Archive of Our Own

The race has been shit.

Oscar waits in line to be weighed, sandwiched between Charles and Fernando, while Lando is off somewhere, celebrating yet another podium and he’s trying to not let it get to him.

It’s warm and his suit feels disgusting and his knees ache and all he wants is to undress and shower and then go to bed and not see anyone, but as so often, life throws him a curveball and he has to stand here and wait, while the FIA official calibrates the scale.

Oscar closes his eyes, screwing them shut, trying not to let his shoulder sag too much.

Suddenly, Charles turns around. “You did well.”, he says. Oscar blinks his eyes open. Charles is directly looking at him. “Thanks?”, he says, but it sounds more like a question.

Charles has always been sort of an enigma to Oscar, a teenage crush turned coworker, and the crush just… never left. At first, he thought it was just because Charles is just stupidly pretty, but then he met him for real, and realised Charles is one of those people who is not only beautiful and good at everything they do, but also funny, and smart and kind, and really that is just unfair.

“I mean it.”, Charles says. “Almost got me there, in the end. I could feel you breathing down my neck.” He’s holding his helmet at his side, his balaclava tucked under one arm.

“Uhm”, Oscar says, intelligently. “Thank you.”

“You want to get dinner later, with Max and I?”, Charles asks. “We can’t fly out ‘till tomorrow morning, so we’re having room service, and we plan to get drinks and yell at the TV.”

Oscar blinks again. Opens his mouth. He closes it again, as he tries to process the amount of information that just entered his brain. Charles asking him to dinner, with Max, like it is a normal occurrence that Max and Charles have dinner together, in one of their hotel rooms before they fly home together. And that for some reason, they want Oscar there.

“You don’t have to.”, Charles says, slowly. “I just thought maybe you’d want to.” Charles frowns sadly and Oscar realises he hasn’t responded yet.

“No, no!”, Oscar hurries to say. “I mean yes. Of course. I’d like that.”

From behind, Fernando pats his shoulder. “Smooth, kid. Smooth.”

***

And so, Oscar finds himself at Charles’ door, freshly showered, in a plain black hoodie, clutching a bottle of wine, because his mother taught him it was rude to show up empty handed.

He stares at the white, shiny surface of the door, the heavy gold letters of the room number, tapping his finger against the neck of the bottle, nervously.

They wouldn’t have invited him, if they didn’t want him here, right? Though, on second thought, it was Charles that invited him, not Max, so what if Max—

Before he can surrender himself to his thought spiral, he raises his hand to knock.

The door flies open, immediately, like someone has been waiting behind it the entire time.

“Oscar!”, Max says, delightedly. “Come in! Charles told me you were coming.”

Oscar blinks, taken aback by Max’s cheeriness. It’s so unlike the Max he meets at the track, who’s gruff and focussed and honestly, intimidating, but now he’s looking at Oscar with a friendly smile, before reaching out to take the bottle from him. He looks at the label and hums, clearly impressed.

“Nice.”, he says.

Phew. Obviously, Oscar stole the right bottle from the McLaren hospitality. He doesn’t really drink wine; he just picked the one with the prettiest label.

Max steps away from the door to let Oscar in.

“Damn”, Oscar says. “Your room is, like, so much nicer than mine.”

Max snorts. “Well, Ferrari know how to treat their princess.”

Before Oscar can possibly begin to dissect the fact that Max just called Charles a princess, another voice comes from the en suite.

“Oi.”, Charles calls, in mock offence. “Who are you calling princess?” He steps out of the room, like a showgirl from her dressing room. He’s wearing shorts that can only be describes as scandalous and a T-shirt that is obviously Max’s, if the Red Bull Logo is anything to go by. His hair is fluffy, like he blow-dried it but hasn’t brushed it, and his skin is shiny with whatever serum he just put on there. A cloud of cologne surrounds him, something fresh but heavy.

Oscar swallows heavily. Those shorts are really, really short. Max just rolls his eyes and strolls over to Charles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Sorry, love.”, he says gently. “I know you’re only my princess.”

Charles blushes, and swats Max’s arm, but he doesn’t say anything. Then he spots Oscar.

“Oscar!”, he runs a hand through his fluffy hair, before sauntering over to kiss Oscar’s cheeks, in the way that French people do, that Oscar never got used to.

“How are you?”, he asks, resting his hands on Oscar’s shoulders, his green eyes drilling themselves into Oscars. “Are you hungry?”

Oscar swallows again. His throat is suddenly bone dry. “Sure”, he gets out. That’s what he came here for, after all.

Max appears somewhere beside him and waves a room service menu at Oscar. Charles’ hands disappear from his shoulders, and he snatches the menu from Max, wandering over to the bed, flopping himself down on the mattress.

Max looks after him fondly, before producing a second menu from somewhere.

“Pick whatever.” He says, “My treat. Both of you.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “This room is literally charged to Ferrari. It can’t be your treat, unless you go to Fred tomorrow and demand to pay my hotel bills and that may raise some eyebrows, cherí.”

Max huffs. “I try to do one nice thing for you…”

Charles’ smile softens, as he flips through the pages. “Thank you. I appreciate it, and I’m sure Oscar does too.”

“Yes.”, Oscar hurries to agree.

