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Oscar blinks awake slowly. He’s in his hotel bed in Vegas, clean white duvet and sheets billowing around him, feeling soft on his bare legs and chest. Sun shines in golden through the windows; Oscar must have forgotten to close the shades last night, which makes sense when he realises he’s a bit hungover. He also realises that there’s someone in his bed.
It’s not that it truly matters if there is — he and Lily are long broken up at this point, and he can sleep with whoever he wants to. It’s just… he hasn’t wanted to. And he would rather remember if he had slept with someone. He looks over cautiously.
In bed next to him is Mark Webber.
There’s absolutely no way they slept together, is Oscar’s first thought, but he doubts himself on the second. He has always admired Mark, and though he’s never called it a crush, that’s probably the best word for how he feels about his mentor. But he would never act on any of those unreviewed feelings, so raw and new in his own head. He’s never even liked a man before.
He hits Mark in the shoulder, and he snorts awake like there might be a fire somewhere, sitting up and looking around blearily before he sees Oscar.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning. Did you hit me?”
“Yeah,” says Oscar. “Why are you in my bed?”
Marks looks at him strangely, so strangely that it makes Oscar sit up next to him in bed. Both their chests are bare, and he feels self-conscious all of a sudden, pulling the sheet up and holding it against his collarbone.
“You don’t remember?” asks Mark, and his expression is sad and hurt. Oh, lord.
“Did we sleep together?” Oscar asks him, his voice pitching higher than he usually lets it go.
“Nooo,” Mark drawls, and holds up his left hand. There on his ring finger is a golden wedding band, thick and solid and shiny with the sunlight that comes in through the windows. Mark got divorced six months ago, and took off his twenty-year-old ring months before that.
“What?” Oscar says, and looks at his own hand when Mark nods.
There, on his left hand, is an identical ring.
“Oh, fuck.”
last night
Oscar is the World Drivers’ Champion for 2025. He feels like Vegas looks; lit up bright, sparkling undeniably in the middle of the desert. He’s sure he’s never let himself smile so much in front of cameras, or let himself hug Mark like he had in front of cameras, but he can’t honestly give a fuck about how he’s perceived right now. Everything — his whole life — has led up to this, and all he can do is soak it in. Let himself be carried away by the tide of celebration on his side of the garage, try to ignore how Lando congratulates him with a lump in his throat and how Zak’s hug crushes his ribs like he wants to really break them this time.
Mark finds him again in the garage, flushed and somehow champagne soaked (admittedly unavoidable in this situation).
“Hey, little legend,” he says, his grin almost splitting his face, and Oscar breaks away from drinking with the mechanics to hug Mark again, standing on his toes to get his arms around Mark’s neck.
“I am so bloody proud of you,” Mark says in his ear, his hands on Oscar’s waist, and although he tells Oscar every weekend that he’s proud of him, it hits different this time. Obviously.
“Mark, are you coming out with us?” one of Oscar’s mechanics calls to them, and Oscar pulls away from what is probably an overly-long hug at this point. “We just got Oscar to agree.”
“God, lads, I dunno if I’m up for it,” Mark hedges, giving them a wry smile. “I’m a bit old for that now.”
“Oh, come on, Mark, please?” Oscar begs him, looking up at him with his big brown eyes that sparkle in the light, and of course Mark gives in. Mark can’t help but give in to him, especially when his protégé looks at him like he hung the moon and all its stars.
“Fine, okay,” he agrees, getting a cheer out of the mechanics for his trouble. More importantly, Oscar grins at him.
later
Oscar is drunk. He’s soooo fucking drunk, like he hasn’t been in a long, long time. It’s only when he goes to the toilet to get out of the noise and lights of the club that he realises just how drunk he really is. He giggles to himself as he washes his hands, remembering how Lily hated it when he drank too much. He acts way less dignified than usual, that’s for sure.
