F1 ones shots driver x driver

Wait for him - Mick & Seb

Mick is - normal text

Seb is - italics

This is slightly different to the lestappen one but with the same frame so might be a bit repetitive if you've read that one

Wait for him

It had happened again. Haas fucked up the entire race, Guenther had had another yell at me, and I hadn't even had the chance to challenge him. It really was all my fault. What Guenther had been saying behind my back (although not quietly enough that it didn't make its way to me) was really true. I really was shit.

Heavy air encased me as I trudged down the dreary street. Only the faint, dull, drowned-out noise of chatting could be heard in the distance. My coat was warm, yet it didn't provide me with the comfort I so dearly craved. Eeriness encapsulated the streets around. Coldness ran through my veins and flooded me. Something felt off.

I had gone out with some of the other drivers – Lance and Esteban mainly but we bumped into some of the other guys. I need a relief. I needed to be drunk.

Music pounding around the room; Lights flashing like fireworks. Our usual home was invaded with unknown mystery. Why was everyone here? There wasn't a space that wasn't occupied: by a person, by a seat, by a thought. Feeling weaker by the second, I tried to leave; I couldn't leave.

Scanning the room for someone, anyone, my hope dissipated into the surrounding bodies. They were nowhere to be found, they were nowhere to, they were nowh...

Darkness blurred my vision.

My heart started to pound.

My legs were weak.

It was all too much.

Relief rushed to my head as the frigid air hit my sweating face. I felt better yet still uneasy. It was like a child nagging at your legs. Conveniently, my phone was dead. I felt abandoned; I was abandoned. With no means of getting a taxi back to the hotel, I took matters into my own hands and started the journey back to my luxurious hotel. It was a perk of the 'job', but I just wish I had somewhere I could call home truly. If I could have it my way, my home would be wherever my dad was, but that's just not an option and my heart sinks every time I remember glimpses of my past, our past.

Illuminating the pathway home, the streetlights stood tall like soldiers, peering over me. Awkwardly invasive; uncomfortably captive.

Worn-down concrete covered the path like a blanket. Puddles lay aimlessly on the raised texture of tarmac. Wooden boards had begun to rot and mould was cultivating rapidly, suffocating the window edge. I had bought a more homely place for the European races to try and give myself a sense of home. My house was far from luxurious, but it was sufficient which was all I needed. You could infer its age just by a quick glance. That's just what he did.

His shoulders slumped, his eyes heavy and dark circles permanently resided below his eyes. I was too far away to properly observe his, yet I was truly captivated. It was as if I was a magpie and he was a shining, silver necklace that was dull, but the humble beauty still radiated quietly and unassumingly.

His outfit screamed party, yet he did not.

Death swallowed me whole. My outfit was a façade: a mask. Hiding was exhausting. My 'friends' were oblivious. Wasn't everyone?

I could tell he wasn't okay. How could everyone else be so oblivious and heartless? He looked physically and mentally weak. He was weak. His actions were worth gold compared to his words. Reading his quickly became my priority. The heaviness with which he ambled along with was almost enough proof. Numbness oscillated through the complex network of alleyways. The warmth of the streetlights desperately tried to lift the emotion. He looked like the spitting image of Mick Schumacher, the son of the infamous Michael Schumacher if he was absolutely wasted and in a dark place.

This boy had me hooked.

I needed to know more.

Someone was behind me. I could hear their footsteps. My ears were still ringing, piercing my brain as if an alarm was going off.

Was it a warning?

My stomach dropped.

I heard a voice. "Wait!" he yelled.

I ran.

Under my breath, I muttered to myself. How could I be so careless?

He was gone. I followed.

Turning the corner, I saw a curled-up figure shaking and trembling. Vulnerability was his weakness. Wasn't it all our ours? He was an easy target. The overwhelming requirement to protect him flooded my body; he was bound to be exploited.

He was Mick Schumacher. My 'son' and reason in life.

His limbs frail.

My body weak.

As the wind picked up, I took off my coat without a second thought and carefully laid it across the skeleton of the man he once was.

I should have thought this through.

It was too late now.

All I could do was wait.

Wait for him.