“Well, I’ll have to buy you dinner some other time then.”, Max concedes. Oscar assumes he’s talking to Charles only, because why would he extend that invitation to Oscar, but then Max squeezes his shoulder. “Maybe we can get together in Monaco sometime next week? Are you free?”

“Uh, yes?”, it sounds more like a question, but Max seems satisfied. He taps the Menu Oscar still hasn’t looked at. “What do you want? You heard it, Charles is paying.”

Charles has draped himself over the bed, one leg drawn up, studying the menu. “I want Pasta.”, he says. “One of you has to share with me, otherwise my trainer will have my head.”

“Uh, I could go for some pasta.”, Oscar says, before he can think better of it. Charles beams. “Wonderful. Then you can order a salad, and that way our trainers will be happy too.”

“I’ll call.”, Charles says, then, after Max has pointed out what he wants, some chicken bake dish, and climbs off the bed, wandering off to the adjoining room.

Max takes his place one the bed, but way less elegantly, he just sits down and pulls out his phone.

Oscar looks around himself. The room is huge and luxurious, exactly what he’d expect from Charles. The centre of the room is the massive bed, two suitcases are piled by the foot of the bed, one silver, one blue.

The silver one is neatly closed, but the blue one is wide open and spilling over, a mix of red and blue clothes, books, loose papers, socks and a padel racket.

Then Oscar, notices, that both nightstands are in use, but while the left one is neatly organised right is littered with a phone charger, a water bottle, several notebooks and a bottle that looks suspiciously like, well, lube.

It is incredibly clear that this room is used by two people.

“So, uh”, Oscar says, awkwardly. “Can I ask—”

Max lowers his phone and flicks his eyes up to watch Oscar, as his eyes continue to flutter around the room.

“Yes.”, he says. “You can. But the answer is yes, in case that was what you’re wondering.”

“Oh.”, Oscar isn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly not for Max to just volunteer this information. “How long—”

“Three years, this spring.”, Max says. “Took us a while to get it right.”, he sounds happy as he says it, but his eyes never leave Oscar and Oscar tries not to wither under his intense gaze. “Though, we’ve been talking about it a lot lately.”, he says, cryptically. He leans forward, towards Oscar, “About the future. What we’re miss—”

“Twenty minutes.”, Charles announces, suddenly, sauntering back through the door. Max snaps his mouth shut and sits up straight. Charles looks at him quizzically, head crooked, and Max stares back, like they’re having a telepathic conversation. Charles eyes flick to Oscar and they widen, before he pins them back on Max.

Max just shrugs one shoulder.

Charles steps forward and presses a kiss to Max’s shoulder, before climbing back on the bed and looking at Oscar. He pats the space beside him and Oscar is too perplexed, too overwhelmed to protest, so he toes his sneakers off and carefully climbs beside Charles, setting against the headboard, trying to keep a safe distance between them, but then Max climbs up and Oscar has to concede the space because while the bed is massive, it is not massive enough for three grown men and Oscar’s personal space.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this comfortable, as at ease as he is now, between them, on the sofa, basically cuddling, while Charles is talking at the TV, a mile a minute, one leg casually hooked over Oscar’s, his foot resting in Max’s lap. Max has his hand resting on Charles foot, running his thumb up and down the arch, while he nods at what Charles is rambling on about in rapid fire French.

With a start, he realises, that is what he wants, this kind of security, of comfortable familiarity, just knowing you have found your person, and you are safe in what you have with them. Pasta and trash TV in hotel rooms, that unwavering trust in another person.

But he doesn’t want it with anyone, he wants it with them . He doesn’t want something like this, he wants exactly this. Not something similar, the same.

The wants them as desperately as he wants a world title, he wants mornings with them, and afternoons on the couch, padel matches and dinners. And it’s something he’s known, deep down, for a while, but he never allowed himself to put a name to it, to acknowledge this for what it is.

Oscar has probably made the worst mistake of his life in coming here.

Because he agreed to dinner with two people who are supposed to be his rivals. Two people who are taken. Two people who are not only taken but dating each other. Two people who he has no chance with.

But he wants.

But before he can freak out about this realisation, Max reaches over and offers Oscar a piece of his bread, drenched in the sauce of his chicken, and without thinking Oscar just eats it right from Max’s hands. Some of the sauce ends up on his bottom lip and before he can stop it, Max reaches out and wipes it away with his thumb with a soft smile.

“There you go,” he mutters, with one last quick touch to Oscar’s chin, almost causing Oscar to choke on the bite. He manages to swallow without dying and shifts into the pillow at his back, picking at the plate of kale salad in his lap that is unfairly delicious. He and Charles had swapped plates, and cutlery with it and Oscar only had a small freak out about using the fork that had Charles lips wrapped around it a moment ago.

He's jealous of a fork. God, what has become of him?

“Oh, we should go play Padel next week together.”, Charles says suddenly. “I’ll reserve us a court, we will pick you up.”, he doesn’t wait for Oscar to answer, like it’s already decided. Not that Oscar would have said no. “And we can have dinner after?”

“Sure”, Oscar says. “That sounds good.”

***

Max picks him up in a silver Ferrari SUV. Oscar squints at him, then the car. Max sighs as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. “Chares has an appointment; we’ll pick him up together. He insisted we take his car.”

