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The post-race interview was a wreck as always, a loud, flashing circus of cameras and questions, with interviewers trying to get a reaction out of every driver as if they were poking bruises just to see which one hurt the most. Just like Oscar, who was in his third season coming onto his fourth next year, he was already getting used to it.
Used to the noise, the heat, the way every word he said could be cut and reshaped into something else entirely. Especially since he had been one of the ones fighting for the championship between him, his teammate, Lando, and his boyfriend, current world champion, Max. The media loved that triangle. They fed on it. He was bound to be caught in the mix whether he liked it or not.
The whole fiasco was stupid to say the least, a carefully staged mess of rivalry narratives and forced reactions, but his PR training taught him better than to let their words affect him. They were just doing their job anyway, and so was he. There wasn’t any point in being mean to them. So most of the time, he’d just control his emotions instead of lashing out or acting on impulse. It was as easy as that—smile, congratulate, dodge the sharper questions, and do a little bit of a quirky comment like a well-timed deflection, and then you’re good to go.
A performance within the performance.
A helmet off, mask firmly on.
Although for the last few races, he hasn’t been feeling the best lately when it comes to answering the questions. The words felt heavier in his mouth now, like he had to swallow them before he could speak. Disappointed, but what could he do?
The team clearly preferred Lando over him, and there just wasn’t anything he could do about that—not really. He saw it in strategy calls, in the way the radio favored one side of the garage, in the quiet things that weren’t said.
He’s told Mark about it, and of course, Mark had given him possible solutions to his problems, even suggesting a break clause if he needed it, carefully laid out like exits on a map. But never wanting to back down from the challenge, he stayed resilient. Stubborn, maybe. Loyal, definitely.
Others would’ve called it “stupid” to stay within a team who acted like they wanted you, but really didn’t. He’d heard worse in his own head during the late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and the ceiling felt too close. But it was nice too, in a twisted way, and it felt pathetic to ask for help, especially since this was only his third year in 2025. Three years wasn’t supposed to be enough time to be tired like this, yet here he was.
Abu Dhabi, the grand prix to decide who was the champion of the season, he guesses, was quite alright though. The heat shimmered off the asphalt like a mirage, the kind that made distance feel unreal. He hadn’t won the race—was P2 at most despite the degradation of his rear tires in the approaching last laps, rubber screaming its quiet complaints beneath him—just right behind his boyfriend, who was the pole sitter. But he still hoped for a win. Or at least for Max to win, but he’d never admit that to Lando. The kind of truth stayed locked behind his ribs.
The cooldown room had been a tad bit awkward between them while they waited for Lando, a strange pocket of quiet after the roar of the track. Sweat cooled on his skin as the adrenaline drained away in uneven waves.
Knowing the camera could be filming right at them anytime made everything feel staged even when it wasn’t. They were both exhausted, shoulders heavy with the day’s weight, but Oscar had still wanted to flirt with Max badly, congratulate him properly, and suggest a bit of something for tonight—more than cuddling he wishes.
But with the look on Max’s face, tight around the eyes, the kind that meant he was still replaying everything, he decided not to press on it. He could see how Max has been trying hard today, how every corner had demanded something from him. None of it had been his fault, and neither was it the others.
Racing was cruel like that.
It gave and took without fairness. It was just too good to be true sometimes, it had been a tough battle, but still he never kept it easy for Lando.
“I’m happy for him, I really am.”
With a small sad smile on Max’s face as he looked at Oscar, the Australian couldn’t help but feel a bit of guilt crawl up his spine. Quiet, persistent. He couldn’t help Max during the race because if he did, Max wouldn’t have liked it to end that way.
He wanted Oscar to fight as hard as he did too. To race him clean, ruthless, equal. But at this moment, Oscar had wanted to do nothing but hold Max’s hand and apologize for everything that couldn’t be changed. For the points. For the timing. For the way the world always asked them to choose.
