Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ollie was perfectly fine.

At least, that was what he told himself, what he repeated until it sounded like fact instead of wishful thinking. He had made it to Formula One. He had survived his rookie year. Survived, like a plant clinging stubbornly to rocky soil, roots struggling not to give even when the ground offered little nourishment.

He hadn’t stood on the podium like Isack or Kimi. But that was okay. He didn’t need a trophy to prove his worth. He told himself that too, even as the thought tasted bitter on his tongue. Sure, sometimes, quietly, treacherously, he imagined it anyway. The weight of a trophy in his hands. The sun glinting off metal, catching in his eyes. Champagne soaking his race suit, cheers ringing in his ears as the British anthem swelled around him. Those dreams were sprouting up unexpectedly, bright and intoxicating, before wilting just as fast.

Most of the time, he kept them pruned back. Jealousy was an ugly thing, a weed that choked everything it touched. What good would it do to stare at what others had earned? They deserved it. They had fought, bled, clawed their way there. They were strong enough to break through the asphalt.

And yet, every time he framed it that way, something rotten crept in beneath the logic. Like mold spores drifting invisibly through the air, settling quietly in the corners of his mind. Had he not worked just as hard? Had he not given everything he had, every single weekend? The unfairness of it pressed against his ribs, threatening to crush his rib cage.

Whenever those thoughts surfaced, Ollie hated himself for them. He shouldn’t think like this. He was doing well. He’d outqualified his far more experienced teammate. He had points—forty-one of them. That meant something.

Until it didn’t.

Because then his mind betrayed him again, supplying comparisons he hadn’t asked for. Kimi: one hundred and fifty points. At Mercedes. A different ecosystem entirely. Rationally, it made sense. But the creeping vines of doubt didn’t care about reason. They wrapped tighter around his chest, squeezing, reminding him that others had proven what was possible.

He wasn’t even in a Ferrari. He was in a Haas. A car that was refusing to yield no matter how much effort he poured into it. One day, he told himself, he’d escape it. If he just performed well enough. If he impressed the right people. If he grew fast enough, tall enough, visible enough. Then he’d feel better. Then the rot would stop spreading.

Instead, it felt like his mind was slowly composting itself. Thoughts piling up, breaking down, turning soft and foul. He imagined himself as a tree that had been watered endlessly, tended to carefully, only to never bear fruit. His parents’ sacrifices, Ayao’s patience, the endless hours of work. All of it poured into him. And still, the buds browned and fell away before they could bloom.

He told himself he just needed to be better. Faster. Sharper. More. Then happiness would come. Then he could breathe again. Then he wouldn’t feel like a failure.

Right?

Each time someone asked him about the season, it took more effort to keep everything submerged. To smile. To nod. To skim across the surface like sunlight on water, glittering and deceptive.

How much longer could he push it all down? Like algae sinking to the bottom of a lake, hidden beneath calm reflections. How long before it piled too high, before the lake turned stagnant and poisoned itself from within?

He found out one night in Monaco.

The air in his apartment had begun to turn thick and stale, so he escaped into the night. The marina was quiet, the water dark and gently rocking the yachts. The lights shimmered across the surface, hypnotizing him. Ollie walked without thinking, letting the cool air numb him.

When someone tapped his shoulder, he startled. He turned slowly, as if underwater. He was met with curly hair, dark eyes and a sheepish smile.

Gabi.

Gabi, who knew what it was like to fall from great heights. Who understood the hollow ache of expectations unmet. From Formula 2 champion to scraping for scraps at the back of the grid. Over the season, he had become something steady in Ollie’s life.
The dam broke without warning.

Tears burned hot and sudden, flooding his vision. Gabi’s expression shifted instantly, confusion melting into concern. Ollie didn’t say a word, he just stepped forward and clung to Gabi, arms tight, desperate, as if he might be swept away otherwise.

Gabi held him. No questions. No fixing. Just a hand in his hair, the other drawing slow circles on his back, softly humming. The sobs tore out of Ollie, raw and ugly, shaking his entire body. He cried for everything he’d buried, everything he’d been too afraid to let grow.

Gabi cried too. Ollie felt it in the tremble in his hands, the hitch in his breath. They stood there like that, under the Monaco sky, clinging to each other while the night made them shiver.

And somewhere deep inside Ollie—beneath the rot, beneath the guilt and the self-loathing—something shifted. A single bud cracked open.

For the first time, something began to bloom.