Chapter Text
Oscar Piastri isn’t ashamed to admit, at least to himself, that he wants Lando Norris.
As a teammate. A rival. A friend. A co-worker.
In his wildest dreams, as a lover.
He can look at himself in his bathroom mirror – fogged from his evening shower – and confess that he wants Lando Norris. Desperately, heartachingly, foolishly. He can rub at his freshly-shaven skin and think: I fell asleep imagining him in my arms. Imagining the way his dimples deepen with every squeaky chuckle. Imagining the squint of his crow’s feet when he’s trying to digest a ludicrous comment.
It makes him dig his palms into his eyes, of course. But that’s neither here nor there.
So why he’s sitting in the cooldown room, slick with sweat and the condensation of the water pooling in his fist, and unable to remove his gaze from his two rivals, is beyond him.
He hasn’t, quite embarrassingly, been with anyone since the start of last season. He’s a committed, one-track mind kinda guy: always has been, probably always will be. And somewhere between the end of his second season, and the start of his third, that track gained a definitive end.
Lando Norris.
It’s been Oscar and his fist for fifteen months now. Which is fine. It’s not like he can force himself to find a stranger (or anyone not driving for McLaren) attractive, and he’s survived this far. Five minutes and his imagination does the trick just fine.
It hasn’t been a problem.
Until now.
Until Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc.
“Ah,” Max murmurs, taking a hearty sip of his water before adding, “That was close.”
Oscar should make a follow-up comment, if only for the camera that sits at his shoulder like a threat. Keep his tone bland, but likeable – insightful. The kind of discernment that a future World Champion should have.
He says nothing. Can’t find a syllable beyond the thick weight that sits at the base of his throat like a stone. He swallows against the uncomfortability.
Charles whistles through his teeth at whatever plays on screen, and Oscar’s stomach curdles with the way that his gaze shoots to his lips. They’re framed by scruffy brown hair, and it should, objectively, be unattractive. Oscar isn’t really one for facial hair in the first place, especially not the goatee-fusion thing that Charles has going on, and yet.
And yet.
“Your tire management, mate,” Max says, then, and Oscar feels like a spotlight has been abruptly turned on him. Max’s eyes are wide and blue and meeting Oscar’s directly. They’re entirely too bright. “It’s impressive.”
Oscar doesn’t know what prompted the compliment: doesn’t quite know anything that’s played on the screen since he sat down.
“Thanks,” he mutters, allowing the corner of his mouth to quirk into a polite, gentle smile. Grateful and respectful. Oscar crosses his arms, uncrosses them – reaches for his water. Takes a sip. Stuffs his hands between his biceps and his sides. Feels more unmoored with every stilted movement.
Max turns to look back to the compilation, and his side profile is just so… sturdy. If a face can be such a thing. He looks like he can handle a partner; can tilt his head and narrow his brows just right, just enough to have another submit without complaint. He just has that assertive look about him. Maybe not as conventionally attractive as Charles, but he’s got that edge – that character that makes him just as devastating.
Oscar wonders if Charles would agree with him. Thinks that he would.
There’s always been rumours – since Oscar’s Formula 3 days – insisting that Charles and Max have always existed like magnets, a gravitational pull between them, ethereal. Oscar didn’t believe them. Knew there couldn’t be an actively queer Formula 1 driver on the grid, despite the advocacy from Seb, from Lewis.
And then he’d adorned papaya orange, and every misconception he’d obtained had unravelled in seconds.
Because Charles and Max were horrifically bad at hiding their affections for each other for more than ten minutes at a time. Two when in the same room. They were decent in front of the cameras, knew how to play the PR game, but as soon as the lenses turned away: heart-eyes and whispered admiration and hands on hips. Kisses against jaws.
If they weren’t so earnest and lovely about it, Oscar would envy that ease. That ability to love without fear.
Ferrari and Red Bull knew, had to know, the damning consequences should they try to break them apart. Must have decided to meet them in the middle; spinned media narratives and masks for the camera in exchange for unhindered love in the paddock. No one batted an eye. No one questioned it.
They just were.
And maybe it allowed Oscar to hope. Allowed him to, when he realised his feelings, dream of a reality wherein he kissed Lando between races. Where he followed him into his motorhome rather than his own. Where they stripped off each other’s fireproofs with gentle hands, gentler grins.
“That last turn – I nearly sent it into the gravel,” Oscar intones, half-mindless. His eyes have barely tracked the movements of whatever colour car’s on screen, let alone the lap – but he catches the small swerve he'd narrowly corrected. Enough to finally say something of substance, enough to snap himself out of it.
“Mate,” Charles says on the end of a chuckle, accent softening the term Oscar hears entirely too often, “I would never live the embarrassment down.”
Oscar isn't sure if that's the correct sequence of the wording. Isn't sure if his head's simply jumbled up enough that he's started mismatching sentences.
“Of course, you would,” Max scoffs, arms flexing where they sit crossed over his chest. His rather plush chest. “One bat of those lashes in front of the cameras and everyone would run to ruffle your hair. Please.”
Max is right. Almost hilariously so.
The compilation finishes on the standard: Let us celebrate you. Oscar's well used to it by now – not to toot his own horn – but today, today, it feels a little more like a taunt. A mockery.
What's there to celebrate, really?