“Ah,” Oscar says. Max takes his bag from him and deposits it in the trunk, then he walks around the car and opens the passenger door, holding it so Oscar can climb in.

“Thanks.”, Oscar mutters, as he slides into the seat. The leather underneath him feels buttery soft and luxurious. Max makes an exaggerated oof sound, as he lets himself fall into the driver’s seat. He fishes around in his pocket, pulling out his phone and holds it out to Oscar.

“You pick the music.”, he says, putting the car in gear. Carefully, Oscar accepts the phone. He didn’t peg Max for someone who would easily offer his phone to strangers, but obviously he was wrong. He scrolls through the playlists, settling on some rap album and settles the phone in the centre console.

“So, are you exited?”, Max asks, when they stop at a red light.

“Sure.”, Oscar says. “Though once you see how bad I am, you won’t want to play with me anymore.”

Max chuckled. “Well, if you’re really that bad we’ll either teach you, or we’ll find something else you enjoy more.”

He says it easily, like it’s the most logical thing, that they will want to continue to include Oscar in their lives. He feels warm at the suggestion that they would be willing to change their plans to include Oscar.

“That’s nice.”, he says. “You don’t, like, have to do that though.”

Max reaches over to pat his knee. “I know.”, he says. “We want to, though.” Max’s fingers are warm on his knee, and they linger, longer than they should, but Oscar selfishly doesn’t move this knee, afraid to break whatever spell this is.

Suddenly, and without warning the hand does disappear though, so that Max can use his finger to point to a streetcorner. “Charles got into a fender bender there, last year.”, he says. “Don’t tell him I told you, it’s a sore topic, but honestly, I think it’s hilarious.”

Oscar can picture the conversation all too well. He chuckles. “My lips are sealed.”, he promises. “Is it true he once chased after some people who stole his watch?”

Max throws his head back, laughing. “Oh yeah”, he says. “He’s very proud of that story. If you want to do him a favour, ask him about it. He loves telling it.”

There is so much more Oscar wants to ask, about their relationship and their story and why they suddenly decided to hang out with Oscar, if it’s pity or boredom or something else entirely, and if they’d let him stick around forever, but he’s pretty sure all of these questions would cross some sort of boundary, so he shuts up and looks out the window as Max drives them through the tight and bendy streets.

Finally, he pulls over to the side of the street in front of a hotel building. Oscar leans forward to peer through the windshield. He spots Charles at the same time Charles spots them. His face turns from bored to delighted, like a dog that spotted his owner. He crosses the street, and Oscar moves to unbuckle his seatbelt so he can vacate the passenger seat, but Max pushes him back down.

“No, no”, he says. “Stay.”

“But won’t Charles— “, Oscar protests but Max waves him off.

“Charles won’t mind. And besides, I like having you up here. Stay.”

So, Oscar stays, his heart beating a mile a minute while he tries to remind himself, that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Max is right and Charles doesn’t seem to mind at all, he just climbs into the back seat with a dramatic huff and reaches to the front to quickly caress Max’ cheek and then Oscar’s shoulder.

“Hello”, he says, “Sorry, we ran late, they took forever to settle on an idea.” He fiddles with the seatbelt, settling himself comfortably into the back and claps his hands. “Shall we?”

Padel with Max and Charles is… interesting. Oscar should have known that three deadly competitive people would not be a good mix, everyone desperately trying to outfox the others.

The fact that both of them apparently only own shorts that successfully make Oscar’s brain short circuit is not helping. He wonders if they did it on purpose.

They’re lacking one person to make fair teams, so they take turns, for the first game, Charles just hooks his elbow through Oscar’s and drags him over to the other side of the net and that is that. They lose to Max in a spectacular fashion, and Oscar laughs at Charles’ hurt face, until Charles pouts and dramatically huffs and Oscar hurries to assure him, that it wasn’t his fault at all.

Then Max points at Oscar and crooks his finger at him, beckoning him over. And Oscar goes without hesitation. Charles huffs again, “I see how it is.”, he waves Oscar off, but he’s grinning, clearly enjoying himself. “See what it gets you.”

He loses again, but he takes it with a smile. “Max, I want to play with you now.”, he says. “I’d like to win today, at some point please.”

Max nods and pats Oscar’s back, sauntering over to Charles’ side of the court and Oscar prepares to lose in a horrible fashion, but if he’s honest, he doesn’t really mind.

And it’s fine, all is perfectly fine, until suddenly, a girl shows up, out of nowhere.

She’s blonde and pretty and perfectly styled in a matching, mint green tennis set, and she strides over with a syrupy sweet smile and a swinging ponytail and Oscar can tell, just from once glance, that she is some rich bastards’ daughter on the prowl for an equally rich husband and three Formula One Drivers are her perfect bait.

Of course, she doesn’t know she’s run into the only three gay Formula One drivers on the grid, and also the three most unavailable (for varying reasons) Formula One drivers on the grid, but well. She’s about to find out.

She makes a beeline for Oscar, planting herself right in his personal Space. “Hey.”, she says. “You seem like you need a teammate.”

“Uhm”, Oscar says. “No, I’m good.” As expected, she doesn’t care. “But you’re alone.”, she bumps their shoulders together, like they’re old friends. “It would be more fun if you had even odds, right?”

