Chapter Text
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The third trimester indicated that Ayrton would have to spend less time at home due to the start of the season.
And Michael hated it with an intensity barely concealed by his maturity.
Not because he didn't understand. Not because it was unfair. But because he was Ayrton. Because his scent lingered on the sheets when he left, and because his voice on the phone wasn't enough when Max kicked off at four in the morning.
"I'm not going to show him videos of your races to calm him down." Michael said into the phone while serving himself cereal at six in the evening, in his pajamas.
"But he calms down." Ayrton responded brazenly, from the other side of the world, with the tone of someone who knew he was right.
"We don't know! Maybe he calms down because listening to you give interviews puts him to sleep out of boredom."
"Lie! My voice is melodious."
Ayrton laughed. And Michael laughed too, though he sighed later, with the inevitable gesture of someone who feels something is missing.
The nights were harder. The house felt too big, too quiet, even with Nigel coming and going as if he had stock in the fridge and trying not to leave him alone for too long, or Riccardo and Mika making calls all the time "to check that Max hadn't been born unexpectedly". Corinna also called, but she wasn't as unbearable.
Still, nothing filled that exact space where Ayrton should have been.
Michael didn't say it out loud—because he wasn't dramatic, of course not—but he thought about it every time he looked at the time and realized that Ayrton usually hugged him at that hour. He thought about it when he cooked something simple for dinner and no one was around to steal ingredients "to test the quality", or when he sat on the couch and the silence was so perfect it seemed artificial.
And when Max moved, Michael spoke to him, softly, as if the fetus understood.
"He'll be back soon. He's Dad. He always comes back. It's just... it takes him a while, you know? Because he also needs everything at the same time. His car. His track. And you. And me. I don't blame him; I want to have that too when you're born."
His hand remained on his belly, feeling those small movements that had become part of his routine. They didn't hurt. But they weren't indifferent either.
"You don't realize it yet, but you love him very much, it shows." he whispered. "Because when he comes back, you're always calmer."
He didn't cry. Because he wasn't dramatic. But he stayed there, with moist eyes and a slightly heavy heart, letting the night envelop him.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The 1993 season began in March. Max was scheduled for early May, probably between Spain and Monaco.
So on March 9th, Ayrton had to pack his bags for good to go to South Africa.
Michael watched him as he finished packing. Max hadn't been born yet, and although Michael's pregnancy seemed to be reaching its peak, the races weren't waiting.
"Promise me you won't miss the birth?" Michael asked with a half smile, although his eyes didn't lie.
Ayrton paused for a moment, his face showing a seriousness he rarely showed. Then he nodded, wordlessly, simply affirming with his eyes that everything was going to be okay.
"I told you, darling, if I have to take a flight from Spain, France, or any other country to get here, I will."
Michael looked at him, seeking comfort in those words, but a shadow of doubt still lingered in his eyes. The season was unpredictable, and although Ayrton assured them of this, the weight of uncertainty still lingered in the air.
"Don't make it sound as if it were something simple." Michael replied with a bitter smile. "I don't want you to take that risk."
Ayrton set the suitcase aside and approached, gently touching Michael's face, as if his hands could erase any insecurity.
"I'll be here for you. For both. I promise."
Michael couldn't help but look at Ayrton's hands, those that had soothed him so many times, that had built a security in him that now seemed so fragile, given the distance that would separate them.
"If you're not here..." Michael began, his voice wavering, before being interrupted by Ayrton's words.
"I'll be here." Ayrton said firmly, and then, with a somewhat sad smile, he added. "One way or another, I always will be."
Michael nodded, but it wasn't enough to dispel the anxiety he felt. The clock was ticking, and he had to face everything that would come alone.
The final embrace was long. When Ayrton pulled away, he looked at Michael one last time before leaving.
"I love you, you know?" Ayrton said, the words gently worded, but filled with an unshakeable truth.
Michael took a deep breath, and although fear loomed for a second, there was also some hope.
"I love you too. Come back whole and soon, please."
With one last kiss on his forehead, Ayrton left the house, taking with him a part of Michael that wouldn't return until much later, when little Max came into the world and, finally, the promises were fulfilled.
Because even if Ayrton had to return home a couple of times, he wouldn't stay more than 24 hours.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
Ayrton returned a few days after the European Grand Prix, two trophies in hand.