The cameras from behind pull away, the crew exiting as quickly as they'd entered. It's barely a moment before Charles is speaking.
“Just because it works on you, mon coeur, does not mean that it works on all the people,” he raises a brow, chin tilted just so. There's a little quirk to the corner of his lips that Oscar can't help but imagine pressing his thumb against.
Imagine pressing the curve of his nail into the plushness.
“It absolutely works on all people,” Max insists, leaning forward so his forearms rest against his thighs. His dark blond hair looks brunette where the sweat’s made it curl against his forehead and behind his ears. It sends a startling thrill down Oscar’s spine that he wants no part in analysing. “Oscar, you know his charm.”
The man in question blinks. Once, twice. A third time.
Any moment now, the three of them will march down the hallway, go up the stairs to the podium. Let champagne soak their fireproofs, let it sting their eyes with bright smiles and even brighter trophies.
“Charles and charm practically rhyme,” he says, because Oscar might be smart – but he’s also an outright idiot.
Except both men laugh. Max’s nose scrunches a little between his eyes, his guffaw squeaky and high yet gravelly all at the same time, like a weird sort of paradox. Charles is, as always, elegant about it: his eyes meet Oscar’s gaze, warm with the way the apples of his cheeks push against the corners.
They’re so utterly beautiful.
They’re so utterly out of reach.
And, Oscar realises with a start, maybe that’s just it. He might prefer to be the hunted over the hunter on track, but outside of it – he likes the falsity of a chase. A chase he knows he’ll never complete with game in hand; a chase that’s as futile as running after a carrot on a string. Endless and worthless and so entirely impossible that it aches in Oscar’s chest like a living, breathing weight.
Moments pass.
He doesn’t know when they left the room. He doesn’t know when he started scaling the stairs. Moments are blotchy as he lets himself think – something he should save for tonight, with a balled up tissue in the bin and his face shoved into his pillow, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
He thinks of Lando with each second step. He thinks of brown curls and freckles and green eyes that aren’t entirely green. He thinks of large, tanned hands around the sim wheel. He thinks of the curve of his lips, the fan of his lashes.
For the steps in between those, he thinks of Charles and Max. He’d known, of course, that they were objectively attractive. Anyone with eyes could tell as much – anyone with understanding.
But he’d never really let himself look. And why today, of all days, is the breaking point; Oscar hasn’t a clue.
The worst part, if there’s any part of it all that’s better than rock bottom, is that the curdle in his stomach isn’t just shame.
It’s guilt.
Oscar feels, horrifically, as though he’s cheating Lando by looking twice at anyone else. Which is fucked up and so completely twisted that he feels ill with it; his stomach pained twice over. Really, what the fuck is wrong with him? To feel some sort of loyalty for a straight guy – his world-famous teammate – who’s never looked at him twice?
The nape of his neck is warm with a mixture of sweat and anxiety, made more so when he reaches the top of the steps and the bright sun beats down against him.
The cheers are loud, vibrant: even standing back from the stage, hidden in the alcove, Oscar allows the chants to echo in his throat. He swallows, his jaw clicking where he mindlessly grinds his molars together. Forces a polite smile to his face.
He doesn’t know the last time he felt so nauseous.
A camera in his face. A tap on his shoulder. An announcement of his name from the large speakers attached to the stage.
He smiles, and he waves.
˙⋆✮
Things change after that podium.
It’s the night after the race. Oscar has hardly left his motorhome. Overdramatic and pathetic and weak, sure, but he’ll proudly bear that title if it means avoiding… everything.
Avoiding the self-inflicted conflict that’s turned his world, as he knows it, upside down.
The dishwasher is going, and the white curtains on the living room windows flutter softly with the wind. There's a single banana in the fruit bowl – browning and spotted – and his trainer's printed schedule lies on the kitchen counter, corners translucent from grease or water or something like that.
It's well past six, and Oscar's simply sitting lazily on his couch, mildly dozing. He's sure he'll regret it in half an hour's time, neck sore and eyes sleep-bruised.
He's very nearly asleep when his phone vibrates in his shorts pocket.
Charles Leclerc
6:49pm
hello oscar ☺️
me and max and carlos and lando and george and alex are going clubbing at 11, and we would love you there
are you interested ?
The fact of the matter is that there have been no more than three other exchanges in the message thread. Two of which Oscar started, the other a simple ‘Congratulations!’ from Charles after Oscar's first win. It'd been a breath of fresh air amongst a world of Hungary-coloured grey.
That is all to say that a message from Charles is… highly unusual. Unlike him.
Oscar's eyes snag on the ‘lando’, and his heart stutters a bit in his chest. He exits the thread with Charles – checks his pinned.
Nothing from Lando. Not for nearly two weeks.
Why didn't Lando ask him to come? Why the hell was it Charles?
Oscar should decline on principle. Wonders if Charles drew the short straw, or something. It feels petty and all too like the kinds of situations he found himself in during his karting years – young and desperate for the friendships that existed around him.
He never did manage to enter those circles.
But, then: shouldn't he go? Prove he can be fun, worth their time? Not the stick in the mud he knows the media portrays him as? More than Oscar ‘Cool, Calm, Collected’ Piastri?
He's typing before he even realises that he's made his decision.
Me
6:53pm
Yeah, that sounds good
See you there
It takes another five minutes for Oscar to move from the couch. Three after that for Charles to respond.