“At least we don’t have to drive them again.” Oscar tries to lighten the mood up, the words soft and a little crooked as he shoots Max a smile and a low chuckle, trying to distract Max from the heaviness settling between them like dust after impact.
“We’ll see what we get next year,” Max replies back with the same tone of voice as he adjusts the way he sat, shifting like he wasn’t quite comfortable in his own skin yet.
Now faced in front of his family again, Oscar doesn’t really know how to say that he wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. The words sit heavy on his tongue. Hell, he doesn’t even think he’d want to celebrate Lando’s win either.
Sure, he was genuinely happy for him, at least that’s what he thinks so, but happiness could exist right beside bitterness, tangled and complicated. Maybe he could congratulate him on an Instagram post instead of being so upfront about it.
“Yeah, it’s been a tiring day, Mom. I think I just want to rest for tonight,” he finally says, casually. “We can have the whole day tomorrow before you guys go back to Australia.”
His whole family shoots a nervous look at him, the kind that lingers a little too long, unsure if he’d be truly alright on his own. They know him too well. The forced smile, the slumped shoulders, the way exhaustion clung to him like sweat that wouldn’t dry. But they didn’t dare dwell on it.
“Okay, but if you need anything tonight, don’t hesitate to call us, okay? We’re here for you.” His mom assures him, her voice gentle but firm, and he had been thankful for that more than he could properly say.
“And if you could, invite Max tomorrow to come with us, yeah? We’d love to congratulate him too.”
Of course they wouldn’t fail to mention the Dutch man, but then again, it had been a hot minute since they saw him. The last time was at Oscar’s birthday dinner at a steakhouse back in April.
“I can’t be sure he’ll accept, but I’ll let you know if he’s free.” Oscar smiles warmly, just enough to put all of them at ease.
But before they can go, he thanks them, initiating one last family hug before they pull away, bidding their goodbyes to each other before going to their separate hotels. Once they’re gone, the space they leave behind feels louder than the crowd ever was.
Oscar had gone back to the McLaren motorhome to get changed out of his race suit, movements practiced and slow, like muscle memory was doing all the work now. The fireproof layers come off, one by one, until he’s just himself again, dressing himself in his usual black shirt and shorts, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he makes his way out. The fabric feels strange against skin that has spent hours under pressure.
But before he could make it any farther away from the paddock, he spots Max.
Max with Kelly—an ex he had from a few years ago before they got together, and a little girl was hugging him tightly. Arms wrapped around his waist with careless strength. Perhaps that was Penelope, the girl they had co-parented that belonged to Daniil.
He’d heard of her before, from Lando mostly. An energetic kid, perhaps could be as loud as him but a good one nonetheless. Oscar had a small smile on his face as he watched the scene unfold in front of him, something warm and wistful settling in his chest.
He wasn’t jealous of Kelly, the relationships she and Max had already been in were gone a long time ago, so he wasn’t that bothered with it if he was being honest.
And besides, Max always reassured Oscar that it was only for taking care of Penelope, while Oscar would always tell him back that he completely understood, and he was okay with it for as long as he would make up for it after—hinting for an intimate time which Max would always happily deliver without any faults.
Time felt like it was slowing down, or maybe it was Oscar starting to dissociate from exhaustion as he waited for Max to finish. The world moved like it was underwater, slowly drowning him alive.
Then, all of a sudden, he felt a hand pat his back, gentle yet grounding, snapping him out of it.
He sees Max’s gaze, a soft smile found on his face, “Hi, ready to go?”
Oscar nods, before they both start walking out of the eyes of the people, slipping past the last of the paddock noise and camera flashes like they were ghosts.
Once out of the public’s view and on their way to the parking lot, Oscar initiates slotting his hand into Max’s, fingers fitting together like they always had.
Max graciously accepts without hesitation. Oscar leaned his head on Max’s shoulder as they walked, the silence comfortable, full of everything they didn’t need to say.
“...so what are your plans after this?”
Max raises an eyebrow at Oscar before chuckling, giving a kiss on the top of his head. “You act as if we don’t do the same thing after every race. "Dinner, then bed, schatje.”
