Work Text:
It started with a worksheet.
Well — technically, with the corner of a worksheet.
Oscar had been half-listening, half-doodling, waiting for the bell to end their last lesson of the week. Felicity was sitting next to him, neat handwriting marching across the page in straight lines while his notes looked like a crime scene.
“Don’t forget to fill in your details,” the teacher called. “Name, date of birth, form, all of that.”
Felicity neatly wrote hers at the top. Oscar copied her format, squinting because she had the kind of perfect handwriting that looked like it had been printed by the school itself.
And then his eyes caught on the numbers.
6 April.
He blinked.
Checked his own handwriting.
Then checked hers again.
No way.
“Wait—” he whispered, nudging her elbow. “That’s my birthday.”
Felicity glanced over, unimpressed. “What?”
“Your date. Sixth of April. That’s mine too.”
She frowned faintly, like she thought he was joking. “Really?”
“Yeah!” His grin was immediate, bright enough to make her roll her eyes. “We have the same birthday! That’s like— that’s fate.”
Felicity snorted softly. “That’s statistics.”
Oscar ignored that entirely. “No, no, seriously. Same day, same year. That’s… that’s crazy.”
“Not really.” She was already turning the page, her expression unreadable. “It just means our parents had bad timing.”
“Hey!” he protested, leaning over the desk. “You don’t think that’s cool?”
“I don’t… really like my birthday,” she said simply. “So, not particularly.”
He blinked, thrown by that. “Why not?”
She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s just… a day. My parents are always busy. I get texts from assistants, not them. And everyone at school thinks birthdays are supposed to be—” she waved her hand vaguely “—fun. I’d rather skip it.”
Oscar felt something twist in his chest.
He knew enough details about how her life outside Hailebury looked. Knew the expectations of her parents that wanted a “perfect” daughter and didn’t care how Felicity managed to achieve their perfect expectations. He knew that Fliss was brilliant and calm and always smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
And Oscar also couldn’t imagine not having people fuss over you on your birthday.
“Well,” Oscar said after a moment, leaning on his elbow, pretending to think hard. “You can’t skip it this year.”
She looked up, wary. “Why not?”
“Because,” he said, like it was the most logical thing in the world, “it’s mine too. You can’t skip my birthday. That’s against the best friend code. And if it’s both of ours, then we kind of have to do something.”
Felicity gave him that patient, slightly amused look she reserved for when he said something ridiculous. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Cake?” He grinned. “We could split one. Half for you, half for me.”
Her lips twitched. “You’d eat the whole thing.”
“Probably.”
That earned him a quiet laugh, soft and warm enough to make his stomach flutter.
He decided right then — with the kind of certainty only a fourteen-year-old boy in love could have — that the universe had done this on purpose.
That maybe, just maybe, he and Felicity Leong sharing a birthday meant something.
Later, in the dorm common room, he wrote her name next to his in the margin of his planner.
6 April — me & Fliss 🎂
He underlined it twice.
Because even if she didn’t care about birthdays, he was going to make sure she smiled on that one.
***
It was supposed to be a normal Saturday.
At least, that was what Felicity thought when she signed out at the gate and followed Oscar down the gravel path toward the row of shops just outside campus.
The spring air was cool, the trees still bare at the edges. Haileybury weekends had a particular kind of quiet — the sound of students walking in twos and threes, laughing about the week behind them, pretending not to feel like children.
Felicity tugged her cardigan tighter. “You didn’t say what we’re getting.”
Oscar adjusted the straps of his backpack, trying for casual and failing. “Just… a few things.”
“That’s helpful.”
He grinned, all dimples and nerves. “It’s a surprise.”
Her eyebrow arched. “If this is about snacks again—”
“It’s not!” he promised quickly. Then, quieter, “Kind of.”
The shop bell jingled when they stepped inside the small Co-op. The place smelled faintly of bread and cleaning products. Felicity grabbed a basket, assuming he’d forgotten toothpaste or something.