Charles Leclerc
7:01pm
see you there!
max says to wear the flowing shirt you wore after monza last year lol 😆
he says it was linen ?
Me
7:04pm
Haha the one with the brown buttons?
Ok 👍
Charles Leclerc
7:06pm
oscar this is max, yes that one.
see you soon mate ✌️
You reacted ‘👍’ to Charles Leclerc's message.
Oscar will deny it until the day he dies, but as he goes to microwave his trainer-approved dinner, he catches the flush of his cheeks in the door’s orange reflection.
˙⋆✮
The club is loud and busy but it's been fine.
He's said his greetings to everyone – took a shot with Carlos, got a hug from Alex. He's always felt slightly out of place in this group; too young for the 2019 rookies, even younger compared to Max and Charles and Carlos. Still, they're welcoming. Warm and bubbly and caring. Even George: in his own stilted, aristocratic way.
Lando gave him the usual embrace, large hand spanning his back with firm pats.
Oscar hasn't seen him since he first entered; hasn't seen Max or Charles whatsoever. He half expects he wouldn't (would, if he took a second to practice introspection) want to find them right now, anyway. Sparingly feels like a fool for wearing the linen top.
And then, it happens.
Like all world-shattering moments, Oscar could never have anticipated it.
It’s a guy.
His hair’s shorn close to his scalp; scrappy and blond and dried out – like he does nothing but run his fingers through the strands, and shampoo it with a 5-in-1 every so often. The ends are split, and it’s not attractive. It’s off-putting.
He’s got a hint of scruff at his jaw, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, and it looks like it’d scrape against your skin if you slid the bridge of your nose against the bone. It leaves him looking untidy and unhygienic and entirely unappealing. The kind of guy that’s left in the corner of the club, until he’s cut off, who then goes home in the cheapest uber he can get at two in the morning.
He’s unremarkable.
Except for how he suddenly isn’t.
With Lando Norris attached to him, he is every bit as remarkable as a shooting star.
The lights are bright, and they’re strobing: red, and blue, and purple, then red again. It’s humid, except for where the condensation of the glass meets Oscar’s palm, and even that’s more a steady reminder that he exists than anything.
Except Oscar doesn’t really feel like he exists right now. Even with the sweat of his house-special drink dripping down his thumb.
Because… It’s a guy.
Lando Norris is making out with a guy.
And Oscar has no idea what to do.
Bodies brush his own, and his hair’s raised against his exposed arms – both hung loosely at his side, his drink close to spilling over. He’s close enough to the edge of the mass of bodies to not be more than a slight annoyance when he stands stock still. When even his fingers have stopped tapping along to the shitty club music.
Oscar imagines that this is what the end of the world feels like.
Like a million tiny heartbreaks, synchronous in their shattering.
He thinks he swallows against the sudden blockage in his throat. Thinks that he manages to raise his glass to drink past the sharp pain that sits behind his ears. At the nape of his neck. At the backs of his eyes.
He should find George. Or Alex. Hunting for one of them will result in getting them both, anyway, so he supposes it doesn’t matter.
He just needs to move. To turn around, grab another drink. Maybe another three.
Even Carlos. Carlos is kind and sweet and really, really genuine. Not Oscar’s first pick, or more than a friend-by-association, but anyone would do right now. Anyone.
Anything but this.
It’s a guy.
Oscar can’t even tell if he’s breathing. If his chest is moving, or if his heart is beating, or if his pulse is steady. Well. He knows it’s not steady – but he hopes it’s at least survivable.
Doesn’t really feel like it is, right now.
People are yelling, and easy laughter acts as a sort of white noise against the bass of palatable dance music. A remix of some recent song, Oscar thinks, vaguely. Most of the crowd is singing along, varying in rhythm and lyrics.
He’s going to vomit.
His palms are slick with sweat, and suddenly his head is pounding something fierce.
He needs to leave. Find one of the guys. Except, of course, that means looking away. Ignoring a trainwreck happening right in front of him. Who the fuck has ever looked away from a trainwreck?
There’s a hand in that blond, badly kept hair – large and tanned and rough from callouses. A hand that Oscar knows better than his own.
His eyes drop down unthinkingly, never thinking, and his jaw clicks when he sees the other squeezing at the guy’s hip. The thumb rubs at the small hint of skin revealed by the rumpling of the guy’s shirt.
Oh god.
“Oh god,” manages to escape Oscar’s mouth, soft and wavering.
He takes a step back. Accidentally knocks his elbow into the side of a dancing girl. She looks up, brows furrowed, as if to start an argument – but the crease at the centre of her forehead dissipates as soon as her eyes lay on Oscar’s face.
Maybe she recognises him. Maybe she recognises his expression. She side-steps him, and moves further into the crowd without a word.
The hand has moved to fully grasp the guy’s ass. Groping, like they’re not in the middle of a packed club at one in the morning. Like Lando Norris isn’t Lando Norris.
Oscar’s nose scrunches, between his eyes. His lips rest, slightly parted. Chapped.
A million tiny heartbreaks.
He feels stiff. Hollow, with the ache of it. Despite popular belief, he’s rather in tune with his emotions – even if he doesn’t go around showcasing as much. But now, now, under the bright club lights, and the humid air, he feels nothing.
It’s worse than anger. Worse than nausea.
It’s a guy.