A stall banging open behind him makes him jump, and he puffs out a breath of air. A familiarly large hand is on his back suddenly, and he looks over his shoulder to see Mark there, his shirtsleeves rolled up appealingly and his hair rather ruffled. His eyes are crinkled with his smile.
“Oh, hi!” Oscar says excitedly, and turns off the sink. Mark doesn’t wash his hands until Oscar gives him a look. Men.
“What did you get up to?” Oscar asks him, relishing the relative quiet of the bathroom.
“Oh, just drinking,” says Mark. “Danced a bit with the old guys.”
By “the old guys”, Oscar knows he means Fernando and/or DC and Crofty. The mental image of them dancing makes Oscar giggle again. Mark rolls his eyes at him.
“You okay?” he asks. “You seem a bit… giggly.”
“Oh,” says Oscar. “Yeah, just drunk. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mark laughs. “I think you can afford one drunken night after this bloody year, eh?”
Oscar’s cheeks feel hot, or maybe it’s the alcohol.
“Maybe it’s better if I sober up a bit,” Oscar muses, rubbing the back of his neck, which is rather sweaty from being pressed up against other drivers and people at the bar. “Don’t want to ruin my reputation.”
“Nonsense,” Mark tells him. “Come and dance with me. Let people see you can have fun, too.”
Mark holds out his hand, and Oscar takes it, letting Mark pull him out of the quiet into the noisy club. To be fair, the general public aren’t allowed in with them, but there’s still random media people and all the teams’ people partying with them, celebrating the end of the WDC (celebrating Oscar). He’s glad to be holding hands with Mark, honestly, because he’s been approached by flirty men and women countless times tonight, and he’s sure no one will dare touch him when Mark’s got their fingers intertwined like this. In his intoxicated state it doesn’t even occur to Oscar that they don’t do this… they don’t hold hands. Mark’s his mentor, his manager, his friend, but nothing else (because isn’t that enough?). But in this moment it just feels good.
The sweaty pulse of the crowd greets them and pushes them close together on the dance floor. Mark’s hands find his waist, and when Oscar looks up he finds Mark’s eyes asking him a question: is this okay? Oscar nods up at him and they dance, close and hot like that. Mark leans his head in, mouth by Oscar’s ear, to talk to him.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” is what he says, not over the music, but through it, between beats and frequencies like it knows how important Mark’s words are to Oscar.
“I’ve never seen anything prettier than you on the top step of that podium,” Mark continues. “You’re glowing.”
Oscar beams.
He and Mark hold eye contact, and it feels like they’re having an entire conversation in the middle of the club with just their eyes. This is awesome; this is beyond anything either of them could have dreamed for Oscar’s third season in F1. He’s not only won for himself, but for Mark in a way, finishing what he couldn’t in his career, making Australia proud in a way that is valuable to both of them. Ever since McLaren had stopped supporting his title charge, things had been less sure than they ever had. But he’d proven that he doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need preferential strategy or good press or even a car that works exactly the way he wants it to — he just needs his body, his skill, and Mark. The two of them against the world, the Aussies of F1 versus practically everyone and everything else.
He puts his arms around Mark’s neck and pulls him into a hug, not caring who sees or how it looks. They stay just like that for a bit. Oscar knows it’s not a hug at that point — they’re really just holding each other.
“Wanna get some fresh air for a second?” Mark asks in his ear when they pull apart, and Oscar nods eagerly. It’s sweltering in here, and to be honest he’s still a bit dehydrated from the race. Night races don’t leave much time to get rehydrated before they go out.
Mark tugs him through the crowd again, his ridiculous height an advantage. On their way out, Lando sees him and pulls him into a drunk side hug with a yelled Congrats again. The other boy is taking it much better than Oscar would have, that’s for sure.
The cool desert night air greets them on the outside, and Oscar gulps it down. Yeah, it’s good they’re out here, because he’s still quite drunk. The Strip feels soft, cushioned by alcohol and the inherent welcome that comes with winning.
