” you mused.
“That was different, she sold a story to a tabloid, and the media had a field day,” he sighed, slumping back into his chair.
“The media is what’s holding you back?” you questioned, feeling your stomach twist.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Explain it then,” you smiled gently.
He looked at you for a moment, and for a fraction of a second, you could see that boy from the picture again. The magnetic, messy, smiley boy his parents had adored. The boy who worked so hard to prove himself. Then those walls went right back up and what replaced him was the man; older, wiser, and hurt. “Why bother? You probably think I’m just a spoiled rich kid anyway.”
You scoffed. “I never said that!” you argued, getting up and turning to him. “You know what you need to do, stop worrying so much about what everyone thinks of you, or how they’re going to perceive you. You’re a good person, with good instincts, and despite being actual nobility, you have morals, good ones, the kind that makes you miss a speech because you’re helping children. The kind that makes you worry about your little brother so much that you come home when he asks you to. The kind that makes you kind. Stop trying to be your father Charles, just be, Charles.”
He sighed, standing beside you. “You make that sound so simple,” he scoffed.
“Why isn't it? You’re a smart, talented, caring person-”
“Except when I steal your taxi,” he smirked, making you roll your eyes. He paused for a moment, his eyes shining in the low light of the sun. “I want to show you something.”
You stared at him, grimacing slightly. “What is it?”
“Follow me,” he said, taking your hand. He led you through his house, up to a room filled with books.
“You read?”
“After my father died,” he explained. “We kept some of the overflow of his habit here. He also kept his journals here. I found a poem, it was dated just before he died, I think he was going to give it to my mother.”
Frost a sparkle in the fields,
Twixt the frozen minarets,
Winter’s harvest, wager yields,
Heavy burden’s, the years debts,
P[out from a seed, an acorn’s gift,
Henceforth the truth will flood,
Darkness such a secret bears,
A love far greater than blood.
“It’s beautiful,” you smiled, reading the poem. Charles’s eyes were on you. You were so close, just like on the bat, just like he wished for every single day since you’d come into his life. He leaned in and you didn’t back away. You didn’t run, or lean in either, you were still, your eyes trained on his lips.
Then your phone rang, and off you went to find it. Part of him wanted to grab you back and kiss you, but even he, in his delirious love-filled haze, knew the moment had passed, and he would just have to wait until the next one.
As you two were getting ready to go back to the palace, he left to go grab something from his room. His father’s desk took your attention, and you obliged yourself. Hidden in plain sight was a secret drawer with a stack of documents in it. As much as you hated yourself for it, you took the documents back to the palace with you.
Within those documents you found out a truth, a truth so great, you had no idea what to say. Charles and Arthur were adopted as children.
What the fuck were you going to do now?
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
As you were walking through the halls with Arthur the next day, you saw Lady Sophia and Charles… kissing. Great, barf. Anyways. You had to finish your story, get something on the page, make this torment of a trip worth something. If you broke the story today, you could be out of there before Christmas, and their lives would be a lot easier. You thought about coming clean, but the thought of it actually made you vomit in your mouth. You were lost. You had no idea what to do.
So, you called your dad. What else were you supposed to do?
“Y/n!” he smiled, it was only a phone call but you could tell. “How are you?”
“Hey dad, remember how you said I have to take chances to win?” you asked.
“They are my words to live by,” he chuckled, understanding that something was going on. “Is everything alright?”
“What if that chance is going to really hurt people who don’t deserve it?” you questioned.
“I’m going to need more than that sweetheart,” he sighed.
“My story, if I release it, it might hurt someone who’s already been through a lot. I’m just…” you trailed off
“Sweetheart, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about the world of publishing and reporting, but I do know that you have to trust your gut.”
You smiled. “Thanks dad.”
“I’m better than a fortune cookie, right?” he joked and you both chuckled. “I’ll see you soon sweetheart.”
“Bye dad-” as you hung up the phone, there was a knock on your door. You tentatively got up and opened the door, only to find Charles on the other side, dressed in a Ferrari branded suit, a small smile on his face.
“Hi, is there something I can do for you?” you asked, slightly awkward and unsure. You didn’t really want him to look in your room too much, considering the documents of his adoption were literally on your desk, but alas, what would be, would be.
“I thought we could go for a walk?” he offered. “I can actually show you around Monaco, now that I know you want a tour guide.”