His eyes dart around, frantic, finally pulling his gaze away. Fingers squeezing tight around his glass, uncaring whether it shatters, Oscar takes a shaky breath in. Another out.
It feels like going down Eau Rouge for the first time. It feels like accepting death with open arms.
It’s hard to see, beyond the general mass of people. He can’t tell apart faces, where bodies begin and end. It’s as if his vision’s been smeared; a greasy thumb swiped against a camera lens.
His gaze finds them again, like an electric pull. A second, and then two, he spends: watching Lando press a toothy smile into the guy’s neck, his hands remaining where they were when Oscar last looked.
A third second.
And then he turns away, and skirts around the edge of the crowd.
His head’s definitively turned to the floor – sticky and gross and unhygienic (not unlike the guy) – and he focuses on avoiding every pair of feet around him. It’s easier to avoid collisions, this way, he thinks. Easier to see without wanting to break.
He can tell that he’s nearing the side of the club, because there’s light streaming ahead; dancing across the tacky floor.
He looks up, squints. Sees the glowing green ‘exit’ sign.
The back of his jaw stings with the way that it aches, like he’s been tensing it all night. Except that he hasn’t, and he knows that it’s something else entirely. It hurts and hurts and hurts.
It’s the only thing that’s betraying just how numb he feels. It’s the centreing of his gravity.
He puts the glass down on the nearest empty table, the one closest to the exit. There’s a sliver of liquid left behind, but he doesn’t care to down it. He’ll get some from the minibar in his room, or maybe he’ll go all out and order some room service. He deserves it.
The air is cool and sharp against his face as he steps out. The exit opens to a little alleyway – clean and well kept, but dark. There’s only the light from the street ahead; a bright orange lamp, and the hint of colour from the skyscrapers above.
He misses Melbourne.
He doesn't like coffee, except for this one blend; one he can only recall finding at his favourite cafe back home. Not the crap in the States – not the watery shit here in Miami. Not a vanilla-pump Venti frappuccino, or whatever the fuck.
Just a flat white, one sugar. Maybe a vanilla slice if he’s going to give into his sweet tooth.
He aches.
It’s a guy.
It’s not as humid as inside the club, but it’s still not pleasant. The smell of the sea here has nothing on home. It’s tainted by something – Oscar isn’t sure what – that marks it as distinctly… different. Wrong.
There’s one or two stragglers, further down the alley, and Oscar isn’t quite ready to head back to the hotel yet. He feels unmoored, like he needs to anchor himself before he tears himself away.
The brick is cool against the back of his head, and he can feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s not wasted, just a bit more than tipsy, but he can feel the buzz fading with every unsteady breath. His head pounds with every release of carbon-dioxide and his eyes squeeze shut against the ever-increasing bloom of pain that sits behind his eyes.
After a few minutes, that pain becomes a threatening sting.
He hasn’t really processed it. He knows. But the thoughts are harder to avoid, the words in a thick arial bold: It’s a guy.
His fingers tighten against his shorts, clawing against the khaki. The bottom of his palms are already spotted with white crescents.
The honks of taxis. The distant sound of music. The bass that threatens to vibrate his toes. The sound of laughter, sixty or seventy or eighty metres away.
It’s a guy.
He brings a hand up. Lets it press against his cheek, then his nose, then his forehead. Leaves it at his chin.
“Oscar?”
His eyes fly open, his breath catching in his throat.
Brown meets green.
A not-so-familiar green.
“...Charles?” Oscar manages to sputter out, brows flying up in surprise.
His brown curls are curled tighter across his forehead, slightly darker with what Oscar guesses to be sweat. He’s wearing pretty much the same thing as every other guy in there, just, somehow, classier. Better.
Charles has always been like that.
Oscar doesn’t move, but Charles does. He takes a few steps closer, his hands fiddling with a pair of sunglasses. Why the man brought sunglasses to a club, Oscar can’t really understand.
“Are you waiting for your car?” Charles asks, with a small tilt of his head. His accent softens the syllables, lilting and pleasant in contrast to the mess that’s wreaked havoc in Oscar’s head.
“Uh,” Oscar starts, suddenly regretting that he hasn’t anything to keep his hands busy. He awkwardly shoves them into his pockets. “...No. Nah, just…”
He trails off. Can’t think of any normal explanation, let alone a reasonable excuse. Oscar has to swallow harshly, the pain in his jaw increasing with every movement that Charles makes. His nose sniffles again.
Charles nods easily, like he understands.
Neither man says anything as Charles moves to lean against the brick wall beside Oscar. Silent, but loud in his presence. Something rattles in Oscar’s chest.
“I thought you would be with Lando,” Charles says, soft, careful not to disturb the peace of the night.
Doesn’t realise that what he’s said is as peaceful as a nuclear bomb.
Oscar tries to respond. Work his mouth around a word or two, an easy, ‘got tired’, or a ‘you know how he gets’.
But nothing comes out.
Nothing but a small, irredeemable sob.
“Oh,” Charles breathes, and suddenly he’s in front of Oscar, and his hands are raised like he’s about to pet a cat for the first time. “Is –”
And Oscar’s maybe drunker than he thought. No man of a right mind would just –
“Oh, Sweetheart,” Charles murmurs, and then his arms are wrapping around Oscar, around where he’s just crumbled into Charles’ chest and broken.
