Work Text:
The air in the Yas Marina paddock celebration suite was thick and kinetic, a chaotic symphony of triumphant shouts, thumping Euro-house music, and the synthetic scent of expensive champagne mist. The color of the night was orange—McLaren orange—a blinding, aggressive hue that painted every happy, shouting face. The center of the storm was Lando Norris, the newly crowned 2025 World Drivers' Champion.
Lando, surrounded by the ecstatic whirlwind of his team, the media, and a rotating cast of slightly tipsy, admiring competitors, looked exactly like what he was: a man who had finally achieved his childhood dream. He had done it in the final, agonizing race in Abu Dhabi, holding onto third place while his main rival, Max Verstappen, won the Grand Prix. Lando’s 423 points narrowly eclipsed Max’s 421 points, a minuscule, two-point gap that encapsulated the brutal nature of the season.
Far from the bright lights and the shouting, Oscar Piastri was shrinking into a shadowy, velvet-lined corner booth.
He was physically present but emotionally defunct, trying to use the darkness as camouflage. He nursed a drink—something aggressively tropical, glowing fluorescent pink and topped with a plastic flamingo—clutching the cold glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.
Oscar was proud of Lando—of course he was. Lando was his teammate, his friend, and their collective effort had secured McLaren their second consecutive Constructors’ Championship. The orange explosion was justifiable.
But beneath the genuine happiness for his friend, Oscar was quietly falling apart. The bitter, acidic taste of almost coated his tongue, sharper than the cheap alcohol now dissolving his restraint.
He had been the one to lead the fight for most of the year. For fifteen rounds of the season, Oscar had held the championship lead. He had delivered five Grand Prix wins (Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Miami, Spanish, Dutch, Belgian are noted in the source material) and matched Lando with six fastest laps throughout the year. He had been poised to do the impossible, to cap off a spectacular sophomore year with the title.
Then, the crumble. He replayed the late-season catastrophes like a horrifying highlights reel: the controversial double disqualification in Las Vegas for a skid wear infringement that stripped him and Lando of precious points, critically tying him with Verstappen at that crucial stage and reducing Norris's lead; the Qatar GP, where he finished second but Verstappen won, securing a 12-point lead over Oscar going into the final race.
And today. Abu Dhabi. Oscar had started third, moved into second ahead of Lando early on, and finished there. Max had won the race. But Lando’s third place was enough.
Oscar finished the season in third place, thirteen points behind Lando. The gap was wider than Max’s, but it was those two points—the difference between Max and Lando—that mocked him. Had the result flipped slightly, had the Las Vegas decision gone differently, had he just found two more points somewhere, anywhere, Max would have been champion again, but Oscar would have been closer. He had been so far ahead, only to slide back into third.
Thirteen points. The number tasted like rust.
The loneliness of watching everyone else celebrate became a crushing weight. Every cheer, every flash of the photographers’ cameras aimed at the throng of orange celebrating 'The Lando Way' felt like a physical expulsion. He was the talented shadow, the runner-up's teammate, the boy who had led the charge only to see someone else claim the victory.
The alcohol, once a quiet accomplice, turned loud. Oscar realized, with a fuzzy, dangerous clarity, that he was sinking lower and lower into that warm, unpleasant buzz of alcohol-fueled heartbreak.
He was sad.
He was clingy.
He was emotional.
And he was, undoubtedly, very, very drunk.
He hoped, childishly, that the room had forgotten him. The chaos of the party was now an intoxicated blur.
---
The music shifted, the bass dropping low enough to rattle Oscar’s teeth. He curled tighter into the corner, knees drawn up slightly beneath the table. The pink flamingo cocktail was half-empty, but his glass heart was full.
He closed his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the wave of self-pity.
"Mind if I join you?"
The voice was low, resonant, and unmistakably Dutch.
Oscar flinched, snapping his eyes open. The sudden movement sent a dizzying rush through his head. He blinked twice. Max Verstappen stood over the booth, looking surprisingly immaculate considering the hour and the surrounding carnage. Max had just won the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, a dominant performance to cap off his season. He was riding a high, but his eyes held the familiar, deep-set disappointment of a champion denied—he had narrowly lost the championship by two points.
Max didn't wait for an answer. Max rarely waited for anything. He simply slid into the booth opposite Oscar, pushing aside some scattered orange streamers. Max’s approach was gentle but straightforward. He brought with him a silent assumption of permission, a comforting lack of fuss.
"You look like you're trying to communicate telepathically with that drink," Max remarked, a slight, tired smile touching his lips.
Oscar laughed, a high, broken sound. "It's trying to anchor me. I don't think it's working".
Max surveyed the rest of the room. The celebration around the McLaren tables was deafening. "Nobody else noticed you disappear?"
