Work Text:
Oscar had learned the rhythm of Max’s weekends before he learned how to breathe around him without feeling like his ribs were being gently pried apart.
On Fridays, Max arrived early to the paddock, usually before the sun was properly up, hair still a little damp from the shower, jacket pulled on crooked like he had dressed in the dark. He always carried two Red Bulls even though he only drank one, because he forgot, every single week, that the second was habit from when he used to share with teammates who woke later than he did.
Oscar always took that second drink without comment (even if he had to pour it in his water bottle and hide the empty can from prying cameras).
He told himself it was practical. He told himself it was efficient. He told himself that if he did not take it, Max would set it down somewhere and forget about it entirely, and then later complain about how caffeine never worked for him anyway. All of this was true. None of it explained the way Oscar’s chest warmed every time Max smiled at him in absent gratitude, already halfway through explaining something else.
Oscar was an alpha, and everyone knew it. The grid ran on that kind of knowledge, on the quiet awareness of who took up space and who bent around it. Oscar did not take up much space at all, unless Max was involved.
Then he found himself standing closer than necessary, shoulders squared just slightly when other alphas drifted near. Then he found himself listening harder, watching Max’s expression more closely, memorizing the way Max’s voice softened when he was excited and sharpened when he was tired.
Max was an omega, and everyone knew that too, but Max seemed determined to forget it most of the time.
He forgot to drink water. He forgot to eat. He forgot to take breaks when the noise and the people and the constant attention pressed in too close. He forgot that some looks lingered longer than friendly, that some questions were asked with an interest that had nothing to do with lap times or tire strategy.
Oscar remembered all of it for him.
He remembered to pass Max a bottle of water without making a fuss. He remembered to nudge a protein bar into Max’s hand while he was distracted mid-rant about downforce. He remembered to stand between Max and the loudest parts of the room, angling his body just enough that Max could lean without noticing that he was leaning at all.
Max leaned easily, trusting as breathing.
Oscar never commented on it.
The first time Oscar realized the jealousy was a real thing and not just a passing irritation, it was during a media day when Max was surrounded by other drivers, laughing bright and unguarded as always. Pierre and Carlos — two alphas — were talking to him at once, both bigger than Oscar, both smiling in that way that meant they were enjoying the attention more than the conversation.
Oscar watched from a few meters away, hands curled loosely at his sides, jaw tight.
He told himself that Max laughed like that with everyone. He told himself that Max was oblivious to posturing and subtext and all the quiet signals that alphas traded like currency. He told himself that there was no threat here, because Max was not looking at either of them the way Oscar looked at Max.
None of that stopped the low, unpleasant heat that settled in his chest.
One of the alphas leaned in too close, voice dropping, and Oscar moved without thinking.
He didn’t shove or glare or make a scene, no matter how much his hindbrain was aching to. He calmly stepped into the space like he belonged there, like it was natural for him to be at Max’s shoulder, one hand resting lightly against Max’s back as if to guide him away.
“Hey,” Oscar said, calm and polite and edged with something that made the other alphas straighten. “They’re looking for Max.”
Max blinked up at him, momentarily startled, then nodded. “Oh. Right. I forgot.”
Of course he had.
Max turned back to the others with an easy grin. “Catch you later, yeah?”
They watched him go.
Oscar felt their eyes on his back as he walked beside Max, hand still hovering just close enough to be reassuring without being possessive. He did not look back. He did not need to.
“You okay?” Max asked as they walked, brow faintly furrowed. “You’re quiet.”
Oscar swallowed. “I’m fine.”
Max accepted that immediately, because Max accepted almost everything Oscar gave him at face value.
That trust felt like a gift and a responsibility and a quiet ache all at once.
The thing about Max was that he never assumed anything. He never assumed attention meant desire or closeness meant ownership. He treated everyone with the same open warmth and unguarded honesty, and somehow never noticed when that warmth burned a little too hot in others.
Oscar noticed.