He’s crying, openly; his shoulders shaking, vibrating with the weight of his tears, his throat tight around the sorrow. The ache in his jaw has grown into a starburst of true pain, and the sting in his eyes has become near unbearable.
There’s a hand in his hair, and flashes of the inverse invade his mind; a hand in badly kept hair, large and tanned and rough from callouses. His fingers dig into the meat of Charles’ back, just skirting his shoulder blades. It has to hurt. But Charles just continues to soothe him with gentle shushes, his fingers curling into Oscar’s brown waves, his cheek resting against Oscar’s temple. His other hand rubs careful circles into Oscar’s back, thumb stroking back and forth over the muscle.
He has no room to feel embarrassed, not with the wave of pure emotion that’s flooding his every nerve right now. He’s sure, that if it weren’t for Charles, that he’d have folded under his own weight by now.
“Charles? Schatje, is that you?”
This time, he catches onto the voice’s owner immediately. Even with his obnoxious sobbing, he can identify that rasp.
Max.
A few steps – concrete underneath leather – and then another weight lands on his shoulder. The warmth of a sturdy hand.
“What –”
Max halts after the first word, and Oscar is sure that Charles must have delivered a particularly noteworthy look to have shut the man up so suddenly.
Oscar chokes on another sob, one physically ripped from his chest, and both Max and Charles make simultaneous noises of sympathy.
It’s… mildly disconcerting.
It’s with both men here that he loses himself a bit, for a moment. Crumbles just that slightest bit more when Max’s hand moves to cradle the nape of his neck, his strong fingers massaging into his skin. He thinks he hears some whispered words exchanged between the two, catches the word ‘please’, isn’t quite sure which of them is speaking so earnestly. Likely both. Definitely both.
The hands ground him. Even when Max’s drifts to sweep his pinkie finger across the skin below the collar of his shirt.
He feels a little more alive with every shuddering breath, every hiccupped sniffle. The tears have slowed, some – a few strays itch at the apples of his cheeks, and his face is tacky with salt, but he’s feeling steadier. Enough to be human.
Not human enough for the weight of everything to hit him, though. Not yet.
“The car’s here,” Max’s thick, dry voice intones; it’s the first sentence that Oscar’s managed to gather in the past however many minutes.
When Oscar swallows, it’s grating. Like parchment against gravel.
“I’m sorry,” falls from his lips, near-silent in the night. The words are barely indistinguishable from each other – but Charles hears them. Of course he does.
“Non,” he shushes, pulling Oscar in just that bit closer. His words are whispered against the younger’s temple. “Do not be sorry. There is no reason to be sorry.”
Oh, but Oscar is. He really, really is.
“Come on,” Max’s hand rubs down his spine once more, before he’s pulling away. He must gesture something to Charles, because then Charles is pulling back, too – not letting go, but allowing space. Enough for movement.
Oscar moves to pull away completely, let them go. He reaches his hand into his pocket as he jerks away, but Charles’ hand is lightning quick. Oscar should be less surprised than he is, with them being world-class drivers, and all.
“What are you doing?” Charles chastises, perfect brows pulling together and mirroring his perfect pout. “You are coming with us.”
“I –” Oscar starts, has to swallow harshly. He sounds like a fucking idiot. “I don’t want to be a nuisance. I can get home fine, I promise.”
It sounds paper-thin even to his own ears.
“Hah!” Max barks out, this side of too shrill. Oscar winces slightly – doesn’t notice Charles pulling him in closer to his side. “I know you’re not stupid – two-time grill the grid champion, no?”
Even in the relative darkness, and Oscar’s state of mind, he can see the pulling of Max’s lips; the dimples that look as though they swallow up all his features. Pretty and happy and so very Max.
Charles’ ringed hand spans Oscar’s lower back as he pulls him towards the black sedan, thumb continuing its comforting circles. Oscar swears that he can feel the chill of the metal through his linen; can feel where it presses against his like a brand.
“Get in,” Max says – borderline orders. He’s pulled the door open, looking like the pinnacle of chivalry in his black-button up, his black jeans. Oscar’s heart, betrayingly, skips a beat.
“Who do you want in the back with you, mon chéri?” Charles asks, head leaning down slightly to meet Oscar’s weary eyes. Oscar knows that his own face has more than its fair share of freckles and moles, but looking at Charles so close under the night lights, he thinks that he can count at least five on his. There’s a spot just above his top lip.
“Both,” Oscar says, because he’s a fucking idiot. It takes two blinks for him to realise what he’s just allowed to stumble out of his mouth. “Shit,” he breathes. “I mean –”
But Charles is grinning, beyond pleased, and Max’s hand reaches out to ruffle his hair as he scoots into the car before Oscar can so much as get a foot in. So much for being a gentleman, he thinks.
Says, if Charles’ choked off laugh is anything to go by.
He really needs to put a sock in it.
“Come on,” Max calls, pale hand patting on the leather seat in the middle. It’s not the smallest car in the world, but it’s not big enough for three professional athletes, Oscar’s sure.
He slides in anyway. Silently mourns the loss of Charles’ hand as he does so.
It’s a guy.
It’s even darker in the car; Max is saying something to the driver as Charles shuts the door behind himself. Both sides of Oscar are pressed against each man: thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.