A pause settles between them, light but thoughtful.
“That is… if you want to do something different.” Max glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Have you got anything in mind?”
Oscar takes his head off of Max’s shoulder for a while, staring at him, almost as if he was confused about it himself. “Well, I was just thinking that since Kelly and Penelope were here for the weekend, weren’t you going to like, take them out for dinner? Maybe to lunch the next day or something else?”
“Oh,” Max hums softly, then shrugs. “I mean, I was supposed to but I decided against it, you know?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow at him this time. “Why?”
“Because,” Max says simply, squeezing his hand a little tighter, “I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend after we both didn’t win the championship. I just thought we both needed it the most.”
A beat.
Then his mouth curls into something teasing. “And besides, I think we both need a consolation prize from each other, don’t you agree?”
Max gives him a smug, knowing look. A look in which Oscar knows he’s in it for tonight.
Approaching their shared hotel room (one they had specifically requested that the Red Bull team put them both together in), they both tidied up in their own ways. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, it felt like a different world entirely, quieter, the adrenaline bleeding out into something softer.
Max took a much-needed shower, disappearing into the steam while Oscar ordered Turkish kebabs for them, Max’s favorite, already imagining the way the Dutch man’s eyes would light up when he saw the food. Something about knowing his partner’s comfort meal made him feel grounded, like he could still do something right after a chaotic day.
He kicks off his shoes, half-collapsing on the bed. He waited for Max to finish up, listening absentmindedly to the muffled sounds of running water as he scrolled through his phone.
Half an hour passed before Max finally exited the bathroom—hair damp, a plain gray shirt clinging to his still-warm skin, shorts hanging loose on his hips. A towel was draped around his neck, which he used to pat at the ends of his hair.
By this point, plates had been arranged neatly by the small dining table in the corner, and dinner was probably in the microwave heating up, while Oscar sat at the edge of the bed, utterly unaware that Max was already done.
Max tiptoes over to him, quietly amused, and sits down beside him before wrapping his arms around the Australian’s shoulders from behind. “Who are you chatting with?”
Oscar jumps a little, phone almost slipping from his hand, but upon realizing it was his partner, he leans into the other’s touch instantly, melting almost embarrassingly fast. “Just Zhou asking if I’m free tonight to go out, said I probably needed a celebration.”
“Are you going?” Max asks, his arms sliding down Oscar’s torso with slow, deliberate ease.
“I mean, I’m alright with going. But I want you there too.” Oscar shifts his phone to his other hand, thumb hovering over the screen. “I feel like it’s going to be awkward if I’m the only person there. So it’s either we go together or I tell him I’ll pass and we can do it on another night instead.”
Max does that face—the soft pout, the little furrow of his eyebrows, that only Oscar knew meant that he was thinking. He remembered reading a Twitter post years ago comparing him to a pufferfish, and honestly, they weren’t wrong. But Oscar found it endearing in a way he would never publicly admit (to save Max the embarrassment.)
“We can go,” Max finally decides, shoulders relaxing. “But I want to go cuddle first before we head out if that’s alright.” He scrunches his face into that soft little smile he pulled when he congratulated Oscar after a race, no matter the position. The one that said I love you without ever needing to say it out loud.
‘I’m good with that. Let’s eat already? I ordered your favorite, I think you deserve a treat after tonight.” Oscar quips, his smile widening as he stares at the tiny mole above Max’s upper lip, the one he always kissed first.
A pause settles between them, warm and quiet, Max staring right back at Oscar.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I might start to think that you’re falling in love with me, you know?” Max jests, a light chuckle slipping out despite his attempt to hold it back.
“And what if I was in love with you, what would you think?” Oscar fires back, grinning, in which Max scoffs playfully.
“I think that…” Max leans in closer, his breath brushing Oscar’s cheek, “you should kiss me before I change my mind.”
And with that, Oscar’s hands move like clockwork—one sliding to cup Max’s cheek, the other settling on his hip as he leans in and presses a kiss to Max’s lips.
