#yes this was written before they announced singapore isn't going ahead and the calendar changed but i liked the visuals so sjdfk

[leqclerc]

flickers among the flat pink roses 795 words Bean AU

Charles stirs awake to the sound of soft, muffled cries. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers briefly tightening around the pillow as he desperately tries to cling onto the last vestiges of sleep.

The baby—Bean, as he’s taken to calling her—sleeps a lot but not for long stretches, so he figured out pretty early on that he should just sleep whenever she does, as much as he can. Uninterrupted rest feels like a distant memory at this point.

The noise comes again, a sad little mewl, this time accompanied by a pang of guilt. Charles fumbles for his phone in the dark, reflexively squinting against the harsh light of the screen as he brings it up to his face. It’s a little after six, which isn’t bad, all things considered.

He pockets his phone and scrubs a hand over his face before finally pushing himself up off the bed and onto his feet, stumbling over to the bassinet. The baby stirs, giving another unhappy cry. Charles flicks the nightlight on before reaching down to scoop Bean into his arms.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is a little rough from sleep, but soft nonetheless. He rubs soothing circles across Bean’s sleep-warm back. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

Charles pads across the hallway and into the kitchen. Carefully, he shifts Bean from the crook of his arm to his shoulder, freeing up one hand to prepare her bottle. After three weeks of regular feeds, it’s something he does more or less on instinct now. It became decidedly easier when—on his mother’s advice—he started approaching it like he does racing. Impossibly, the basics are pretty much the same: he practices, analyses his performance, and strives to improve.

Bean lets out a whine, as if to inform him that he can always do better.

“I know, I know, you’re hungry,” Charles soothes. “Give me a minute, okay?”

He grabs the bottle as soon as it’s ready, making a beeline for the living room. It’s too cold for him to step out onto the terrace with the baby without having to bundle her up, but the balcony door offers a decent view of the harbour below. Charles makes himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, gently cradling Bean against his chest. She lets out another impatient little noise, but quietens down once he brings the bottle to her mouth.

“There,” he murmurs, tracing the perfect shell of one tiny ear with the tip of his finger. “Is that better?”

Predictably, he gets no response, though judging by the way Bean’s eyes flutter shut, he decides she seems content. Charles lifts his gaze, staring out at the sky.

It’s still dark outside, but the sun is threatening to rise, streaking the night sky with faint hues of pink and yellow. Unsure of what else to do, Charles tentatively slips his phone out of his pocket and swipes up to unlock it, careful not to jostle the baby. He ends up checking the clock app, scrolling down until he finds Singapore, because some habits are just that hard to shake. There’s a six hour difference. Sebastian’s probably having lunch, or maybe sitting in a meeting with his engineers, figuring out the optimal setup for qualifying.

Charles doesn’t particularly miss the sweltering heat, the torturous humidity or the ice baths, but he does find himself longing for the atmosphere, the familiar rush of adrenaline—the challenge of beating his rivals at the toughest race of the season. He remembers the rapture of scoring points in an uncompetitive car and the sting of frustration at being denied a victory.

Most of all, he remembers glancing over at Sebastian on the podium, cheeks flushed with the heat, hair dampened by sweat and champagne, pride and exaltation etched into every line of him. The anger welling up inside him had receded as quickly as it had risen—he could never bring himself to resent Sebastian, not even when he capitalised on his misfortune.

I will get you next time, he’d told him. But it never came; there was no shot at redemption, then or now.

Bean stirs in his arms, as if sensing his thoughts.

“I know,” Charles sighs. “I miss him too.”

He sets his phone down, turning his attention back to his daughter. He smiles, watching as Bean’s little mouth opens in a yawn as soon as he pulls the bottle away. It doesn’t take long for her to drift back to sleep.

Tight, brilliantly lit streets unfurl behind Charles’s eyelids. His pulse jumps as he rounds the final corner and darts across the finish line, the crowds rising to their feet, feverishly chanting his name. There’s warmth across his back, the sweep of a familiar hand—

The sun is already cresting the horizon when he wakes.