She twirls her racket through her perfectly manicured hands.

“We’re good.”, Oscar says. “Thank you for the offer, though.” He turns to move away, hoping she will get the message, but she obviously doesn’t. Or she does and just doesn’t care. She’s probably never been told no in her entire life.

“Thank you”, he says, though gritted teeth. “We’re good though.”

That is the moment that Charles chooses to saunter over, leaning over the net. “What’s going on here?”, he asks, clearly a challenge. “Osc, if you’re ready, we can go again?”, he makes a point of looking only at Oscar, a silent question of are you alright? in his eyes. Oscar nods and tries to extract himself from the girl’s space. She follows him immediately.

“I was just offering to play along to make your teams fair.”, she smiles at Charles, innocently and bright, her bleached teeth glistening.

Charles gives her a once over and raises and eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I think we are okay.”, he says, sickly sweet. She withers slightly under his judging gaze, tugging at her skirt.

“Are you sure?”, she steps towards Oscar again, closer this time, her hand lands on his arm. The contact makes his skin crawl. He tries to politely shake her off, but she claws her fingers deeper into his skin.

That’s what gets Max to move. He strides over with big, measured steps, past the net and past Charles and firmly plants himself next to Oscar.

“Hello.”, he says, dangerously calm. “I believe he said no.”

She bites her lip, eyes darting between Max’s stormy face and Charles’ unimpressed gaze. But apparently having a chance with Oscar is more important to her, so she doesn’t move.

„Quite the guard dog you got there”, she chirps. “You ought to call him off.”

„Why? So you can harass him in peace? I don’t think so.”, Max’s voice is still calm, but Oscar can see the storm burning in his eyes. “Leave. Now.”. It’s not a question. Oscar still stands frozen, his arm tense under her fingers. He can smell her sickly-sweet perfume.

Charles slips around the net and calmly walks over. Max raises an eyebrow at her, clearly the last warning and she finally, finally, seems to get it, because her hand disappears. “Fine.”, she spits. “Sorry, I guess.”

The second she disappears from Oscar’s space, Charles is there, a gentle hand settling on his hip. “Are you okay?”, he asks quietly. Oscar nods, shakily. “Yeah.”, he mutters. “Fine.”

Charles bites his lips as he looks Oscar up and down. “Okay.”, he says, finally, His hand stays on Oscar’s hip. Unlike the girl’s touch, Charles’ hand grounds him, soft and gently, and Oscar knows if he asked, Charles would let go of him immediately.

Max steps over and rests a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Sorry about that.”, he says, quietly, “Are you okay?” Oscar nods again. Max smiles, squeezing his shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”, he says, but makes no move to leave Oscar and Charles, watching over them, protectively and Oscar has never felt safer.

Finally, they make their way to the changing rooms, and as he slips on his hoodie, Oscar wonders what is going to happen next. Are they going to drop him off at his apartment? They won’t make him walk home, that he’s sure of. But the thought of his barren flat, after this encounter is… not great.

He knows, rationally, that it wasn’t that bad, she only grabbed his arm after all, but somehow the thought of being alone with this makes him shudder. The thought of his apartment feels cold and uncomfortable, like all the warmth in the world is here, between Max and Charles and as soon as he steps out of their bubble, he’ll be all alone again.

He looks up, to find Max looking at him with intense eyes, like he knows exactly what’s going on in Oscar’s mind.

“You are coming home with us of course.”, Max announces, like it’s already settled. Relief crashes through Oscar. It’s foolish to let it become a habit, he knows that, to let the comfort of them be something he might become depended on, because there is no way, this is forever.

“No debate.”, Charles adds, when Oscar opens his mouth to protest. “I will make us dinner.”

“You can cook exactly one meal and I’m not sure we have the ingredients for it at home,” Max says, but he’s already steering Oscar in the direction of Charles’ car.

“I am a good cook, thank you very much”, Charles insists, hoisting his bag over his shoulder with an oof sound.

Max rolls his eyes and gently takes the bag from him, slinging it over his own shoulder. Then he motions to Oscar for his. Oscar blinks in surprise, but hands off his bag without thinking, watching Max hook the handle over his elbow, without saying a word. A warm feeling spreads through Oscar’s belly. Noone has ever carried his bag before.

He shakes his head, as if to get rid of the thought. This is just Max being nice. Nothing more. He can’t afford to keep reading into this.

“Love, last time you tried to cook, you almost burned the house down. And he was just steaming vegetables.”, he says to Oscar. Charles huffs clearly offended.

They continue to bicker, fondly, all the way to the car and Oscar let’s himself be pulled along, until he’s deposited in the passenger seat of Charles’ silver Ferrari, while Max climbs in the back, after dropping their bags in the trunk.

They get to the garage of Charles’ apartment, and Max, without a word, moves to grab their bags again, while Charles links his arm with Oscar’s and leads him to the elevator.

As soon as Oscar steps into the apartment, it becomes immediately clear, that this isn’t only Charles’ apartment, but Max’s too, simply from the absolutely insane amount of Red Bull caps on the hooks by the door.

Well, that, or the WDC Trophy that is currently beside the door, being used as an umbrella stand.

