Maybe Life Wasn't So Bad After All (remembering Tomorrow Is Wednesday).

Not driver Au ! :

Lance as head of Aston Martin F1 subsidiary ( because he's still a F1 fan )

Esteban engineer Au !

I HOPE SOMEONE GET IT TOO !!!!

( I can yap it about until the end of the days )

HAPPY FERIC FRIDAY !!

inspired by the post of @hufflepuffhabs

How to love? -Cubyamal/Nyamal

(500 words )

--------------------------------------

Yamal couldn't fall asleep, no matter how tired he was, but blue eyes probing his soul and the vague memory of a late-night call kept him from falling into the arms of Morpheus. He was looking forward to a new season with his beloved club, he was even terribly impatient, but it wasn't this feeling that kept him awake. Rather, it was the waiting. Slow and winding, it seeped through his veins like a devilishly effective poison. He'd tried everything: training, playing video games, endless surfing on the Internet, but nothing helped. The thought of football was like a leech on his psyche, occupying all the space in his brain that wasn't dedicated to soccer. Sometimes he feared it might become an obsession - it probably already was - but he preferred to deny it a little longer. Accepting it would mean he'd already fallen too far, and that even if he tried, he'd never be able to get back up.

This admiration mixed with pride and "slight" affection liked to disguise itself as love. A word far too terrifying for the adolescent Lamine. Not that he shunned it, or had ever known anything approaching it. It was rather the realization and acceptance that it had always accompanied his steps since he'd met those bluish irises, that made him frightened.

Did he love too much?

Or not enough?

Was it obvious?

Or perhaps too clingy?

Should he pull away to give himself some personal space?

Or get even closer?

Fortunately, he doesn't ask himself these myriad questions every day, or he'd go mad. But in these quiet moments, without the weight of trophies and titles on his shoulders, Yamal becomes a sentimentalist.

He's learned to despise, to detest, to hate.

He learned to weep, to lament, to regret.

He learned to covet, to leer, to envy.

But has he learned to love?

He's not heartless.

Far from it.

But when you realize that you've loved the same person for so many years without realizing it, it's overwhelming. He'd never felt that way with his exes, let alone his friends. A simple but brutal realization hit him in pre-season.

He had never learned not to love Pau.

Their relationship didn't slowly evolve from friendship to love. No. From the outset, it was an affection far too great and particular for them to fit into a box like "childhood friend". And it's fair to say that the love he felt for his friend was obvious, almost written into their destiny. A love that anyone would have seen, looked at, questioned. But that wasn't even the case, because Pau loved in silence, and Yamal followed only his own desires - which were often in line with those of the Catalan -.

This link, which had been the basis of his relationship with others and which he had never questioned until now, resembled a large ball of wool that now had to be untangled, each thread being a memory, a moment, an emotion.

But Yamal wasn't the thinking type, so he left that to his soulmate, the dark-haired man being smart enough for both. So he gently pressed the green call icon, the sound of the answering machine being the umpteenth wait until the object of his desire.

"Lamine? Why did you call me?" asked Pau with a growl.

A soft warmth enveloped him at the sound of the older man's voice.

Fuck....

He's really hooked.

- For nothing."

--

Inspired by my obsession around Cubayamal , the fic of @lecfoscism and his work in general. ( READ THEIR FICS ! )

I hope you liked it !

( idk the name of the fic )

I don't know if I should write the next of this fic , Is chapter 1 good enough to write it ?

Mark was five years old when he woke up crying in his mother's bed, a burning sensation from his wrist to his left shoulder, far from uncomfortable, akin to medieval torture. He'd been taught that water extinguishes flames, so he ran with all his meager strength to the bathtub to soothe the ache, but it had no impact other than to make him shiver in the bathroom. He tried to call his father for help, but he was away on business, as was his mother, who had promised to return from her walk with the dog two hours ago.