But then he headed straight for the baking aisle.
She frowned. “What are we—”
“Flour,” he said, scanning the shelves like he was making a pit stop strategy. “And sugar. And… how hard can baking a cake actually be?”
Realization dawned. “Oh, Oscar.”
He turned, sheepish but resolute. “You said you don’t celebrate your birthday. So, I thought maybe… we could make one. Together.”
Felicity blinked, basket dangling uselessly in her hand. “You can’t bake.”
“I can follow instructions,” he said defensively. “Mostly.”
Her lips twitched. “That’s debatable.”
“Come on, Fliss.” He nudged her shoulder. “We’ll get one of those box mixes if it’s easier. Half for you, half for me. Birthday solidarity.”
Something in his grin — the unshakable belief that this was a good idea — made it impossible to say no.
She sighed, pretending to be put-upon. “Fine. But if you burn the kitchen again—”
“That was one time,” he protested, already tossing a packet of chocolate chips into the basket.
“Exactly one too many.”
They moved through the aisles like a pair of conspirators: arguing over icing flavours (she insisted on vanilla, he pushed for chocolate), debating candles (he grabbed the “Happy Birthday” pack even though she rolled her eyes), and nearly starting a small avalanche of eggs when he tried to check if the ones in his carton were cracked.
By the time they reached the checkout, Felicity was laughing under her breath. It felt strange and light, like something in her chest had unclenched.
“Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to eat cake?” she asked as he paid.
“Maybe fifty-fifty,” he admitted. “But mostly it’s because birthdays are better when someone remembers.”
She froze a little at that — the simplicity of it, the quiet kindness.
Oscar didn’t push. Just smiled, holding the bag open for her to tuck the candles inside.
Outside, the afternoon light was soft and golden. They started back toward campus, their steps matching.
“Do you think this counts as fate still?” she asked finally, glancing sideways at him.
Oscar’s grin was immediate, unstoppable. “Absolutely. Fate with frosting.”
Felicity laughed — really laughed — and for the first time in years, her birthday didn’t feel like something to hide from.
It felt like theirs.
***
Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Nicole Piastri
Oscar:
Mum
Nicole:
Hi love. Shouldn’t you be in prep?
Oscar:
We finished early. I need advice.
Nicole:
About what?
Oscar:
Birthday present.
Nicole:
For who?
Oscar:
Felicity.
Nicole:
Ahh. That Felicity.
(Translation: the girl you talk about constantly.)
Oscar:
Yeah. It’s her birthday next weekend.
Same day as mine.
Nicole:
Wait—what?
Oscar:
We have the same birthday.
6 April.
Nicole:
No way! That’s adorable!
You’re like twins. Or fate.
Oscar:
Exactly. That’s what I said.
Nicole:
So what are you thinking for a gift?
Oscar:
That’s the problem.
Her family’s super rich.
Nicole:
Define “super rich.”
Oscar:
They have a koi pond.
In their living room.
Nicole:
…come again?
Oscar:
Like, actual koi. Swimming.
There’s a bridge over it.
She showed me pictures once.
Nicole:
You’re joking.
Oscar:
I wish.
Also her pens cost more than some cars.
Nicole:
Okay, that’s… a situation.
But you don’t have to match her family, Oz.
Oscar:
Yeah but I can’t just get her, like, chocolate.
She eats chocolate flown in from Switzerland or something.
Nicole:
You’re overthinking it.
What does she actually like?
Oscar:
Um. Books. Science stuff.
Fixing broken things.
She keeps all her notes colour-coded.
And she likes black tea, but not with milk.
Nicole:
See? You already know.
Get her something thoughtful.
Maybe a nice notebook and tea.
Something you picked, not something expensive.
Oscar:
But what if it’s lame?
Nicole:
It won’t be.
You’re fourteen and trying to be kind.
Girls notice that more than koi ponds.
Oscar:
You sure?