Somehow, it’s the scent of their differing colognes that hits like a sledgehammer to the chest. Charles smells like amber, bergamot: earthy and warm and him. Whatever Max uses is more fresh; clean and light and a complete foil to Charles.
They complete each other.
And here Oscar is: falling apart in between them.
“You are thinking so loud,” Charles murmurs, then, and Oscar tilts his head towards him. The car pulls away from the curb, the indicator ticks. Shadows pass over Charles’ face intermittently, making his light eyes look brown every so often. His hair looks darker in this light, too.
Oscar’s eyes still sting, still ache. His nose feels almost blocked. The skin around his throat feels tight.
His leg’s apparently bouncing, too, because suddenly a warm hand’s settling over the bare skin of his knee, stilling it.
Max doesn’t say a word – has always been more picky with his speech than Charles is probably capable of. His presence says enough; his audacity.
“Did you eat?” Charles asks, then, head turned fully to meet Oscar’s gaze when it returns to him. Charles’ eyes search his face, settling back on his eyes with ease. “Before going out.”
Oscar looses a breath, his shoulders settling slightly. They’ve pulled onto the main road, now: the lights dance more frantically across the reflection of the window, across Charles’ nose, his mouth.
“Yeah,” Oscar answers on a breath. “Just chucked in whatever Artturi wanted me to eat.”
He sounds a bit nasally, a bit pathetic. He’s sure his eyes are ringed with red.
“So nothing good, then?” Max intones, and Oscar looks to him. His eyes are truly so blue – made more so by this lighting. “We have a two week break. You can afford a little treat.”
A small, barely-there chuckle escapes Oscar. Max’s dimples deepen. “You’re trying to sabotage me,” Oscar rolls his eyes, looks to where his hands are folded together in his lap. Max’s hand hasn’t moved from his knee, and Charles is still pressed against his side. “So much for winning fair and square.”
“Non, Oscar,” Charles bemoans, hand reaching out to settle over Oscar’s. Where Max’s palm is warm, Charles’ is startlingly cold. “You race us so beautifully. Never that. Just, don’t you want some ice cream? If we all have some, it’s still fair and square, yes?”
“If all our trainers kill us, at least the championship will be interesting,” Max adds, and Charles squeaks out laughter.
“If we die it will be between George and Lando,” Charles groans, settling back into his seat with a small ‘thump’. “That is a sad, sad championship.”
The name is a jolt to Oscar’s system. Like a rewiring to some internal electrical circuit.
He thinks that Max makes a retort, that Charles laughs even louder – but it’s all white noise, staticky and numbing. Oscar feels like he might be sick.
It’s a guy.
It was a fucking guy.
It was never – never about Lando being straight, or whatever bullshit.
It was that Oscar was…
Oscar.
“Oscar?”
“I’m sorry,” Oscar breathes; a response garnered from auto-pilot more than anything else. He doesn’t even know what it’s in response to, what it’s for. But he means it. He’s sure he means it.
A hand – startlingly cool – against his nape. His eyes blink open.
“You are okay,” Charles assures, and fuck – fuck, Max’s hand still hasn’t left his knee. Its grip has tightened, a reassuring weight, but it hasn’t moved.
Oscar has to inhale shakily to avoid bursting into tears again. He lets his head fall back, lets his eyes stare unseeingly into the fabric roof of this random uber.
He’s in a random uber, squeezed between a very in-love Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc, while trying not to cry because he’s just seen his (crush, love of his life, everything) teammate make-out with a guy in a club.
All he wanted to do was drive fast for a living.
“Oscar,” Max says, and Oscar has to take another steadying breath before he can open his eyes, tilt his head just enough to the side to meet Max’s gaze. “What do you need?”
It’s a simple question.
For Oscar, it’s as complex as Yang-Mills.
His answer probably isn’t the right one, but it’s the only one he’s got. It’s sitting there on a silver platter.
“Ice cream,” he mumbles, and this time when Max smiles, his eyes are dimmed with something that Oscar can’t quite name.
˙⋆✮
The Miami breeze is even harsher closer to the coast, the stench of the sea and the soft warmth of May culminating in an unpleasant awareness. It makes Oscar feel entirely too awake, forcibly tethering him to reality.
Max shuts the car door softly, waves politely to the driver as he pulls away again.
The light that shines through the front windows of the shops in front of the three men feels almost sacrilegious, in the face of the dark night. It has to be well past two at this point, and yet people mill about, roaring with laughter and bubbling with drink.
It has nothing on Melbourne. No city can really compare, Oscar thinks, a pang shooting through his heart.
“Oh, if they are not open,” Charles is huffing, dramatic and wistful all at once. “I will be very, very upset. Oscar, you have not had ice cream until you’ve had this ice cream, I swear to you.”
“Um,” Oscar manages, expression morphing into a mixture of incredulous and bemused. “Didn’t you launch an ice cream? Like, last year?”
Oscar’s blindly matching Charles’ steps, Max catching up within a couple of moments to walk at Oscar’s right. For the little height difference between them, Oscar feels almost small in comparison. Not weak. Just… maybe a little fragile. Caved into himself; if not physically, then emotionally.
“Well, yes,” Charles says, a little smirk pulling at his soft lips. “But I am also not dumb. This ice cream, god, Oscar.”