"One's for Max, and the other's for you." he said, entering with that smile that filled the entire house.
Michael, with an already monumental belly and a permanently exhausted expression, looked at him from the sofa.
"And what's mine for? For surviving during your absence?"
Ayrton left the trophies on the table and approached slowly, as if he were walking toward something sacred.
"For being the home I always want to return to." he said, in a low voice, like a confession.
Michael frowned, not out of anger, but because of that natural reflex he used to hide how his heart was melting.
"Fool." he muttered.
Michael pushed him gently, but then settled against him, as if he'd never left. Her breathing calmed almost instantly.
Ayrton gently slid his hand over his stomach, and Max kicked with such a precise kick it seemed choreographed.
"That's his 'hello,' I suppose." Michael murmured, closing his eyes.
"Or his claim to the trophies. This kid is going to be competitive." Ayrton laughed.
"He's going to be yours. That's already synonymous with trouble."
"And yours too." Ayrton said, kissing his forehead. "Which means he's going to be brilliant, too."
Michael snorted, but couldn't help laughing.
"Did he behave?" Ayrton asked quietly, as if not wanting to break the moment.
"Like you." Michael replied, closing his eyes. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Unbearable one day, and the next, he's the calmest."
Ayrton kissed his temple slowly.
"It's almost over."
Michael nodded without opening his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped by Ayrton's warmth and the soft murmur of his voice.
"I hope he doesn't dare to leave in the middle of a Grand Prix." he murmured, half jokingly, half seriously.
"If he does, I'll abandon the race." Ayrton replied without hesitation.
"That would be a scandal." Michael said, opening one eye.
"Max will forgive me if I don't win a title this year. But he wouldn't forgive me for missing the day he comes into the world." Ayrton replied, as if it were the most logical thing in the universe. "I'm sure he would complain about that all his life, and even more so during his adolescence."
Michael gave a soft laugh.
"That is, if he doesn't do it before then. This boy already has character, and he hasn't even been born yet."
"Who did he get that from?" Ayrton asked with feigned innocence, raising his eyebrows.
"From his dramatic and competitive father." Michael replied, without a second's hesitation.
"Then it's your fault!" Ayrton laughed, holding him close.
Michael let out a sigh, but it wasn't a tired one anymore, but one of relief. One of those that comes when you breathe again after a long time without realizing you were holding your breath.
"I missed you." he said, so softly it was almost lost in the heartbeat.
"And I miss you too." Ayrton whispered, resting his forehead against his. "It's almost here, darling. For everything. And I'll be there, I promise."
Michael nodded, closing his eyes, as if he wanted to keep that promise deep in his chest.
"It's going to seem like an eternity until you're back from Spain." he murmured, barely audible.
Ayrton caressed him with his fingertips, running down his arm until their hands were intertwined.
"After that, I won't move. Just you, me, and Max. No paddocks. Monaco is right here, so I'll alternate between the racetrack and our house. Until Canada, which is a month, just the three of us. And maybe some of those idiots we call friends."
Michael smiled, his eyes still closed.
"A month sounds like heaven. Even with Nigel opening the fridge every half hour."
Ayrton laughs softly.
"We'll kick him out if he makes too much noise. Although I'm sure Max loves him. Or fears him. One of two things."
"Or both." Michael replied, finally opening his eyes to look him in the eye. "But as long as you're here... I can handle the rest."
Ayrton stroked his cheek with a gentleness that seemed inappropriate.
"I'm here. And I'll keep coming back, as many times as it takes. Because that's the plan, isn't it? To be three. To hang on together. To laugh. To argue about which cereal is best. And to teach him that love stays."
"I like that plan."
The night was peaceful. Max didn't kick much, as if he knew his dad was home. Michael slept with his head resting on his chest, one hand on his stomach and the other clutching Ayrton's, as if letting go meant he'd leave again.
And Ayrton didn't move. Not once.
The next morning, it was Michael who woke up first, which was strange. Ayrton was still asleep, his arm still around him. He looked so far from the track. So far from the driver everyone wanted to see win.
Michael looked at him for a long time, silently, until Max moved again.
"Shh." Michael murmured, stroking his belly. "Let him sleep a little longer. We don't get him that often."