He had no choice but to endure this ordeal, his tear reserve already dry, and his face full of snot. He cursed the witch who had cast this spell on him, for no one but an evil sorceress could have made him suffer this pain, as he had seen in the cartoon on TV. He wondered, however, if he'd made a mistake; every child like him who'd been punished by a witch had made a mistake. He hadn't eaten too much candy like Hanzel and Gretel, or trusted strangers like Snow White, perhaps because he'd forgotten to feed the dog! His mother had already scolded him several times for this. So he promised himself, in the solitude of his living room, to always look after Pluto, his Australian shepherd, like his brother. He'd make Pluto play with him every day, and in time, he'd even teach him English - if he could do that, so could Pluto.

His mother finally returned after 30 minutes of pure torment, Pluto at her heels, the dog immediately licking Mark's tears under the young woman's appalled gaze. Breathless from crying, the dark-haired boy grabbed his mother's skirt with his working hand, begging her to help him.

"Mom! My arm is burning!"

She took her child from her arms, drying her tears by whispering words to him. What kind of mother was she to let her son suffer like this! She kissed his forehead and checked his arm, where now stood a scrawl-like set of letters that together formed two words: Fernando Alonso.

The moment she touched the mark, the burning suddenly stopped, the sudden change making her poor son's head spin. She made him sit on her lap, ready at last to talk about what would be a very important subject in her son's life.

"It's all right, darling, you've finally found your soulmate. she explained in a soft, pleasant voice.

- Soul-mate... ?

Mark had heard that word somewhere before, when he watched TV shows with his mother, and people always referred to it, either positively or negatively. But no one had warned him that his soulmate was going to hurt him so badly, so Fernando must have really hated him to burn his whole arm.

- Yes, soul mate. When someone's born, they're linked with two people, a soulmate and an soul-opponent. The soulmate is someone who's made for you, often in love, like me and your father, but it can also be a friend or even a family member. And then there's the opponent soul, who's like your sworn enemy, you know Batman?

- Yes! He's so cool!

- If they had a soulmate and a soul-opponent, it would be Robin, because they complement each other perfectly, and the Joker, because they hate each other and will do anything to fight the other.

- Do you know your soul-mate? Mark asked, looking amazed at this new horizon.

- Yes, I do. He was a very bad person in my life, so try to stay as far away from him as possible.

- What about Fernando?! Is he my soul mate or my soul-opponent ?

- That's for you to decide. You'll understand as soon as you talk to him.

- Mom... Do people exist without a soul mate?

- Yes, there are. she says with a nostalgic smile. There aren't many, but they do exist. You mustn't insult them or hit them! Tell yourself that they, at least, can choose anyone, they don't have to follow any rules.

- I'd rather not have had a soul mate then! Fernando really hurt me!

- It's not his fault, he's only just been born, and it's incredible to have a soulmate, it's like being completely whole.

- And if Fernando dies! Mark exclaimed with a frightened look on his face, "If he doesn't have a Fernando to spend his days with, who will he have? Pluto? No! His mother prefers Pluto to him, she'll forget all about him!

- So you'll be looking for someone who doesn't have a soulmate or who has also lost his soulmate like you have, living with the person you're meant to is not synonymous with happiness, as I told you there are people without a soulmate who live their lives very well."

Mark remains a little skeptical about this explanation: if Fernando dies, he'll fall back on his soul-opponent, and even if they hate each other, they'll have to learn to coexist together. Besides, it's hard to hate him, as his father said, and he's always right.

One last question came to him as he stroked the mark on the back of his wrist, which was blood-red, whereas his mother's was golden. Perhaps it was because Fernando was a boy? Did it matter if he fell in love with Fernando, he'd never seen two boys kiss, nor two girls. He then looked for his mother, who had started cooking for the two of them, eager to learn more about what would surely dictate his life later on.

"Why is your mark golden and mine isn't? he asked plaintively, having always preferred yellow to red, even if they liked the harmony of these two colors when black was added to the equation.

