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“They need to stop talking about you, it’s fucking pissing me off,” Oscar groans as he plops his bag down on the foot of the bed, the dull thud echoing in the quiet of the hotel room. Without hesitation, he dives onto the mattress inside his and Max’s shared hotel room for the weekend, face-first, arms sprawled out like gravity had finally won.
It’s only Thursday, and yet the media has already been getting under his skin, needling him relentlessly by asking if Max was around and if he was going to support him.
The questions had followed him from the paddock to the press pen, clung to him like static he couldn’t shake off no matter how hard he tried.
Normally, Oscar would be ecstatic to talk about his husband. Well, duh. Who wouldn’t be? That was Max Verstappen—er, well… Max Piastri now for about a year, but that’s besides the point. The name still felt strange sometimes, like a quiet flex he carried around in his chest.
Oscar would’ve been happy to talk about Max all day if it were about how they’re happier as a married couple nowadays, about shared routines and stolen moments between post-races. But it wasn’t. It never was.
It was the never-ending questions asking if Max was coming back to the grid soon, how he felt about Oscar’s recent P3 placement in Italy, right after McLaren asked him to give the position back to his teammate after a horrible pit stop fucked him up.
Every question felt loaded, sharpened at the edges, designed to dig something out of him he didn’t want to give.
After that, the whole community had been calling him stupid for listening to that team order. They compared him endlessly to what Max would’ve done if that happened to him—how Max would probably just tell the team to fuck off and continue doing what he had to do, consequences be damned.
It angered Oscar, really did, enough that it followed him home and crawled into bed with him at night. It even ended up with him getting a light scolding from Max, who also stood up to be his manager aside from Mark.
The father and the wife, as Oscar called them in his head, both terrifying and comforting in their own ways.
He remembers the discussion vividly, the memory still sharp despite being two weeks old, just before they headed to Baku.
“Oscar,” Max had started, voice soft but serious. He could be stern when he needed to be, and Oscar had dreaded the upcoming conversation the moment he heard his name spoken like that.
Oscar’s head had been bowed, balaclava clenched in his hand and helmet resting beside him as he sat on one of the chairs in the McLaren hospitality away from everyone else. His shoulders were slumped, exhaustion written into every line of his body. Max couldn’t blame him for that—not after everything.
He knew better than to scold the Australian outright when Oscar already looked like he was carrying the weight of the weekend on his back. After three years together, ever since Oscar’s rookie year in Formula 1—Max could read him like the back of his hand.
Max frowned at Oscar’s silence, at the way he stared at the floor like it might offer answers to his questions.
“Schatje, look at me,” he pleaded gently, and that alone was enough to get Oscar to lift his head slowly. There was a frown on his face too, deep and stubborn.
“I—” Oscar opened his mouth to explain himself, but the words stalled before they could come out. He shut his mouth again, jaw tightening. There was no point. Trying to justify himself to Max never worked when Max already understood too much.
The last thing he wanted was to argue with him. He didn’t deserve that fucking P3—he knew it, and so did Max. And he definitely didn’t want to say out loud that Zak clearly saw him as a second driver for Lando. Saying it would make it real.
It wasn’t fucking fair, but what could he do? He didn’t want to disappoint anyone else. So he did what he always did—he swallowed it down and kept it inside. It’s not like they would listen anyway.
“I know you didn’t want that to happen,” Max whispered eventually, voice low, “and what’s worse is… you couldn’t do anything about it.”
That was when Oscar felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He balled his hand into a fist, squeezing the fabric until it wrinkled beneath his grip. The favoritism was showing, loud and ugly. It wasn’t fair.
Max had pulled him into a hug, Oscar’s face tucked into Max’s neck, breath shaky. He was upset, frustrated beyond words. He couldn’t blame anyone, not properly, so he stayed there, suspended between feeling everything and nothing at all.
His heart raced with quiet rage, but Max’s arms grounded him, keeping him from falling apart.
“Let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” Max had murmured, rubbing Oscar’s back in slow circles. “We can just rest if you want.”
He didn’t mind Oscar’s silence. He understood it. It had been a rough day, and Max understood his situation better than anyone else ever could.
And now it was Baku. The paddock felt like a minefield laid in reverse, every conversation another potential trigger that could set him off. Oscar prayed he’d make it through the weekend without someone setting him off.
Oscar was caring, considerate—maybe the nicest person Max had ever met. That was why he had fallen in love with him in the first place. He was a bit of a weirdo, sure, but his innocence and sheer determination when he first courted Max had been insane.
Max had admired that dedication enough to give him a chance, and somehow, it had blossomed into this.
Back to the issue at hand, Max had never seen the younger man like this before. It was new, but at the same time, at least he had an idea on how to handle Oscar.
“What’s wrong?” Max asks now from the couch in the living room, watching Oscar with fond concern as his voice comes out muffled under the mattress.
“Schatje, you need to get your head out of the bed if you want me to understand what you’re saying.”
Oscar grumbles, then lifts his head, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed—but still looking unfairly good, like the gods themselves had conspired to make him this way.
“They were talking shit about you again,” he huffs, rolling his eyes as he stands and crosses the room toward Max. “And it’s absolutely making me crazy.”
“Let them,” Max says calmly, smiling as Oscar sits beside him on the couch and immediately takes his hand, fingers intertwining like second nature. “They’re doing it to get a reaction out of you.”
“Well, they’re doing a great job at it,” Oscar snaps, his accent slipping out thickly. “Do they want a medal or something?”
Max chuckles, earning himself a betrayed look. He covers his mouth with a hand in surrender, apologizing and gesturing for Oscar to continue.
“As I was saying,” Oscar presses on, eyebrows furrowing, eyes sharpening, “I hate that they keep asking what you would’ve done. How you would’ve reacted. They keep saying you’re going to be violent, that you’re angry at me for what I did. It’s so dumb.”
“I mean,” Max says thoughtfully, “I did scold you about it, no?”
Oscar sighs. “You did, but you weren’t harsh. You just said, ‘Oh Oscar, you should’ve just told them to fuck off. You’re literally better than Lando. Try not to let them get into your head next time.”
Max grins, nodding. “Mhm. That’s exactly what I said. Word per word.”
Oscar snorts despite himself, leaning into Max’s shoulder, anger slowly melting into something softer.
“I just wish they didn’t talk so badly about you sometimes,” Oscar says quietly, frustration softened by affection as his thumb begins to caress Max’s hand in slow, absent-minded strokes. It’s a grounding motion, something he does when he’s trying to keep himself steady.
“They still call you Mad Max. Call you other names, set stereotypes about you, say you’re still violent and aggressive on track,” he trails off, the words tasting bitter even as he says them out loud.
Max snorts lightly, lips twitching as if he finds it more amusing than insulting. “But I am,” he quips easily, shrugging one shoulder. “If I was allowed to drive again, that is.”
Oscar rolls his eyes at that, sharp but fond, like he’s heard this same exact statement a hundred times and still refuses to accept it.
“I know,” Oscar says, voice softer now, more earnest. “But they shouldn’t do that. You’re the best driver. A calculated one. Even better than anyone on the current grid right now.” His thumb stills for a second before resuming its movement.
“It’s why I looked up to you even as I got into Formula One. I really thought I was going to race against you one day, you know?”
His voice fades at the end, drifting back to memories he doesn’t like lingering on—carbon fiber shattering, the sickening silence after impact, 2021 carved into history.
Max sighs, the sound low, reflective, but the smile on his face doesn’t disappear. If anything, it softens. “Does it disappoint you,” he asks carefully, “that I wasn’t able to race after that?”
Oscar shakes his head immediately, a quiet mumble of no escaping his lips before Max can even finish the thought. “Never,” he says, firmer now. “I won’t be disappointed in you. But maybe the outcome.” He swallows.