Ayrton opened one eye lazily.
"Are you plotting with our son against me?"
"We only negotiated a temporary peace." Michael replied with a half smile.
"And you won?"
"Always."
Ayrton laughed, closing his eyes again as he hugged him tighter.
"I don't want to leave."
"Then don't go."
"You know I can't."
Michael sighed. It wasn't anger. It was resignation. It was love in its most difficult form: the one that understands what is necessary, even if it hurts.
"Then do it quickly. And come back even faster. I don't know how long Max will decide to wait for you."
⋯ ❈ ⋯
Reality set in forcefully in those days that followed. The house, which had once seemed alive with Ayrton's presence, felt empty, larger than it actually was. Michael spent the days counting the hours, trying to find comfort in the daily routines. Every time the clock ticked, the anxiety tightened.
Max kept moving inside him, a constant reminder that he would soon have his baby in his arms.
Calls and messages of support from friends did little to ease the feeling of emptiness. Riccardo called often, always with a light tone, trying to keep his spirits up, while Mika sent funny messages about what Max could grow up to be. Even Nigel was more present, occasionally showing up with a pizza or to keep him company during the day, but it wasn't the same.
The nights were the worst. Michael stared at the empty bed, the space beside him that had been so full of presences, now so cold. Sometimes, he spoke quietly to Max, though he didn't expect answers, only the sound of his own voice.
"We'll be okay." he told himself, like a mantra, and although he believed it, sometimes he couldn't help but doubt.
And when he felt anxiety about to overcome him, when the wait seemed endless, he remembered Ayrton's words, his promise to return.
The distance became difficult to bear. It wasn't just the wait for the birth, but the separation, the inability to touch, to hug, to share that unique emotion. Michael clung to the memories of those small moments: the smiles, the jokes, the simple gestures, yet so full of meaning.
In his mind, the conversations with Ayrton remained intact, like a refuge he returned to whenever the loneliness became too much. He remembered Ayrton's promises, those that never failed him, like the commitment to be present at the most important moment of their lives, even if he wasn't physically present. That certainty gave him strength, even if sometimes his heart couldn't stop beating anxiously.
Nigel stayed with him from the beginning of May. He showed up with an entire suitcase, a grocery bag full of snacks, and his classic declaration of war:
"I'll keep you company, but if you make me watch a romantic comedy, I'll sleep in the car."
Michael simply raised an eyebrow, gave him a blanket, and told him where the television controls were.
And so, without needing much explanation, Nigel became his unofficial guardian. He was in charge of making sure Michael ate, that he didn't stay silent for too long, that he rested even for 20 minutes. He accompanied him on short walks around the garden and complained about the sun, the grass, the world, but he always offered his arm when Michael needed it.
At night, the couch became a neutral ground. Nigel, with his "I'm here because I was forced" attitude, and Michael, with that gratitude that was never spoken out loud. They spoke little.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
On May 9, Michael woke up with a strange feeling. Not pain, but... alertness.
He got up slowly, one hand on his back and the other on the edge of the bed, and went straight to the kitchen. Nigel was already there, eating cereal as if he'd lived there since 1985.
"Good morning, Mich." he greeted, without even looking at him.
"Morning. How's the race going?"
"Ayrton's in second." Nigel replied, chewing as if the fate of the world didn't depend on that answer. "Alain's leading."
Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He sat up with difficulty, and Nigel looked at him better.
"Are you okay?"
Michael hesitated.
"Yes. No. I don't know. My back hurts, and Max is restless."
Nigel put his spoon back in the bowl. That simple, casual phrase put him completely on alert.
"Restless how?"
"Like he's... settling in. Moving around a lot. More than usual."
Nigel looked at him for a few seconds, with an unusual seriousness, as if he were mentally reviewing an emergency manual he'd never actually read.
"Do you want me to call someone?"
"No. Not yet. I don't think it's time."
"What if you're making a mistake?"
"Then I'll know in a few hours."
Silence fell between them. On television, the race report continued as a distant murmur, but neither of them was paying attention anymore.
Michael went to sleep two laps before the end, and Nigel had to call Johnny, who'd had a DNF on lap 2 and was probably already on his phone.
"Hello?" Johnny answered. "What happened?"