The same feeling hits him over and over again, like muscle memory etched into bone. That flutter in his heart. The twist of something sweet in his stomach. The warmth in his cheeks from the proximity and the intimacy of it all.
He really was far gone for Max, huh? But then again, could you really blame him?
The kiss deepens naturally, a familiar routine by now. It goes from a soft peck, to Oscar slotting his tongue inside Max’s mouth, sucking on it just the way Max likes, eliciting a low, helpless moan from the older man.
It had been Max’s favorite, really. One where he hadn’t even known he liked before he and Oscar made out for the first time back in Oscar’s second year in Formula One. Back then, Max had kissed him like he was suddenly seventeen again, skittish and excited, except this time it always led to something better. Something much more real.
Oscar pulls away after a while, panting against Max’s lips. “Fuck, I want you bad.”
Max probably grinned like a maniac when he heard that, eyes darkening just a little. “How bad?” The tone of his voice was laced with something as strong as an aphrodisiac. At least that’s how it felt like to Oscar.
The Australian feels himself get hard in his shorts, “So bad… please, Max.” He pleads, voice cracking just slightly from desperation.
And then—
The microwave pings.
The shrill beeping cuts through the tension like a knife, and whatever stiffness there had been in their pants disappears just as quickly as their heads snap toward the appliance, which was beeping impatiently as if mocking them.
Well, so much for being cockblocked by a microwave.
Oscar sighs, a long and defeated exhale. And it must’ve been obvious just how disappointed he was, because Max starts caressing the younger man’s head the same way he would pet his cats, Jimmy and Sassy, soft and amused, giggling at the entire situation.
“We can still continue after dinner,” Max says, kissing his temple. “Or if we get back home later from the club. If you still have the energy, that is.”
Okay, so technically it wasn’t a no. Which was a relief. But now Oscar feels shy that Max noticed, cheeks heating up again, though he thinks… they really both needed this.
Noticing Oscar’s silence, likely too caught up in what just happened, Max shakes his head with a fond sigh and stands up from the bed. He takes the towel off his shoulders, neatly folds it, then tosses it over the lounge chair in the corner of the room.
“Let’s eat now,” Max says, sending Oscar a wink that feels like a promise, “so we have time to get ready after. Maybe have a quick one before we leave.”
He walks towards the microwave to take the containers out, leaving Oscar sitting there with a heart beating a little too fast, a smile tugging at his lips, and the distinct realization that tonight was far from over.
By now the clubbing hours had long passed; the music had faded into that strange early-morning silence that only exists around three in the morning. The world of Abu Dhabi seemed emptied, but inside the dim hotel room, a drunk, red-faced Oscar lay sprawled on the bed along with a very sober Max.
They were cuddled underneath the sheets of the king-sized bed, still dressed in their simple button-down shirts and dress pants—clothes fancy enough for a night out but not glamorous enough to be uncomfortable, though the sheets were absolutely wrinkling them beyond salvation.
Neither man cared. Comfort, right now, meant being wrapped up in each other.
Max’s earlier suggestion about continuing farther than a make out session had already been brushed aside with an unceremonious hum, and instead they had settled into the quiet intimacy of lying beneath warm covers.
The lingering glow of alcohol, exhaustion, and affection made the atmosphere soft around the edges, the kind of moment that made time feel unimportant. The room still smelled faintly of cologne, sweat, and the echoes of the club, but somehow, pressed against each other, none of that mattered.
“Comfy there? You might fall asleep, schatje,” the Dutch man murmured, his voice low and teasing. He was curled between Oscar’s arms, fitting perfectly, like this had always been where he belonged.
Oscar yawned at the mention of sleep, a small, tired sound escaping him. He hummed in agreement, the vibration of it warm against Max’s shoulder.
“I don’t think I’d mind that really,” he answered, his drunken sweet-talk slurring. He shifted lazily, nuzzling deeper into Max’s hair—that familiar, comforting scent of Max’s shampoo making him think, with the unfiltered honesty of a drunk man, that heaven probably smelled exactly like that.