“It’s just… I wish it could’ve come out different. I wish you could’ve continued doing what you loved. I mean—your entire life was racing.”
“It was,” Max agrees, fingers tightening around Oscar’s hand. Then, gently he leans in and presses a kiss to the top of Oscar’s head, lingering there. “But you know… if racing meant not being able to be with you, I wouldn’t have traded you for anything.”
Oscar exhales shakily, chest contracting in a way that feels overwhelming and warm all at once.
“I’m comfortable with our lives now, schatje,” Max continues, voice steady. “My life as a model, yours as an F1 driver.” He pauses, then smirks slightly. “And besides, don’t you like it when I sometimes play as your wife in the McLaren garage?”
Oscar raises an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “Play as my wife?” he echoes. “What do you mean play?” He leans in, lips brushing Max’s neck before kissing it properly, just enough to make the older man twitch. “You are my wife.”
“Hey! Oscar—!” Max laughs, squirming as the kisses turns ticklish. “That tickles! No!”
“Never,” Oscar replies smugly, already grinning as he presses another kiss there for good measure.
They wrestle for a while on the sofa, laughter spilling out of them freely, loose and unguarded. Max tries to wriggle free, Oscar refuses to let him, and soon they’re tangled together in a ridiculous position—Oscar hovering above Max, both of Max’s hands pinned gently but firmly above his head.
“Stop!” Max laughs between breaths, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast.
Oscar stills, suddenly aware of the way Max looks beneath him like this—undone and eyes bright with laughter. Max inhales, then exhales slowly, the laughter fading into something quieter. The flush on his cheeks deepens, and Oscar feels his chest ache at the sight.
He looks at Max like this and thinks like there’s no one else in the world that could compare to him.
He can’t help it.
Oscar leans in, guided more by instinct than thought, the space between them shrinking until Max’s breath ghosts over his mouth. His gaze drops to Max’s lips then flicks back up to his eyes, softer now, half-lidded.
“Can I?” he whispers, barely audible.
Max’s lips part, hesitation flicking across his face for just a moment—long enough for Oscar to notice. Then Max nods. “Yeah.”
That’s all it takes.
Oscar closes the distance, kissing him gently at first, like he’s testing something fragile. The kiss is slow, careful, reverent. It doesn’t stay that way for long.
Oscar shifts closer, knee pressing into the sofa as he eases Max back against the cushions. He releases Max’s hands gradually, guiding them instead and setting them on either side of his waist. An unspoken invitation.
Max takes it. His arms slide up, instinctive and sure, looping around Oscar’s neck and pulling him closer. The kiss deepens immediately, fuller now, their mouths moving together like perfect puzzle pieces or like they’ve always known how to find this kind of rhythm.
Oscar hums softly into the kiss, warmth pooling low in his chest.
He likes... no, he loves having Max like this. So pliant, gentle, malleable like putty in his arms.
They melt into each other, breaths tangling, eyes slipping shut as the rest of the room fades away. Oscar anchors himself there, and Max tilts his head to meet him, kissing him like he’s been waiting for this, like Max was going to go away again for a month-long photoshoot.
Max tightens his hold without realizing it, fingers curling into the fabric at Oscar’s shoulders as the kiss deepens. There’s a hitch in his breath, subtle at first, before it slips out of him entirely.
“Oscar,” he moans, the name pressed into the space between their mouths, soft and wrecked all at once.
The sound goes straight to Oscar’s dick.
He kisses Max harder in response, like he’s answering him, like he needs to hear it again. Max exhales shakily, eyes falling shut as he pulls Oscar closer, refusing to let the space grow between them.
The kiss shifts without either of them noticing. Oscar tilts his head just enough to fit better, and Max follows instinctively. Their mouths part, slow and unhurried, easing into something more.
When Oscar’s tongue brushes against his, Max makes a soft sound again and leans into it, chasing the contact.
It feels good—really good.
The warmth, the slow press, the way Oscar tastes familiar in the past four years they’ve been together. Their tongues slide against each other, exploring in a way that makes Max’s thoughts dissolve into something pleasantly blank.
He holds onto Oscar’s neck once more, (one of the times Oscar’s neck training came in handy outside of racing) grounding himself there, pulling him closer whenever Oscar draws back even a fraction.
Oscar hums again, low and pleased, and the sound sends a shiver through Max. He kisses him deeper in response, tongue lapping Oscar’s with more confidence now, the slow pattern filling his head until it feels light and full all at once. It’s less like kissing now and more like sinking.
When they finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, Max is warm all over, mouth tingling like the kiss hasn’t quite ended yet.
“You kiss so much like a teenager fresh out of high school,” Max comments breathlessly, a chuckle slipping out right after.
Oscar scoffs, “Well, would you mind teaching me how to improve my skills?” His voice is still low, teasing, never losing that edge of intention.
Max cups Oscar’s cheeks, thumbs brushing gently beneath his eyes. “Soon,” he says, smiling.
Suddenly, a familiar ringtone cuts through the quiet, sharp and intrusive against the low hum of the room. It rings once, twice, echoing faintly off the walls. The sound definitely doesn’t come from Max’s phone—the one sitting on the coffee table right beside them, screen dark, untouched. Which means there’s only one other option.
Oscar’s.
He groans, burying his face against Max’s chest like he can physically hide from the responsibility calling his name. The fabric of Max’s shirt smells faintly like detergent and something else distinctly him, homely and soothing.
Oscar lingers there for a second too long before lifting his head, shooting Max an apologetic look.
Max just smiles, already understanding, one hand lifting to brush against Oscar’s hair in silent reassurance as he gently ushers him off.
Oscar drags himself up from the sofa, movements slow and reluctant, and makes his way over to the bed. He kneels beside it, rummaging through his backpack until his fingers close around his phone. The screen lights up the second he pulls it free.
Andrea Stella.
Oscar exhales through his nose before answering, shoulders slumping slightly. “Hello?”
“Oscar!” Andrea’s voice comes through bright and professional, painfully awake. “Sorry to disturb your lunch, but the team was planning to have you and Lando do a quick strategy briefing before two later. Just something to keep yourselves up with what orders there will be this Sunday.”
Oscar stares at the wall, eyes unfocused.
So much for an early night before free practice tomorrow.
“Sure,” he replies, forcing the enthusiasm into his voice. “I’ll be there. Thanks for the heads up. I might run a little late, though—just doing something important at the moment.”
It’s a lie, technically. But it’s one he doesn’t feel guilty about.
“No worries,” Andrea says easily. “Just let us know when you’re on your way.”
The line goes dead before Oscar can add anything else.
He lowers the phone slowly, staring at his lock screen of him and Max on their wedding day for a beat. Andrea’s alright in Oscar’s book—strict, but fair, at least when it comes to racing. Max, on the other hand, hasn’t had enough interaction with him to really form an opinion.
Even during Oscar’s race weekends, when Max stayed around the garage, they’d barely exchanged more than polite nods.
With a begrudging huff, Oscar turns back toward the sofa.
Max is still sprawled there comfortably, one arm stretched out, already shifting and scooting over the moment Oscar approaches. He doesn’t even have to ask. Oscar sinks back down, immediately curling into Max’s side like he belongs there—because he does.
Max adjusts without thinking, arm slipping around Oscar’s shoulders.
“What was that about,” Max asks, voice calm, curious, “and why’d you say you were doing something important?”
Oscar groans again, this time muffled against Max’s hair. “Ugh. Team briefing. I really don’t want to go.” He shifts closer, toes brushing against Max’s calf. “I want to stay here. Spend more time with you. The media’s been a pain in my ass, and seeing Zak is the last thing I want to do this weekend. The old dude is getting on my nerves lately.”
