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Oscar had, at some point, become a piece of furniture.
That wasn’t a complaint, just an observation. Like noticing the weather had turned, or that the apples in hospitality were bad again.
George Russell had apparently decided that wherever Oscar was standing was the correct place to be. This was true during national anthems, in the paddock, in the media pen, and, most impressively, exactly when Oscar was attempting to film something for McLaren’s social channels. Every race weekend, without fail, George found him.
If it was sunny, Oscar had an umbrella. Not his umbrella—their umbrella. George would slide in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Oscar could smell whatever expensive man perfume he used instead of deodorant, and force Oscar to hold it higher to cover the extra height. Then he’d lean in and say something unhelpful like, “You’re going to get burnt like that,” despite it being entirely George’s fault he wasn’t completely covered.
“Nice spot, this,” George had said once, patting Oscar’s shoulder like he had chosen it deliberately to suit George. “Prime real estate.”
Oscar had stared straight ahead and replied, “Yeah. Right.” He’d stayed exactly where he was.
During interviews, George would wander past, pause, then reverse back into frame. He’d rest an elbow on Oscar’s shoulder like it had always been meant for that purpose. Sometimes, he’d smile at the camera. Sometimes, he’d smile at Oscar. Oscar couldn’t tell which was worse.
In the media pen, George would appear mid-answer, nodding along seriously, as if he’d been there the whole time. Once, he interrupted to correct Oscar on a statistic Oscar was fairly sure he’d had right to begin with. George had been wrong, but very confident about it, which somehow felt on-brand.
After races, George stretched out on the press conference sofa like he’d earned it, long legs sprawled, foot resting squarely in Oscar’s lap. He never asked. He just settled there with a pleased little sigh, like this was the natural order of things. Oscar just sighed and let it be.
He told himself it was easier not to make a fuss, that George was like this with everyone. Oscar didn’t mind, really. He was easy. He always had been. He blushed when spoken to directly. He laughed when people teased him. He stayed still when someone leaned on him, even when it made his ears burn and his chest feel oddly tight.
George, for his part, seemed very comfortable with the arrangement. What was the harm, really?
~~~~~
Singapore was disgusting.
This wasn’t news; everyone knew this. The air was thick enough to chew, like someone had boiled the atmosphere and forgotten to turn it off. Oscar’s shirt clung to him within minutes of leaving the hotel, and by the time they made it to wherever George had decided they were celebrating, he already felt lightly poached.
George winning meant a night out with everyone, meant salt-rimmed glasses sweating onto sticky tables, meant music thumping through Oscar’s chest, house beats he actually didn’t mind, easy to sink into. The thick humidity outside felt completely different to the body heat pressing in all around them, shirts hanging open, skin damp and glistening with sweat. It was the kind of heat that made thinking optional.
Lando was having the time of his life. He took shots with Carlos. He had his arms thrown around whoever happened to be near him, glow-stick bracelets stacked up his wrist like he’d earned them. He danced badly and enthusiastically and didn’t seem bothered by anything, least of all Turn One.
Oscar, incidentally, very much was. He stayed put near the bar, one hand around a violently pink drink that tasted like fruit and regret, sipping it slowly and watching the room like he was on duty. Mostly, he watched George.
George was wearing sunglasses indoors, which felt illegal. His shirt was unbuttoned far enough to be a statement, chest gleaming under the lights, skin slick with sweat like he’d done a lap of the track just before arriving. He was talking at Alex with an unsteady intensity, hands moving, body pitched forward like this was a private conversation despite the music.
And yet, he kept leaning into Oscar. He tilted back, shoulder pressing in, weight shifting until Oscar was bearing a reasonable percentage of a race winner’s weight, not that that was much to bear. Oscar adjusted his stance without thinking, bracing slightly, feet apart. He’d done this before. He was very good at it, apparently.
George laughed at something Alex said and leaned harder, back warm against Oscar’s chest. Oscar stared at the condensation sliding down his glass and told himself that this was fine. This was normal. This was simply what happened when he stood still too long.
George smelled like sweat and citrus and something expensive. Every time he shifted, the open edge of his shirt brushed Oscar’s knuckles. Oscar did not move his hand.