Your smile faltered. “I don’t know,” you sighed. The media had been stirring everything up ever since the boat, you were the ‘mystery girl’ being passed around by the LeClerc’s, and it didn’t feel great.
He looked at you with pleading eyes. “Please, just give me a few minutes of your time. I would like some company.”
“Sure, let me grab my coat,” you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
As you two walked through the streets of Monaco, he spoke freely about the beautiful buildings and people he knew so well, while you listened. You liked it, but it broke your heart slightly, to know that you had lied to the entire family for weeks now. But another part of you was grateful that you got to meet them, because you knew you had been changed for the better. It was also nice to see Charles be less… upset than when you first came. He smiled more, laughed more, and spent more time with Arthur, it was lovely to see.
He stared at you for a moment, his eyes darting around your face as you looked at the pavement. “Are you alright?”
“Do you often take the help for a walk?” you questioned, your tone soft but the words bit at him anyway.
“What?” he questioned.
“Nothing, it’s stupid. Go back to your story Charles,” you sighed, walking on.
He grabbed your hand, turning you back to him. “Please talk to me. I feel like you know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”
“What would Lady Sophia say if she saw us walking together?” you scoffed.
“Why would that matter?”
“I saw you two,” you said.
“Whatever you saw, trust me, there is nothing there,” he pleaded.
“It didn’t look like that to me,” you scoffed. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“She was just… taking her chance again, even after I explicitly told her not to.”
“Sure,” you nodded. “It doesn’t matter anyways. Charles.”
You were both silent for a moment. He took the opportunity to study your face. The way your eyebrows creased, the tightness of your lips, the determined stare forward. He smiled. You were so smart, and headstrong, and right all the time (which kind of drove him crazy), but he loved it all. He loved you.
“I hope you’ll come tomorrow night,” he admitted. You looked at him confused. “The Ball. My coronation.”
You couldn’t do it anymore. You had to tell him. He couldn’t keep living this lie, and neither could you. “Charles, I need to tell you something-”
But he kissed you. Of course, he fucking kissed you, because he’d been wanting to do it since the day you arrived at the palace. He was in love with you, if he hadn't made that obvious enough, and yes, he kissed you, because the fact that he hadn’t yet was driving him mad. He didn’t want Sophia, he didn’t want anyone else, he wanted you.
And it was everything he could’ve dreamed of. His arms circled your waist, pulling you close to him, while his lips explored your soft ones, the taste of cherry on them. You must use some sort of cherry lip balm, and it quickly became one of his favourite tastes. Your arms slowly crept up to wrap around his neck, and when he pulled back you just pulled him back in.
This was the real Charles. The one who loved people unabashedly and didn’t care what people thought. This was that 20 year old boy in the photo. This was the boy you had slowly fallen in love with, without even realising it.
And it was wonderful.
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
Much to your chagrin, while you were off tonguing the next King of Monaco, Lady Sophia and Cousin Arsehole were busy looking through your things. Unluckily for you, they found something.
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
Charles sat in the driver’s seat of his Ferrari, half willing himself to man-up, and the other half begging himself to turn around. He couldn't though, not when he was this close to finally visiting his father’s resting place for the first time in months.
He got up and out of the car, your voice in his head telling him to get over himself, with that soft, perfect, smile on your lips.
He walked up to the grave, determined to speak to his father once again.
“I’ll take the crown,” he whispered, his eyes flooding with tears. “I’ll never measure up to you, but I will take it. For you and for mom.”
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
You stood in your room, wondering what the fuck one wears to a coronation.
Arthur stood in the doorway, smiling brightly. He frowned when he saw your dress.
“It’s this or pyjamas,” you dead-panned. He walked in, taking the dress out of your hands and sitting on your bed.
“How’s the story coming along?” he asked. “Nearly done?”
“Almost,” you huffed, laying beside him.
He sighed. “I’ll miss you when you go,” he admitted, more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. You almost forgot how much he’d been through, his sunny demeanour always seemed to make you forget his troubles. “It was nice to have a friend.”
You turned to him. “I’ll always be your friend,” you smiled. “And I’ll be cheering you on in Haas, and in everything else you do. I think you’re brilliant Arthur, seriously.”
He chuckled. “Thank you. I hope everything goes well for you back in New York.”
“I hope so too,” you teased, wiping a tear off his cheek.
“I got you something,” he smiled cheekily, handing over a small box.
