stars on your ceiling.

family.

the word sat wrong in max's head any time it rang in his ears.

as a child, he was punished every time he tried to reach towards the gentle calmness that the word offers. he was given silent treatment for days each time he tried dialing his mother's phone numbers with shaky hands, crawled under the kitchen table and not breathing to avoid making a single noise. his father would find him every single time, grabbing his arm and pulling him over the cold tile of the floor.

he remembered the refrigerator's hum, the dark spot over the left corner of the rug where he accidentally burned once with a lighter. his father would look at him with death in his eyes, which it was funny because max knew precisely what death looked like.

he was seven, away for yet another tournament with his father, when he found a little cat hurt by the unraveling fury of the world outside, curled in the corner of his garage. the little kid took the kitten, tending to his slightly wounded arm, and hid her in his room.

everyday, the little kitty was the only thing that made max compete. the thought of going back to the bundle of fur and falling sleep to the harmonic sound of her snores made max wake up with a little more enthusiasm each day. he should've seen that coming, should've known that children like max only deserve tremor and pain, and they should never allow another creature into the horrifying pitt of their life; but he did and he saw the result.

to be honest, he never even saw it ; he just overheard his father on the phone, talking about how he put the small cat in a plastic bag and taking it away to another neighborhood. from that day on, max emilian verstappen stopped dreaming.

the next time he felt the same pang of longing, he was already a so-called war machine constructed by his father to win. then came a pair of wild green eyes, cheeky grins and ridiculous accent. Charles leclerc was made from fire and passion, but it was different from the dutch boy’s poison. Charles was lively, the competition that ran through his veins wasnt obstructional like max’s. It didnt feel like a curse, it felt like a gift.

He envied the way the french made his way through with people like it was an ordinary daily activity. The first time they got into a fight was over the very same simple word, french. Max knew his way around a globe. Geography made him feel composed; it reminded him that there are a thousand places that would accept his escape from the monster tracking his shadow like a hunter. yet watching the green pool of his eyes get seized by rage as max called him “french fury” was a delight; although that got both him and the poor interviewers into a quarter hour lecture, max left the room feeling his heart beat for the first time in so long that he had to stop and hold his hand over his sternum, running his finger over the bony figure, suppressing a grin.

“cheri?”

the tired monotonous voice snapped max from his dreams. the same pair of green eyes were staring into his, now kissed with lines from the long journey he's come through. the fatigue in his eyes, the absolute pain that soiled the forest of those pupils danced a trail of goosebumps along the dutchman's arm. he immediately stood up from the stool, crossing the distance in long steps to caress the side of his husband's face.

his husband, charles leclerc-verstappen, the very same stubborn man who refused to have his own last name secondary to max's but still calls himself verstappen, his joy was now troubled by grief that swallowed him whole; and max suddenly remembered the reason.

“charlie, love, what did oscar do?”

he whispers, holding the delicate cheeks of the man between his palms and planting kisses on his hair. charles just dropped his face against his husband's collarbone, fisting the shirt in his shaky hands, closing his eyes so hard to fight the flow of tears; he needed to be strong for the family. this is not the first time the couple had to go through such a thing. their beloved child, oscar, has always been quite special.

as a kid, he never wanted to take part in activities that others thrived for. they reckoned it was because of the environment he was brought up in before the adoption, but no amount of help and comfort seemed to calm the scared lamb.

time eventually soothed oscar into place, but it never healed them. the lines were sharp around him, episodes long and sentences carefully constructed. he went through long episodes of silence, pulling his body through the house as if every word that came out of his mouth turned into a weight on his shoulder, crashing his weak bones beneath the responsibility.

despite it all, charles and max loved oscar like he was born of their own flush and bone, like he was the fruit of their love, their affection. they believed care would eventually heal oscar, that if the two of them loved the little boy enough, he would finally step out of the castle he's locked himself in.

max led charles onto the couch, a memory of the three of them watching "finding nemo" for the thousandth time passing through his mind, and he planted a kiss oh his husband's hair.

"i will go check on him, schatje. can you try closing your eyes for me?"

he whispers gently, and charles weakly follows the trail of words.

that was part of their routine, and max was always content to take the lead. in between the agonizing thoughts that oscar's healing process is delayed because of his inability to adore his child properly, he finds victory in letting charles rest, and let him face his own child himself.

taking a deep breath before knocking three times on the bedroom door, he entered when he heard no reply. the image slapped him immediately, and regret instantly swallowed him whole. his son was lying on the bed, motionless. he arms were both wrapped in bandages, and the room was the clear evidence of a breakdown.

oscar's eyes were fixed on the ceiling where two neon stars stared right back at him. max found his way through the shattered glass, slowly lowering himself to sit on the bed. the teenage boy's chest wasnt even moving, and that added to max's helpless scream.

"osc, kiddo, it's dad. papa is also outside."

he said in a low tone, trying not to startle the shaky silence that oscar had swallowed himself in. it was always like this with him; reticence was the only weapon he had. he tilted his head, and stared into his father's eyes with such vacancy that consumed max whole. he didnt even try to show enthusiasm, pupils screaming excruciatingly. max reached out to pat his hair, fingers trembling along the soft strands. "what happened, liefje?" he mumbles, trying to implicate softness in his eyes. maybe if charles was there, he would've been more successful in soothing their kid; max never knew how gentleness looked like. he just watched charles, and tried mimicking his expressions. but oscar didnt seem to even notice, his voice full of pain and empty of spirit. he sounded like a shell of a person, voice shaking with the threat of breaking at any second.