"I need you to tell Ayrton to keep an eye on his phone. Or Mika, or Alain, or someone; I don't know. And let him take the first flight out of Spain to Monaco."
"Are you serious?" Johnny asked, already standing up without even thinking. "Is Michael okay?"
"For now, yes. But I have a bad feeling. I know him, Johnny. He's holding on because he's waiting for Senna."
"Have you spoken to a doctor yet?"
"He doesn't want to. He says 'not yet,' that 'it's not the time'. But when the hell is the time if not now?"
Johnny nodded even though no one could see him.
"I'll find him, don't worry."
"Thanks." Nigel said, and hung up without waiting for a reply.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
Johnny found Mika in the hospitality area, drinking a Coke while packing his backpack.
"Mika."
"What's going on?"
"We need to find Ayrton."
"He's already left. He said he was going to the airport. Ron tried to calm him down and tell him to at least get on the podium, but he left. Riccardo followed."
"Well, then we'll be leaving too."
Mika didn't need any further details. He closed his backpack with a speed that didn't match his usual calm and stood up.
"Is Michael okay?" he asked as they walked briskly between the trucks in the paddock.
"Nigel says he is. But he also says Michael is holding everything back until Ayrton arrives, and that's freaking him out."
"If anyone can hold out until Ayrton arrives, it's Michael." Mika said, but his tone was more serious than ever. "Although that doesn't mean we should tempt fate."
The two of them hurried toward the exit, dodging mechanics, reporters, and even Alain, who was just leaving the podium with an empty bottle of champagne.
"Where are you going?" he asked, bewildered.
"Max wants to be born today."
"Shit." He handed the champagne bottle to one of the mechanics without looking and followed them.
By the time they reached the parking lot, Damon had already found a car.
"Get in now. Alain as co-driver; Mika, Johnny, and Gerhard in the back. I have to meet my nephew. And someone call Ralf."
"Who gave Damon coffee?" Johnny muttered as he climbed into the car.
"It's not coffee." Alain said, fastening his seatbelt. "It's pure panic."
"It's responsibility!" Damon shouted from the driver's seat, his eyes wider than ever. "Now shut up!"
⋯ ❈ ⋯
Riccardo had the difficult task of keeping Ayrton calm. This was complicated because he himself was panicking and because the man was about to become a father, but was only just in Nice.
"Breathe." he said for the fourth time, as Ayrton paced back and forth in the airport lounge.
"I'm breathing. Only I'm hyperventilating, which is different." Ayrton growled, his brow furrowed and his hands balled into fists.
"You're doing very well."
"What?"
"Being a controlled disaster. It's commendable. I would have already collapsed and thrown myself on the floor screaming 'The baby's coming!' for someone to beam me away."
Ayrton stopped and looked at him, furious and pleading at the same time.
"What do I do if I don't make it? What do I do if he calls me and I'm not there? What if something happens?"
"He'll be fine. Nigel's with him. Johnny called. The others are already on their way. Michael knows you're coming. He's waiting for you, Ayrton."
"He shouldn't have to wait for me."
"Luckily for you, the helicopter has already arrived." Riccardo warns.
Ayrton took off as if the starting light itself had turned green. Riccardo, resigned and huffing, slung the two suitcases over his shoulders like cursed trophies.
"Sure, you run and I'll carry the emotional and literal baggage. The usual." he muttered, tripping over a wheel that jammed every three steps.
The helicopter pilot greeted them with a raised eyebrow and an expression that said "just another day on the Riviera." Ayrton barely noticed. He was already inside, staring out the window.
Riccardo got in panting, closed the door, and slumped into the seat.
"If I faint from exhaustion, tell Max I love him very much."
Ayrton didn't answer. He just closed his eyes for a second, breathed deeply, and clenched his fists on his knees.
"It's going to be okay." he repeated, this time to himself. "It has to be okay."
The helicopter took off with a high-pitched whir.
Seven tortuous minutes of travel later, they were closer than ever to the hospital.
The Monaco skyline passed beneath them like a blur. The sunset lights gently touched the sea, but for Ayrton, it was all white noise. Nothing made sense if he wasn't in that room.
"What if I don't make it in time?" he asked again, his voice lower, as if he was truly afraid to hear the answer.
Riccardo, still gasping for air, patted him on the shoulder.