- Because I've met my soul mate, the same thing will happen to you when you meet Fernando.

- Will it burn again? Mark asked, pouting. The last thing he wanted was to get burned again by Fernando, especially not when he met him.

- I don't know, I was born with my mark so I don't remember anything, but I felt a slight tingling when I met your father, it was nice. said his mother with a gentle smile, making her son taste the sauce and lick his lips.

- I hope he gets burnt too! At least he'll experience what I've experienced! Mark finally exclaimed, before running off to his room to his mother's laughter.

He grabbed his cuddly toy and gave it a long hug, trying to forget the torture he'd been through an hour ago. Cuddling cures everything, as his father said, and he's always right.

And what else? Should he learn Spanish?

--

Mark is eleven years old when a gentle tingling sensation in his lower back puts him to sleep. It feels like a caress and seems to relax all his muscles, which are tense from Mr. Johnson's incomprehensible history lesson. A beha smile appears on his lips, which makes his friend at the other end of the classroom laugh. He cherishes the gentle caresses until recess, when he is confronted by his friends about the nature of his cartoonish expressions.

"It's my new brand of soul that just arrived. he explains, to the surprised looks of his classmates.

He'd been waiting six years for his other mark, the person he'd love or hate for the rest of his life. And he'd learned so much more about the subject, here's a quick summary:

1. The color of the mark has no influence on whether the person is a soul-mate or a soul-contrary, red is not synonymous with bad, and blue or green is not synonymous with good.

2. People with a single mark exist, either because the other soul-mate has already died at birth, or because a single person combines the soul-mate and soul-opposite attributes; research is still in full swing on this question.

3. Never reveal the name of your soulmate to a stranger. It's very private and could get you into trouble.

4. Trying to find your soul-mate at all costs is pointless: it's totally random, and some people never meet their soul-mate.

5. A mark can take years to come, you have to be patient until the end, some people have their mark when they are adults and their soulmate is their child.

6. Marks can be on any part of the body, most often on the arm, but not always.

7. Having two male soulmates is weird (he learned it from his two best friends).

- Really?! Man... Eleven years difference with someone, I didn't know you liked kids that much. mocked his friend with a perverse expression, quickly followed by the rest of the group.

- No! Besides, I don't care about soul mates, I'd meet them sooner or later, so..." he said nonchalantly, hoping to hide his nervousness behind his i-don't-care air.

His friends took him at face value, and quickly changed the subject under Mark's unspoken entreaties. It was a good thing his friends weren't trying to get under his shirt, or he'd be in big trouble.

He spent the day with mild excitement, wondering what name had appeared on his back. He ran home despite the fact that he hated physical exertion, slamming his bedroom door and taking off his shirt with a deafening crash. His father would surely argue with him about it later, but his soul mate was more important.

He stood in front of his bedroom mirror, looking for the angle that would allow him to perfectly read the name on the small of his back. He managed to read a few letters: S , B , I , A , V , T , L.

And after several minutes in which he tried increasingly outlandish poses, he was finally able to read the name in full: Sebastian Vettel.

His body immediately froze; he hadn't imagined a name other than masculine, but seeing it in real life changed the whole picture... The name was far too high to be hidden by boxer shorts, but far too low not to be visible if his shirt was pulled up a little. He's ruined! Completely ruined! What will his friends think?

His anxious gaze fell on his wrist, nobody had ever paid attention to his arms, and he hadn't seen anyone trying to read what was written on them. If he can't hide Sebastian, he'll hide Fernando. Because even if there's the possibility that it's totally platonic, the looks of disgust he'll get won't be fictional.

Mark likes women, but he doesn't share his desire to go out with them, more out of laziness than real lack of attraction. He finds them beautiful, attractive and intelligent, but men... He likes them too, he definitely doesn't let his eyes wander in the locker room during gym class, but he's already seen attractive men and enjoyed looking at them. All this is a purely scientific, objective judgement, he's only got eyes, and knows how to recognize beauty.