It wasn’t like he could leave. If he moved, George would fall over. Probably. That would be a whole… thing. People would notice. Someone would ask questions. It would be embarrassing. Best to stay where he was.
“Hot,” George said vaguely, tilting his head back until it bumped Oscar’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Oscar replied, just as hazy.
George hummed, satisfied, and stayed there.
Oscar took another sip of his drink and watched Lando spin Carlos around the dance floor, bracelets flashing, and thought dimly that if he was a stand, at least he was a loyal one.
Alex eventually peeled off, sensibly, with a clap to George’s shoulder, forcing him to promise to “hydrate, yeah?” that George absolutely would not listen to.
George watched him go and then, inexplicably, turned toward Lando. This was a mistake.
Lando was in his element, sweaty and grinning, halfway feral with a win-adjacent high and already several questionable shots deep. He whooped when he saw George, dragging him to the middle of the floor, bouncing like gravity was optional.
George attempted to keep up. Oscar clocked the exact moment it went wrong when another radioactive round of shots disappeared down the Brits’ throats. George’s steps lost their rhythm. His laugh went a fraction too loud. He missed a beat entirely and nearly took out a table on the turn. Lando kept dancing, oblivious, bracelets flashing.
Oscar sighed, set his drink down, and intervened. He pressed a cold bottle of water into George’s hands before George could argue, fingers closing over it automatically. George blinked at it, confused, like it had appeared by magic.
“Drink,” Oscar instructed.
George took a sip, then another. His shoulders slumped in relief almost immediately.
Oscar didn’t give him time to recover his pride. He stepped in close, hands settling on either side of George’s hips, steering more than touching, and guided him out through the press of bodies. George went willingly, which said everything.
Outside, the air was marginally less offensive. George bent forward slightly, hands braced on his knees, breathing like he had just finished another stint.
“Bit ambitious,” he muttered.
“Bit,” Oscar agreed.
He stayed there, solid, one hand still at George’s waist so he wouldn’t tip over if he tried to straighten too fast. George leaned back into it without comment, trusting, like it was obvious Oscar would be there.
After a moment, George laughed, quieter this time. “Bad influence, that one,” he said.
Oscar shrugged. “You won. That’s the main bit.”
George turned his head just enough to look at him, hair damp, eyes warm and sheepish. “Thanks. For, er—not letting me faceplant.”
Oscar tightened his grip briefly, then let it rest. “Anytime.”
On the ride to the hotel, George fell asleep, tipping gradually, like something losing power, until his temple came to rest against the top of Oscar’s head and stayed there.
Oscar adjusted without waking him, arm braced, body angled just enough to keep George upright through the turns. He stared out the window, Singapore sliding past in neon smears, and thought that this was probably not how George had imagined ending the night. Still, could’ve been worse.
At the hotel, Oscar got him out of the car with minimal fuss. George woke just enough to mumble something apologetic and unhelpful, all limbs and weight, trusting Oscar entirely to keep him vertical. Oscar did. He always did, apparently.
He walked George to his room, thanked his lucky stars that George’s key still worked, and sat him on the edge of the bed, helping off his shoes. George collapsed backwards, still in his clothes, shirt wrinkled and half undone, already drifting again. Oscar stood there a moment, taking in the quiet. The clean smell of soap and linen slowly replaced sweat and salt. He switched off the light and left George exactly where he was.
Later, lying in his own bed, Oscar stared at the ceiling and replayed the night in fragments, the music, the heat, the weight of George leaning into him. He fell asleep thinking faintly that it had been a nice night, and didn’t argue with it.
~~~~~
After Singapore, Oscar didn’t make any grand gestures. He just made sure things worked.
He started walking on the outside of the footpath without ever deciding to. It happened in Vegas, somewhere between the paddock and a hotel entrance, traffic rushing past close enough to feel. Oscar shifted outward, nearer the kerb, George drifting in toward the wall without noticing. That was how it stayed, Oscar nearest the road, George safely not.
