MY REWARD

After his race-winning duties, my unnerving wait is finally rewarded and Oscar arrives.
I didn't know what else to do. I was about to shoot myself because I'm the usual hyperactive idiot and simply standing around waiting isn't for me. In the meantime I've showered and changed, packed all my stuff and I'm practically ready to go. I didn't have to wait, but I would never have left this time. Not because a fourth-place finish after starting tenth isn't bad, in the end. I was actually hoping for a podium if that little bastard Charles hadn't performed his usual miracles with his wreck. But despite everything, I can't be in such a bad mood as to just run away from this damn place.
Between the heat here, the week I've had and the race itself, there's absolutely no reason to stay here anymore, especially since it's the day I was overtaken in the ranking. I'm no longer first and maybe I'll never be again, given how awful I am. I'm really shitty, I can't do anything right.
It's like that fucking theoretician who said that if anything can go wrong, it will.
I represent that fucking shitty law.
That guy must have had a vision of the future when he laid it out and that vision was me.
Anyway I couldn't leave, not without saying goodbye to Oscar.
He finally comes back to us in the garage; the guys are all at work cleaning up, but you never leave without the winner.
I could have even left, I would have been fairly justified all things considered, but I'm not here reluctantly, nor because I have to.
I'm here because I couldn't wait to see him again after his great day, I wonder how happy he’s to be first?
He won his third Grand Prix and is first in the world championship that just started and fuck it, he's doing great. He must be excited, his eyes must be shining with joy, he must have been moved, right? Did he cry a little seeing himself up there in the lead?
I can't help but wallow in these questions, eager to see him and when he finally arrives, my gaze immediately catches something that simply shocks me.
Oscar is happy, but it's nothing like I imagined.
He's not electric or moved, his eyes haven't cried, or even come close to it, he's not walking ten feet above the sky. He's absolutely normal, as if he hadn't won a race or wasn't leading the world championship.
How the hell does he do it?
I scrutinize him as everyone welcomes him, hugs him and enthusiastically congratulates him.
Photos and questions abound—journalists, media, and all sorts of other people—but I continue to scrutinize him in surprise, while I try to be as much myself as possible. And by myself, in my case, I mean the idiot who makes everyone laugh and talks nonsense, because that's what I am, right?
But in this case it's not a pose, nor a defense. It's just my way of keeping him up, because the more I watch him as he faces the others, the more I realize there's something wrong with the boy. A boy two years younger than me, but a boy anyway.
He's not happy enough, he's got a shadow and I don't understand how it's possible.
When we end up together in front of the usual McLaren cameras, where we talk into the microphones, I can see it clearly.
He's hazy, in fact. He's worried.
Oscar is scrutinizing me at least as much as I'm scrutinizing him, as if he's worried about me.
You'll see he's worried about me and the fact that he's overtaken me.
I bet on it, look.
Being surrounded by all these people photographing and filming us is torture. Everyone's talking to us and he's obviously the one most at the center of attention, but that's fair enough, after all.
Just as they watch him and take pictures of him, making him do things he does embarrassed and shyly, I end up getting lost in his delicate, composed little face. Composed like all the emotions he feels, except when he's with me.
When he's with me, he's not composed at all.
After that kiss we never talked about it again and he was stiff and shy as usual, never taking the initiative or making any kind of gesture. Talking about it was out of the question.
Partly because he's not one to talk, partly because I talk a lot but about bullshit and never about serious things, so even in this case I didn't really know what to say and I pretended nothing happened, to see what he would do.
Then, over the weekend, I regretted it. I wasted many opportunities.
I often realized that he was studying me and trying to understand me, because he didn't know how to proceed after that night and that orgasm. Maybe he thought it was a strange interlude for an equally strange evening and maybe he was more tipsy than he seemed, or maybe I was.
He may have been filled with paranoia for a long time, but it's not that I haven't been, and we're both two people who don't talk about certain things, even if for different reasons.
So he studied me trying to understand me without success, while hoping I'd do something; it was clear how he looked at me, hesitant, doubtful and hopeful at the same time.
A riot of emotions, always controlled and hidden beneath his beautiful porcelain surface.
Me, on the other hand, the usual idiot who misses every opportunity I can out of anxiety and nerves, because I don't know how to do certain things and I’m afraid of screwing everything up.
I thought: no, Lando. You can't ruin Oscar. You won't ruin this beautiful, sweet thing with him.
You like him just as much as he likes you, so find the right way.
But it's Sunday night, we're waiting to leave and even though he won, surpassed me and should be over the moon, he doesn't look like someone who's just reached the top.
So I do everything I have to while I lose myself in his sweet face and think that I just don't know how he likes me: I don't deserve him, it's absurd. And I'm even more so because I'm literally letting him get away.
So as soon as we manage to wrap everything up, at the end of the group photo, we manage to loosen up and there's the usual champagne shower, as if he hadn't had enough already.