Besides, German women have always been more his type, beautiful blondes with blue eyes have always caught his eye. Much more so than brunettes with golden eyes.

What's more, his father had advised him not to learn Spanish, and he's always right.

Don't forget , Mark's dad is always right. ☝️

F1 + Pride month + Barça = Perfection

Happy Pride Month from Ferric going on a date to the Spanish GP ❤️

MES QUE UN CLUB

I'm testing the magazine format ( maybe make some new pages ?👀 ), of course it's feric.....

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Despite the poor quality (I had to compress it from 25 MB to 11 MB 🥲)

My honest reaction....

AHHHHHHHHHHH

SO FUCKING PERFECT !!!!!

I can die in peace

You are Enough - Maxiel

Daniel thinks he’s not good enough for Max. but Max disagrees

Not just on bad days. Not just after a rough race or a brutal media day. It's a belief that's etched into his bones now—quiet and constant, like background noise he can't quite mute no matter how loud he turns up the music.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to himself most of the time.

But he feels it. In every stumble, in every misstep, in every look from the paddock that lingers just a little too long with pity.

The world reminds him of it daily.

He opens his phone and the comments are waiting for him like vultures. Max deserves better.

Why is he still with Daniel?

He’s just a washed-up has-been clinging to a golden boy’s coattails.

Some are cruel, some are subtle, but they all sink their claws into the same bleeding spot inside him. His failures are on public record—every DNF, every broken contract, every gamble that didn’t pay off. And even when he smiles, even when he pretends it doesn’t bother him, there’s a part of him that agrees. That maybe they’re right.

Because Max is Max.

Fast, ruthless, brilliant. The reigning champion, the name etched in record books, the face splashed across every screen and billboard. Everything about Max screams excellence. A machine on track. A phenomenon. A living legend before thirty.

And Daniel? Daniel is the joke people whisper when they talk about comebacks that never quite came true. He’s the punchline in too many think-pieces about missed opportunities and faded stars. He tried to carve out something more, something lasting—but the glitter faded, the cameras moved on, and he was left in the shadows with nothing but a grin stretched too wide to hide the cracks.

So he asks himself, every damn day, why is Max still here?

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any logical, sane way.

And yet—

Max looks at him like Daniel hung the moon. Like he’s the one who built the world Max stands on. There’s no hesitation in Max’s gaze, no second-guessing. Just that same quiet intensity, that same infuriating, grounding certainty that Daniel used to carry himself—back when he still believed he was someone worth believing in.

Max holds his hand when they’re alone, and more importantly, when they’re not. He kisses him soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world. He smiles at him across rooms crowded with cameras, in garages humming with tension, like none of the noise matters. Like all that matters is Daniel.

And when Daniel falls apart—because sometimes he does, silently, in the dark, in the moments when his breath catches and his insecurities press down on his chest like a weight he can’t lift—Max is there.

No lectures. No fixing. Just presence.

He touches Daniel like he’s something fragile but not broken. He whispers into his skin,

"You’re more than enough. You always have been."

He says it like it’s fact, like it’s gravity, like it’s so obvious he can’t imagine why Daniel would think otherwise.

And that’s the thing.

Daniel wants to believe it. He wants to hold onto those words and build something around them—some kind of safety, some kind of truth. But the doubt is insidious. It's not loud, it's not sharp—it’s slow. It’s a creeping, sinking thing. Years of public failure, of watching others rise while he stalled, of standing beside Max and wondering if he looks like a mistake.

And yet, somehow, Max makes him forget it.

At least for a moment. When Max cups his face and presses their foreheads together, when he brushes tears from Daniel’s cheek like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel thinks—maybe. Maybe I am enough. For him.

It’s terrifying.

To let someone love you when you’re not sure you love yourself anymore. To be seen—truly seen—and not run.