Oscar fixed things, too. He tucked in rogue shirt tags sticking out of the back of George’s collars, untwisted hems crimped and crooked after George had sat on them wrong, and patiently flattened askew collars folded wrong under jackets. George wouldn’t even blink, continuing to yammer on about Alex playing too much golf lately, or Carlos being too busy to workshop GPDA motions, or the paddock hospitality never having the blend of tea he liked.
Somewhere along the way, water started appearing as if by magic in George’s hand in transition when he left the Mercedes garage, pressed into his palm before media. Somehow Oscar always managed to have a spare, waiting patiently after post-race celebrations to pass one to the Brit, who never even paused between discussing how the mediums had fared differently in the second stint, how he’d almost lost the rear in Turn Seven.
~~~~~
They played padel in Monaco because it was easy.
The courts were close enough to walk to, it was competitive without being serious, and it was the kind of exercise that let George talk too much and Oscar focus just enough to enjoy himself. Oscar had a bag for it with a racquet, towel, and a spare shirt, everything where it was meant to be.
It started raining as they left the court, a proper downpour, sudden and loud, bouncing off the pavement and darkening the clay in seconds.
George laughed, already backing away. “I live close enough,” he said. “I’ll just run for it.”
Oscar didn’t answer. He dropped the bag at his feet and unzipped it, fingers working fast, fat raindrops splattering the concrete around his feet. George turned away, gauging the distance, shirt sticking to his back.
“Oscar, really, it’s—”
Oscar got the umbrella free, popped it open, and grabbed George’s wrist. It was quick and instinctive. He tugged him back under the canopy before George could take a step, rain spattering against the edges, both of them suddenly too close, breath caught short from the movement.
George blinked, startled, hair already wet, lashes darkened by rain. They stood there, warm and damp and faintly ridiculous, Monaco dripping around them.
“See?” Oscar said. “Sorted.”
George didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Oscar, eyes bright blue, properly blue, clearer than Oscar expected up close. Oscar registered it distantly, the way he noticed the colour of the sea on a good day.
Nice. That was all.
He adjusted the umbrella, angling it better, practical as ever.
George leaned in a fraction, still smiling.
Then he kissed him with a warm press of his mouth against Oscar’s, rain hissing around them, the city carrying on regardless.
Oscar froze, thoughts screeching to a halt.
George was friendly. George leaned on everyone. George flirted like it was a reflex. Oscar had always filed himself under convenient surface and moved on.
Oscar made a small, surprised sound he would later find deeply embarrassing. His body went still in the way it did when something happened out of order. Heat flooded his face immediately, embarrassing and unavoidable, and his grip on the umbrella tightened like it might help.
Then instinct kicked in. He leaned forward without meaning to, returning the kiss carefully, like he wasn’t sure of the rules but knew he wanted to keep going.
They broke apart because Oscar needed air. He blinked at George, chest rising too fast, rainwater running down his hairline, thoughts scattering everywhere at once.
His face was on fire, his ears, too, which was rude. He could feel it happening and couldn’t do a thing about it. He stared somewhere near George’s collarbone, then the pavement, then back up, because George was still close, still looking at him like that.
Oscar swallowed. “Oh,” he said helpfully.
George searched his face, suddenly cautious. “Sorry—”
“No,” Oscar said too quickly. “I just—didn’t think you, er—”
He stopped, face burning, eyes dropping back to George’s chest, then snapped back up.
George’s expression softened, relief flickering there. “I do,” he said simply. “I have. For a while.”
Oscar nodded. It was information he could store and process later. Right now, he was busy being too aware of every centimetre of himself and George and the fact that the umbrella was the only thing keeping this from becoming even more ridiculous.
George glanced past him towards the street, then back. “Look,” he said, casual but hopeful. “My flat’s just around the corner. If you want to get dry.”
Oscar hesitated for a heartbeat. Rain drummed overhead. George was still close and so warm. He was still looking at him like that.
“Yeah,” Oscar said, steadying himself, lifting the umbrella properly again. “All right.”
He realised, distantly, that he was still holding George exactly where he’d pulled him with one hand firm at his wrist, the other gripping the umbrella like it was structural. He gave George his hand back, held the umbrella over them both, and walked him home.
