Work Text:
Logan and Oscar had been in love since they were fourteen, when the too-big feeling in their chest was still to be named, when all they knew was the future they wanted to build together. Logan and Oscar had become LoganandOscar, one right behind the other, two peas in a pod, an invisible string tying them together.
But string frays over time, years of wear tearing it down until it’s just a single stretch from snapping cleanly off.
It happens quietly, over the table in the Mclaren hospitality. The Dutch weather makes everything more miserable, the chasm in Logan’s chest growing as he looks at Oscar in disbelief. He had known, of course he had, the missed calls, messages left unanswered, date nights rescheduled and rescheduled until they just stopped. Anniversaries and birthdays spent with stilted conversation and borderline hostility at times.
They had been biding their time and the clock would eventually stop ticking, Logan just didn’t expect it to be here, in public. He thought Oscar would spare him that at least, to break things off in one of the quiet corners they seem to exist in.
“Here? You couldn’t give me the barest decency to do it after?” After being after Logan loses his seat, after his dream collapses in the palms of his hands. Oscar doesn’t know, he was going to tell him and it was one of the reasons he even bothered to show up to the hospitality.
Oscar is lost for words, whatever control he had in the conversation leaves him to flounder. He had been the one to initiate the relationship, to solidify the barebones and make their relationship something real.
It made sense for him to be the one to break it off too.
Logan stands up, carefully and controlled, forcing a smile, horribly aware of curious eyes on them, the familiar weight of cameras, “Go fuck yourself.” He whispers, squeezing Oscar’s shoulder where he goes tense under him, “I hope it fucking worth it.”
It all seems like a bad movie, he gets broken up with at the age of twenty-three, his career is nothing but scraps alongside the road and he’s so fucking tired.
Logan puts his car in the wall—intentionally or not, who knows—and leaves with more than just bruised ribs.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Logan Sargeant has loved Oscar Piastri since he was fourteen. It had been a simple oh moment when Oscar had laughed, almost crumbling to the floor as his body shook. The Australian ocean is a beautiful backdrop to a life-changing revelation.
Oscar had sand everywhere, on his arms, the back of his knees and up on his neck—the result of a sand ball fight that Logan won. Logan doesn’t even remember what he had said, only the way Oscar’s eyes had lit up, bright and so pretty that Logan almost wished the waves took him away.
They’re fifteen, somewhere in Italy, the night is dark and warm, the laughter of the night life keeping them company. The air smells of good food and sea salt, the sound of the ocean crashing onto the shore, an excited greeting of the sea meeting the sand.
It’s quiet between them, their shoulders brushing against each other as they stroll down the shore, their feet sinking into the cool sand. It had been a good day, busy with their families, bouncing around tourist spots and eating more gelato than probably allowed.
Oscar keeps looking over at Logan, his lip in between his teeth. It’s all red and swollen now, a slightly dazed look in his eye as Logan continues to look ahead. The air shifts between them, slowly and then all at once when Oscar grabs Logan’s hand.
Oscar Piastri is fifteen, standing on the sea shore of some Italian city, the water gently lapping at his feet and the boy he loves is staring right at him. He always knew he loved Logan, loved him the way they love racing, the way the sky and the stars love each other and the tales of the sun and the moon, stories of infinite love.
“Hi.” Logan says, cheeks flushed and his tone edging into a fit of giggles. He had turned at some point, stopping them in their tracks. Logan’s taller, an inch on Oscar that makes some part of him shake. His hand is sweating, his heart thumping so loudly in the cage of his ribs.
“Hey.” Oscar says back, airy and so soft that for a second he thinks the breeze took it away, but Logan smiles at him, wide and shy and—and Oscar kisses him. His mind goes blank, hazy around the edges as it chants Logan’s name.
There’s a noise between them, Oscar doesn’t know who it is, can’t really focus on it when Logan presses in, his hand coming up to cup Oscar’s face. It’s enough to make Oscar lurch forward, hand slipping from Logan’s to grasp at his waist.
They pull apart breathless, foreheads pressed together and skin just a bit too tight. A breeze flits through, the smell of the ocean and the inherent sweet air of a European summer.