Max chuckles, the sound vibrating lightly through Oscar’s chest. “Poor thing.”
“Well,” Max continues after a moment, thoughtful now, “do you want me to come with you? If it’ll help remove some of the stress Zak has on you.”
Oscar frowns immediately, looking at Max. “As much as I want you around the paddock,” he says slowly, “I’m scared interviewers might bombard you.” His brow furrows as the memory resurfaces.
“Remember Bahrain this year? I left you for, like, one second to refill my water bottle and came back to see you being circled by journalists asking if they could interview you and what your plans were for next year already.”
He exhales sharply. “They didn’t even congratulate us last year when we got married after the summer break.”
Max hums. “Yeah, that was… chaotic.” Then, with a shrug, “But it de-escalated pretty quick when the rookies saw me and led me away from the cameras. So I think I’m pretty safe if I’m by your side–inside the garage or hospitality, no?”
Oscar considers that, fingers absently tracing patterns onto Max’s hair. “Okay,” he finally says. “But just as long as you’re with me. I can’t risk losing my eyes on you.”
Max lets out a soft laugh and presses himself further into Oscar’s chest, “I’m not a baby, schatje. Relax.” He tilts his head slightly. “I’ve had my fair share of chaos back then too. I don’t think it gets any easier from here.”
He pauses, then adds, quieter, “But I do promise I’ll be on my best behavior. If that makes you feel any better.”
It does.
Oscar smiles, something loose and fond pulling at his mouth as he wraps an arm around Max’s torso, drawing him in close until there’s barely any space left between them. Max settles easily, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
The room grows quiet again, the weight of the conversation fading. Oscar’s breathing evens out without him noticing. Max’s does too.
By the time either of them realizes it, sleep has already claimed them both—tangled together on the sofa.
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Two hours passed, slipping by unnoticed and Oscar woke up to loud knocking on the door. The sound cut through his sleep like a blunt instrument, jarring and insistent, echoing off the walls of the hotel room.
For a moment, he stayed still, eyes shut, hopping—irrationally, that if he ignored it long enough, whoever it was would give up and go away.
He wants to let the knocking continue, not really feeling like standing up to go answer the door. His limbs felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and the dull comfort of having been warm and half-asleep just moments ago. The sofa felt nice. The world outside of it felt like too much.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
Max must’ve also heard the door and got annoyed by it enough to tell Oscar to answer the door, because Oscar felt a shift beside him, followed by a low, irritated sound in Max’s throat.
A nudge pressed into Oscar’s side, firm and unmistakable. Oscar didn’t even need to open his eyes to know the look Max was probably giving him.
With a groan, the Australian finally gives in. He pushes himself upright and drags himself toward the hallway, every step sluggish, like he’s walking through water instead of air.
With unkept after-nap couch hair sticking out in every direction, sleepy eyes barely managing to stay open, and a mind that was still struggling to register reality, Oscar opens the door.
Mark Webber standing on the other side. His manager looks tired in a way Oscar recognizes immediately—the look of a father who’s been worried, annoyed, and mildly disappointed all at once.
There’s something in his expression that makes Oscar instinctively feel like he’s done something wrong, even if he can’t quite pinpoint what it is yet.
“Oh, hey Mark,” Oscar says, voice still dripping low and rough, fresh from sleep.
“Oscar, it’s 2:15,” Mark says, exasperation woven through every word. “The rest of the McLaren crew have been asking me nonstop where you are. Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
He sounds like he’s been running through hell and back, like everyone in the paddock has decided to use him as a messenger all afternoon. Oscar winces.
“Mhn… sorry,” Oscar mumbles. “I lost track of time. Max and I had a late flight last night. We both didn’t get much sleep.”
Mark sighs, long and weary, clearly done with the situation—but it’s not like he could blame Oscar. The boy had practically grown up under his wing, and some habits never really changed. “Have you had lunch already?”
Oscar shakes his head and steps aside, letting Mark inside the room. He ruffles his hair absently, attempting to fix it, silently thanking himself from earlier that he didn’t bother changing out of his McLaren team kit. At least he looked semi-presentable.
He turns, already prepared to wake Max up from the couch—only to stop short. The Dutch man is already up.
Not just awake, but getting ready. Fully dressed, composed, professional. He looks good, as he usually does, honestly. There’s not a single trace of ‘I just slept on the couch for two hours with my husband’ anywhere in his appearance.
“I’m ready to go,” Max says easily, before catching Mark’s gaze. “Oh, hi Mark.”
He offers his hand, and Mark takes it without hesitation, smiling warmly. “It’s been a while, Max. Looking good.”
“Not too bad yourself, Mr. Webber,” Max replies with a soft chuckle.
Oscar watches the exchange, then reminds himself—right. Mark hasn’t seen Max in forever. Not since his last visit to the paddock during the Chinese Grand Prix, before Max’s schedule had spiraled into something impossibly hectic with the luxury companies he models for around the world.
There came a point earlier this year where Max had his face plastered everywhere—magazines, billboards, advertisements, subway walls, storefronts. Everywhere Oscar looked, there was Max, standing next to famous male models, looking effortless and unreal. It made Oscar’s heart swell with pride every single time he heard about it.
But that pride always deflated a little when he remembered what it cost. Max missing races. Max not being there as often as either of them wanted.
Luckily, Max was always given a pass to come home to Monaco whenever a contract ended, back to the apartment they shared. Back to Oscar.
So three wins—Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Miami, back-to-back, paired with a hot husband coming home after the entire world had thirsted over him, had definitely made Oscar’s nights much better. He was painfully aware of how lucky he was, something his family never failed to tease him about.
“Are you good to go, Oscar?” Max’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.
He looks up to see Max already in a brown designer trench coat, the fabric fitting his body perfectly, a Fendi Flux messenger leather bag resting at his side. Max liked to be specific with his taste.
Oscar nods, slinging his usual backpack over one shoulder. He locks the hotel door behind them and takes Max’s hand in his as they head for the elevator, fingers fitting together like muscle memory.
The trip to the paddock isn’t as hectic as they expect. Mark hands them food, which they both accept. Oscar practically inhales the burger he’s given, while Max eats fruits daintily, chatting with Mark as Oscar focuses solely on eating.
“I think some of my endorsement contracts ending soon would be a clear sign that I’ll be able to attend the last few races before the winter break,” Max says, “But I can’t say for sure yet if they’ll want to renew.”
Mark hums thoughtfully as he drives closer to the circuit. “Does that mean you’ll be able to watch from Las Vegas onwards?”
“Hopefully,” Max replies, cleaning up after his late lunch. “I’d love to watch Oscar dominate the field. I’m sure he’s got the championship secured.”
The words settle heavy in Oscar’s chest. Pressure blooms there, but that’s okay. He’s always done his best for Max. Ever since the beginning.
People were cheering for him. Australia had taken him in as their pride. Being loved like this still felt unreal sometimes.
When they arrive at the city circuit parking lot, the three of them exit the car and head toward McLaren’s garage. Fans greet them with smiles, asking for signatures and photos. The media freezes when they see Max beside Oscar, fingers intertwined as they pass.
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Inside the McLaren garage, Oscar and Mark apologize for being late as they enter the meeting room, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft but noticeable thud.
The air inside feels different from the hallway outside—heavier, thicker, like it’s been sitting still for too long. Andrea, Zak, Lando, and a cluster of engineers are already seated around the long table, tablets lit up, papers neatly stacked, conversations cut short the second Oscar and Max steps inside.
Murmurs ripple through the room. They’re subtle, barely above a whisper, but Oscar hears them anyway. He always does. The sound brushes against his ears like static, people taking stock of who’s here, who’s late, who’s sitting where—and more importantly, who’s sitting with who.
Max remains completely unbothered.