“Make yourself at home”, Charles says with a soft touch to Oscar’s shoulder, before he disappears down a hallway. Max dumps their bags by the door and moves to toe off his shoes.

“I’ll make some drinks while Charles is in the shower.”, he says. “You can shower in the guest bathroom now or wait until Charles is done and shower in the main.”

Oscar blinks at him. Max smiles. “I recommend you wait. The big shower’s nicer.”, he looks smug, while saying it, like he has some sort of personal connection to the shower, and Oscar can imagine he does, he wonders, what Max has done with Charles in that shower, how it would feel like, with both of them, hot water cascading down—and yeah, okay, he has a fucking problem.

“O-okay”, he croaks, and hastily turns around, so that he doesn’t have to look at Max anymore. Max doesn’t seem to mind and wanders off to where Oscar supposes is the kitchen, so Oscar steps through the open arch that leads to the living room.

The apartment itself is surprisingly cozy, nothing like what he’d have expected Charles’ place to look like at all. Charles is known for being, well, a fancy bitch. Oscar would have expected endless panes of white and marble, gold and maybe some contemporary art pieces, all modern money.

But instead, the place is cluttered, in a lived in way. Two mismatched mugs on the coffee table, next to half read books and a laptop with a Ferrari sticker. The couch is littered with colourful blankets and pillows. The heart of the living room is the giant shelf that stretches along the entire wall, stuffed to the brim with books and trophies and trinkets from all over the world.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Oscar startles. “Sorry.”, he mutters. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“No, no!”, Max hurries to say, waving him off. “Snoop all you want! Please.” He’s holding two glasses of wine, offering one to Oscar.

Oscar frowns at it. His trainer has a very strict rule about alcohol. Max wiggles the glass a little. “Trust me, if Charles is cooking, you’ll want it. And besides, you deserve to relax a little.”

Before he can stop himself, Oscar grins, “Why, are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Verstappen? I’m a good girl, you know?”

He expects Max to laugh it off, while he dies a little inside from how fucking cringey he is, but something dark flashes through Max’s eyes, as Oscar accepts the glass.

“I’m sure you are.”, he says, his voice suddenly sounds rough. Oscar’s belly tingles. He takes a sip of wine, before he can say anything else, that’ll only get him in trouble.

Silence stretches between them, bordering on uncomfortable, but then they’re saved by Charles, who’s back from the shower, looking all soft and comfortable in white sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, that’s clearly Max’s.

He shakes his damp hair like a dog and steps between them, stealing Max’s wineglass out of his hands.

“So, how’s it goin’?”, he asks, and he sounds casual, but there is something in his voice, as he looks to Max, that suggests that there is nothing causal about it.

Max clears his throat. “We established”, he says, slowly, “That Oscar here, is a good girl.”, he emphasizes good girl , voice syrupy slow, and Oscar shivers.

Charles’ eyes widen. “Is that so?”, he asks, sounding delighted, looking directly at Oscar.

“Uhm,” Oscar says, intelligently. “I don’t— “, he withers under Charles attentive gaze.

He looks to Max, for help, but Max has crossed his arms, and he’s looking between them, clearly amused.

“Okay, I don’t know—what’s going on here?”, Oscar asks, hoarsely. “’Cause it feels like you’re making fun of me and I—"

“Oscar, you dumbass.”, Charles interrupts him, bluntly. “We’re trying to have sex with you”

And with that he leans in and smashes their lips together.

Charles tastes like mango. Oscar wonders, how that’s possible, but his brain is too preoccupied to come up with a single solution, because Charles’ hands thread themselves into Oscar’s hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp as he presses himself against Oscar. He kisses like he drives, determined, knowing exactly what he wants, and that he is going to get it and won’t accept any less. Oscar has no other choice but to kiss back, let himself be swept up in the sensation, the thrill of it.

Now that he’s kissing Charles, he realises how long it’s been, since he’s been kissed properly, and he hates to admit it, but he missed it.

Right until he hears an amused sound coming from behind them.

Shit.

Max.

He freezes, untangles his hands from where he’s settled them on Charles’ waist and uses them to push Charles away.

Charles makes a confused sound, and sways back into Oscar’s space to chase his lips, seemingly uncaring that he’s just kissed someone else in front of his bloody boyfriend.

“Charles.”, Oscar hisses. “What about Max?”

“What about him?”, Charles asks, his voice pitched and breathy. “He can join anytime, he knows.”

“What are you talking about?”, Oscar tries to free himself from Charles’ grip.

Charles rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh. “Did you not listen?”, he asks. “I said, we are trying to have sex with you. As in both of us.”, he turns his face upward, as if he’s making a plea to the gods, “Mon Dieu, why do they never listen?”

Oscar opens his mouth, and closes it again, not unlike a goldfish.

He looks over Charles’ shoulder at Max, expecting a scowl, or maybe hurt, or confusion, his boyfriend just kissed someone else after all, right in front of him. But to his surprise, Max is wearing a smile that is the same mix of amused and fond, that he always wears when he looks at Charles while he’s ranting in the paddock. His eyes flick to meet Oscars and his smile changes, grows softer, gentler, but, to Oscar’s shock, no less fond.

“What Charles here was trying to say is, we like you and we’d like to date you, if you’d let us.”, Max says. “And ideally have Sex too, yes.”