"He's going to wait for you. That baby won't be born without you being there. He literally has your personality. Dramatic, stubborn, with a terrible sense of timing."
Ayrton allowed himself an almost laughable exhalation.
"Do you think this is a good time to make jokes?"
"No, but if I don't, I'll start screaming and I don't want to scare the pilot."
The helicopter began to descend. Below, the hospital's private runway was already clear. As soon as they landed, Ayrton was the first to open the door before the rotor had even completely stopped.
"Senna, wait!" Riccardo shouted from behind, still struggling with one of the zippers. "Fuck, Ayrton!"
Ayrton wasn't listening anymore. He jumped to the ground and ran toward the hospital as if he were being chased.
Riccardo got out of the helicopter, dragging his suitcases as if they were a divine punishment, swearing in every language he knew and a few he was inventing at the moment.
"Sure, you run and I'll handle the logistics. This is exploitation." he grumbled as he tripped over a loose wheel.
A nurse saw him from afar and ran to help him with a look of dismay and suppressed laughter.
"Are you family?"
"I'm the favorite uncle, photographer, emergency emotional support, and the one who carries everything. Does that qualify?"
The nurse took one of the suitcases from him with professional kindness and guided him toward the building.
"Thank you, until someone finally does something." Riccardo murmured.
While Riccardo was escorted through the hallways with the dignity of someone who's been through a war and just wants a comfortable chair and a cup of coffee, Ayrton was already on the assigned floor.
He took long strides, without stopping, his heart pounding in his throat. The hallway seemed endless, as if it lengthened with each step. Until he saw him: Nigel, leaning against the wall with a glass of coffee in his hand, his gaze tired but alert.
"He's inside." he said without Ayrton having to ask. "He asked for you. He didn't let anyone touch him until he heard you were coming."
Ayrton felt a lump in his throat. He leaned closer.
"Is he okay?"
"He's tired. Nervous. Scared. In short: Michael is there. But mostly, he's waiting for you."
Ayrton nodded, swallowing hard. He was sweating and shaking, but still, he moved to the door.
"Can I..."
Nigel moved away from the doorway.
"Don't keep him waiting any longer."
The room was quiet. The lighting was dim, the heart monitor beeped regularly, and in the middle of it all, Michael was lying down, his forehead beaded with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his gaze fixed on the door.
When he saw him enter, his lips slightly curved.
"You did arrive."
Ayrton smiled, leaning closer, his eyes glassy.
"I promised. Although I probably almost gave Patrese an aneurysm."
Michael let out a weak laugh, a mix of exhaustion and excitement, but he still held his hand tightly. His fingers trembled slightly, though he didn't know if it was from the pain or the pure adrenaline of the moment.
"I'm glad you're here. I didn't want to do this without you."
"You weren't going to do it alone." Ayrton murmured, sitting beside him and gently stroking his hair. "Not now, not ever."
Michael closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the fear creep a little across his skin, dissipating in the warmth of that presence. He had endured it all, held it back tooth and nail, just to get to this moment, with him there.
The next few hours were a blur of contractions, guided breathing, and Ayrton's voice.
Outside the room, the rest of the makeshift family squad was scattered throughout the hospital hallways. Nigel had confiscated a coffee machine, Mika was eating Nutella, and Riccardo had taken a recliner and refused to move until he had some concrete news.
"How can it be so quiet in a hospital when you're dying of anxiety?" he growled, with no clear direction.
"You're not dying." Damon responded from across the hall. "You're just being dramatic."
"My nephew is being born! I have the right to be dramatic."
Ralf was about to reply when the door to the room opened. A nurse, with the serenity of someone who had seen it all, peeked in with a faint smile.
"Almost there."
No one moved at first. Only Riccardo, who sat up straight in his chair as if he'd been plugged into a battery.
"'Almost there' how long?" he asked.
"Five minutes? An hour? Three laps of the circuit?" Mika added, spoon in hand, his eyes fixed on the nurse.
She just smiled.
"You'll know it when you hear it."
And with that, she left, leaving them all frozen.
"What does that mean?" Ralf murmured.
"That we're going to hear something. Probably crying. Or Michael insulting Ayrton." Damon ventured.
"Or Nigel crying." Mika added.
"I'm not crying! I'm moisturizing my eyes." Nigel declared, violently wiping his face.