If anything, he looks almost bored, posture relaxed, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. He stands beside Oscar like an anchor, hands loose at his sides, gaze calm and steady as if he’s stepped into meetings far more hostile than this one—which, in truth, he has.
“Oscar,” Zak greets, his raspy voice cutting through the low noise, paired with a hug stretched awkwardly over the table.
Oscar hesitates for a fraction of a second.
It’s instinctual, that pause—his body registering surprise before his brain can catch up. Then he leans in and returns it politely, careful, measured, like this is something he’s doing because he’s expected to, not because he wants to.
Zak pulls away and turns his attention to Max. “Max.” He offers a hand.
Max takes it, shakes it firmly, then withdraws without lingering, the contact brief and deliberate. There’s no warmth to it, but there’s no hostility either. Just control.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Zak says, voice slipping easily into small talk. “How’s the modeling gig going?”
“It’s been good,” Max answers, sharp and professional, the kind of tone he uses when he wants to keep things clean and uncomplicated. “Offers have been nice. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Oscar catches the faintest twitch at the corner of Max’s mouth. He knows that see-through understatement for what it is. Everything is ordinary when you’re used to being exceptional.
“That’s great to hear,” Zak continues, a hint of forced cheer creeping in as he presses on. “Hope you’ve got plans to get back on the grid for 2026 if you’ve got some time remaining.”
There it is.
Oscar feels it land before Max even responds—the subtle shift in the room, shoulders tensing, eyes flicking toward Max like spectators watching for impact.
“Maybe… soon,” Max says lightly, almost conversational. “Or I can stall it until you’re ready to match me.”
The words hang there. The room goes quiet. Not an awkward silence. A charged one. Like the pause before a storm breaks, like everyone collectively holding their breath and pretending not to.
Zak laughs, but it’s bitter around the edges, forced out of him like he doesn’t quite know what else to do. He nods, once, sharped and clipped.
Max Verstappen is still a threat. And he always will be.
Even without a car. Even without a contract. Even sitting in someone else’s garage, dressed in designer fabric instead of fireproof overalls.
“So,” Zak says, clearing his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room as he shifts back into business mode. “To begin our meeting, we’re going to go over some rules and impose new team orders to give us more chances to win the constructors and the championship.”
Max doesn’t react outwardly. No change in expression, no shift in posture. He looks calm, composed, every inch the man who knows how to keep his thoughts behind his eyes.
But he already knows.
Oscar can feel it, even without looking—something tightening, something hardening just beneath the surface. The kind of restraint Max learned the hard way.
This is going to leave a sour taste in his mouth.
Zak’s voice continues, steady and practiced, the kind of cadence that sounds reassuring if you don’t know better, as if he’s reciting something rehearsed a hundred times before this moment. Like muscle memory. Like he’s said these exact words in different rooms, to different drivers, under different banners, and they’ve always landed the same way in the end.
He talks about optimization. About efficiency. About maximizing points. Words that sound reasonable on the surface, words that are meant to soften the blow before it even lands—corporate padding wrapped around something sharp, something meant to cut without drawing blood right away.
Oscar listens. He always does.
He listens the way he was taught to listen—chin slightly lifted, expression attentive, posture respectful. He listens like this is just another briefing, another meeting, another step in the process. But the further Zak goes, the more Oscar feels something in his chest start to sink, like a stone dropped into deep water.
No splash. No warning. Just the quiet certainty that it’s going to keep sinking long after everyone else has moved on.
The orders aren’t new—not really. They never are. They’re just… dressed differently this time. Polished up with better language, framed as something that’s meant to help rather than restrict, something collaborative instead of controlling.
Priority given depending on championship standings. Strategic swaps allowed when deemed necessary. Cooperation expected and compliance assumed.
Oscar’s jaw tightens, just slightly, enough that he can feel the pressure at his temples.
He keeps his face neutral, eyes trained on the table in front of him, following the faint grain in the wood like it might offer answers if he stares long enough. His fingers are laced together so tightly his knuckles ache, tendons straining beneath skin.
He tells himself not to react. Not here. Not now. This is how it’s always been. This is how it works. This is the cost of being here, of being competent at this.
Still, he can’t stop the thought from creeping in, uninvited, slipping between sentences like a blade:
So what happens when it’s me again?
He doesn’t look at Lando, refuses to, but he can feel him there, seated across the table, relaxed in a way Oscar isn’t sure he can afford to be. Lando nods along at the right moments, occasionally chiming in with a comment or a question, his voice easy, confident, comfortable—like this conversation isn’t pressing down on his ribs the same way.
Oscar wonders if Lando even hears the same things he does.
Or if, to Lando, these words sound like reassurance instead of warning. Like safety instead of contingency. Like a promise instead of a leash.
He swallows, throat dry.
This is the part no one ever says out loud. The part that stays buried beneath statistics and simulations and perfectly drawn charts. The part where Oscar has to remind himself, again, that doing the right thing for the team doesn’t always feel right at all.
That sometimes it feels like shrinking yourself just enough to fit where you’re wanted.
And he hates that part of himself—the one that still wants approval, that still wants to be seen as dependable, cooperative, outstanding. Hates that it shows up every time, even when he knows better.
He hates that it kept him quiet.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
Max listens with a stillness that looks calm to anyone who doesn’t know him. To anyone else, it reads as composure, as maturity, as someone content to sit back and observe.
Inside of him, something twists.
He recognizes this flow immediately. The way Zak speaks when he wants something without sounding like he’s asking. The careful phrasing, the escape clauses, the loopholes baked neatly into every sentence like they were intentional all along.
He’s heard it before. He’s lived it after 2021.
Max’s gaze flicks briefly to Oscar, just once, subtle enough that no one else notices. Oscar is composed, spine straight, expression carefully blank—but Max sees the tension anyway. He always does.
The way Oscar’s shoulders hold themselves a fraction too stiff, like he’s bracing for something he’s already accepted. The way his hands are clenched together like he’s preparing for impact instead of discussion.
Anger blooms, hot and never foreign to him. Not loud. Not explosive. Controlled, like a fire banked just under the surface.
They’re doing it again. Different team. Same story.
Max forces himself to breathe through it, counting each inhale like he used to on the grid when everything threatened to unravel. He keeps his face smooth, unreadable, and refuses to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Refuses to let anyone see just how much this pisses him off.
If they think he’s forgotten what it feels like to be the other option, they’re wrong.
If they think Oscar doesn’t deserve better, they’re even more wrong.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
At some point, Andrea asks for input, breaking the rhythm just enough to make everyone sit up straighter.
Lando speaks first. Of course, he always does.
“I think it makes sense,” Lando says, leaning forward slightly, hands gesturing as he talks. “We just need to make sure we’re not losing time fighting each other when we don’t have to. Papaya rules.”
Oscar nods automatically, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. Agreement comes easier than dissent. Agreement is safer, smoother, expected of him to do.
“Yeah,” Oscar adds, his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his stomach. “As long as communication’s clear.”
Their eyes meet for a brief second.
Something passes between them—not hostility, not exactly, but something gut-wrenching. Something unsaid, something scared to be found out, like a truth hovering just beneath the surface. Oscar wonders if Lando notices it too, or if it’s just him, reading too much into everything like he always does.
Lando smiles easily, like nothing’s wrong, like the ground isn’t shifting beneath them both. Oscar looks away first.
He hates that he feels like this. Hates that competition seeps into places it shouldn’t. They’re teammates. They’re friends. They’re supposed to want the same thing.
So why does it feel like the floor keeps moving under his feet, like he’s never standing quite where he thought he was?
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
The meeting eventually dissolves into logistics and schedules and technical chatter, voices overlapping, screens lighting up with data Oscar barely registers. By the time Zak dismisses everyone, Oscar’s head feels full in the worst way, buzzing with thoughts he doesn’t want to untangle yet.