“Arthur!” you scolded. “We said no gifts!”
“There was no way I was following that,” he chuckled. “Open it!”
You slowly opened the box, inside there was a beautiful necklace with a beautiful blue topaz on the end. “Oh my god Arthur, this is beautiful,” you whispered.
“To remind you of the boat day” he grinned. “So you will never forget me.”
You smiled, your eyes cloudy with unshed tears. “I could never forget you, Arthur.”
Then in walked Jade, his girlfriend, with an array of gowns on a rack.
“Oh no,” you whispered.
“Oh yes!” Arthur cheered.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
You stood at the top of the steps, terrified of what anyone would say. Arthur had styled you (aka, Jade let him pick the dress) and while you thought you looked beautiful, you were slightly worried about what the nobility in the room would think. It had been fun though, an afternoon of being pampered and becoming friends with Jade was a lot more enjoyable than it was nerve-wracking. You slowly descended the steps, looking for Arthur, when Charles caught your eye. He looked beautiful, his hair perfectly styled, his suit perfect, his face perfect. He smiled up at you, excusing himself from his mother and brother to take your hand as you left the bottom step.
“You look beautiful,” he smiled, taking in your dress. IN all honesty, there wasn’t a word for how he thought you looked. Regularly, a look from you made his heart stop. This? A different level. He was enamoured. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, even if he wanted to.
You felt your cheeks heat. “Thank you,” you smiled. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I will see you in there, alright? I have to-”
“Do what you need to Charles,” you chuckled. “I’m not running away at midnight.”
He smiled. “I’m glad.”
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
Despite the fact that it was a royal ball, it was quite entertaining. Different Duke’s and Duchess’s were dancing, letting loose, and getting pretty drunk, but you just sat with Arthur and Jade and laughed at them. The ballroom was magnificent, the tall ceilings and Christmas lights all around, and in the centre of the hall there was a 36 foot (yes, about the height of a telephone pole) Christmas tree, decorated perfectly. Even though you were miles and miles away from home, it was still nice to be celebrating with people you love.
As you were speaking to Jade, someone started speaking.
“Might I have the first dance, mon amour?” Charles asked, barely above a whisper as he wrapped an arm around your waist.
You turned to him, your face dropping. “Seriously?”
“Well, as long as you promise not to tread on my feet, we should be alright,” he chuckled, leading you to the dance floor. You joined on, doing a simple waltz (you thanked your father mentally for making you take ballroom classes as a child), and it was very sweet. It was nice to be so open about being close to each other, no longer shying away from each other's affections. You liked having Charles so close. He liked having you in his arms.
Win-win.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said as you waltzed around the hall. “I wouldn’t be accepting the crown if it wasn’t for you, so thank you for telling me to grow up.”
You chuckled. “I think you’re giving me too much credit there.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so,” he smiled. “You make me feel comfortable, you’re the most genuine person I have met since… well probably since birth.”
Again, that nauseating feeling in your stomach urged you to run away and hide from him, even though your heart (as mad as it sounds) longed to never let him go. “I have to tell you something.”
He nodded. “You can talk to me about anything.”
As he spoke, the music stopped, and it was time. He would be crowned King.
“Tell me after,” he whispered, as all eyes went to him. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.”
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
“I dispute this claim!” Lady Sophia’s voice shocked the room and you. Charles was so close, so close to taking his rightful seat as the King, and of course, someone had to make it difficult.
“On what grounds?” the Archbishop asked.
“The grounds that he is in fact, not the rightful heir,” she smirked, smug as ever. “Prince Charles, and his brother Arthur, were in fact adopted by the late King Hervé and our Queen Pascale, therefore are not of the blood of the Royal family, as per this document.”
The certificate was taken from her, and shown to the Archbishop. “Where did you obtain this document?”
“I obtained it by uncovering a scheme by an American journalist, Ms. Martha Whelan, or should we call you Y/n Y/l/n?”
All eyes went to you as the room was full of gasps.
You knew you should've turned tail and ran, you knew you shouldn’t have stayed on when Arthur found out, and you knew you shouldn’t have fallen in love with the Prince of fucking Monaco. You were the dumbest person you’d ever met.
You didn’t dare look at Charles, knowing what his expression would be. You just looked down.
“Is that true, you are a journalist?” the Archbishop questioned.
You spoke confidently, though the regret was evident in your voice. “I am.”