~~~~~
Of course, things got domestic without anyone formally agreeing to it.
Oscar learned how George liked his tea. Milk first, apparently not a crime if he did it confidently. Somewhere along the way, English Breakfast teabags appeared in Oscar’s cupboard and stayed there. George made a cup silently that morning, pretending not to notice, and kissed him silly in bed while his mug grew cold on the bedside table.
They spent a lot of nights in. They watched films they actually liked; they both had an appreciation for pictures about hardened men who nevertheless care about people and right and wrong. George stretched out on Oscar’s sofa like he owned it, draping long legs over Oscar’s lap without ceremony. Oscar adjusted automatically, one hand curled around George’s ankle, the other free for the remote.
Oscar discovered, through quiet trial and error, that George went completely still for back scratches. His shoulders loosened, and his breath evened out like someone had found the off switch. Oscar let his nails grow a little longer after that.
George, for his part, took Oscar out. They went to dinners that lasted too long, went on walks afterward that turned into discussions about nothing and everything. He made Oscar go on long runs around the harbour and then kissed him breathless against the kitchen counter when they got back, all heat and sweat and laughter.
Oscar didn’t really think about what it was they were doing. He didn’t sit around naming it or testing it against definitions. They weren’t together, together. There hadn’t been a conversation where anyone had said anything out loud or meaningful or terrifying. They spent time together, a lot of it. They shared routines without sharing an address. George turned up. Oscar let him in. It worked.
George kissed him against the kitchen counter, in the lift, before leaving, after arriving. Oscar accepted it the same way he accepted everything else about them, without examining it too closely. He kissed George back without asking what it meant or where it was going.
~~~~~
Dinner was loud in the way it always was when it was the four of them.
They started on their food as soon as the plates touched the linen tablecloth, wine refilled between threads of conversation. The conversation jumped tracks every few minutes. Off-season plans were dissected, which family was being visited, which vacation destinations were best, arguments about whose mum made proper Christmas biscuits.
Alex was talking about heading home, hands blurring as he explained a logistical nightmare involving flights and dogs. Lando laughed, listening while texting, feet hooked around the rung of his chair. George leaned back in his chair, one arm draped comfortably along the back of Oscar’s chair without thinking about it. Oscar pretended not to notice the warmth of it.
“So,” Lando said suddenly, looking up at George with a grin that meant trouble. “Are you taking your girlfriend home for Christmas, or what?”
Oscar nearly inhaled his water, spluttering.
Alex swatted Lando’s arm hard enough to be heard over the table. “Don’t,” he said, chiding. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” Lando protested, laughing. “I’m just asking.”
George blinked, caught between amusement and something more careful. Oscar could feel the heat rising up his neck, face going properly red, no stopping it now. He stared very intently at his plate, willing it to become interesting.
“I—” Oscar started, then stopped, because everyone was looking at him now, and that was objectively the worst possible development. He cleared his throat. “I’m… going to Melbourne,” he said finally. “Couple weeks.”
George’s hand flexed once against the back of Oscar’s chair, his thumb brushing Oscar’s back.
“Oh,” Lando said, eyebrows waggling. “Nice.”
Alex shot the Brit a look that could peel paint. “Anyway,” he said loudly, decisively, “George, didn’t you say your mum’s already planning to redecorate your old room?”
George laughed, grateful for the out. “She’s threatening to, yeah. Says I’ve outgrown it.”
Oscar took a breath as the moment passed, heart settling slowly back into place, ears still burning. He picked up his fork, focusing on eating, on the clatter of plates and the sound of Alex deliberately derailing the conversation into safer territory.
George drove Oscar home. It was late enough that Monaco had softened around the edges, traffic thinning to something manageable, lights stretching long across the road. The car hummed steadily beneath them. George had music on low, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed against the console.
Oscar was quiet, turned inward, his thoughts looping back to the table, to Lando’s grin, to the joke that might as well have slapped him in the face. He hadn’t corrected it. He also hadn’t agreed. But George hadn’t said anything either.
He watched the road slide past, reflections skating across the windscreen, and felt the warmth of George beside him like a constant.
“All right?” George asked, not looking over.