Logan looks a little dazed, blinking as he pulls back a bit, eyes blown wide and trailing over Oscar’s face, almost in disbelief. Oscar can’t help the giggle, soft and sweet and spilling out of his mouth like honey. He’s presented with a wide grin, pink lips spread thin and a gummy smile.
“I really like you.” Oscar whispers, whatever fear he had disappearing when Logan laughs, cheeks still flushed and eyes glittering happily.
“Yeah, I like you too, dumbass.”
“Way to ruin the mood, fucker.”
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Zandvoort, while it meant to or not, took a few things from Logan: his career, his love for racing and the love of his life. Obviously the last one wasn’t entirely on Zandvoort, but the building of little things that snowballed.
He turns his phone off after the news goes out, sitting on his parents couch and staring at the waterfront. It’s sunny and warm, the trees swaying with a breeze and the smell of mongolias and orange citrus hangs in the air; Logan feels like dying all the same.
For just a second, he allows himself to feel the grief of losing Oscar. He had been one of the best things in Logan’s life, a pillar of quiet strength that he knew he could depend on. He doesn’t know how to exist without him, never had to try and wonder what his life would be without him.
For as long as Logan can remember, Oscar has always been there and now he’s gone, away in Italy, the same country almost ten years ago where Oscar kissed him in that stupid city under the stars and with the ocean at their feet.
“Fuck.” Is all Logan can whimper, his chest is a chasm, a huge Oscar Piastri sized fucking hole. If he knew it would hurt this much, he would have stayed—miserable and pathetic, and it would’ve been horrible, but he would’ve had Oscar and it would’ve been enough.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Italy is, well, Italy. There’s a race, and stupid team orders, and a stupider championship and Oscar can’t forget the glaringly obvious Logan Sargeant-shaped hole beside him, in his heart and wherever he goes.
It’s whatever.
Except it’s not because his messages aren’t going through and all his calls are going straight to voicemail, he’s ninety-five percent sure Logan blocked him on social media too. He doesn’t—he didn’t mean it.
It doesn’t matter anymore either way, does it? Logan is good at leaving, on knowing how to hide when he doesn’t want to be found. He disappeared after Australia and Miami, letting himself float aimlessly in the Atlantic ocean before Oscar pulled him back to shore.
A particularly hard nudge from his left causes him to jolt, eyes narrowing immediately into Alex. The Thai-Brit is staring at Oscar, a certain exhaustion only back marker drivers seem to have spread across his face.
“Have you spoken to Logan?” Alex asks, turning away from Oscar once he’s sure he has his attention. Oscar feels himself tense up, body going rigid and giving away everything. Alex probably found out about Logan being dropped around the same time they did, if the devastated look on his face had been anything to go by.
“No.” Oscar says, fiddling with the straw of his bottle. The Italian sun is strong, and he can feel sweat start to bead on the back of his neck. He’s kind of itching to tell Alex why, but Alex and Logan had this weird, almost co-dependent thing going on.
They’re turning the last corner of the track, the grand stands coming into view when Alex turns to him, a glint of something in his eyes as he says, “I have. Pretty fucked up.”
Oscar hopes his Williams blows a tire or something.
Getting reprimanded for a racing move seems to be something Oscar is getting familiar with as he sits beside Lando. Despite the clearly displayed message that Oscar refuses to play second fiddle to Lando, the team seemed equally determined to prove otherwise.
Subconsciously, Oscar thinks Logan would get a kick out of the expression Zak has on his face.
It makes the Logan-shaped hole in his heart grow.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
It takes Kyle almost a whole day to convince Logan to fly out to Nashville a few weeks later. Logan had tried to use every excuse under the sun, but Kyle threatened to detour to Florida.
“How’s Piastri?” Kyle asks once they’re settled in Kyle’s hotel room. It’s just them, everyone else had gone to meet up with the other drivers and their families.
Logan still hadn't told anyone. His mom probably had an idea, his dad too but he hasn’t confirmed anything. Dalton was busy with work leaving him to his own devices.
It’s weird being alone all over again.
Logan lets the silence hang for a few moments before clearing his throat, “We uh—we broke up. In Zandvoort.”
Kyle’s not overly protective of Logan, he knows Logan can defend himself physically, but Logan has always been just a smidge softer emotionally. Oscar was the last person Kyle could even imagine hurting Logan.
“Okay.” Kyle says slowly, surprised and a bit angry, “Wanna tell me what happened?”