“I have heard you say otherwise,” Max interjects, and Charles gasps in dismay. “There is, of course, Baku…” he trails off with a badly stifled laugh when Charles ducks around Oscar to hit at Max’s bicep, emphatically cursing under his breath.
And, well, Oscar can’t help his own giggle at that. Even if it is stilted and half-hearted.
He can tell they’re playing it up, just the slightest. It’s not inauthentic, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s layered with an effervescent sheen that Oscar imagines is for his benefit.
His chest continues to ache.
“It should be – oh, grazie al Cielo!” Charles exclaims, and then his hand is circling Oscar’s wrist and pulling him insistently. Oscar is helpless but to follow. He’s been following Charles ever since he left the club.
The shopfront is a mint green, with a neon sign simply reading ‘Ice Cream!’ hanging in the large front window. It’s small and bright and the antithesis to the implosion in Oscar’s mind right now.
“Getverderrie,” Max huffs under his breath, his hand unconsciously finding Oscar’s lower back as he steps into the shop alongside him, the bell tinkling softly as the door shuts.
Charles is already at the display case, having let go of Oscar to look over the selection. There’s a clock in the wall, above the menu: it’s nearing half-past two. Jesus Christ, Oscar thinks distantly. No wonder it feels like he’s been hit by a freight train.
He won’t let himself linger on why else that might be the case.
It’s surprisingly empty, although Oscar did see a couple seated at one of the tables just outside. He assumes it must be nearing closing, or the next wave of partygoers haven’t come through yet. Soft music plays in the background, something he’s sure wasn’t made in the last four decades.
The woman behind the counter is saying something to Charles, whose grin stretches into something sickeningly delightful. His hands wave about as he gestures to the array of flavours in front of him, and the woman’s cheeks are dusted in pink.
“Charles and charm practically rhyme,” Max says, under his breath, shoulder brushing Oscar’s. His hands are folded behind his back as his gaze falls on Charles’ frame; eyes softening with every second that passes.
Oscar wonders if his body’s just become one large, all-encompassing bruise.
“Yeah,” Oscar concedes, eyes trailing Max’s profile. So fucking recognisable. “Yeah.”
Max turns, and his eyes feel like they’re pulling Oscar apart at the seams. Calculating and knowing in a way that needles beneath his skin. The fans from the ducts above sound almost like laughter, if Oscar’s lost his mind enough to fall into shitty personification like that.
“Oh, you both,” Charles groans, and both men nearly snap their necks to look at him. His hands rest at his waist, and his eyebrow’s raised. “We do not have all night, and Sam is closing in ten minutes. Pick.”
Sam waves him off, insisting that, “No, no it’s fine, there’s no need to rush,” in her sharp accent. Other than Logan, Oscar’s rarely around Americans – finds himself in that weird in-between of fitting in, and standing out, when around them.
“We will not make you stay late,” Charles says, sparing one more look Oscar and Max’s way before smiling back at Sam. “Anyways, you were saying about your daughter?”
Moving around where Charles has taken post at the register, Oscar’s eyes trail over the selection. There’s neapolitan, mint chocolate chip, strawberry – a multitude of extravagant nightmares that would send Artturi into a coma if he so much as knew that Oscar was looking at them right now.
After a few moments, he settles on picking between the vanilla and chocolate chip cookie dough. He distantly yearns for a Bubble O’Bill, as childish and nostalgic as it is.
“What are you going to go for?” Max asks, and Oscar jolts a little when he realises that he’s looking over Oscar’s shoulder. His heart mirrors the jerk when he realises that he kind of likes Max hovering over him.
“Um,” Oscar’s eyes squint a little, his thumb coming up to pull at his lower lip. “Trying to decide between the vanilla and the cookie dough. You?”
“I will, of course, get the cookie dough and you will get the vanilla,” Max says, hand coming up to grip around Oscar’s bicep lightly. “Charles looks like he will kill us if we take another second.”
“Max –”
“You two are impossible,” Charles teases, seemingly completely calm now that he knows that they really won’t be making Sam stay overtime. He’s already got his ice-cream in hand: a waffle cone with a scoop of butter pecan.
“I will take a cookie dough,” Max smiles at Sam, subtly pinching Charles’ side. Charles slaps his hand away with a small grunt. “And he,” Max jerks his head towards Oscar, standing just a ways behind the two, “Will have a vanilla. Thank you.”
As Sam goes to scoop the ice cream, Charles turns to Max with furrowed brows. “First of all, that hurt,” he complains, pointed finger pressing against Max’s chest. “Second of all, why did you not get the pistachio? You always get the pistachio.”
“Max, you really didn’t have to do that,” Oscar winces, feeling endlessly guilty. “I would’ve just picked one, y’know.”
Something flickers in Charles’ gaze as he looks between the two, before settling on Max, who merely shrugs. His eyes don’t stray from Charles as he says, “You are clearly very sad. And I like cookie dough, so it is all okay. You can try both this way, and we are all happy.”
Fuck, does Oscar ache.
Sam reaches over the counter to hand Max and Oscar their cones, smile warm as they both take them with a ‘thank you’. Oscar can understand why Charles seems as charmed by her, as she is with him.
Reaching into his back pocket, Oscar pulls out his leather wallet, grabbing a fifty without thinking twice. He’s handing it to Sam before either Charles or Max realise, and Sam winks at him. It sends a thrill up Oscar’s spine – like he’s on the inside of a joke he didn’t mean to make.