“Yeah,” Oscar said automatically. “Just thinking.”
George nodded, accepting without pushing. He slowed to take a corner, only slightly more careful when Oscar was in the car.
Oscar’s mind kept snagging on the way George’s hand had tightened against the back of his chair, some unspoken answer to a question Oscar hadn’t anticipated being asked. They weren’t together, together. And yet George was here, driving him home. George kissed him in his flat, let himself be taken care of without resistance. He took care of Oscar in his own way.
They pulled up outside of Oscar’s building. George parked but didn’t move to get out right away. The engine idled. The night held. Oscar rested his hands in his lap, still thinking.
“Melbourne for two weeks,” George said lightly, like he was continuing their earlier conversation.
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
George glanced over at him then, eyes soft, and smiled just a little. “Miss you,” he said easily, like it was obvious.
Oscar swallowed, warmth creeping back into his face, and nodded again. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
George rested back in his seat, hands loose on the wheel. “Hey,” he said. “If what Lando said back there made you uncomfortable—”
Oscar huffed a quiet laugh and rolled his eyes, turning toward him. “It didn’t,” he said. “He’s an idiot. That’s just… Lando.”
George smiled, relieved, but didn’t interrupt.
Oscar stared out the windscreen for a moment, gathering himself. This was the part he wasn’t good at. He shifted in his seat, fingers worrying at the hem of his jumper.
“I just—” He stopped. He swallowed before trying again. “I hadn’t really thought about it. About… that.”
George faced him with too-big blue eyes, and Oscar looked down at his lap.
“What we are,” Oscar said finally, like they might break if he rushed them. “I mean, I know I like you. I just haven’t… put it anywhere in my head, I guess.”
He risked a glance over. George was watching him, open and attentive.
“It’s not a problem,” Oscar added quickly. “I’m not… asking you to—to fix anything. I just got caught a bit, er, off guard.”
George nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“I like what we’re doing,” Oscar said, more certain now. “I’m good with it. I sort of assumed—” He paused, frowning faintly. “I assumed this was it. And that you were fine with that too.”
George blinked. “Oh.”
Oscar glanced over, saw the look on George’s face, and felt something tilt. “I didn’t think you wanted to put a label on it,” he added honestly. “Didn’t think it mattered to you. And I was… fine if this was all we ever did.”
George stared at him, then laughed, genuinely baffled. “Mate,” he said. “I absolutely wanted to put a label on it.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lifted. “You did?”
“Yes,” George said, incredulous. “I just—thought you didn’t.”
Oscar turned fully toward him now. “Why would I not?”
George rubbed a hand over his face, sheepish and amused. “I thought you were the quiet, stoic type. Private. Maybe not out. Maybe not wanting a boyfriend, full stop.” He glanced back at Oscar. “And I didn’t want to push you into anything you weren’t comfortable with.”
Oscar stared at him. “Oh,” he said, the word landing very differently this time.
George shrugged. “So I figured I’d just… be here. Do what we were doing. Let you set the pace.”
Oscar let that sink in. The irony of it all settled between them, and he felt slightly ridiculous.
George rested back in his seat, processing, then let out a breath that turned into a small laugh. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t actually think girlfriend fits.”
Oscar glanced over with a smirk. “No?”
George shook his head. “Feels inaccurate,” he said. “Underselling. Misses most of what you offer.”
Oscar considered that seriously for a moment. “Well,” he said, dry as ever, “maybe you’re after something more accurate.”
George smiled, eyes glittering. “Oh, yeah?”
Oscar nodded. “Personal umbrella holder?”
George laughed properly, head tipping back against the seat. “God,” he said. “That’s tempting.”
Oscar felt the last of the tension drain out of him, laughing helplessly with him. He shrugged, like this was all very reasonable. “I’m flexible,” he said.
George turned toward him then. “Yeah?” He grinned, his eyes glittering. “How about mine?”
He leaned in and kissed Oscar, easy and familiar. Oscar kissed him back, smiling against his mouth, warmth blooming everywhere at once, fingers light on his jaw even as his thoughts scattered.
“Yeah,” Oscar said quietly. “That works.”