"No," Oscar slurred, leaning his head back against the wall, "everyone’s orbiting Lando. Which is right. He deserves it. I'm just... the neglected houseplant".
Max frowned slightly, his gaze returning sharply to Oscar. He was already picking up on what everyone else missed. The way Oscar spoke the words—not angrily, but with profound, exhausted sincerity—hit Max with unexpected force.
Max had fought Lando tooth and nail all season, particularly in the latter half, clawing back a massive deficit. But Piastri had been the consistent threat, the silent killer who led the standings for so long. Max had watched him closely.
"You should be out there," Max said, tilting his head toward the orange explosion. "You secured the Constructors’. You were a massive part of that."
"Yeah. But they’re celebrating the driver’s title, aren't they?" Oscar took a huge gulp of the fruit punch. He needed to be louder, meaner, so Max would leave. "I led for fifteen bloody rounds. Fifteen! And then… then Vegas stripped it, didn't it? Just chucked it in the bin. If we had those points, Max, maybe Lando wouldn't have won. Maybe you wouldn't have won the race, but maybe I’d have those two points over you instead of two behind Lando. It’s all crumble now".
Max reached across the table, not touching him, but resting a hand near Oscar’s forearm. "Hey. Stop that. It's done. You fought an incredible fight. You shouldn’t be talking about the past. You had a phenomenal season."
Oscar blinked at the hand, then at Max’s earnest expression. The world was definitely swaying. He realized, belatedly, just how drunk he was.
"You don't understand," Oscar whispered, leaning forward, his voice suddenly brutally transparent. "You won the race today. I saw you stand there. I was P2, watching you on the top step, and Lando was P3 right there, taking the whole thing . The universe just decided I needed to be the bronze medal in the middle of a Dutch/British sandwich."
Max’s protective instinct, which he hadn't realized he possessed for the young Australian, kicked in hard. This wasn't the guarded, intensely private Oscar Piastri everyone knew. This was a raw nerve exposed.
Max reached out and, gently, lifted the flamingo glass away. "Okay. No more pink stuff."
"No," Oscar protested weakly, trying to grab it back. Max held it out of reach.
---
Max slid out of the seat across the table and then, without asking—just like he had entered the booth—he slid in right next to Oscar. The proximity was startling. Max’s heat, even through his damp race-weekend polo, was immediately grounding.
"What do you need?" Max asked, keeping his voice quiet so it wouldn't have to fight the music. "A bottle of water? Someone to call a car? You look dead on your feet."
"I need to stop thinking about it," Oscar confessed, leaning his heavy head toward the Dutch driver. He was now operating purely on instinct, every sober restraint unlocked. The quiet comfort Max offered was more potent than any drink.
Max’s strong hand came to rest flat against Oscar's back, a simple, firm touch designed to stabilize. "Breathe, Oscar. Just breathe. It's over. You made it to the end."
Oscar inhaled deeply, feeling the pressure on his spine. It was such a small gesture, but the sudden physical closeness was overwhelming. It was an invitation to lean, literally and emotionally.
And Oscar had been leaning toward Max, figuratively, for years.
He had developed the crush—stupid, inconvenient, and intensely private—back when he was still a reserve driver in 2022, watching Max dominate the season from the sidelines. Max was everything Oscar admired: ruthlessly efficient, focused, and utterly authentic. And Max always, always seemed to notice him, even in the crowded paddock.
"You’re good," Oscar mumbled into the space between their shoulders, the word barely audible over the music.
"I finished runner-up," Max corrected softly. "Lando is the champion."
"No, I mean you," Oscar insisted, lifting his head. His eyes were wide and unfocused, but staring directly into Max's. "You’re good to me. You always see it. When everyone else thinks I'm fine. You know."
Max smoothed his hand slowly up and down Oscar’s back, a comforting action. "You're my competition, mate. I have to pay attention."
"More than competition," Oscar sighed, the words thick with sentimentality. "Since… since my rookie year. I watch you. How you handle the pressure. How you talk about racing. It's—" He paused, searching for the right word, but his drunk rambling defeated him. "It’s honest. Not all PR bullshit. I like that. I like you."
Max froze. His hand stilled on Oscar’s back. He expected heartbreak over the WDC, maybe tears about the season, but he did not expect clingy, emotional, brutally honest Oscar to suddenly pivot the conversation into dangerous territory.
The crush. That was what the prompt said. And now it slipped out too clearly.
Max pulled his hand away slightly, creating a tiny, necessary distance. "Oscar. You're drunk."
"I know I'm drunk," Oscar snapped, his voice wobbling. He grabbed Max’s shirt, crumpling the fabric. "That doesn't make me wrong. It just makes me not careful. I’ve been careful for two years. So careful. Since I was a rookie and you kept beating us. And I watched. And I liked it."