Oscar runs away as usual closely followed by me, we both laugh and shout. I more than him, he's as composed as ever, but we take refuge trying to avoid yet another alcohol shower. So we end up inside his garage where we were taking the photo and while everyone else runs away and engages in the typical chase between those who get wet and those who try to avoid it, I manage to trap him in a more sheltered corner behind one of the piles of packed material, ready to be shipped off to the next GP.
I push him in the chest with my hands, squashing him into this slightly hidden corner of the garage, but I don't know how hidden really is and that's one of my usual things.
I never really worry deeply about things and that's why I always get into trouble. Now I don't know how covered I really am, but I lift my chin to him and ask: - Well, what's wrong? Why aren't you completely happy?
I get straight to the point in my typical way and he looks at me in surprise, blushes tenderly and remains still, holding his breath.
- You’re not mad at me? - he finally asks not wasting time trying to deny it. It's true, you can tell.
- Why should I be mad? - I reply, falling from the sky. I actually expected this answer, but I want him to tell me and understand that I'm not really mad at him.
Oscar's little cat-like eyes look at me, wide and lost.
- Because I surpassed you in the ranking... - he says in a weak voice and a slight pout that kills me.
Am I really that important to him that he'd put me above his great achievement?
Am I that fucking lucky?
Please, don't let me ruin anything. Let me not be the usual Lando who screws everything up this time. Let me do it right this time.
And nothing, I don't think about it much in reality.
I shake my head in disapproval and without thinking any further, I press myself against him in this corner, behind this pile of I don't know what, and I cup his face with one hand. His little face fits entirely in my palm and between my fingers. Apparently I have a really big hand and I think he likes it.
- What an idiot you are! - Without explaining why, I press my mouth to his and kiss him breaking the fucking taboo that had been created between us during this strange week of everything and nothing.
I break the eggs we'd laboriously walked on and screw everybody, I'll never stop to think about anything again.
Oscar relaxes almost immediately; as soon as he feels my mouth on his and my tongue making its way through, he smiles and lets himself go coming towards me. His hands rest gently on my hips and he holds me close.
As we kiss with the recklessness that only I could possess, I briefly scrutinize him with my eyes.
Oscar is completely surrendered to me and this kiss, smiling serenely and he's finally happy; happy for me.
As I lose myself in his kiss, enjoying it, I realize how lucky I am right now to be going through this shitty moment in my life with him.
If my partner were anyone else, they would have buried me and massacred me. Anyone else would have taken advantage and been cruel.
I've always had excellent relationships with everyone and had a blast with Oscar's other predecessors; I know they're all golden boys. Carlos opened up a world to me that I never would have imagined. A world where I discovered pleasure and understood that I was no longer a child. While with Daniel I never laughed so much; with Oscar I'm discovering my adult side. Or rather, I'm trying to discover it.
It's just that it's difficult, it's damned difficult. Maybe it's impossible, but he doesn't make me feel bad about it and doesn't take advantage of it.
The other two, before being friends and teammates in many ways, they were still drivers and that's right.
Oscar is an exceptional driver, the most gifted of them all, but he's also the most human. He's the only one who's a person before being a driver.
I don't deserve such a delicate and sensitive teammate. If I manage to overcome this fucking mental obstacle of mine in the end, it will only be thanks to him and how he's there for me without making feel weighing anything down.
Having someone like him who thinks so much of me is a gift I don't want to waste.
As I think about it I take his face in both hands and pull away, looking at him closely and intensely, totally lost and absorbed in him. I can't understand how I ended up in this situation, but I don't want to get out. I'm fine here, in this corner with him, hidden away making out.
Shit, I want to fuck him. I really want to fuck him. And I will fuck him. Shit, of course I'll fuck him, but at least I want to do this properly and not like I usually do, following one of my typical fucking impulses.
Now, it's not like I planned to kiss him in a corner, surrounded by everyone; I just did it. Like that night, I didn't think I'd masturbate him and suck his raspberry tongue, but I did.
But I want to make him mine and I really want to handle this well.
- It's all good, Oscar. I'm happy for you. You're the only reason I'm not banging my head against the wall trying to see if it's empty.
I'm very strict with myself and I don't make a secret of it anymore. I think it's best for me to admit my problem publicly. Sooner or later I'll figure out how to solve it.
Oscar moves to cup my face, just as I do his, and looks at me with his typical sweetness that warms me up like crazy.
- You'll come back stronger than ever, you'll get through this, you'll see. I'm sure of it.
At his sincere encouragement, I burst out laughing.
- You shouldn't encourage me so hard, you know? After all, I'm your direct rival, right?
Oscar seems to realize it only now and his surprise gives way to one of his sweetest smiles, shrugging his shoulders. He's finally the one who finds the courage to take the initiative.
His lips touching mine are a beautiful dream, a reward for today that I don't deserve, but I hold him tightly as I gently take his lips in mine.
Today, he's my reward. A wonderful reward.