Oscar starts to walk, just down to the corner to look around and a little bit to get away from the clumps of people smoking against the brick right outside the club entrance. Mark’s leaning back against the wall downwind, his head tilted back and eyes closed like he wishes he could smoke one. Oscar rolls his eyes at him. If he’s longing for a cigarette, that must mean he’s pretty drunk. Oscar’s seen him drunk a couple of times, and he gets relaxed and more introspective than his usual, outgoing self. He’s still himself, though, still likes chatting to people when he’s tipsy or whatever. Maybe the way to put it is that he seems younger like this.
Mark decides to take him to a casino then, because he thinks Oscar should experience it once. He’d never gone in the previous three years he’s been to Vegas with the F1 circus.
They walk to one of the big ones that anyone can get lost in; walking through the automatic slot machines to the tables with real people at them is like being in the Labyrinth, but somehow Mark knows exactly where to go.
He steers Oscar to a blackjack table and sits him down, keeping his hands on Oscar’s shoulders.
“Know how to play?” he asks, and Oscar shakes his head no. Mark slides a hundred across the table to the dealer, and Oscar, a little slow in his current state, gives him a confused look. Why is he using his money and not playing alongside Oscar?
“I don’t gamble anymore,” Mark says easily. “So. You want to get as close to twenty-one as you can. If your cards are too low, you tell him to hit you on the next deal around, and if you think it’s as close as anyone’s gonna get, you hold. Yeah?”
“Yep,” Oscar nods. Things are a bit overwhelming in here, but everything is soft around the edges and permeated by old cigarette smoke. He pushes his chips in. There’s a few other men playing in this game, and one of them does a double take when he sees Oscar. Oscar gives the man his best wink and a finger to his lips.
He gets dealt two low cards to start, and asks for one more on the next go around. He’s getting into the teens now, and he looks back up at Mark, who just squeezes Oscar’s shoulders (that he hasn’t let go of). Oscar gets hit again. Twenty. Mark squeezes again. Stop. He presses against Oscar’s back, stretching his hands out over Oscar’s shoulders to hold them over the cards.
When they all show their cards, Oscar’s the closest. He and Mark make a pretty good team.
“Lucky boy tonight, eh?” says the man who probably recognised him before.
Oscar grins. Mark tips the dealer and they leave the table and trade their chips for cash.
“Always leave while you’re up,” Mark says wisely. “That’s the key to this place.”
Oscar nods, and they’re back outside. A few fans spot him and Mark takes pictures for them, and they wander off, squealing and giggling.
It’s a lot of walking in Vegas, Oscar notices. Everything is quite spread out, the Strip sprawling and infinitely longer on foot than it had seemed when he was taking it at 200 miles an hour. There are little side streets and shortcuts through casinos everywhere, and going three blocks in the wrong direction leads you into the dark. They’ve reached a quieter section of the city (Oscar thinks it’s nearer the club they’d been at before), and Mark is having a rest against a brick wall. Oscar’s doing his wandering thing again.
Neon beckons from down the way.
“Mark?” Oscar calls, turning back towards him, about a quarter of a block away. He cuts a roguish silhouette against the smoky background, Oscar thinks. He’s always had that easy aughties cool.
“Wanna walk a little more this way?” says Oscar, and Mark comes to him.
“Sure, kiddo,” he says easily, hands in his pockets, sunglasses up in his hair. “Where to?”
Oscar points to the brightly coloured neon.
Mark smiles and follows him down the street, walking close and keeping an eye on people walking the other way like his bodyguard does in the paddock. Mark’s always protective like that.
“What’s this?” Oscar says, stopping in front of a neon cross about halfway down the second block. It’s not that the rest of the street is dark (the streets are never dark here), just that the thin doorway surrounded by religious neon is eye-catching and in sharp contrast with the rest of the things Vegas neon advertises. It’s odd, because besides the lights it looks like the entrance to a bar or something.