Oscar stares at him, like he’s grown a second head. He can’t have heard that right. It can’t be that Max wants—that they both want him, the same way he’s been wanting them.

Surely this is a trap, or a figment of his imagination or a dream.

“Both of you?”, Oscar asks, he still hasn’t fully wrapped his head around the situation.

Max steps into his space, Charles immediately shuffles to the side to make space for him. “Yes.”, he says. “Both of us. All of us. Together.”

“Yes”, Oscar says so quickly he almost chokes on the word. “Yes, please.”

“Good”, Max whispers, before pressing his lips to Oscar’s, firm and determined, leaving absolutely no space for any sort of discussion. He knows what he wants, and he takes it, achingly slow and deliciously sweet.

Is this insane? Yes. An absolutely crazy idea, perhaps the worst Oscar’s ever had. And yet he does it anyway, let’s himself be swept up in attentive hands and soft lips and breathy moans, lets himself be directed towards the bedroom and pushed into the sheets, lets himself be fussed over, lets himself be kissed and touched and fucked and loved.

***

It’s not until morning that it dawns on Oscar what he’s done.

For the first few moments after he wakes, he feels… blissful. He’s warm, maybe almost too warm, sandwiched between Charles’ chest and Max’s side, head buried in Max’s chest, Charles’ arm wrapped safely around him.

He blinks awake, slowly. The air smells like Charles’ laundry detergent and Max’s cologne and sex.

And then the memories of last night slam into him like a car that misjudged the corner and went straight for the wall.

How he let himself be pushed against the mattress by Charles, how Max kissed him, slow and calculated and merciless, lips travelling down, down, down, until he’d thrown his head back, let his eyes fall shut and just gave into the sensation, the touches, until he couldn’t tell who’s hands where touching him, who’s lips he was kissing, soaking up the praise, the whispered promises, the dirty little secrets.

Oh God.

Oh, fucking hell.

What does he think he’s doing?

Oscar once said in an interview, that accused him of not having emotions, that he does, he just manages them.

And that is the truth. He does have emotions. And usually, he can manage them. But right now, squished in between these two people who promised him the world yesterday, under the guise of a cloudy night and a few glasses of wine, it’s suddenly all too much.

Who is he even kidding?

Who is he kidding, believing that this, whatever this was yesterday has any chance of survival out there in the real world?

Max and Charles have a good thing going on, why the hell did they think they need Oscar in it?

What is their plan with him? Lull him in with promises of want and love and solidity, to have their fun with him, and when they tire of him—

And even if that isn’t happening, if they were really serious about being with him, what would that even look like? The two of them, and Oscar as their shiny little toy?

What they have together is so good, so solid, it’ll always be the two of them and Oscar. MaxandCharles and Oscar. He’ll be the addition, the novelty, the oddity.

He doesn’t even realise his breathing is growing heavy and ragged, quiet gasps for air, until there’s hands on his cheeks, and arms around his middle and Charles is there.

“Chéri?”, he asks, voice rough with sleep and laced with worry.

Oscar screws his eyes shut. Charles’ hands flutter over him, over his face, his shoulders, his chest.

“Oscar, mon amour, what is wrong?”

Oscar tries to say something, to get the words out, but all he gets out is a ragged sob and a pathetic gasp for air.

The sound seems to be what startles Max awake, because one second, he’s fast asleep, the next Oscar feels him jolt upright next to himself and then there’s another set of hands on him and it’s just too much.

“Stop”, he gasps, eyes still screwed shut, “No, please, I can’t—”

They both react immediately. Their hands vanish off Oscar in an instant and all that’s left is the cold morning air.

“Oscar,”, Charles asks quietly. “What is wrong? What do you need?”

Oscar tries to calm his ragged breathing, pressing his hands into his lap to stop them from shaking.

“Oscar, is it something we said?”, Max asks, gently, “or something we did?”

Oscar stays quiet, because yes, but also no, but it’s not their fault. He actually does believe that they meant what they said, but he isn’t sure they know what they’ve been saying.

“I— “, he presses out between desperate breaths. “I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”, Charles asks, carefully.

“Oscar, breathe,” Max cuts in. “Breathing first, talking later.”

For a few moments, no one speaks. The room is quiet, except for Oscar’s ragged breaths. Outside, the sun shines, bright and pretty and unaware of Oscar and his issues.

Max and Charles stay silent, not touching Oscar, making sure to keep their distance, Charles only reaches out once, quickly, to shift the covers into Oscar’s lap. He’s wearing boxers, but the blanket over his lap creates a barrier he didn’t know he needed, a shield from the world, leaving him less exposed.

He hates and loves Charles for recognizing it.

He tries to remind himself, that he is safe, that nothing is going to happen to him, just like the therapist McLaren pays for told him. Nothing that is happening is something he can’t figure out.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it? Physically he may be safe, yes. But his heart, that isn’t safe. It’s beating out in the open, raw and exposed waiting to be crushed to bits.

Because there is just no way this is going to end well, not for him, not for his heart. It’s in too deep to survive what is going to happen next, even if it doesn’t happen immediately, he can’t.

So, the easiest thing is, to rip the band aid off, ask if he can borrow a hoodie, retreat home and lick his wounds in peace. What else is there to do?