He stands, chair scraping softly against the floor, automatically reaching for Max’s hand from under the table. Max squeezes back. It’s small and barely noticeable to the people rushing to get out of the room, already shifting gears toward the next obligation.
But it grounds him.
They exit the building together, the noise of the paddock rushing back in like a wave crashing over them. Cameras flash in the distance. Voices call out names. The world resumes its relentless pace, uncaring and loud and fast.
Oscar exhales slowly once they’re a few steps away, shoulders finally dropping like he’s been holding them up all meeting. Max doesn’t say anything at first. He waits until they’re alone enough, until Oscar’s breathing evens out, until the moment feels safe to touch.
Then, quietly, “You okay?”
Oscar hesitates. That’s always the hardest part—deciding how honest he’s allowed himself to be.
“I will be,” he says finally, voice softer now. “Just… tired of it, I guess.”
Max stops walking.
Oscar turns, confused, and suddenly Max’s hands are on his arms, firm but gentle, thumbs pressing reassuring circles like he’s reminding Oscar that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not going anywhere, no matter how many meetings like this exist.
“They don’t get to decide your worth,” Max says, voice low and steady, meant only for Oscar. “Not them. Not anyone.”
Oscar’s throat narrows, emotion catching unexpectedly. “I know,” he murmurs. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Max interrupts softly. “I see it.”
And that’s what does it.
Oscar leans in without thinking, forehead resting briefly against Max’s shoulder, just long enough to steal a breath of comfort before pulling back. Max lets him. Doesn’t rush him and doesn’t push him. He just stays.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
Free practice ends before qualifying in a few hours.
Oscar had gotten P3, and above him was Lando and Charles—Ferrari’s golden boy, the one the media loved almost as much as they loved a good narrative, the reigning world champion who had been holding the title for over three consecutive years after Max. It wasn’t too shabby. Not bad at all, objectively speaking. Podium contention. Good pace. Clean laps.
Still.
The pressure clung to him like sweat after a gym session, the kind that didn’t go away no matter how many towels you went through. It sat heavy between his shoulder blades, pooled low in his stomach, a familiar ache that never really dulled no matter how many weekends he did this. It was nerve-wracking in a quiet way, the sort of tension that didn’t shake your hands but made your thoughts buzz endlessly.
It was something Max told Oscar—convincingly, that he was okay with handling by himself while he was out talking to the press.
He’d said it with a shrug and a half-smile, like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t eating at him just a little. Like he didn’t want Max worrying when there was already enough noise in the world trying to pull him apart.
It was a miracle Max had even accepted it with a smile on his face.
Oscar watches from the edge of the garage as screens flicker with lap data and engineers talk in hushed clusters, radios crackling softly like static under skin. Somewhere beyond the paddock walls, Max is standing under lights, surrounded by microphones and lenses, doing what he always does—being composed, beautiful, unshakeable.
Everyone had swooned over Max, calling him gorgeous all over the media. It was everywhere. Headlines, thumbnails, slow-motion clips with flattering angles and breathless commentary. Oscar had learned to live with that kind of attention by proxy, even to find a quiet pride in it.
But what pissed him off—what made his jaw tighten every time he thought about it—was that everyone had been giving Max questions that weren’t related at all to what he was currently doing.
Not about his work. Not about his contracts. Not about his choices.
Just ghosts. Just history. Just Oscar.
And Oscar hates that no matter how much he tells himself to focus on qualifying, on braking points and tire prep and clean exits, part of his mind keeps drifting back to the image of Max standing there alone, smiling politely while people poke at old scars like they belong to the public.
The cameras find Max easily. They always do.
He’s standing beneath the media canopy, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely in front of him, expression calm in a way that looks effortless on-screen. The lights wash over him, catching on sharp cheekbones and the familiar curve of his smile—pleasant, non-threatening, the kind that reassures sponsors and keeps headlines clean.
Oscar sees all of it from a distance, helmet still tucked under his arm, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment crates near the garage entrance.
He wishes he didn’t.
“Max,” one of the reporters starts, voice bright, rehearsed. “You’ve been spending more time back in the paddock lately. Does it feel strange watching from the sidelines while Oscar’s career really takes off?”
Oscar’s grip tightens on the helmet without him realizing.
Max tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question carefully. He smiles, small and polite. “Not really,” he says. “I like the sidelines. You see things more clearly from there.”
A chuckle ripples through the crowd. The reporter laughs too, like that was charming instead of dismissive. Another microphone pushes forward.
“There’s been a lot of talk about Oscar being compared to you,” a different journalist says. “Do you think he’s living up to the expectations people had after your career was cut short?”
Oscar’s chest burns. Cut short. Like it was a creative decision. Like it was a choice.
Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. If anything, his smile sharpens just a touch, honed down to something elegant and dangerous if you knew how to look.
“I don’t think Oscar needs to live up to anything,” Max replies smoothly. “He’s doing just fine being himself.”
The reporter presses on, emboldened.
“But surely you must have opinions. You were known for being aggressive on track. Oscar’s… well, more compliant. Do you ever wish he raced more like you?”
Oscar feels heat crawl up his neck.
He takes a step forward before one of the engineers subtly shifts in front of him, hand hovering like a quiet warning. Oscar exhales through his nose, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Max lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh.
“I think people confuse aggression with desperation,” he says lightly. “Oscar’s smart. He picks his battles. That’s not a weakness—it’s called longevity.”
His tone is pleasant. Reasonable. Measured.
Oscar knows better.
Another question comes fast, too fast, like they’re trying to catch Max before he can reset.
“Do you think Oscar would have the same success if you were still racing? Or would he be overshadowed?”
That one lands like a slap.
Oscar sees it then—the flicker in Max’s eyes. Gone almost as soon as it appears, buried beneath years of media training and practiced composure.
Max smiles again.
“Hypotheticals are funny,” he says. “They let people imagine versions of reality where effort doesn’t matter. Oscar earns everything he gets. If I were still racing, I’d be competing against him—not overshadowing him.”
A pause.
“And I don’t lose often.” Laughter breaks out, louder this time. The tension dissolves on cue, just like they want it to. Oscar doesn’t laugh.
His hands shake now, barely perceptible, but the anger sits hot and sharp beneath his ribs. He hates how easily they prod. Hates how they dress cruelty up as curiosity. Hates that Max has to stand there and swallow it with a smile so Oscar doesn’t have to deal with fallout later.
Another reporter tries one last time. “Final question—do you ever regret stepping away, seeing Oscar carry the torch instead?”
Max’s smile softens.
This one isn’t for the cameras.
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t regret choosing my life.”
That’s it.
The PR handler steps in, thanking everyone, ushering Max away before anyone can dig further. Applause follows him, polite and hollow.
Oscar doesn’t wait.
He turns on his heel and walks back into the garage, pulse hammering, vision narrowed. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything yet—not until the fury settles into something manageable.
Behind him, Max catches his eye for just a second as he passes. There’s a look there. Apologetic. Reassuring. Unbothered, like he always pretends to be.
Oscar hates that look. Not because it’s fake. But because Max shouldn’t have to wear it at all.
Max moves easily through the paddock, nodding at people, offering half-smiles that read as polite and distant. Oscar trails half a step behind him, helmet abandoned somewhere he’ll remember later, focus narrowed to the set of Max’s shoulders and the way he hasn’t looked back once.
That’s what finally gets him.
“Hey,” Oscar says, reaching out and catching Max’s wrist just before he ducks into one of the quieter hospitality corridors. “Wait.”
Max turns immediately. His expression shifts the moment he sees Oscar’s face—something gentle replacing the practiced calm.
“Let’s go somewhere,” Oscar mutters, already scanning for an empty room. His chest feels tight, like he forgot how to breathe properly.