“Looks like one of those mini chapels,” Mark says, “You know, Vegas weddings?”
Oscar doesn’t really have time to respond to that because the door to the tiny chapel opens and a man clad in black and white steps out, cig in his mouth and his thumb on a cheap plastic lighter. He sighs when he sees them.
“You two lookin’ to get married?” he asks, gesturing between them with the lighter. He’s got a cowboy accent like Oscar’s only ever heard in movies before.
“Uhh,” Oscar says, but Mark’s got a witty quip for everything, apparently.
“Yep, this one is making me settle down,” he says with a grin and a nudge of Oscar’s arm. Oscar raises an eyebrow at him, the devout husband of twenty years who only just got divorced and — as far as Oscar knows — has not slept with anyone else since his ex-wife.
It’s unclear whether or not the man buys it, but points to the door.
“Well, go in if you want,” he says. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
Oscar, still drunk as all hell and curious about the place, lets Mark lead the way. They go in the swinging door, up some dingy stairs and down a short hallway lit by harsh fluorescents.
When they reach the main room, it’s lit warm and colourful with Christmas lights and more neon. There’s a wedding altar at the front of the room, chairs stacked on both sides and fake flowers lining the walls of the windowless room. This really is a hole in the wall kind of place.
“Huh,” says Mark. “I’ve always wondered what these look like.”
Oscar feels like he’s entered another world. Seeing Mark standing in front of the altar is making his heart jump and his stomach do odd things.
He’s thought about marriage before, sure. He thought about marriage with his ex, who he’d been with for a long time. He’s thought about marriage with everyone he’s ever had a crush on, to be perfectly honest. He’s a romantic and he loves loyalty and commitment, and he thinks that marriage would probably be the ideal relationship for him to have.
“Should we, like, do it?” Oscar asks, and Mark looks up at him, an unreadable expression on his face.
“What, get Vegas married?”
Oscar hums. He sees himself wearing a veil in his mind’s eye. Christ, maybe someone put something in his drink. Mark’s looking at him all gentle like he does sometimes.
The moment is broken by a burst of cool air and the wafting in of cigarette smoke from outside as the man who runs the chapel comes back in.
“Alright, lovebirds,” he says, and Oscar jumps. “This’ll be my last one of the night. It’s fifty bucks.”
Oscar gives him a horrified look. Just fifty dollars for a lifelong pact?
“You look mighty familiar,” the man drawls, and Oscar shakes his head.
“No, I don’t. You’d marry two men?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking at Oscar like he’s stupid. “It’s 2025. Also, I’m not a priest.”
Oscar fishes the one hundred blackjack-won American dollars out of his wallet and hands it over to the guy.
“I don’t look familiar,” says Oscar. Mark nods approvingly — well, Oscar had learned from the best.
“Right you are,” says the guy, and waves them both towards the altar setup.
“Are we actually doing this?” Mark asks him. Oscar just holds out his hands impatiently.
“It’s for fun, isn’t it?” he says, giving Mark his best big, hopeful eyes. But he remembers that Mark had really just gone through a divorce a few months ago and probably was not in the mood to even joke about marriage. Because that’s what this is, right? It’s obviously not a real marriage, Oscar thinks. It’s just a gimmick, especially for fifty dollars.
“Okay,” says the not-priest, sidling in front of the altar. “I’ve got some rings for y’all.”
“What’re your names?”
“Mark and Oscar,” Oscar tells him eagerly.
The cowboy clears his throat and starts reciting the ceremony. Oscar bounces on his toes slightly and looks at Mark and their hands, joined as they are. Mark seems to have accepted his fate (plus, you know, it was Mark’s idea to come in here in the first place — they do tend to egg each other on with these kinds of things, challenges and dares and the like).
“Oscar, do you take Mark to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” Oscar says, biting down on his smile. Mark slides the ring onto Oscar’s finger indulgently.
“And Mark, do you take Oscar to be your husband?”