Inside, the silence lasted only a few more seconds. Then came the crying.
And it wasn't a small, timid sound. It was a loud cry.
Outside, everyone froze.
"That was Max!" Riccardo said, as if they'd just heard the national anthem.
"It was Max!" Ralf echoed.
"My nephew was born!" Damon shouted, raising his arms as if he'd just won a race.
Nigel slumped back against the wall, letting out a broken, excited laugh.
"He's got good lungs."
Mika simply smiled, that calm, tender smile he only showed in truly important moments.
"I think I'm going to cry." Johnny comments.
"I already won." Gerhard, meanwhile, was wiping his wet cheeks.
Inside, meanwhile, the excitement could be felt everywhere.
Michael held Max in his arms, wrapped in a white blanket with light blue edging, his little hands clenched into tiny fists. He was exhausted, his eyes still wet, but he couldn't stop looking at his son as if he were a miracle.
Ayrton was beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gently stroking the baby's hair.
"He's perfect." Michael whispered, without taking his eyes off Max.
"He is." Ayrton smiled, that slow smile Michael had only seen a few times, but recognized as genuine. His favorite.
Max, at that moment, let out a soft moan, more of a snort than a cry, and Michael instinctively cradled him tighter.
"I can't believe he's here. That we did it. That he's ours."
"You did it." Ayrton replied, lowering his head to touch his forehead "I was only here to endure your insults during the contractions."
Michael let out a husky laugh, his eyes moistening again.
"Sorry about the 'useless idiot' thing."
"That was the gentlest thing you've said to me in the last three hours."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Max shifted in Michael's arms, and for a second, the two of them were silent, watching him settle with a sigh.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" Michael asked, in that tone you only use when you dare to say your fears out loud.
Ayrton didn't respond immediately. He just looked at him, then at the baby, and finally back at Michael.
"He's got everyone waiting for him out there. All crazy, yes, but they love him now. And he has you. Us. He's going to be more than okay. I promise."
Michael nodded, looking down at Max, as if he needed to record every feature of his face. The tiny furrowed brow, the half-open mouth, the absurdly long eyelashes for a newborn.
"I already love him so much it scares me." he confessed, in a barely audible voice.
Ayrton rested his forehead against his for a second.
"That's not going to change. It's only going to multiply."
And then, as if Max understood it was his moment to shine, he let out another short, high-pitched, powerful cry.
Ayrton laughs.
"That's a Schumacher."
"He's hungry, for sure."
"Shall I help you settle him?"
"I want to try first." Michael said, with a mixture of nerves and determination.
Ayrton said nothing more. He just stood by his side, present, attentive, patient.
Outside, on the other side of the door, someone—probably Nigel—was already gently knocking on the wood.
"Can?"
Michael sighed with a smile.
"Let them in, they deserve it."
Ayrton walked to the door, and when he opened it, it was as if the dam broke.
Nigel entered first, his eyes red-rimmed and the expression of someone who had just witnessed a miracle. Mika followed him, the jar of Nutella still in his hand, though completely forgotten, and Riccardo flashed past, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Max in Michael's arms.
"Oh. My. God." he said, slurring each word. "It's... it's a baby. A real baby. With a face and everything."
"How observant." Damon commented, entering with a crooked smile and his arms crossed.
Gerhard and Johnny arrived right behind them, more serene, though their expressions showed emotion. Ralf peeked out from behind the group, standing on tiptoe, as if he didn't want to interrupt, but since he was the smallest, he couldn't see much.
Ayrton noticed and, with a slight smile, moved aside to give him space. Ralf approached slowly, looking over Damon's shoulder, until he could finally see Max.
"Wow." he murmured. "He's smaller than I imagined. And more... wrinkled."
"That's how they all come, don't worry." Johnny said with a soft laugh. "Then they stretch out like bread in the oven."
Michael let out a stifled laugh and looked at Max, who was sleeping soundly despite the commotion.
"Can we come closer?" Nigel asked, although he was already half a meter away.
Michael nodded, his eyes shining.
"Sure. But slowly, okay? Let's not overwhelm him. Well, more."
"Too late for that." Mika said, looking at the others with resignation. "But it's clear my godson can handle chaos."
And finally, everything was where it should be.