Max doesn’t argue.
They find a small meeting room tucked between two sponsor suites, barely used, lights dimmed low like the space was never meant to be occupied for long. Oscar closes the door behind them harder than necessary, the latch clicking into place with finality.
Silence rushes in. The kind that presses against your ears.
Oscar turns around, words already tripping over each other. “Are you okay?”
Max blinks, surprised—not by the question, but by the urgency behind it. Oscar’s hands are curled into fists at his sides, shoulders tense, eyes sharp and worried in a way Max knows all too well.
“I’m fine,” Max says automatically.
Oscar scoffs. “Don’t do that. Not with me.”
That stops him.
Max exhales slowly, leaning back against the edge of the table, arms folding across his chest more out of habit than defense.
Oscar steps closer anyway, invading the space between them like he needs proof Max is still solid, still here. “They were being awful,” he says, voice tight. “They kept twisting everything, like you owe them explanations for my career, like—like you’re some kind of benchmark I’m supposed to replace.”
His jaw clenches. “I wanted to tell them to fuck off.”
Max lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “Yeah, I figured.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
Oscar rubs a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping again, unable to settle. “You shouldn’t have to stand there and take that. They talk about your crash like it was a footnote. Like it didn’t almost—” He stops himself, breath hitching. “I hate how comfortable they are being cruel to you.”
Max watches him, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“You were smiling,” Oscar adds, softer now. “Like it didn’t bother you at all.”
There it is.
Max looks away first.
He reaches up, scrubs a hand over his face, the gesture small and tired and achingly human once the cameras are gone. “That’s kind of the point,” he says quietly.
Oscar steps closer without thinking, hands lifting to rest against Max’s arms. “Max.”
Max swallows.
“They don’t see it,” he admits, voice low. “They don’t see the nights I still wake up thinking I’m in the car. Or the way my hands lock up when I hear certain things. They don’t see what it took to walk away and still want to live.”
Oscar’s chest tightens painfully.
Max finally looks at him again. His eyes are steady, but there’s something raw beneath the surface, something carefully contained.
“And yeah,” Max continues, softer now. “Some of those questions still hurt. Not because I miss racing—” He pauses. “But because they act like what I lost only matters in relation to you.”
Oscar’s throat closes. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” Max agrees. “It’s not.”
He shifts forward, resting his forehead briefly against Oscar’s shoulder, a rare admission of weight. Oscar freezes for half a second before wrapping his arms around him, holding on like he’s afraid Max might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t.
“You don’t owe them anything,” Oscar murmurs. “Not explanations. Not grace. Not that stupid smile.”
Max exhales into his shoulder, something easing in the sound. “I know. But I don’t mind wearing it if it keeps them from turning on you.”
Oscar pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes fierce. “I don’t need protecting.”
“I know,” Max says gently. “But I want to.”
Oscar’s hands tighten at Max’s sides. “Next time,” he says, voice firm, “we walk away. Or I answer. Or I say something I’ll regret. Because I can’t stand watching them do that to you.”
Max smiles then—not the camera one. Something much more real.
“Deal,” he says. “But only if you promise not to punch anyone.”
Oscar huffs a laugh, forehead pressing against Max’s. “No promises.”
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
After getting out of that room, Max wished Oscar good luck since he was unable to watch the remaining qualifying race along the actual race day. It felt wrong, saying it out loud like that, like jinxing something bound to happen.
A company had called him at the last minute for a potential new contract signing—something urgent enough that it couldn’t wait even as Max tried to protest. The kind of opportunity that arrived wrapped in expectations, smiling as it demanded attention.
So he had to meet them, shake the right hands, sign the right papers, nod at the right moments, and then try—try to get back to Azerbaijan before the end of Sunday, as if effort alone could bend time.
He apologized to Oscar genuinely, eyes soft with regret in a way that cameras never seemed to catch properly. He pulled him close despite the cameras, despite the noise, despite everything that told them not to linger.
The paddock buzzed around them like an irritated hive, but Max shut it all out. He kissed Oscar on the lips as a quick farewell, lingering just long enough to remind Oscar what he was losing for the weekend, just long enough to make leaving hurt.
“I love you,” Max murmured against his mouth, voice quiet, sincere. “I’m sorry I won’t make it to your race, but I promise I’ll try to get back here before it ends, okay? Do your best.”
Oscar nodded, even though his chest felt like it was caving inward, like something vital was being scooped out and left behind. He leaned in for another kiss, as if trying to store the feeling somewhere safe in case he needed to survive on it later.
Eventually, he let go of Max, fingers slipping from his coat, watching as a security marshal gently but firmly guided him out of the paddock, away from the noise, away from him.
The moment Max disappeared from view, something sharp lodged itself under Oscar’s ribs, an ache with edges, uncomfortable and unwelcomed.
Qualifying was soon.
Too soon.
Oscar’s nervousness and anger never depleted—they coexisted, tangled together, layered on top of each other like exposed wires sparking every time he breathed too hard. The pressure hadn’t just stayed; it had grown teeth, and had learned how to bite.
It hit him all at once that he was sleeping alone tonight. No Max curled warm against his chest. No quiet reassurances whispered into the dark when his thoughts spiraled too far. Just hotel sheets that would feel too cold, too big, and a ceiling he’d probably stare at until dawn, counting cracks instead of sheep.
That thought alone threatened to swallow him whole. And then there was the anger.
God, the anger.
It pulsed through him, hot and restless, like something alive beneath his skin, something that refused to be ignored.
He had the urge—visceral and irrational to run someone over with a car. Preferably the journalists who had been cruel to Max earlier, who smiled with sharpened teeth while they picked at old scars, who asked their questions sweetly while twisting the knife. The ones who spoke about his husband like he was a headline instead of a person, like a cautionary tale instead of someone who had survived.
The thought startled him with its intensity, and yet it felt disturbingly satisfying psychopathically.
If Max knew, he’d definitely get an earful. Schatje, don’t be stupid.
If Mark knew, he’d probably drag him out by the collar before he did something irreversible.
But no one knew. Not really. And that was the problem.
The start of qualifying was in a few minutes.
Oscar slid into the livery, the cockpit closing around him like a second skin, like armor sealing shut. The world narrowed instantly—sounds dulled, vision sharpened, everything funneling into the space directly in front of him.
His goal was P1. It always has been. That was the only place he felt like he could breathe properly, where the noise quieted and the expectations made sense. There was no room to make mistakes. Maybe, technically, there was—but he didn’t want to allow himself that grace.
Grace felt like a weakness today, like an invitation to be overlooked.
He needed control.
He needed something to go right, something that wouldn’t be taken from him.
He tried to calm himself down, focused on his breathing, on the same rhythm of procedures and checks, the practiced dance of switches and confirmations. He told himself to drive clean. To drive smart. To drive like he always did. Like the driver everyone believed him to be.
But the anger didn’t leave. It rattled around inside him, banging against his ribs, blurring the edges of his focus, bleeding into places it didn’t belong.
Then it happened.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
Metal screamed. Tires locked. Time fractured into knife-like, useless pieces.
The crash felt surreal, like watching himself fail through glass, like being a spectator in his own disaster. When the car finally stilled and the radio crackled to life, Oscar already knew. He didn’t need the numbers. He didn’t need the confirmation.
P9.
P–fucking–9.
His hands tightened around the wheel, knuckles white beneath his gloves, grip shaking despite himself. He swallowed hard, throat burning, jaw locking tight.
The anger surged, sharp enough to make his vision blur—not just at himself, but at everything. The questions. The pressure. The team orders dressed up as strategy. The way Max had smiled through cruelty earlier while Oscar stood powerless behind the scenes, forced to watch and swallow it down.
How bad could this weekend get?