But Daniel stays. He stays because Max keeps choosing him, over and over, in the quiet ways that matter. And one day, maybe Daniel will be able to choose himself the same way.

But until then, Max’s belief is enough to keep him breathing.

To keep him hoping.

To keep him alive.

......

The hotel room is quiet. Dim light spills through the half-drawn curtains, catching on the edge of the bed where Daniel sits, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands gripping his own hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He steps inside gently, the door clicking softly shut behind him. No shoes, no words, just the sound of his socked feet padding across the carpet.

Daniel doesn’t look up.

His shoulders are shaking.

Max’s heart squeezes in his chest.

He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of Daniel, lowering himself until he’s eye-level. Still, Daniel doesn’t lift his gaze. Max reaches forward and gently pries one hand from Daniel’s head, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

“Hey,” Max says, voice low and careful. “Talk to me, liefje.”

Daniel huffs out a bitter laugh, one that cracks halfway through and turns into something else—something broken. “What’s there to say?”

“You’re upset,” Max says simply. “So I want to hear.”

Daniel finally looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with the remnants of unshed tears. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Just another shuddering breath.

“I just…” Daniel whispers, looking away again. “I feel like I’m dragging you down. Like you could be—like you should be with someone who shines like you do.”

Max frowns. Not angry. Not upset. Just hurt that Daniel could even think that. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Daniel’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Max asks.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he leans in, just a little.

“I see the man who taught me how to laugh during the worst years of my life. Who believed in me before anyone else did. I see the driver who fought like hell on track, even when the world kept stacking the odds against him. I see the person I love.”

Daniel’s breath catches, and he blinks fast.

“I don’t care about the noise,” Max continues, cupping Daniel’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t care about stupid fans or journalists who think they know us. I care about you. You, Dan.”

Daniel’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Max’s voice. It’s so rare—Max always calls him other things: “mate,” “babe,” “liefje.” But Dan feels raw. Real. Intimate in a different way.

“I know it’s hard,” Max says. “I know you hear them. But I need you to hear me more.”

Daniel leans into Max’s touch, his forehead pressing against Max’s. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I still have it together.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Max murmurs. “Not ever.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Daniel crumbles.

Quietly, but completely.

Max pulls him in without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Daniel and tugging him off the bed and into his lap on the floor. Daniel clings to him, face buried in Max’s shoulder, breath hitching against his neck. Max rocks them gently, one hand stroking up and down Daniel’s back, the other still wrapped around his hand.

They sit like that for a long time, Max humming something under his breath, fingers tracing circles over Daniel’s spine. Just presence. Just comfort. No expectations.

When Daniel’s breathing finally evens out, Max presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

And Daniel believes him.

Not because the noise stops. Not because the doubts are gone.

But because when Max holds him like this, like he’s something precious—not a mistake, not a burden—it’s the only truth that matters.

....

It starts on a podium.

Daniel’s not even racing that weekend—he’s just there, part of the team, part of Max’s world. He keeps a low profile, tries to melt into the background even though the cameras always find him anyway. The whispers are constant, same as always.

“What’s Daniel doing here?” “Does Max really need the distraction?” “Why is he still hanging on?”

Daniel hears them, even if Max doesn’t.

And Max… he’s done pretending not to notice.

So when the race ends, and Max wins (because of course he does—he’s Max), he takes the usual path up to the top step. Trophy raised. Anthem played. Champagne sprayed.

But this time, as the photographers crowd the front of the podium and the interviewers line up with their mics and questions, Max does something else.

He takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair, and glances past the crowd—eyes scanning until he finds Daniel, standing off to the side in the team gear, clapping, smiling that soft, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max steps forward.

Down from the podium. Off the stage.

Straight toward Daniel.

And before anyone can process what’s happening, Max reaches for him.

One arm around his waist. One hand cradling the side of Daniel’s neck. A soft, sure look in his eyes.

Then Max kisses him.

Not a peck. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing.

A real kiss. A statement.

And for the first time, the crowd falls silent.