It isn’t until they’re back onto the street that either man realises that he hadn’t paid.
“Oh, mio Dio,” Charles chokes out, midway through his lick. His eyes go startlingly wide as he stops where he’s walking. “We did not pay.”
“Fuck,” Max stops, too, frown pulling at his lips. “Will she still be there?”
“I paid,” Oscar says, hand raising unthinkingly – like he’s back in school, ten years old and waiting for his pen license. “It’s okay. I tipped.”
“You paid?” Max asks, expression scrunching up, like he’s sucked on something particularly sour. “We are the ones who took you. We should’ve paid.”
“Max,” Oscar says, breathy and incredulous. “I can afford three ice creams. Besides, I owe you both much more than that. Hell, I didn’t even pay for the uber.”
“Oh, Oscar,” Charles pouts, and suddenly he’s in front of Oscar, eyes sparkling underneath the Miami city lights. “You are so lovely.”
For a devastating moment, Oscar thinks that Charles is about to kiss him.
Instead, Charles’ mouth finds Oscar’s cheek – lips cold from the ice cream, from the breeze, but breath warm where he presses a chaste kiss to Oscar’s skin. Over one of his moles, Oscar’s sure.
“You are staying at the motorhome, yes?” He asks as he pulls away, as if Oscar’s thoughts haven’t been scattered like a scrabble board tipped upside down.
He blinks.
“Uh,” he says, intelligently. “Yes?”
“You are staying with us tonight,” Max claps him on the shoulder; the same way he does after a particularly good race. “I will take the couch.”
“Come on,” Charles adds, cheeky grin settled on his face like it’s stuck there. “It is just down this road.”
Oscar opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Max raises his hand, expression stern. “If you want to argue, you can argue when we are at the hotel. It is late and you are tired. Also, your ice cream is about to melt onto your hand.”
Eyes going wide, Oscar hastily brings his cone up, licking at the stray dessert and just narrowly avoiding a sticky mess. Charles laughs throatily, and a flush creeps onto Oscar’s face.
With the catastrophe avoided, Oscar follows as Charles and Max start walking again, implicitly trusting their judgment and ability to remember where the hell their hotel is.
“Try the cookie dough,” Max says, then, extending the cone so it’s at Oscar’s mouth level. How he manages to keep it from getting on Oscar’s skin as they walk is a little impressive. “It’s very good.”
Forcing a chuckle, Oscar asks, “You sure? Not worried about cooties?”
“Oh, Max does not worry about cooties, Oscar,” Charles singsongs, and Oscar tries not to splutter. He darts one more look towards Max, who simply raises a brow as if to say ‘just get on with it’, before darting his tongue out and taking a lick.
It is, admittedly, very good. Beyond the thought that Oscar’s just licked the same place that Max Verstappen has, he can appreciate the taste.
“Good?” Max asks, pulling the ice cream back again. Oscar feels like he’s going insane when he’s nearly certain that Max licks over the exact same spot that Oscar just did.
“Good,” Oscar chokes out, head spinning and gaze now set resolutely on the concrete in front of him.
What the fuck is anything ever, even.
“Do you not feel happier with ice cream?” Charles prods, eyebrows waggling comically. Oscar chuckles softly at the theatrics, and he realises that he’s as helpless to Charles’ charm as poor Sam. He narrowly avoids tripping over the next crack in the sidewalk.
“No, I am endlessly more miserable, actually,” Oscar rolls his eyes, just to be a bit of a dick.
“You definitely look like you are,” Max goads. His hand gestures towards Oscar’s entire face as he adds, “Your smile and those creases in your cheeks are very much proving your point.”
Oscar’s face heats at Max’s teasing, and he raises a self-conscious hand to his face, covering himself. He doesn’t want to look like some schoolgirl with a – a crush, or something, but he knows how pink his cheeks can get and he doesn’t want to encourage the blond idiot.
“Aww, Oscar,” Charles coos, his accent doing unfathomable things to Oscar’s name. (To his heart.) “It is all okay, you do not need to hide. Look, we are at the hotel!”
They are, as it turns out. And, Oscar realises, maybe a little belatedly, that they’ve gotten quite lucky all night. No one’s recognised them, no one’s asked for a picture.
Staring down the entry to this unbelievably glamorous hotel, Oscar is sure that their luck ends here.
“Um,” he starts, taking another apathetic lick to his ice cream. “We are definitely getting caught if we just waltz in there.”
“Caught?” Max asks, confusion written all over his face. “Caught doing what? We are friends, Oscar, and we have ice cream. Our PR teams are, of course, top grade. There is nothing to worry about.”
“This might be one of the most insane nights of my life,” Oscar sighs, maybe a little tired, maybe a little drained. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, before opening them again. He looks between Max and Charles, who’ve both stopped just a metre away from him.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, feeling like he’s signing his own death warrant. “Let’s go.”
Charles’ grin widens just that slightest bit more, and Max’s blue eyes twinkle with a mischief that Oscar isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to anticipate.
He doesn’t know it, but he hasn’t thought about large tanned hands or shorn blond hair since the uber ride.
Doesn’t know, either, how green eyes that aren’t entirely green watched him get into the black sedan.
And, as he gets into the elevator – doesn’t know that there’s finally a notification waiting for him from his pinned contact.