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The hotel room is too quiet.
Oscar is on the bed, elbows on his knees, fireproofs forgotten, the race lingering on him like sweat that can’t be washed off. Outside the window shines the city in uncaring gold and white, its traffic moving well, like his afternoon hadn’t. He didn't bother to close the curtains. He didn't think it would matter.
DNF
Letters weigh more now than when he had them transmitted to his ear. One mechanical malfunction, one wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly his entire weekend is condensed into a line on a results report and a set of questions he already knows the answers to.
How does this impact your confidence levels?
Are you feeling the heat racing against the likes of Verstappen, Leclerc—
Oscar takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d been holding that breath. He hadn’t even realised it.
His phone is buzzing on the bedside table. Not team messages, those were muted an hour ago. Media, fans, people analysing his race like it’s a puzzle they can solve better than he can. He doesn't open anything. He already knows what they’re saying.
Three years in Formula One and it’s like he’s loaning the car. As if at any moment, a tap on the shoulder will come and say, Ah, yeah, that was fun, but now the real deal needs to have a run.
Max. Lando. Charles. Lewis. Names spoken with reverence, with certainty. Drivers who seem carved from something stronger, sharper. Built for this in a way that Oscar sometimes isn’t sure he is.
He leant forward putting his elbows on his thighs and he stares at the carpet. There is a light stain around the entryway, probably from the edge of a suitcase. Stupid thing to hold on to, but it keeps his thoughts grounded.
Behind him, the door to the bathroom clicks softly.
Logan appears a moment later, his hair wet from his shower, his sleeves pushed up on his forearms. He surveys the room with one glance, the bed unwrinkled, the city lights shining, Oscar with his shoulders bearing the weight of the world.
He doesn’t speak right away.
He turns instead and glides across the room silently, coming to a stop right in front of him, close enough for Oscar to pick out the scent of the shampoo he used. Being near Logan is warm, substantial, tangible, nothing to do with headlines, comparisons, or doubts.
"Hey," Logan says softly.
Oscar looks up, his eyes weary and his jaw clenched. For a moment, it seems like he is going to shrug it off the way he always did, like everything is all right. Yet the silence is too palpable, and Logan knows him well enough.
“I didn’t even make it halfway,” Oscar says, his voice low. Flat. As if he’s reading it from a timing screen.
Logan's face remains unchanged. He is neither disappointed nor frustrated. He is merely concerned.
“I know,” he says.
And then, out of the blue, something in Oscar’s chest shifts, not enough to shatter, but to crack.
Logan moves closer, his knee nudging gently between Oscar’s, anchoring him without pushing his boundaries. He doesn’t pull back. If anything, he seems to press into the contact, his shoulders falling forward as if the weight has been shifted to somewhere else.
“It wasn’t even something I could fight,” Oscar continues after a moment. His fingers knot together tightly in his lap, knuckles turning white. “One minute everything was fine. Not great, but fine. And then it was just-” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It was just over.”
Logan lowers himself down on the bed in front of him and sits backwards so that his forearms are on the mattress and he's at eye level with Oscar. Logan is listening as he always listens, not to fix, but simply to hear.
“I mean, I just keep thinking about what it looks like,” Oscar admits. “To them, to the team. Another weekend where I don’t finish, and then it’s not just bad luck anymore, it’s… me.”
His forehead furrows, though he does not interrupt.
Oscar takes a shaky breath. “I’m racing against guys who make this seem inevitable. As if they always belonged here. Max, Lando, Charles—” His mouth tightens into a thin line. “They have bad races and suddenly no one wonders if they belong. I have one DNF and it’s about pressure, potential, and whether I’m meeting it.”
He laughs once, brief and unamused. “I don’t even know what it is anymore. The thing I'm supposed to be.”
Logan extends his hands, placing them over Oscar’s wrists, halting the agitated movement. His thumbs caress Oscar’s skin in a soothing gesture.
“You don’t have to be anything right now,” Logan whispers.
Oscar swallows. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
"I know."
The word lands heavy but kind. Logan does not try to argue with him. He simply accepts it.
Oscar’s shoulders move up and down as he takes a deep breath. “And sometimes I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s expectations. Like I was handed this suit, and people are waiting for me to grow into it.” He looks down at himself. “And what if I don’t?”
Logan doesn’t hesitate.
"Then you don’t," he says. "Simple. And that doesn’t make you a failure."
Oscar’s eyes flick up, as if searching for the catch.
‘You don’t want more?’ Oscar asks softly. "More from me?"
Logan’s grip becomes ever so slightly tighter. “No.. I just want you.”
Oscar exhales a breath that quivers on the edges. “What if I never win a championship?”