The answer sat heavy in his chest, unanswered and terrifying, like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon. And somewhere far away, Max wasn’t there to steady him.
That might have been the worst part of all.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
Oscar doesn’t remember much of the walk back to the hotel.
Only fragments cling to him afterward, drifting in and out of focus—the way the hallway carpet felt too soft under his shoes, plush to the point of unreality, like it was swallowing the sound of his steps whole, muffling him, erasing him as he went. And the way the room door clicked shut behind him with a quiet definitive sound, a small noise that somehow carried the weight of a slammed gate, something closing that made his chest ache in a slow, spreading way.
Max’s side of the room is exactly how he left it. Nothing disturbed, nothing moved. Half-used toiletries still line the counter in careless symmetry, a jacket slung over the chair like Max might come back any second and shrug it on without thinking. And the faint ghost of his cologne still lingers in the air, clinging to the room like a memory that refuses to dissipate no matter how long Oscar stands there breathing it in.
It feels cruel, in a quiet way.
Oscar drops his bag by the door and sits on the edge of the bed instead of changing, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed, fingers loosely interlaced like he’s holding himself together by habit alone.
He values his sleep. He always has. Sleep is discipline. Sleep is recovery. Sleep is routine, structure, the thing that keeps his body on going and his mind clear when everything else threatens to spiral.
Tonight, sleep wants nothing to do with him. And neither does he.
He lies down anyway, because giving up would feel worse. He stares at the ceiling, tracing imaginary cracks that aren’t there, counts breaths, counts heartbeats, counts the seconds ticking by on the bedside clock until the numbers blur together. His thoughts loop, pitiless, like it found a tempo and had refused to break. The crash. The questions. The looks. Max’s absence is like a missing limb—something he keeps trying to reach for only to remember, again and again, that it isn’t there.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the wall coming too fast. Hears the scream of metal. Feels the sick lurch in his stomach all over again.
Eventually, he rolls onto Max’s side of the bed without thinking, muscle memory guiding him there. He buries his face into the pillow that still smells like him—clean, mellow, unmistakably Max. It helps a little. Not enough to quiet his mind, not enough to soften the ache completely, but enough to keep him breathing.
When he finally drifts off, it’s shallow and restless, the kind of sleep that fractures easily and leaves him more exhausted than before, like he’s been fighting himself even in his dreams.
By the time race day approaches, Oscar doesn’t feel like himself at all.
His limbs are heavy, leaden in a way that makes every movement feel slow. His reactions are dulled, like he’s moving underwater, everything resistant and slightly delayed. The world feels out of sync, half a second behind where it should be, as if someone nudged reality just enough to throw him off balance.
Mark notices immediately. He always does.
“You’re in your head,” Mark says gently as they walk through the paddock, his voice low, grounding in a way Oscar usually leans into. “I know yesterday was rough, but you’ve bounced back from worse.”
Oscar nods, because that’s what he’s good at. Nodding, agreeing, and pretending that everything is fine when it isn’t in reality. Pretending that he’s already past it when he’s still drowning in it.
But it doesn’t work. None of it does.
In Oscar’s head, there’s only one thought, looping over and over like a broken radio signal he can’t tune out: I just want Max to come back already.
The anger from yesterday hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s fermented, turned sour around the edges. It sits low in his gut, simmering. He makes the mistake of opening his phone. Social media is ruthless, as always. News articles dissect his crash frame by frame, slow-motion analysis like a public autopsy. Tweets reduce him to a punchline, a cautionary tale, something disposable.
Human.
They call him human like it’s an insult. Like it’s proof he doesn’t belong here. Like mistakes are a crime instead of a consequence.
His jaw clenches so tight it aches. He locks his phone and shoves it into his bag, like he can physically put distance between himself and the words.
Before the race starts, he feels his phone buzzing again.
Max.
Whatever happens, we go forward. I’m on my way. I love you.
Oscar stares at the message longer than necessary, reading it again and again until the words blur and smear together. It settles something in his chest, almost as soft as a cloud, warm like a blanket in winter even as bitterness coils underneath. Comfort and dread coexist easily inside him these days, tangled together in a way he doesn’t know how to separate.
I love you too.
He types it back, then deletes it, then types it again and sends it before he can second-guess himself.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
Slipping into the livery again feels different today. The suit is snug, usually comforting—that feels like home in motion. Now it feels heavier, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders, like a responsibility he’s not sure he’s strong enough to carry at this moment. His skin prickles, heart beating just a little too fast, nerves buzzing under the surface.
But it’s not like he can back out. So he races. The lights go out, and everything goes wrong.
The jump is immediate, instinctive, wrong in a way his body realizes half a second too late. That half-second stretches, elastic and cruel. Turn 1 comes to him like a punishment, inevitable and unyielding. The impact is violent and sudden. The wall doesn’t give. The car shudders to stop, jolting him back into himself.
Silence follows. Oscar doesn’t feel remorse. He feels numb.
The realization settles slowly, cold in his chest: he needs time. He needs space, Maybe this—this mess, this disaster, was the universe’s way of telling him that he’s not fit to keep racing with this mindset, not like this, not right now.
The thought stings like a freshly cut wound, impossible to ignore no matter how still he tries to be.
He steps out of the car, movements stiff, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He wants to blame everything—the livery, the pressure, the interviews, McLaren, the expectations, himself.
But not Max. Never Max.
A marshal approaches, voice calm, guiding him away with a hand at his elbow. The car is lifted and hauled off like wreckage, treated like debris, like physical proof of a mistake. The safety car rolls in. The race continues without him, loud and never-ending.
Oscar walks with his helmet tucked under his arm, the noise of the crowd distant and muffled, like he’s hearing it through water. A walk of shame, people call it.
He calls it survival.
They lead him somewhere quiet, tucked away from the chaos, from the eyes. His team isn’t here. No engineer. No PR. No forced comfort, no practiced reassurance. And strangely, he’s grateful.
He wants silence. He wants peace. Just a moment where no one expects anything from him at all.
A kind marshal returns after a moment, setting a folding chair down in front of him. Then a phone. Then almost, shyly, a banana.
Oscar blinks at the small offering, the absurd normalcy of it all hitting him harder than he expects.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice rough, giving a sad nod in return. Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s kindness. Either way, he takes it.
He sits, putting his feet up, not really hungry but grateful for something solid. The phone rests heavily, propped against the metal fence beside him.
He wonders where Max is.
He misses him so badly it aches, a deep, persistent longing that curls in his chest and refuses to let go. He imagines Max somewhere between flights and meetings, probably watching the race on a tiny screen, probably already knowing, probably worrying.
Oscar stares out at the track, listening to engines roar past, and waits. For the race to end. For Max to come back. And for him to feel like a whole person again.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
The paddock is loud in a way that feels wrong after everything.
It’s not just noise—it’s celebration noise, the kind that crackles with relief and triumph, with engines cooling and champagne popping and people laughing too loudly because they can.
It presses in on Oscar from all sides, abrasive and careless, as if the world hasn’t just tilted slightly off its axis for him. As if nothing monumental has happened at all.
Oscar moves through it with his helmet tucked under his arm, still in his race suit, boots heavy against the concrete. Each step feels delayed, like his body is half a beat behind his thoughts.
He keeps his head down, nods at a few faces he knows, ignores the flashes as best he can—the staccato bursts of cameras following him like lightning strikes he’s learned to walk through without flinching.
He almost makes it past. Almost.
“Oscar—post-race, please.”
A hand gently but firmly stops him at the edge of the media pen. Not aggressive nor cruel, but inevitable. There’s no avoiding it now.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the way he does before a corner he doesn’t quite trust, and steps into position anyway. His shoulders square out of habit, muscle memory overriding instinct.
The camera light turns on. A microphone rises. The red LED blinks to life like a warning.