[crumbsfortherats]

flickers among the flat pink roses 795 words

Charles stirs awake to the sound of soft, muffled cries. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers briefly tightening around the pillow as he desperately tries to cling onto the last vestiges of sleep.

The baby—Bean, as he’s taken to calling her—sleeps a lot but not for long stretches, so he figured out pretty early on that he should just sleep whenever she does, as much as he can. Uninterrupted rest feels like a distant memory at this point.

The noise comes again, a sad little mewl, this time accompanied by a pang of guilt. Charles fumbles for his phone in the dark, reflexively squinting against the harsh light of the screen as he brings it up to his face. It’s a little after six, which isn’t bad, all things considered.

He pockets his phone and scrubs a hand over his face before finally pushing himself up off the bed and onto his feet, stumbling over to the bassinet. The baby stirs, giving another unhappy cry. Charles flicks the nightlight on before reaching down to scoop Bean into his arms.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is a little rough from sleep, but soft nonetheless. He rubs soothing circles across Bean’s sleep-warm back. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

Charles pads across the hallway and into the kitchen. Carefully, he shifts Bean from the crook of his arm to his shoulder, freeing up one hand to prepare her bottle. After three weeks of regular feeds, it’s something he does more or less on instinct now. It became decidedly easier when—on his mother’s advice—he started approaching it like he does racing. Impossibly, the basics are pretty much the same: he practices, analyses his performance, and strives to improve.

Bean lets out a whine, as if to inform him that he can always do better.

“I know, I know, you’re hungry,” Charles soothes. “Give me a minute, okay?”

He grabs the bottle as soon as it’s ready, making a beeline for the living room. It’s too cold for him to step out onto the terrace with the baby without having to bundle her up, but the balcony door offers a decent view of the harbour below. Charles makes himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, gently cradling Bean against his chest. She lets out another impatient little noise, but quietens down once he brings the bottle to her mouth.

“There,” he murmurs, tracing the perfect shell of one tiny ear with the tip of his finger. “Is that better?”

Predictably, he gets no response, though judging by the way Bean’s eyes flutter shut, he decides she seems content. Charles lifts his gaze, staring out at the sky.

It’s still dark outside, but the sun is threatening to rise, streaking the night sky with faint hues of pink and yellow. Unsure of what else to do, Charles tentatively slips his phone out of his pocket and swipes up to unlock it, careful not to jostle the baby. He ends up checking the clock app, scrolling down until he finds Singapore, because some habits are just that hard to shake. There’s a six hour difference. Sebastian’s probably having lunch, or maybe sitting in a meeting with his engineers, figuring out the optimal setup for qualifying.

Charles doesn’t particularly miss the sweltering heat, the torturous humidity or the ice baths, but he does find himself longing for the atmosphere, the familiar rush of adrenaline—the challenge of beating his rivals at the toughest race of the season. He remembers the rapture of scoring points in an uncompetitive car and the sting of frustration at being denied a victory.

Most of all, he remembers glancing over at Sebastian on the podium, cheeks flushed with the heat, hair dampened by sweat and champagne, pride and exaltation etched into every line of him. The anger welling up inside him had receded as quickly as it had risen—he could never bring himself to resent Sebastian, not even when he capitalised on his misfortune.

I will get you next time, he’d told him. But it never came; there was no shot at redemption, then or now.

Bean stirs in his arms, as if sensing his thoughts.

“I know,” Charles sighs. “I miss him too.”

He sets his phone down, turning his attention back to his daughter. He smiles, watching as Bean’s little mouth opens in a yawn as soon as he pulls the bottle away. It doesn’t take long for her to drift back to sleep.

Tight, brilliantly lit streets unfurl behind Charles’s eyelids. His pulse jumps as he rounds the final corner and darts across the finish line, the crowds rising to their feet, feverishly chanting his name. There’s warmth across his back, the sweep of a familiar hand—

The sun is already cresting the horizon when he wakes.