The room was in upheaval. Everyone was angry, everyone was confused, and everyone needed an answer.
“And your Majesty, this certificate?”
The room went silent as Pascale began to speak. “It is legitimate.”
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
You were running out as quickly as humanly possible, trailing just after Charles.
“Charles, please, just let me explain-!”
“Explain what?” he spat, turning to you.
“I’m sorry. I never meant for anything like this to happen, and I understand that you never want to see me again. I just had to tell you I’m sorry, and the only reason I kept it up was for you and Arthur.”
“And you couldn’t have told me?!”
“Arthur made me promise I wouldn’t tell you,” you sniffled.
His face dropped. “He knew?”
You nodded, wiping away your tears. This wasn’t for you to be upset about. This was your mistake, and you couldn't fix it.
“Why wouldn’t he let you tell me? Did he know he was adopted?”
You shook your head. “He doesn’t know. And I don’t know why he wouldn’t let me tell you. I just… he asked me not to.”
He stared at you for a moment, and it wasn’t those same, shining eyes that made your heart leap. It was the cold, dead, reserved eyes that made you want to run away and never come back, that stared back at you. “I’m glad you have your story. I suggest you stay out of our lives from now on.”
And with that he walked on.
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
New York was colder than you remembered. You had decided to just go straight to your apartment, turn off your phone, and binge watch shitty reality tv shows until you could show your face in public again without wanting to sob every time you saw something that remotely reminded you of Charles and Monaco.
But something nagged at you. The acorn, the poem, ‘a love far greater than blood’. You didn’t understand it. So you spent about 12 hours working on deconstructing it, and you thought of something. Maybe it was your delusions after not sleeping for a day (or two), but maybe the acorn ornament could prove something, so you sent your findings over to Arthur, hoping they would make sense, and turned your phone back off, blocking all of their numbers and falling into a very needed sleep.
౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊
The next few weeks were full of clearing out your office (you quit), looking for a new job, and starting off as an actual journalist, not just cleaning up some sleaze work. It was nice, peaceful. Writing articles about things that mattered to you, things that would help people, things that weren’t a certain King of Monaco.
Life was good. Getting over your heartbreak was hard, but you were starting to believe that you might actually be alright.
You sat in your dad’s diner, ready to ring in the New Year, when there was a snowball thrown on the glass, and when you looked outside, there he was.
Quickly, you ran outside. “What are you doing here?” you questioned.
He shrugged, “I never got to say goodbye, or thank you.”
“Please don’t thank me, I honestly should be apologising again and again for what I did, I am so sor-”
“You opened a door that should’ve been opened years ago. Arthur showed me what you’d done. Half because I couldn’t believe he could do it on his own, and half because… I thought it was going to be a message from you. You blocked me…”
“I didn’t want to risk bothering you anymore,” you sighed.
“You’d never bother me,” he smiled, pausing for a moment. “Arthur misses you. So do I.”
“I miss you both too,” you smiled. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Y’know, a palace is a lonely place for a king, when he has no queen,” he admitted.
“It’s a good thing you’re an eligible bachelor then,” you chuckled. “Good night Charles, thank you for coming to see me-”
“I love you,” he confessed. “You made me a better man- you make me a better man. I don’t even want to spend time without you, do you understand that?” he asked, getting down on one knee and revealing an engagement ring.
You frowned, your eyes tearing up. “Charles, I am not nobility-”
“I don’t care,” he smiled.
“My entire life is in New York-”
“We can come back as much as you want.”
“What will the people think?” you sniffled, and he stood up, wrapping his arms around you.
“They’ll think you're a kind, caring, beautiful woman with a very intelligent mind, and brilliant ideas, who is loved very much by their King,” he whispered, then pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.
“We barely know each other Charles-”
“And yet I’ve never been more certain in my life. And I’m known to be indecisive-”
He stopped talking because you’d started kissing him.
Jesus Christ, you were going to be the Queen of Monaco, what a story that was.
‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡
a very f1 christmas! masterlist (2024)
navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)
we don’t talk abt how stressful buying new glasses frames is. ur shopping for your whole personality there. life on the line. do or die. all for two pieces of glass and some sticks
if i get attacked by vecna, tell that bitch to take me back to when he was 001 and i’d let him kill me. take my soul. take my pain. take me from my friends… BUT LEMME SEE 001 BEFORE I DIE PLEASE.
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