The cameras flash. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand lenses pointed at them—but Max doesn’t care. He leans in like the world isn’t watching, like he’s doing it just for Daniel, but everyone sees.

Daniel freezes, overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. When Max pulls back just a little, eyes still on his, he whispers, low and sure:

“Let them talk.”

Daniel blinks, stunned.

“They don’t know a damn thing,” Max continues. “I love you. That's what matters.”

It’s not just the kiss. It’s everything after.

Max answers every press question with Daniel’s name spoken like it’s sacred. He posts a photo later that night: just Daniel, curled into his side, captioned simply: My win, every day. He brushes off reporters who try to bait him into controversy. “He’s not a distraction. He’s my peace.”

And it works.

Not because the world suddenly becomes kind.

But because Max doesn’t flinch.

Because he keeps holding Daniel’s hand on the grid. Keeps pulling him into frame for photos. Keeps choosing him, again and again, in front of the world.

It doesn’t fix everything overnight. The noise is still there. But it starts to shift. A few headlines soften. A few fans change their tone. A few of them finally see.

And Daniel?

For the first time in a long time, he believes it.

Because Max didn’t just say it in the dark, with no one around to hear.

He said it in the light.

Where it mattered most.

Where the world had to watch—and listen.

...................

Check out my other works in:

Unexpected Cupid – George x Max ft. Kimi Antonelli

Fake love -Lestappen

Paper rings - Maxiel

WE ARE IN THE FINALS VS BROCEDEEEESSSS. Please VOTE MAXIEL FOR THE WIN PLEASE 🦁🍯🦡

"It's you , Despite everything, it's still you. "

Words: around 1k

Inspired by this amazing fanart by @padiduys :

--------------------------------------------------

"IT'S YOU "

Mark gently brushed Fernando's cheek, his loving gaze shimmering in his eyes. The Spaniard took no notice, talking to Kimi about the upcoming race, his eyes full of challenge and his proud smile. He was a competitor, one of those rarely seen, those who live for glory, victory and, in his case, speed. It's all about speed, and always will be. And under these conditions, one wondered how a love affair could be created. But Fernando wasn't just a competitor, he wasn't just greedy, he was greedy too, and that was another sin, but don't hold that against him, he's human after all. In his greed, he had kept deep down his love for his friends, his family and Mark...

He cherished them and didn't want anyone to take them away from him, his sweet words in Spanish, his discreet caresses, his secret and often unexpected kisses, his freshly bought flowers from the local florist, his lame jokes, his charming smile. He dedicates them all to one person, whom he likes to call "Mine". Mark, too, appreciates this attention, moving in it, flanning like the sun, with the certainty that their love will fight anything.

Their love so sweet, their love so strong, their love so secret. Because, as Fernando had said a few lines earlier, he was greedy, and his greed manifested itself in his need for secrecy, for "their things", for lies.

After all, perfect love means discreet love.

" DESPITE EVERYTHING "

I'm not going to Ferrari," says Mark.

And his words destroyed everything. Absolutely everything, a chaos of screams, insults, annoyance, everything but crying. Because why cry over so little? He was just a colleague, after all, just a colleague....

Yet this sentence had been like a bomb, said in public, the atmosphere previously ecstatic, the moment now as if frozen by this sudden coldness.

Mark knew what he was getting into when he said this, because it wasn't Ferrari's refusal that had led to the dispute, it was the confirmation that next year, he would be retiring. That the words were heard by all only added fuel to the fire, for even if Fernando's greed was proven, Mark's was far greater. So when he destroyed the open secret, everything went with it.

Fernando had done his best to get him to stay, trying to convince him to change teams, to finally leave Red Bull, which no longer respected him. But he was tired, terribly tired, but his love for Fernando is intact. For, despite the fact that he was leaving, he had hoped to stay with him, to share his days and nights, and so had Fernando, but the separation was too strong, and sooner or later one of them would have cracked.