"i did that."

he mumbles. the only words he's said in the past few months.

the weight of difference always crashed oscar's bones. the first hits came from his own father, the first person who was supposedly a shelter in anyone's life. at first, it was a little smack on the back of his hand whenever he asked the wrong questions. as time passed, oscar became quieter and the punishments became more brutal.

long periods of starvation, cigarette burns, hits and slaps, they were all the best case scenarios. one day, oscar remember it vividly, it all came to an end. he had been imprisoned in the basement for god knows how long, as little oscar only knew how to count to 100, without food or water.

he still remembers the door banging open, the ray of light running to shake his soulless body, the smell of alcohol filling his nose. his father was now dead, and oscar stared at the blue lines across his lips with nothing in his eyes for as many 100s as he could count until someone took him away.

meeting charles and max was supposed to fix oscar's lifeless heart. it was obvious, how max tried to be the parent he never had, how charles tried to be like the parent he had. watching their miserable act didnt heal oscar. he was safe, wasnt always tense waiting for a hit, was always well-fed, but his heart still didnt dance to its rhythm, it carried on like a duty, and oscar was petrified by the guilt that ate his organs with an unceasing anger. his belly was full, but his eyes never were.

that was all until he met his own pair of wild green eyes. lando norris; the most insufferable human being oscar had ever came upon. their first meeting was a mess of grins and chuckles as lando asked about him being ambidextrous. oscar never told him it was because he needed to use both hands because one used to be broken all the time, so he just shrugged and listen to lando theorize about the background, concluding with oscar a trained fbi agent to hide between highschoolers and protect the crown prince, which was assumably him.

none of that mattered because the thing oscar only remembered the throbbing beat of his untamed heart against his ribcage. lando made the beast in his chest soften, he made it beat. that night, oscar sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling, the current of his thoughts electrocuting him to inertia. ungrateful child, patheticly carried away by the first sign of care. he went nonverbal for the next ten days, not daring to look into his loving parents’ eyes because he didnt have the guts to tell them ten years of their affection was nothing compared to a cheeky grin of a peer.

the condemnation was eventually overlooked by the growing affection in his chest. lando was everything to oscar; taking care of him, reminding him to eat and drink, never rushing him out of episodes, always looking after the boy, and it scared oscar to his bones.

lando started coming over after that one time he had to drop oscar off himself because he was too weak to even walk on his own. charles loved him like a son, max always looked at him with venom in his eyes but once taught him how to work with his stimulator. one night, as he lied on his bed to stare at the ceiling and think as his usual act, two neon stars greeted his sight with surprise. charles told him that lando had done that, and texting him about the reason gave him a nonchalant “so you wouldn't be alone and think of me.” and oscar was never alone from then on.

he still remembers the call, 4:04 in the morning. unknown number. he still remembers the steady, emotionless voice, informing him that the owner of this number is now deceased and oscar was his first emergency contact. not even his parents, oscar. he still remembers the abrupt motion, immediately running into his parents room, not even crying, not breathing, shirt clinging to his body, hyperaware of his own existence without lando's beating heart, choking on his words, gripping max's pants as if begging him to bring his lando back.

the ride to the hospital was horrifying, charles talking to lando's parents because he lived in the dorms and they were not informed. the movements of the car was lulling him to sleep, and he wanted to scream. his other half was no longer breathing and he was sleepy.

digging his nails into his thighs, he tried to cry. what kind of soulmate he was if not crying at such news. what kind of monster was sitting inside him, not letting him cry. does he not even deserve to grief that either? the monster might be right, you only mourn what's yours, and oscar never deserved lando.

the emergency room was crowded, chaotic, smelling of pain and death and horror. oscar did not feel anything, getting swept away by his fathers’ hands. they stood by the door, looking at eachother to figure the best offering words. oscar took the lead, and stepped into the room, and he felt the air slap him. the smell of antiseptics, the lack of motion in the body across the bed, the ordinary look of the doctor. oscar felt sick, staring at the doctor, wishing he could swallow him in the pits of his pupils.

he shakily stood by the bed, running his hands in lando's curly hair, caressing his cold cheeks. his source of safety was gone, replaced by a demon who looked nothing like his lando. his soul was finally free, and oscar had been so caught up in his own head he never saw the chains hanging unto his sun's body. lando must have been an angel, this body was a prison to him, and oscar never saw that. oscar lost his wild green eyes. the doctor stared into his eyes, and cleared his throat.

“mr piastri, right?”

oscar gathered all his left energy to nod.

“as his emergency contact, i am bound to share this information with you. mr norris was found by his dormmate in their bathroom, and there were no signs of life on examination. the findings were consistent with death resulting from severe blood loss associated with a self-inflicted wrist laceration. the lines were sloppy but deep, indicating a quick act with little thought behind. we found signs of other scars on the body, and so that gives us all we need to announce the manner as suicide. i am sorry, mr. piastri. may his soul be in peace.”

the doctor left after his monolog, voice so steady as if he was disinterested in the matter.

oscar couldnt move, couldnt even blink, couldnt breathe. the air feeling his lungs felt a burden, suffocating him with life. he murmured under his breath, letting his index finger lie under lando's nose, waiting for a warm snuff.

“i did this.”

oscar never forgave himself, he never said anything other than the same punishing three words. his life began with lando's smile, and ended between the lines on his body.