Logan shrugs, “Not really.”
“Logan.”
“It was bound to happen, Ky.” Logan grumbles, ignoring the rush of grief, the twist of loneliness, the one he hasn’t let out since he cried himself dry on his parents couch, “It wasn’t going to work anymore.”
“Because of the championship or something else?” Kyle asks, his tone is soft and careful, slowly moving towards Logan. It makes Logan falter, looking away from the window overlooking Nashville. If he was still racing, he would be in Baku and he would still be with Oscar.
Logan shrugs again, “I don’t know anymore. It was a bunch of things. He’s—he has a lot on his plate, the last thing he needed was me.”
Kyle makes a disagreeing sound, standing up and putting his hands on Logan’s shoulder. He has seen Logan tired, the type that weighs heavy and the type that destroys any sense of rational thought.
“I think he’s dumb, for someone so stupidly smart, and I think you’re willing to accept whatever this is.” Kyle says, pulling Logan into a hug. Logan curls into him, tucking his head into his neck. His body shudders, just for a second before he pulls away.
“Let’s go see what the hype about Nashville is all about.” Logan says quietly, stepping aside and letting Kyle lead the way.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The win is still buzzing under his skin as he sits in his hotel room, his phone open and on a picture of Logan. It’s from the thirteenth, and he’s standing opposite of Colton Herta, smiling and bathed in dim lighting.
He looks good, in a white shirt and his stupid silver chain. His hair is ruffled, like someone had run their hands through it and it makes something burn in his chest. It was him before, obsessed with how soft Logan’s hair could be when it wasn’t slathered in hair product.
The win feels almost insignificant as he switches over to Twitter, fingers trembling as he looks up Logan’s name. There’s a few edits, think pieces and articles on his test with Indy. Under the persistent thrum of pain, a bloom of pride settles beside it. Logan was fast, if you gave him a capable enough car, he could do magic with it.
Distantly, he wonders if Logan saw what he said about him when he was asked during the presser. Probably not. Logan is stubborn when he wants to be, head strong enough to wage war against Oscar’s persistence.
It’s Oscar’s fault anyways.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Three months go by slowly. The push and pull of Formula One had left him to stumble in the sudden rush of stillness. He was still sticking to his diet, but he woke up when the sun was well into the sky and he could do what he wanted.
He had done another test, a hypercar and it was liberating. It seemed like something solid, something he can return to but—he’s not ready. There had been whispers of a contract, but he left that up to his management, they knew what he wanted.
For the first time, he’s back in his apartment. He had been in a weird place, floating between his parents and Dalton’s before his brother dropped him off at his own place.
“Figure your shit out, Logie.” Dalton has said softly, "Whether that means picking up the phone and calling Oscar or clearing his shit from your place, but you have to go home.”
Home? Home was Oscar and their place in Woking, home was waking up beside Oscar after a culmination of a bad week, a bad month. Home was looking across the throngs of people, past everyone else and knowing that they’re there, still within reach, still in each other’s orbits, still each others.
Now, he has Oscar’s things piled on the couch, picking each of the items up making his stomach tremble. It’s a sizable pile: blankets, shirts, sweaters, joggers, things that Logan will never touch again, things he can’t have anymore.
This is going to be a lot harder than Logan anticipated and he’s not a hundred percent sure he can go through with it.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
Being back in Miami is weird, the sun still a little too strong, the air still heavy. The last time he was here was during the Grand Prix, out on Logan’s family boat, curled up beside Logan on the seats, sea spray against their faces and Logan’s warmth keeping him tethered.
He still has his fob, sitting between a sunshine charm Logan had bought him in Sicily when they were seventeen and a matching sea green beaded chain. For a second he thinks his fob had been deactivated as he holds it up to the scanner but it clicks and the door hisses open.
Carefully and quietly, he climbs up the stairs, one foot in front of the other, his heart hammering in his chest. There’s a chance that Logan was there, why wouldn’t he? But the thought of him being there makes Oscar falter at the door.
The mat that Oscar bought is still there, a simple welcome home! with palm trees and orange flowers.
With his heart in his throat, and guilt streaming through his veins, he knocks on the door and hopes a god out there has mercy for him as the door cracks open.
“Oscar.”
“Hey, Logan.”