“Ehm, yep. I do,” says Mark, and Oscar puts his ring on for him. He’s got big hands, something Oscar always notices about him, and it makes him blush.
“Cool,” says the man, “Then by the power vested in me by the great state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husbands. You can kiss if you want.”
They both freeze, which makes the guy laugh at them.
“You don’t have to. It’s just what people do,” he says.
But Mark has already reached out, he’s got his big, rough hand on Oscar’s jaw, and he’s pulling him in.
Their lips come softly together. Mark doesn’t French him or anything, just keeps it soft like that for a couple of seconds and pulls away. Oscar is left stunned, bringing his fingers up to touch his lips.
They leave the chapel married, then, Mark shoving a piece of paper into his pocket that the man had given him. It’s so bloody late (or early) that they just walk slowly back to the hotel. Vegas, of course, is in full swing — the city of midnight sin — and the noise and lights make it feel earlier in the night than it really is.
“Um,” says Mark when they’re in the elevator up to their rooms. They hadn’t talked at all on the walk back. It’s not awkward, exactly, just… mutually surprised, maybe. “You want to join me for a minute?”
Oscar’s stomach leaps. He doesn’t know why it leaps, precisely. Mark’s not implying… that, is he? Just some cool-down, chill-out time before they go to sleep. But the picture crosses his mind like a barely-remembered reel of film, him and Mark and what they would be like together. He blinks hard.
“Sure,” he says.
He’s nervous as Mark unlocks his room. Like, they only kissed once, and he’s fairly certain Mark did that for the bit.
“I’m gonna get comfier clothes on,” he says and disappears into the bathroom. The alcohol seems to finally be making its way out of both of their systems, leaving Oscar wanting for peace and quiet. He can always find that with Mark.
Oscar strips off his own jeans and flops on Mark’s bed.
When Mark comes back out and sees him laying there, his eyes flick quickly up and down Oscar’s body. Oscar notices.
Mark clears his throat and gets on the bed as well, leaning back against the headboard.
“That was a lot,” he says. “You never realise how much you’re getting into here until you’ve already done it.”
Oscar hums. Sits up and looks at Mark.
“Um,” he says. “You kissed me.”
“Right,” he says, his cheeks going dark red. “I did, yeah. Sorry.”
“Are you?” Oscar presses. He doesn’t always like making eye contact, but he can do it if he’s serious about something. “I didn’t mind.”
“Oh,” says Mark dumbly. Oscar crawls the short distance up the bed so he’s kneeling next to Mark, his underwear pulling up on his thighs in a way that Mark can’t seem to ignore. He leans in and knocks their noses together.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his eyes on Mark’s lips. When Mark doesn’t move, Oscar kisses him.
This is much better than when Mark had kissed him before — Oscar hadn’t really kissed back, then, too stunned to move. But now he can feel Mark’s stubble against his chin, Mark tentatively touching his waist, pushing his fingers under Oscar’s t-shirt.
Oscar pulls away to look at him. His mouth is open, stung, and Oscar smiles. He feels too-hot.
“Oh,” says Mark again, and Oscar just nods at him.
the morning after
“So,” says Oscar. “Is it, like, valid?”
Mark winces.
“As far as I remember, we got a marriage license,” he says. “So… yeah. I think it’s real. Official. We can probably get it annulled pretty quick, though.”
“Right,” says Oscar, twisting his hands together. “‘Course. Um, why’d we do it in the first place, though?”
Mark looks at him. He’s got his shirt from last night back on, and trousers, having been pacing the room as he recounted last night’s events to Oscar, whose memories are coming back to him.
“You don’t remember that either?” Mark asks, his hazel eyes deep and prompting.
The feelings are the last thing that come back to Oscar, and they do, all in a rush.
The comradery, the pride, the love that he and Mark have for each other (though they’ve never called it that before), Mark’s hands on his waist and their fingers tangled, the high of a hard-won championship.
Ah, he thinks. That’s why.