Oscar couldn’t stop noticing the way other alphas’ gazes tracked Max across the paddock. The way conversations lingered, the way shoulders squared and voices dropped. He noticed the subtle shifts in scent when interest turned sharper, more intent.
Oscar adjusted himself around it all like a shield.
Sometime in between learning the ropes of F1, how to handle the media and the training and the fans, he has also learned how to handle Max. He knew just when to step in and when to step back. One look told him when Max needed grounding and when he needed space. He learned the exact tone to use when redirecting attention without causing offense, the exact distance to stand that said unavailable without ever needing to say the word.
Max never asked him to do any of it.
That was the hardest part.
On race weekends, Oscar was always there first and last. He stayed when Max overworked himself, when stress and passion and expectations were so intertwined they couldn’t be separated. He stayed quiet during the moments Max needed quiet, and steady during the moments Max needed reassurance.
Sometimes Max would talk without looking at him, words tumbling out in a rush about strategy or frustration or a stupid press question that wouldn’t leave his mind. Oscar listened, really listened, storing every detail away like something precious.
When Max finally paused, breath hitching, Oscar would say something simple and grounding. Something true.
“The car is shit.”
“You’ll get it. You always do.”
“They’re fucking idiots.”
(Oscar had found that blunt and honest worked better than the sweet, gentle empathy that he was used to awkwardly fumbling through whenever a friend was upset.)
Max always relaxed at that, shoulders dropping, scent smoothing out into something softer and calmer. He never questioned why Oscar’s presence did that.
One evening, after a particularly long day, Max slumped down beside Oscar on the steps outside the motorhome, exhaustion written into every line of his body. The sun was setting, painting the paddock in gold and shadow.
Max leaned sideways, shoulder pressing into Oscar’s arm. Oscar froze for half a second, then forced himself to relax, to let it happen naturally. His body curled just slightly around the contact, protective without being possessive.
“You smell nice,” Max said absently, eyes closed. “Calm.”
Oscar’s breath caught.
“That’s probably the soap,” he said carefully.
Max hummed, unconvinced but unbothered. “Still. It helps.”
Oscar stared out at the fading light, heart pounding far too loud for such a quiet moment.
If Max ever realized what he did to Oscar just by existing like this, by trusting him so completely, Oscar thought he might actually combust.
The jealousy never went away. It flared when other alphas laughed too easily with Max, when they stood too close or touched too casually. It simmered low and steady when cameras caught moments Oscar wished were private, when the world seemed intent on taking pieces of Max without understanding how precious they were.
Oscar never let it turn sharp.
Instead, he turned it into vigilance, and the quiet promise that as long as he was there, Max would never be alone in a room full of people.
Max, for his part, remained blissfully unaware.
He talked about other drivers with the same fond neutrality he used for everyone. He complained about alphas being annoying without ever realizing Oscar was carefully positioning himself so that Max rarely had to deal with them directly.
He never noticed how Oscar’s world had subtly reorganized itself around him.
It was only much later, on a night when the paddock was quiet and the air was cool, that Max finally looked at Oscar properly. They were sitting together again, shoulders touching, and Max turned his head, studying Oscar’s face with a curiosity that felt different.
“You’re always here,” Max said slowly. “You know that, right?”
Oscar met his gaze, heart in his throat. “Yeah.”
Max smiled, soft and thoughtful. “I like that.”
The words settled between them like a warm blanket on a cold night.
Oscar did not move. Although part of him was tempted to close the space between them and press his lips to Max’s, he would never take that choice from the omega. That chance for Max to figure it out on his own, to come to his own conclusions about why exactly Oscar was so different from the other alphas. Instead, Oscar stayed, as he always had, steady and patient and completely, hopelessly devoted.
If Max ever decided to notice, he would be right there.
And if he never did? Well— Oscar would still drink the extra Red Bull, still stand at his shoulder, still care for him. Loving Max, like this, was already enough.