Nicole:
Positive.
Also: you share a birthday — you can call it a joint celebration.
That’s very romantic.
Oscar:
Mum. We’re fifteen.
Not romantic.
Nicole:
Mhm.
Totally platonic.
Oscar:
Stop.
Nicole:
Can’t help it. It’s cute.
My son and his birthday twin.
Oscar:
I’m ignoring that.
Thanks though.
Nicole:
Anytime.
And Osc?
Oscar:
Yeah?
Nicole:
Get her a proper card.
Girls love cards.
Oscar:
Right.
Card.
Tea.
Notebook.
Got it.
Nicole:
And don’t drop the cake this time.
Oscar:
That was one time!!
***
The kitchen smelled like sugar and burnt ambition.
Flour dusted the counter like fresh snow, and Oscar’s elbow was somehow already covered in cocoa powder. He looked more like he’d been attacked by the cake than like someone successfully baking one.
“This was your idea,” Felicity reminded him.
He glanced up, cheeks streaked white, grinning like it was still the best idea in the world. “Yeah, and it’s going brilliantly.”
Felicity looked at the sink — three mixing bowls, two broken eggs, and a whisk that had lost the will to live. “Define brilliantly.”
He leaned over the counter, mock-serious. “Well, we haven’t set off the fire alarm yet.”
“That’s your bar for success?”
He laughed, a quick, bright sound that made the sterile boarding-school kitchen feel warm.
It wasn’t really about the cake. It never was.
She knew that.
Oscar did too.
He’d asked if she wanted to celebrate their “joint birthday” this weekend, and she’d said yes before she could talk herself out of it. Normally, she’d have avoided it completely — pretended she had revision, or that she wasn’t feeling well. But something about the way he’d said our birthday had softened the part of her that always recoiled from it.
The part that hated what the day stood for.
Growing older didn’t feel like a victory to her — it felt like a countdown.
Every year, her parents reminded her, in their own elegant way, that she was inching closer to being “valuable.”
Education was an accessory.
Politeness, posture, beauty — those were investments.
The right husband was the endgame.
Sometimes she thought being born a boy would’ve been easier.
Boys were allowed to have ambitions that weren’t marriage contracts. Boys could study engineering because they wanted to build something — not because it looked impressive on a family résumé.
And birthdays were a reminder that she was the wrong kind of person in her own house.
She’d stopped wanting cake years ago.
But here she was, standing in a borrowed kitchen, watching Oscar Piastri lick icing off a spoon like he’d just discovered happiness in confectionary form.
He noticed her watching and offered her the spoon. “Want to taste it?”
She hesitated. The old, automatic voice in her head whispered no. Sugar. Calories. Control.
But then she looked at Oscar — at the flour in his hair, at the way he was waiting without pressure, patient and easy — and the noise went quiet.
She took the spoon.
It was too sweet, a little grainy, but she smiled anyway. “Not bad.”
His face lit up like she’d given him a trophy. “See? Told you I’m a natural.”
“You added twice the sugar,” she said, but her tone was lighter than it should be.
He shrugged. “Extra love.”
Felicity laughed, a small, startled sound. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed on her birthday.
They got the cake into the oven eventually. It leaned to one side like it had survived an earthquake, but it smelled right — warm, rich, human. She sat on the counter while they waited, legs swinging, fingers tracing patterns in the flour dust.
Oscar perched beside her, bumping her knee with his. “So, what do you want to do when we’re rich and famous?”
She smiled faintly. “You’ll be rich and famous. I’ll just fix your cars.”
“Perfect,” he said without missing a beat. “We’ll start our own team. Piastri-Leong Racing.”
She rolled her eyes. “That sounds like a law firm.”
“Fine. Leong-Piastri Racing. You can be the boss. You already terrify me half the time.”
“I don’t terrify you.”
He gave her a soft look. “You’re wrong.”
She turned away, heat creeping up her neck. No one looked at her like that — not like she was someone rather than something.