The last two words were delivered with such vulnerability that Max felt a genuine, gut-wrenching pain for him. Max was shocked. He had been single, truly single, since May. He hadn't advertised it, hadn't planned on anyone knowing, certainly not someone sitting in a sad, orange-drenched booth at a championship party.
Max didn't pull away. He simply returned his hand to Oscar's back, anchoring him again.
"You need water," Max repeated, his voice firm, stripping the comment of any potential double meaning. "Let’s get you out of here, okay? I’m taking you back to your room."
"No," Oscar whined, leaning his forehead heavily onto Max's shoulder. Max smelled like expensive soap and victory sweat. "Don’t go. They’ll be too loud in my room. Lando will be there. I just... I hate being alone when I feel like this."
Max closed his eyes briefly. He had anticipated being disappointed by the championship result, yes. He had anticipated watching Lando celebrate, yes. He had not anticipated this searing rush of protective instinct mixed with a strange, burgeoning surprise at how much it hurts to see him like this. This was raw pain, not just a hangover.
"Oscar," Max began softly, "you are so good. This season proved it. Don't let thirteen points define you".
"But they did define me," Oscar mumbled. "I’m P3. You’re P2. Lando’s P1. We all know who the best is now. And I’m the one that had it and lost it." He pulled Max’s shirt tighter. "Stay with me."
Max looked down at the mop of dark hair pressed against his shoulder. He realized, with a startling clarity that cut through the club noise, that he cared more than he thought. This wasn't just concern for a competitor; this was a need to shield this broken boy from the surrounding carnage.
---
The decision was swift and non-negotiable. Max gently pulled Oscar upright.
"Listen to me. We are leaving. I'm taking you somewhere quiet. My room. We’ll get you sobered up. No arguing."
Oscar was too far gone to manage complex refusal. Max steadied him, keeping a reassuring hand firmly on his elbow as they navigated the outer edges of the party. Max’s height and reputation carved a respectful path through the crowd; nobody dared stop the Abu Dhabi GP winner as he hustled a stumbling, distressed Oscar Piastri toward the exit.
Max bundled Oscar into a waiting car. During the short drive, Max held Oscar’s hand simply because the younger driver hadn't let go of his shirt. This was pure fragile comfort.
Back in Max's spacious, sterile hotel suite, Max pushed Oscar gently onto the edge of the sofa. He retrieved a bottle of cold water, some painkillers, and a damp flannel.
"Drink this, all of it," Max commanded, placing the water directly into Oscar’s grip.
Oscar obeyed sluggishly, spilling half the bottle down his shirt. Max kneeled down to wipe the moisture away with the flannel. The proximity was intimate, necessary, and filled with tension.
"I shouldn't be here," Oscar mumbled, tears stinging his eyes as the alcohol started to churn angrily in his stomach. "I shouldn't have said that."
"You said you like me," Max said, his voice level. He wasn’t mocking; he was merely establishing the fact. "It’s fine. You were drunk."
"No, I meant it. That’s the problem. I meant it".
Oscar grabbed Max’s face, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He pulled Max closer, his eyes unfocused but earnest. "You’re the only person who hasn’t asked me how it feels to lose."
"Because I know how it feels to lose," Max countered, his voice a low rumble. "I just lost by two points. The same amount I won by a few years ago. It’s a knife edge. But you don't go through that without being strong. You are incredibly strong, Oscar. Now, let me get you those pills before you throw up all over my Persian rug."
Max managed to get Oscar to swallow the medication and another glass of water. Oscar was still clinging to Max's arm, the emotional lean profound.
Max sat back down, pulling Oscar’s heavy body until it rested fully against his side, Oscar’s head nestled under his chin. He continued to stroke Oscar’s back, guiding him to breathe.
"I ended things in May," Max confessed into Oscar’s hair. "But we kept up the front. So, yeah. I’m single. And you’re safe here."
Oscar shifted, lifting his head. The look in his eyes was still drunk, but something beneath the haze was sharp and hopeful. He saw the genuine, careful kindness in Max’s face, the honesty he had always admired.
"Are you saying you don't mind the rambling?" Oscar asked, his voice softer now.
"I’m saying I mind seeing you hurting like this," Max corrected. "More than I expected."
The air between them was suddenly thick with that undeniable spark. It wasn't the heat of alcohol or the thumping of the party; it was something slow, inevitable, and charged. Max saw the truth in Oscar’s eyes, a truth he hadn't sought but couldn't now deny. This wasn't just a drunk confession; it was an opening.
Max didn't kiss him. Not yet. This was an emotional slow-burn, built on exhaustion and shared competitive heartbreak. He settled Oscar back against him, holding him securely.