“I— “, he whispers, “I don’t want to be, like, a toy for you.”

“What?”, Max sounds horrified. “Oscar, what do you mean? You could never—We’d never—”

Oscar has to stop himself from making a frustrated whine. He doesn’t get it. Why doesn’t he get it? That Oscar is in deeper than they could ever be, that he is in too deep, so deep it will scare them off.

“Look,”, Charles says, gently, “You know, Max and I, we have been talking about it for a while. You.”, he shakily smiles at Oscar. “What you already mean to us. What we’d like you to mean. Please believe us, we’d never toy with you.”

It sounds too good to be true, probably because it is.

“But think about it”, Oscar says, gaze still firmly set on the mattress, where the expensive linen sheets are pooled around them. “The two of you—” he sniffles, “You’re… you’re Max and Charles. You’re a couple. You’ve been together for years, you love each other.”

He pauses. It seems everyone is holding their breath, no one dares interrupt him. “And now you’re bored or looking for a new adventure, or whatever. And so, you found me. And that’s fine, that you want to have some fun, but I can’t. I can’t be that. Not when I--”

The love you goes unsaid.

For a moment, it’s deathly silent. Then there is touch on Oscar’s cheek, a calloused hand, warm and firm. Max. He hates that he can already tell them apart just by their touch. The hand remains, a gentle question, but not a demand.

After a moment, he finally gives in, let’s Max guide his head up, tears his gaze away from the mattress.

He flicks his eyes up. Max is in front of him, looking at him with an expression that is ridiculously soft. Charle’s is next to him, tears shimmer in his eyes.

“Oscar”, he whispers.

“Never”, Max interrupts him. “You could never be a toy to us. Or an adventure, or a one-time thing.”

Oscar wants to believe him, God he does.

“Even if.”, he says. “Even if we’d date, or whatever you’d call it. Then it would be you and Charles and then me. You’d be the couple and I’m the… the third, or whatever. I’d be the spare, the extra one.” MaxandCharles and Oscar. “It would be the two of you and me and I’d be… less.”

Less what? Less important? Less loved? Less worthy? All of the above, probably.

“Osc— “, Max starts.

“Non.”, Charles interrupts him, firmly and a little too loud, like he’s chastising a puppy that chewed up his shoe. “Oscar, non.”

Oscar blinks, a little startled.

“Get this ridiculous idea out of your pretty head”, Charles demands. “Mon dieu, you are stupid.”, he laughs quietly.

Oscar doesn’t have time to figure out whether to be amused or offended, because Charles continues talking.

“Idiots”, Charles laments, “Always I fall for the Idiots.” He points to Max, “He was the same, you know, he wouldn’t believe I loved him for years, why is it always the idiots. I cannot always be the reasonable one, that is not my job. I am the hot one.”, he sounds accusingly, like it is an affront that he has to do actual emotional work instead of just being pretty.

He pauses, sighs and dramatically reaches out to pluck Oscars hand off the blanket and press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Oscar. Amour. We are in love with you.”

Oscar momentarily forgets how to breathe. “We are exactly as much in love with you as we are in love with each other. If we… if we do this, it will be you and Max and me. Not a triangle. A circle.”

Max looks away from Oscar to frown at Charles. “A circle?”, he asks, amused.

“Yes.”, Charles insists. “You know he is afraid of the triangle. You and me dating him.” He motions between them, like it is the most logical thing in the world. “But he doesn’t need to be afraid. Because we shall be in a circle. All together.”, he motions a circle above their heads with his finger.

Oscar has to bite the inside of his lips to not break out into a giant, giddy grin.

Max rolls his eyes fondly. “Okay, liefje. Whatever you say”, he says. Then he looks at Oscar. “Don’t mind him. You’ll get used to that. If you want.”, he adds hastily. “He has a point though. I don’t want to date Charles and date you together with him. I want to date him, and I want to date you. If you want.”, he repeats.

Oscar has always lived his life carefully measured. When he does something, he’s calculated every outcome, is prepared for every scenario. He doesn’t leave things to chance. So, it makes sense he feels like he is standing at the edge of a cliff, peering down at the uncertainty. It makes sense that he is afraid.

What doesn’t make sense, is that he jumps.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”, Charles’ whips around so quickly Oscar is sure he hears something snap, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he lets out a whoop, and tackles Oscar back against the pillows.

“Charles, Charles, darling, don’t break him, please.”, Max calls, somewhere behind them, but he’s laughing too, letting himself fall back to the mattress next to Oscar, reaching over to gently card his hands through his hair. Oscar turns his head, instinctively giving Charles better access to his neck, and blinks up at Max.

His smile is soft, the way Oscar used to think was only reserved for Charles and his nephews. To be the one Max smiles at like this, is a rush, a thrill, a badge of honour.

Max leans over and presses his lips to Oscars, slow and sweet, like he knows he has all the time in the world now. Charles is still peppering kisses all over Oscar’s neck and shoulder and chest, muttering French endearments in between and Oscar lets himself be swept up in the sensations, Max’s gentle lips and Charles’ hot mouth.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of kisses and quiet laughter, until Charles announces he has to go to the bathroom and rolls himself out of bed. Oscar and Max stay behind. Oscar curls onto his side, so he can look at Max.