When the oven beeped, they nearly dropped the cake taking it out. It was lopsided and cracked in the middle, but when Oscar set it down on the counter, he looked genuinely proud.
“It’s hideous,” she said fondly.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But it’s ours.”
He stuck two candles in the middle — one pink, one blue — and lit them.
“Make a wish,” he said.
Felicity stared at the tiny flames.
Normally, she’d have wished for freedom.
Or for her family to see her as something other than a transaction.
But right then, with Oscar standing beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, the scent of burnt chocolate in the air — she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
So she wished for this.
For the lightness in her chest to last a little longer.
For the sound of his laugh to stay with her even after the candles went out.
She blew them out.
Oscar clapped softly, as if it were a grand finale. “Happy birthday, Fliss.”
She looked up, smiling despite herself. “Happy birthday, Oz.”
They ate the first slices straight from the pan with forks, laughing at how uneven it was.
It wasn’t perfect. It was better.
Because for once, her birthday didn’t feel like a reminder of everything she wasn’t.
It felt like a beginning.
And when Oscar nudged the last bite toward her and said, “You can have it — it’s your day,” she didn’t argue.
She took it.
And for the first time in years, she let herself want something sweet.
***
The kitchen still smelled faintly of cake and burnt icing sugar.
There was flour on the counter, frosting on the floor, and a streak of chocolate somehow on the side of his shoe — which, frankly, he couldn’t explain.
Felicity was sitting on the table, legs crossed, fork in hand, hair escaping her braid. There was a smudge of cocoa on her cheek and the faintest smile curving at the corner of her mouth.
He thought she’d never looked more perfect.
Not pretty — not like the word people threw around too easily.
Perfect, in the sense that she was real.
“Okay,” she said, breaking the silence. “Gift exchange time.”
Oscar blinked. “We’re doing gifts?”
“Obviously,” she said, feigning impatience but not quite hiding her amusement. “That’s how birthdays work, remember?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. I, uh, might’ve gotten you something.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Might’ve?”
He dug into his backpack — which still had flour dust on it — and pulled out the small, carefully wrapped parcel. It wasn’t much. Just a red notebook, plain except for the gold-foiled corners.
He held it out, suddenly nervous. “Happy birthday.”
She looked at it for a second before taking it, fingertips brushing his. “You wrapped it.”
“Yeah.”
“With tape that says ‘Merry Christmas.’”
“…It was all the shop had.”
She smiled, soft and quiet, tracing the edge of the notebook. “It’s beautiful, Oscar.”
He shrugged, pretending not to notice how warm his ears felt. “You said you ran out of pages in your old one. I thought maybe you could fill this one with something that’s just… yours.”
For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just turned the notebook over in her hands like it was fragile. “Thank you,” she said finally. “Really.”
He wanted to say you’re welcome. He wanted to say I think about you all the time. But all that came out was, “It’s red. Like the frosting.”
She laughed — and that felt like enough.
Then she reached behind her and pulled something from a paper bag he hadn’t noticed before. “Your turn.”
He frowned. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” she said simply, pressing it into his hands. “But I wanted to.”
He peeled back the wrapping, and the first thing he saw was the golden sash across black and yellow fabric. His heart stuttered.
“No way.”
She smiled. “Richmond Tigers hoodie. You talk about them every other week. I figured I’d get you something less edible than cake.”
Oscar stared at it, utterly speechless. “This is—Fliss, this is awesome.”
“It was either that or socks,” she said lightly. “I made the right call, didn’t I?”
He nodded, a grin breaking wide across his face. “Best birthday ever.”
“You say that now,” she teased, “wait until you try to wash that thing and the colours bleed.”
He was still staring at her, the hoodie clutched in his hands, when it hit him — the simplest truth in the world:
He didn’t care about the cake. Or the presents.
He just cared that she was here, sitting across from him, smiling at him like maybe fate really had gotten it right.
***