Work Text:
The notifications are piling up before Oscar is even out of the cooldown room.
New post from McLaren Formula 1 Team: THAT’S P2 FOR LANDO!! 🧡
New post from Max Verstappen: YES!!! Incredible weekend for us, let’s keep the momentum going 🏆
New message in THE BOYS group chat: Club tonight lads
New message in THE BOYS group chat: Max’s treat yeah?
New message in THE BOYS group chat: nah mate everyone knows winners drink for free
Oscar mutes every single one.
He keeps his face neutral through the debrief. Keeps his voice level when he says, “Yeah, T1 was… unfortunate.” Keeps himself from saying fucking Lance Stroll, fucking damage, fucking worst pit stop of the season.
He had started P2.
He had watched it evaporate before he even finished the first lap.
And then the stop. The stupid, stuttering, endless stop. Lando’s had been lightning. Oscar’s had felt like an eternity. He’d come out swallowed by traffic and never clawed it back.
P9.
He tells everyone he’s fine. He even almost sounds like he believes it.
By the time he’s back in the hotel room, the energy under his skin has nowhere to go. He paces, feet smacking over every inch of the large room. From the window to the door. From the door to the bed. He presses his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them. He tugs at the hem of his shirt. His fingers hover near his mouth, biting once at his nails, before he forces them away.
His thighs itch with the urge to dig his nails in. His shoulders feel like they’re buzzing. His thoughts won’t settle, ricocheting like the metal off his fucking car when Stroll made contact.
P2 to P9. Lando on the podium. Max winning. Everyone celebrating.
Max.
Oscar exhales shakily and sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing one knee so hard the expensive mattress creaks. He assumes Max is already at some stupidly expensive club, champagne in hand, grin sharp and satisfied.
He deserves it.
P1.
Oscar doesn’t want to be the clingy boyfriend who can’t handle a bad race. He doesn’t want to ruin Max’s night by admitting that his skin feels like it’s crawling off his body.
He stands again. Paces some more.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts, and Oscar is so surprised that he doesn’t react at first. No one should be here. With Lando and his tenuous sleep schedule, both McLaren and hotel staff alike are briefed not to come near their hotel rooms unless explicitly requested. Oscar wonders suddenly, irrationally, that it’s a fan who found his hotel room.
There’s another knock. Firmer. Irritated.
He crosses the room too quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet, and yanks the door open.
Max is standing there, arms crossed over his chest, still in team kit, jaw tight. “You left the track without me?” he says.
Oscar blinks. “You— you were busy.”
Max frowns deeper. “Busy doing what?”
“Media. Celebrating. Lando—” Oscar gestures vaguely, already retreating a step. “I figured you’d go out. There’s like six group chats about it.”
Max looks at him like he’s just said something incomprehensible. “I told them maybe,” Max says. “I thought we were going back together.”
Oscar’s knee starts bouncing again. He hooks his foot behind his ankle to try and stop it. It doesn’t work. “I didn’t want to—” He swallows. “You won.”
“And?” Max snaps, stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind him. “You think that means I don’t come back with you?”
Oscar’s hands are twitching now. He shoves them into the pockets of his shorts. “It’s fine, Max. You can go. I’m just—” He doesn’t finish. His breathing stutters, shallow and uneven.
Max’s irritation shifts instantly. He steps closer. “Hey.”
Oscar shakes his head like he can physically shake off the feeling. “I’m fine.”
“You’re vibrating,” Max says flatly.
Oscar lets out a strained laugh that isn’t funny at all. “Yeah, well.”
Max’s eyes flick down, catching the way Oscar’s fingers are digging into his own thighs through the fabric. He reaches out and stills Oscar’s hands, firm but careful. “No,” Max murmurs.
Oscar’s shoulders tense. “I’m not—”
“I know.” Max’s voice softens. “But you were going to.” Oscar has scratched at his legs since he was a kid, a nervous stim that neither his parents nor his teachers could get him to quit.
The room feels too big. Too loud. Even in silence.
Oscar’s chest tightens. “I can’t—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I can’t calm down.”
Max studies him for half a second, before he nudges him backward toward the bed. “Lie down.” Oscar doesn’t argue. He crawls onto the mattress on his back, staring up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for something terrible to happen.
Max kicks off his shoes and climbs up after him.
For a heartbeat, he just looks at Oscar.
Just as Oscar is getting nervous, Max lowers himself carefully, stretching out over him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Thighs slotting between Oscar’s. One arm sliding under his shoulders, the other braced beside his head. Full weight. Pressure everywhere.
Oscar’s breath leaves him in a rush.
Max adjusts slightly, settling more firmly. “Better?”
Oscar nods immediately. Then, because Max always makes him use words, he forces out, “Yes.”
Max hums, satisfied, and lets himself relax fully, solid and warm and heavy. His chin rests near Oscar’s collarbone. His heartbeat is steady. Oscar’s hands hover uncertainly before sliding up Max’s back, gripping into the fabric of his shirt. The buzzing under his skin dulls. The sharp edges soften.
Max shifts just enough to press his cheek against Oscar’s chest. “You think I care about a club?” he mutters.
Oscar’s fingers curl tighter. “You won.”
“I know,” Max says. “I was there.” Oscar huffs a weak breath that might be a laugh. Max squeezes him slightly, a subtle increase in pressure. “I wanted to come back with you.”
Oscar swallows. “I thought you’d rather celebrate.”
“I am celebrating.” Max’s voice is dry. “This is much better than a shitty American club.”
Despite everything, Oscar snorts. The last of the frantic energy seeps out of him, replaced by something heavy and grounded and safe. His legs stop twitching. His hands stop clawing.
He can breathe again.
“I hate bad races,” Oscar mumbles into Max’s hair.
“I know.”
“I was P2.”
“I know.”
“Fucking Stroll.”
Max makes an emphatic noise of agreement.
They lie there in silence for a while. The world outside the hotel room can do whatever it wants. Champagne can pop. Music can thud. Photos can be posted.
Max’s weight doesn’t move.
Oscar’s eyes drift closed.
“You’re not going out?” he asks quietly.
Max shifts just enough to press a brief kiss to the base of Oscar’s throat—soft, grounding, nothing showy.
“No,” Max says. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”