The interviewer smiles. Polite, professional, and practiced. The kind of smile that possessed them that never reaches the eyes. Only for the sole purpose of a job.
“Oscar, tough end to the race today,” she begins, voice smooth and measured. “Can you walk us through what happened in turn one?”
Oscar nods, jaw tight but expression neutral. He’s answered this question a thousand times in a thousand forms and in different scenarios within different tracks over the time. He knows how to package failure neatly, how to make it digestible.
“Yeah,” he says evenly. “Um, I jumped the start. That’s on me. Tried to recover position early and locked up. The margin’s thin here. Sometimes it doesn’t forgive you.”
A clean answer, honest and efficient. The kind they teach you to give in media training rooms with whiteboards and bullet points and reminders to stay on message.
The interviewer nods along, lips pursed sympathetically, like she’s offering him something fragile and kind. But Oscar didn’t need that, at least not from anyone but Max.
“After yesterday’s qualifying crash, that makes two major incidents this weekend. Do you think the pressure’s starting to get to you?”
There it is.
Oscar blinks once. Just once. Keeps his voice level, keeps his breathing even, keeps himself exactly where he needs to be. Because he can’t falter, not right now. Not in front of a crowd.
“Pressure’s part of the job,” he says. “It comes with fighting at the front. I’ve handled it before, and I’ll handle it again.”
“Of course. Though some fans online have been calling this a very human weekend for you.”
Oscar’s fingers curl slightly around the helmet. The plastic creaks under the pressure of his grip.
Human, again with that word. It lands heavier than it should, weighted with mockery disguised as understanding. “Racing isn’t robotic,” he replies. “Mistakes are bound to happen.”
The smile on her face doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets wider.
“Do you think comparisons to Max Verstappen might be weighing on you?” she continues. “Especially given his history with McLaren—and his recent comments about watching you ‘dominate the field’?”
Something in Oscar’s gaze shifts. A look almost resembling a glare, but maybe more so leaning on unimpressed.
“I don’t race to be compared to anyone,” he says carefully, each word placed with intent. “Just a correction, it’s Max Piastri and has been for a year now, he’s my husband. He supports me. That’s where that conversation ends.”
She nods again, like she’s conceding ground. But she doesn’t let it go.
“Still, some people are saying that with Max no longer on the grid, expectations shifted onto you to fill that space. Do you feel like you’re falling short of that legacy?”
Something tightens in Oscar’s chest, a slow constriction like a fist closing around his ribs. He takes a breath. Another as he feels the heat under his skin, the echo of engines still humming in his bones.
“I think that’s an unfair framing,” he says. “I’m building my own career. Not inheriting someone else’s.”
The interviewer’s tone remains deceptively light, conversational in a way that feels prepared ahead of time.
“So you wouldn’t say his presence… or absence has anything to do with your recent form?” That’s when Oscar stops playing along.
His mouth curls into something that almost looks like a smile, but there’s no warmth in it now. It’s honed by months of swallowing things he shouldn’t have had to swallow.
“No,” he says. “What does affect my form is racing at 300 kilometers per hour while people like you turn bad weekends into narratives.”
The interviewer stiffens, just slightly. Now nervous, “I’m just asking what the public’s wondering—”
“The public can wonder all they like,” Oscar cuts in, unmistakably done with the media’s shit. His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t shake. That’s what makes it dangerous. “I’m responsible for my driving. Not for living up to someone else’s shadow.”
There’s a pause. The paddock noise seems to swell around them, sound rushing in to fill the space his words leave behind. Oscar looks straight into the camera now, eyes steady, unflinching.
“And if being ‘human’ means admitting when you mess up and owning it,” he adds quietly, “then I’m fine with that.”
Silence.
“Thanks,” he says, already stepping back. “That’s all.”
He turns and walks away before anyone can stop him, heart pounding but head held high, leaving the microphone hanging in the space he vacated like an accusation no one gets to finish.
By the time he reaches the McLaren hospitality suite, his phone buzzes in his hand. A message from Max.
Where are you? Oscar exhales, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders, like something uncoiling.
Hospitality, he replies. Inside.
Oscar sinks onto the couch, eyes closing for just a second—just long enough for the exhaustion to catch up to him.
The hospitality suite hums softly around Oscar, air-conditioning rattling faintly, the muted sounds of the paddock leaking in through the walls like a distant ride. He’s still in his race suit, half-unzipped now, gloves discarded somewhere near his feet.
His helmet rests on the table in front of him, visor scratched, scuffed—evidence of a weekend he’d rather not replay, a story etched into plastic and carbon fiber.
His phone buzzes again. I’m here.
Oscar’s head lifts immediately, heart lurching before his brain can catch up. The door opens before he can reply.
Max steps inside like he’s been pulled there by instinct rather than logistics, jacket still on, hair slightly wind-tossed from the rush of travel, eyes already searching. The moment they land on Oscar, everything else seems to fall away.
The noise, the cameras outside, the race that already feels like it happened to someone else. Oscar stands up without thinking.
Max crosses the space between them in three long strides and cups Oscar’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing under his eyes, gentle. He doesn’t kiss him right away.
He just looks, checking for fractures only he knows how to see from experience. “Hey,” Max says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
Something inside Oscar finally gives. Unaware that tears had already been pooling in the corners of his eyes, spilling and rolling down his cheeks.
He leans forward, forehead pressing into Max’s shoulder, hands gripping the back of his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left in the room. Max folds around him easily, arms anchoring him in place. He shushes him, rubbing his back, and whispering sweet nothings.
“I’m sorry,” Oscar murmurs, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “I tried. I really did.”
“I know, schatje,” Max says instantly, voice steady against Oscar’s ear. “I saw everything.”
Oscar exhales shakily. “They kept pushing. The questions. About you. About yesterday. Like they wanted me to crack.”
“And you didn’t,” Max says. He pulls back just enough to look at him again. “You shut it down, clean and calm. I was proud of you.” He coos, wiping away Oscar’s tears.
Oscar lets out a weak laugh, disbelief threading through it. “I snapped.”
“No,” Max corrects softly. “You stood up for yourself.”
That lands harder than anything else.
Oscar’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him all at once. Max guides him back down onto the couch, sitting beside him instead of across, knee pressed against his thigh, presence solid and undeniable.
“I fucked up the start,” Oscar says, staring at his hands. “Didn’t even hesitate. Like my body just… gave up before my head could catch up.” Max’s hand covers his hands immediately.
“You were exhausted,” he says. “Emotionally, mentally, anyone would’ve been.”
Oscar shakes his head. “I don’t feel angry anymore. That’s what scares me.” Max squeezes his fingers gently. “Numb isn’t permanent. It’s just your brain protecting you.”
They sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching comfortably between them. Outside, cheers erupt somewhere distant. A celebration that doesn’t belong to Oscar tday.
“I hated not being here,” Max admits. “I was watching from my phone in a taxi like an idiot. Nearly told the driver to stop so I could yell at my screen.”
That pulls a real smile out of Oscar. “You would’ve gotten arrested.”
“Worth it,” Max says without hesitation. Oscar finally looks at him fully. “Did you really come straight here?”
Max shrugs. “Dropped my bag at the door. I knew where you’d be.” Oscar swallows, throat tight. “I didn’t want the team. I didn’t want anyone.”
“I know,” Max says. “That’s why I came.”
Oscar leans into him again, slower this time, more deliberate. Max presses a kiss into his hair, then his temple, then his forehead—nothing rushed, nothing demanding.
“We go forward,” Max says softly, echoing his earlier text. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow if you don’t want to. But eventually.”
Oscar nods against him. “As long as you’re there.”
Max smiles, resting his cheek against Oscar’s head. “I’m not going anywhere.”