"Sleep, Piastri," Max murmured. "I’ll be here. We can talk about liking me when you don’t feel like you’re going to pass out."
Oscar didn’t answer, already drifting. He was heavy, warm, and entirely reliant on Max’s support.
Max looked out over the glittering lights of Yas Marina. The championship might be over, but for him, something else—something much more complicated and terrifyingly fragile—was just beginning. He spent the rest of the dark hours holding the boy who had just confessed his secret crush and lost his dream, feeling a profound sense of peace he hadn't experienced all season.
---
Oscar woke up to the agonizing throbbing of his skull. It felt like the FIA had mandated a two-stop strategy inside his brain. Sunlight, filtered through sheer curtains, sliced across a ceiling he didn't recognize.
He was in a massive, ridiculously soft bed.
He was wrapped securely in a duvet, and there was a heavy, muscular arm draped across his chest.
Panic flared briefly, then dissolved as memories of last night came flooding back. The pink flamingo drink, the overwhelming noise, the corner booth, the devastating, embarrassing clarity of his heartbreak over the season.
And Max.
He remembered Max sliding into the booth next to him. Max taking his drink. Max kneeling to wipe water from his chin. Max’s quiet voice, telling him to breathe.
And then, the worst part: his drunk confession. The admission of the long-standing crush, the clinginess, the raw vulnerability he hadn't intended for anyone—especially not Max Verstappen.
Oscar turned his head gingerly. Max was asleep beside him, his expression relaxed, his arm a secure weight. Max hadn't just gotten him to his room; he had stayed. Max had protected him.
Oscar felt a fresh wave of mortification wash over him. He had been sad, clingy, emotional, and very, very drunk. He had practically thrown himself at Max and cried over thirteen points. He carefully slid out from under Max’s arm, sitting up and clutching the duvet to his chest.
He needed to flee.
But before he could execute his escape, Max stirred, his eyes fluttering open. They were blue and startlingly clear, despite the late hour.
"Morning, Piastri," Max murmured, his voice husky with sleep.
Oscar flushed crimson. "Max. I—I have to apologize. I was… last night…"
"You were very drunk," Max supplied neutrally, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. He was wearing just sweatpants. "And very honest. How’s the head?"
"It’s hostile," Oscar admitted, wincing. "Look, I need to go. And forget everything I said. Please."
Max reached out and gently took Oscar’s hand, pulling him closer. "No. We’re not doing that. We said we'd talk when you were sober, remember?"
Oscar’s breath hitched. "I… meant it," he whispered, echoing his drunken admission. "About watching you. About liking you. That wasn’t the alcohol. The alcohol just cut the filter."
Max squeezed his hand. "Good. Because I haven't stopped thinking about it since you fell asleep on my shoulder."
Max leaned in, his gaze intense. This wasn't the concerned, brotherly touch of last night; this was Max making a calculated move, with his usual decisive intention. He saw the wide, nervous fear in Oscar’s eyes, the profound vulnerability.
"I told you I was single," Max continued, his voice low. "And I told you I cared that you were hurting. You’re not just competition, Oscar. Not to me."
He paused, then added: "You’re also very brave, throwing that out there, even if you were drunk. I respect that." Max was still giving quiet reassurance and genuine respect for Oscar’s fight.
Oscar didn't know how to respond. He was a champion of emotional repression, and here was Max, brutally honest and intensely present.
"Max, I don't know what you expect—"
Max didn't let him finish. He covered the small gap between them, pressing his mouth firmly against Oscar’s. It was a brief, gentle contact, confirming the new dynamic that had been forged in the dark corner booth.
Max pulled back just slightly, their foreheads touching. "I expect to take you out for breakfast. And I expect you to be honest with me, sober or drunk. We’ll figure out the rest slowly. But yesterday, I was proud to race against you. And today, I'm glad you ended up in my room."
Oscar, the meticulously guarded young man who had lost the World Championship by thirteen points, who had confessed his deepest secret while clutching a plastic flamingo drink, found himself smiling through the hangover. The heartbreak of the night before hadn't disappeared, but it had been momentarily eclipsed by an unexpected, fierce spark of hope, a fragile beginning built on alcohol-blurred vulnerability.
He leaned back into Max's embrace, allowing himself to simply rest against the solid, comforting structure of the world's runner-up. "Okay, Max. Breakfast. Then we talk."
The 2025 season might have ended in defeat, but Oscar realized, watching the sunlight glint off the untouched trophy shelf in Max’s room, that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't left Abu Dhabi completely empty-handed. He had traded a championship trophy for a far more complex, potentially much better prize, all because Max noticed the neglected houseplant in the corner. It felt like taking a risky pit stop on the final lap, but this time, he was betting on a win.