“Thank you”, Max says, quietly. Oscar keeps looking at him, waiting for him to continue. “For giving this a chance.”, Max says. “You know we’ve been talking about this for a while, Charles and I.” He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of Oscar’s forehead. “You’re the piece we didn’t know we were missing.” He sighs quietly. “Charles has so much love to give, you know, that’s just who he is.”

Oscar purses his lips. “And you?”, he asks carefully. Max smiles. “I never learned that love was something important. I had to learn how to give love and how to receive it too. It took me years to accept that Charles really did love me, but once I let it happen, it hit me like a truck.”, he smiles at the memory. “But with you it was easier. Not more, not less. Just… easier.”

Oscar nods. It makes sense in a way.

“And I know you’re worried. I’d be too, honestly.”, Max’s fingers continue to card through Oscar’s hair. “But I swear to you, we’ll try to be worthy of you. I’ll try to be worthy of both of you.”

Tears sting behind Oscar’s eyes and he swallows, thickly. But before he can say anything, the door to the bathroom opens against.

“What are you guys talking about?”, Charles asks from the foot of the bed. He sits down by their feet, looking at them, expectantly.

“Just how pretty you are.”, Max says, with a grin. Charles rolls his eyes. “I know I am pretty. But fine, keep your secrets.”, he fakes an offended huff. “I see, I am not needed here.”

He pretends to get up off the bed again, but Max shoots up, to catch his ankle. “No, schatje, don’t go.”, he pleads.

Charles surrenders immediately, letting himself be pulled down to the bed.

“I was telling Oscar how he’s just reaping the benefits of your hard work.”, Max says, “Teaching me how to love.”

Charles smiles widely, “Yes, Oscar, you are welcome. I did all the hard work.” Then, he turns serious. “But please don’t think that means that what Max and I have… had, I suppose now, is more important than what we have now.”, he looks at Oscar with earnest eyes. “We just have a head start. But the start isn’t what matters. What matters is the finish.”

“You really suck at metaphors, you know?”, Oscar jokes. “Telling an F1 driver the start doesn’t matter…tss”, he shakes his head. “But I get it. Thank you for saying that.”

“I mean it.”, Charles says. “We both do.”, he adds, pointing to Max who nods along.

Oscar smiles.

Eventually they do venture out of bed. Oscar brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush Charles hands him, with strict instructions to put it in the cup next to their toothbrushes when he’s done, because he needs a toothbrush at Charles place now anyways.

He looks at himself in the foggy mirror. He doesn’t look much different than he did yesterday, his hair is messier, and there are a few red spots on his neck, but other than that, he still looks like Oscar.

But he doesn’t feel like Oscar anymore, at least not like the Oscar he was yesterday. He feels settled somehow, like all the loose pieces that were banging around in hind mind have been screwed back into place.

He smiles around the toothbrush.

He washes his face and runs his hands through his hair until it looks somewhat acceptable, borrows one of the deodorants that placed on the sink and moves over to dress himself in the clothes Max handed him.

It’s a pair of Red Bull branded sweatpants and a Ferrari Hoodie. The thought of them brandmarking him leaves him breathless, even though it’s a stupid, childish, cavemen move, but puts them on anyways, revelling in how they smell like Max and Charles.

By the time he makes it into the living room, Max has disappeared into the kitchen and Charles is puttering around the sofa, just placing down a plate of fruit next to two steaming mugs of coffee.

“Tea’s coming in a minute, Max is still debating which mug to give you.”, he explains, following Oscar’s gaze. “Wait, it is tea for you, right?”, he asks with a frown, like he’s trying really hard to remember. Which is funny, because Oscar is completely certain he’s never mentioned what he drinks to Charles at all.

Oscar nods. “Uh, yeah, how did you—”

Charles tuts. “You said once in an interview. Max remembered.”

Warmth floods through Oscar. His mother always used to fondly retell the stories of how his dad always remembered her favourites, even if he just mentioned them once. He always thought, how lucky they were, to have that. How lucky he is to have it now too, as it seems.

“Sit,”, Charles demands, pointing to the couch, “eat. Max is making eggs and toast too.”

Oscar lets himself be placed on the couch and Charles presses a kiss to his forehead before disappearing into the kitchen to help Max.

He can hear them mutter to each other, quietly, but before he can think to be jealous, or worry, or let his brain drop into another spiral, Max appears in his field of vision with a bright yellow mug with bananas on it and a huge plate of eggs, with three pieces of sourdough bread balanced on the side.

He hands Oscar the mug, places the plate down and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out three forks.

“We can share a plate, yeah?”, he asks. “Less washing up.”

Oscar accepts the mug and a fork and Max slumps down on the couch next to him, careful not to startle Oscar, so he doesn’t spill his tea. He leans over to quickly press a kiss to Oscar’s temple, before picking up his coffee.

“It’s not like I don’t have a dishwasher.”, Charles says behind him. He leans over the backrest of the sofa and whispers in Oscar’s ear, “He just likes sharing plates. It’s a thing. You’ll get used to it.”

He climbs over the backrest to sit on Max’s other side and plucks a strawberry off the plate of fruit stuffing it in his mouth.

Oscar leans against Max’s side and lets their chatter wash over him as Max drops another kiss in his hair.

He cannot wait to get used to this.