Logan lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Oz, I fell for you when we were nineteen and had to eat cold pasta on the floor of your apartment because the table hadn’t arrived yet. I fell for you whilst watching you go insane whenever you found TimTams in the UK. You think I had expectations of a world champion?”
This gets a small smile from Oscar despite himself.
“I don’t need a legacy,” Logan presses on, his voice unwavering. "I don’t need headlines or trophies or your name etched into history. I need the guy who forgets to eat when he’s stressed. I need the guy who gets embarrassed when the fans chant his name. I need the guy who still messages me after each session just to see how my day has been. I need the guy who always knows how to cheer me up, even when I'm feeling like the world is about to end. I just need you, Oscar Jack Piastri.”
Oscar's throat constricts
“I just want the man I chose,” Logan concludes softly. “The one I still choose. Every day.”
For an instant, Oscar can’t speak. He merely leans forward, his forehead pressed against Logan's shoulder, his fingers digging into his hoodie as if it's the only thing holding him up.
Logan wraps his arms around him, no hesitation, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Oscar’s head, holding him there. Safe, steady.
Life is happening outside. The world is asking questions and wanting things.
But here, in this room, Oscar finally allows himself to breathe.
They don’t move for a moment.
Logan stays where he is, his arms tight around Oscar, his own breaths coming slow and even as he seems to anchor them both in place. Oscar's face is pushed into his shoulder, the hoodie warm and slightly fragrant with a scent of soap. It gets a little easier with every breath, the knot in his chest unwinding.
Finally, Oscar changes his positions enough to rest his weight more comfortably against him.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice muffled
Logan tilts his head ever so slightly, his lips caressing the crown of Oscar’s head. "For what?"
Oscar shrugs weakly. "For… all of that."
Logan just pulls back far enough to look at him, his hand still resting at the nape of Oscar’s neck. His face is calm and unswerving. “You don’t have to apologise for being human,” he says.
This almost does him in again.
Logan pushes him gently with a nudge, encouraging him to sit up, then pulls him towards the bed. They settle back into their pillows, Oscar half-curled into his side, his head resting underneath Logan's chin. Logan's arm falls over him effortlessly, as if it's second nature.
Oscar looks at the ceiling for a moment before reaching over to turn his phone screen face down on the bedside table. The screen goes black. The sound ceases.
Logan notices but says nothing. He only squeezes Oscar’s shoulder in approval.
“Want to talk more?” Logan says after a long moment. “Or just… be?”
He considers it, his mind tuned to the steady pulse of Logan’s breathing. The world is far away, distant, muffled.
“Just be,” he whispers softly.
“Okay."
Logan's thumb is tracing slow, absent patterns on Oscar's arm. No need to hurry. No expectation of anything. Just the touch of comfort.
Minutes pass. Maybe more.
Oscar’s eyelids feel the weight of sleep pulling them down, the exhaustion of the weekend finally catching up with him now that he’s stopped fighting it. Just before sleep claims him, he moves closer.
"Thank you," he whispers.
Logan kisses his temple. It lingers. “Always.”
Oscar falls asleep first.
He stays awake a little while longer, watching the tension seep from Oscar's face, committing to memory the subtle rhythm of his chest rising and falling with each breath. Tomorrow will be debriefs and travel and questions and pressure all over again.
But tonight, Oscar is just Oscar.
And this has always been enough.
The morning comes with a quiet
The pale sunlight filters through the opening in the curtains, warming the edge of the bed and the legs tangled beneath the sheets. Oscar stirs, his eyes closed against the bright light, his head groggy for a moment until he is fully conscious of the arm lying across his waist, solid and real. Safe.
He changes position, trying not to disturb him, but Logan is almost awake, his eyes snapping open as Oscar moves.
“Hey,” Logan whispers, his voice raspy with sleep.
Oscar smiles slightly. “Hey.”
Logan’s eyes wander over him, slow and deliberate as if he’s assessing the worth of treasure rather than merely checking the time. He raises a hand and strokes his thumb across Oscar’s cheek, softly enough that Oscar’s chest throbs with pain.
"You okay?" asks Logan.
Oscar thinks about it. The race. The DNF. The noise waiting beyond the door.
"Yeah," he finishes finally. "I think… yeah."
Logan smiles at this, a gentle, confident smile.
He reaches to kiss Oscar's forehead, the edge of his mouth.
"I love you," Logan says softly. "Not the name on the timing screens. Not the man they put on posters." His forehead presses against Oscar’s. "Just you. My Oscar."
A warm, steady sensation settles in Oscar’s chest, grounding him. He breathes out, the tension he hadn’t realised was still present flowing away.
“I love you too,” he says back, just as softly.
The world outside is awakening, filled with headlines and legends.
But for a brief moment, Oscar remains right where he is, held, chosen, and loved exactly as he is.