So it was on one of their dates that Mark accepted his sentence, knowing the consequences but unable to accept them. But if it wasn't him who put an end to it, it would have been Fernando, and that would have been far more heartbreaking and destructive. For Fernando loves passionately, a flame seemingly burning in his heart, fueling his will, his hope and his love. And Mark had plunged into it, unafraid of getting burned, but perhaps he should have, for now he could only see himself as a charred corpse.

So....

He said the word.

"It's over"

He bitterly regretted the second he said them, then knew he couldn't go back when Fernando cried in front of him. He'd never made him cry before, not from joy, not from sadness. He'd hoped the Spaniard's tears would flow when he proposed, the mark of his ring box still visible on his faded jeans. But he'd dreamed too much.

And when he'd left the restaurant, he too had felt drops on his cheeks, his vision blurred, but he hadn't noticed them. Probably too absorbed by the sadness he'd caused the man he loved, and would love forever, to feel.

" IT'S STILL YOU "

Seeing Fernando in a green outfit was confusing for him, as he was far too used to Ferrari's reds and Renault's bright blues. Yet this color suited him like a glove, as did all the others if you asked him, but I doubt you'd be interested in hearing a middle-aged man's monologues about his husband.

His beard was grayer than the last time they'd shared a podium, wrinkles adding to his face as age crept into both their lives.

It had made them mature, Mark hoped, they had seen each other again, after a long time, but they had still managed this small step after years of radio silence.

Their first conversations had been tinged with nostalgia, remorse, sometimes resentment, a strange taste of bitterness sticking to both men's palates. Yet Mark had recognized one thing he'd forgotten after their break-up, and that was gentleness.

The gentleness in Fernando's voice when he spoke of them, his smile, his touch, shorter than before but as comforting as ever. He'd created a portrait of the fearless, fearless Spaniard, but he'd completely overlooked a part of the Spaniard's personality.

His concern for his loved ones, his love of animals, his desire to advance the next generation, his muted anger, always more impactful than shouting.

All this less flamboyant side of the Spaniard had been forgotten after so many years. But it was this one that made him fall in love again, even more strongly than the first, because it was still him and had always been him.

And maybe now the ring on Fernando's hand would be the talk of the town, maybe this time the secret would be less guarded, maybe this time Mark wouldn't be able to deny it.

But it's about time, discretion has a limit and for Mark it stops at affection. For he has no intention of stopping dating Fernando for any reason as stupid as fear.

Fear of other people's gaze, fear of a distant and unpredictable future. Because he knew he had Fernando Alonso by his side, always by his side despite the passage of time.

Because it's him , despite everything, it's still him.

--------------

I hope you enjoyed it! Credit goes to @padiduys for his incredible fanart, I think my idea was pretty far from the fanart, but Fernando's smile was just too tender for me not to write about it.

The idea seems very interesting 👀👀

And yes

IT'S TIME FOR FERIC PROPAGANDA🗣️‼️‼️

Okay I have a super random Feric headcanon inspired by a dream I had last night

An AU where Eric is a real estate agent (he always wears glasses in this. I know you all and Ferran would appreciate it) and Ferran wants to buy a house of course BUT he always brings Pedri with him (because he needs someone with working braincells to help him make the right decision). So Eric thinks that they are a couple looking for a place together and never tries anything with Ferran until one day where another guy (= Gavi) tags along as well and Eric thinks "oh my god he has TWO BOYFRIENDS?? HOW CAN I COMPETE WITH THAT" but then finally finds out that neither of them is dating Ferran, they are just his best friend and his best friend's boyfriend - not only that, he also finds out that Ferran is SINGLE and yeah they end up hooking up on the couch of one of the houses Eric is showing him because fuck professionalism and work ethics

*for those who are interested (= nobody): my random dream was that Ferran took part in an Italian tv show where people who want to buy a house are shown three houses by three different real estate agents and at the end of the episode they have to pick one