Oscar reeked of alcohol. He was aware of that much in a detached, almost amused way and it was probably for the better that he showered. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not right now.
There was gravity in Max’s arms, something anchoring, something he didn’t want to let go of.
“Schatje, you’re going to be uncomfortable when you wake up if you don’t take a shower,” Max softly argued, though the tone betrayed more fondness than annoyance. His face was pressed up against Oscar’s neck, breath warm in his skin.
Oscar groaned, a pathetic, lazy sound that very clearly meant I know you’re right but please let me ignore you. Even drunk, even barely conscious, he could never bring himself to say no to Max when the older man asked something so gently. Especially when he knew Max always meant well—always meant him well.
But he wasn’t going to go down without negotiating something in return.
“Shower with me,” he mumbled, like the thought had just drifted into his head and immediately taken root there.
Max huffed a small laugh against his skin. “God, how much did you drink? I swear I kept an eye on you.”
Oscar grumbled, though the sound was closer to a pout than an actual complaint. “With me, or I’m not showering at all.”
“You’re so stubborn sometimes…” Max sighed, and though the tone was exasperated, his arm tightened around Oscar’s waist. He was exhausted, that much was obvious—even sober, three in the morning hit hard. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t secretly endeared by the clinginess Oscar developed when he was drunk.
It happened rarely, occasional glimpses like this where Oscar’s guard fell and something softer, sweeter peeked through.
Max cherished those moments. Every single time.
“Fine. Get your ass up. We’re showering together.”
Moving Oscar anywhere in his condition was a challenge. Dragging a drunk, uncooperative koala-man to the bathroom was something else entirely.
Max guided him with gentle insistence, hands at Oscar’s hips and shoulders, steering, steadying, preventing him from bumping into every piece of furniture like some drunken pinball.
In the bathroom, the harsh overhead light flickered to life, reflecting off the tiles and making Oscar squint. Max worked efficiently, though there was tenderness threaded through every motion. He stripped Oscar first, then himself, stacking their clothes neatly on the counter because he knew Oscar would complain later if his shirt had simply been tossed aside.
The shower’s steam quickly fogged the mirror, enclosing them in a small, warm cocoon. Max washed Oscar’s back for him with slow, circular motions, fingertips pressing lightly into sore muscles he knew Oscar would complain about tomorrow.
He washed Oscar’s hair too, massaging the shampoo into soft, tired curls while Oscar swayed half-asleep against the tiled wall, eyes closed, trusting every touch.
He even brushed Oscar’s teeth, guiding him through the motions like handling someone fragile, someone he wanted to protect simply for the sake of loving him.
It was adorable, genuinely. Oscar, always so independent, always insisting he could handle everything on his own—allowing Max to take care of him felt like witnessing the rare opening of a door usually kept locked. It made Max’s chest ache in the best way.
Oscar would thank him in the morning, Max was sure of it. Especially since they had Pirelli tire testing in the afternoon, and waking up sticky with alcohol and club sweat would’ve been a death sentence.
Throughout everything: the shower, drying off, brushing hair, stumbling back to the bed—Oscar clung to Max like a koala refusing to release a tree. Max laughed more than once, the sound echoing comfortably in the quiet room.
Back under the covers again, Max shifted slightly. “Oscar?”
“Hm?” The younger man hummed sleepily, already half-asleep but still somehow hearing Max’s voice through the haze.
“I love you.”
There was a pause.
“I love you too,” Oscar mumbled, instinctive and honest.
And suddenly the room didn’t feel tired anymore, it felt full.
Maybe not winning the championship was alright, Max thought as he watched Oscar drift into sleep again. Because there were victories that didn’t come with trophies, victories that felt like this: soft breaths against his collarbone, a warm body curled into his, and a reason to wake up the next morning that had nothing to do with racing.
Someone who made him feel like a winner every single day, in every small, quiet moment like this.