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Chapter Text

Ideally, he had wanted to do this in Monaco. 

Had he already had like five chances before Monaco to do this before? Yes. But Charles hadn't seemed to have too many good races and he didn't really want to be a bother on top of that so he'd let it be.

But Charles seemed happy today. He even sprayed him first with the champagne, chasing him with it. That gave Oscar a bit of hope.

He didn't win last week but that hadn't deterred Oscar. He was leading the World Drivers' Championship for fuck’s sake, he can ask out Charles Leclerc if he wants to.

So he did. Invited him to watch the Indy 500 at his place. But Ferrari cockblocked him.

Fucking Ferrari.

So he had a mission for this week. Sure, winning would extend his championship lead, whatever. His main aim was the Winner's Room. He had put this off long enough, he's waited enough, mostly due to his own hesitance but whatever.

So when there was a knock on his driver's room door after the podium, he opened it with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Congratulations on your race win, Mr. Piastri,” Laura, the very nice FIA representative greets him. She's greeted him like four times already this season, and each of the four times she's gotten the same response to her question. Yet, since she is obligated to, she begins with her practiced monologue.

“As the winner of today's Grand Prix, you are being given the access to the winner's room, which you can invite any driver of your choice to. If the driver you choose accepts your offer then their team will be awarded three points. In case the driver of your choice rejects your request then you can request for another driver. Do you have a driver in mind?”

Did he now?

Yes he absolutely did.

“Um, Charles Leclerc?”

It’s the first time this season that, after her Winner’s Room monologue, Laura has gotten a response from Oscar which isn’t a no, thank you. So, her surprise is understandable.

“Oh. You do have an answer this time.”

“Yeah. That a problem?”

“Oh no, not at all. Let me see if I actually brought the Winner’s Room agreement papers this time hold on,” she says as she starts rifling through the folder in her hands.

“You don’t have the papers?”

“Well, you’ve always said no.”

“I haven’t always said no, Laura. I did ask for someone twice last season.”

“It was your own teammate and it was your team getting the points. The whole agreement could’ve been a WhatsApp text. Aha!” she exclaims as she finds the agreements. “I’ll go ask Leclerc and then get back to you. You just need to sign right here.” She hands Oscar a pen and Oscar signs on the dotted line. After she leaves, he goes and waits patiently on the bed in the very suggestively set up hotel suite. There’s a gift basket with flavoured lube and condoms for crying out loud.

The clock ticks by and Oscar waits patiently. Part of him wonders if Charles just rejected him again. But if he had then Laura would’ve been back by now asking for his second choice. So, the fact that Laura isn’t back yet must mean something. He flops onto the bed, getting his phone out. He scrolls through his Twitter timeline, past tweets about his performance today, most of them about Max’s crashout towards the last few laps, and some about him and Charles on the podium.

In fact, there were a lot of tweets about him and Charles from over the weekend. The picture where they look like they’re both judging someone, a screenshot of Oscar laughing at something Charles said during the drivers parade, a clip of them spraying champagne on each other, and some of them exchanging looks in the post-race press conference. 

All of them talking about how evident it is that Oscar wants Charles.

Well shit. He’s really not being subtle, is he?

Sometimes he wishes he actually was as emotionless as the media love to make him out to be, but in reality he can’t even mask a stupid crush.

He groans out loud, dragging a hand over his face. He’s had a plan for weeks now but something or the other keeps getting in the way. He’s twenty-four fucking years old for God’s sake, he should be able to ask a man out without issues. But no. 

The soft whirring of the mechanical lock of the door pulls Oscar out of his thoughts. He turns his head to watch as Charles walks inside, looking freshly showered. On meeting Oscar’s eyes he gives him a smile and Oscar feels like he’s thirteen and experiencing his first ever crush.

“Congratulations, race winner.”

Maybe Oscar does have a praise kink because that goes straight to his dick. He quickly sits up, shifting his legs so he can maybe preserve some of his dignity by not giving away just how desperate he is immediately.

“Thanks. Congrats on the podium.”

“Thank you, Oscar.”

Okay so maybe the French accent is very attractive, Oscar thinks.

He doesn’t have to invite Charles to take a seat, the other driver just drops onto the bed next to Oscar like he’s always been there. Oscar quietly watches Charles’ profile as the other man looks around the room. The people on the internet really weren’t lying when they were talking about how pretty Charles is.

“They haven’t changed much in this room since last year,” Charles mentions casually. It takes Oscar a while to catch what he just said.

“Wait, last year?”

“Yeah. When Max won,” Charles replies. “They book the same room to be the Winner’s Room every year, so, I’ve been here a few times.”

“Few times?” Oscar asks, failing to maintain a level of nonchalance in his voice.

“Yeah.”

And really, Oscar shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of people would want Charles in their Winner’s Rooms, that’s obvious. A curious part of Oscar does want to know how many times, though.

“What other rooms have you seen?”

Charles leans back on his arms, head tilted just slightly as he seemingly tries to recall the other times. “I think, all of them?”

Oscar blinks. “All?”

“Yeah. 2023 was a particularly busy year.”

Oscar immediately knows what it means and he tries to ignore the ugly pang of jealousy he's suddenly started to feel at the bottom of his stomach. He shouldn’t pry, it really isn’t his place to ask, but he so badly wants to know.

“So, you’ve only shared the Winner’s Room with Max, then?”

Charles looks at him, his expression unreadable, and Oscar fears he might’ve crossed a line. But then, Charles smirks.

“I didn’t take you for the jealous kind, Piastri.”

“Oh, I—I’m not—” Oscar stammers, making Charles laugh.

“Relax. You’re just curious, yes?”

Oscar breathes out. “Yeah.”

“Well, it isn’t just Max.”

That should be answer enough for Oscar, really. But the worm inside his brain desperately wishes for more answers. Charles notices.

“You want to know who else.” It’s not even a question. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though. It’s fine,” Oscar is quick to add.

Charles shakes his head. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. To be honest it’s a pretty impressive list.”

That intrigues Oscar. “Who all are on this list?”

The slow build of confidence in Oscar makes Charles smile. “So far it’s been mainly Max, Lewis, and Sebastian.”

Oscar slowly nods, agreeing that it is an impressive list, before realising that it’s only three people with one thing very clearly in common between them.

“Wait, so you’ve only slept with the world champions on the grid?”

Charles grins, then nods.

Well, that puts some pressure on Oscar.

“And what about the times when you have won?”

“Depends on the situation of the team at the time. Sometimes I pick one out of these three—well, until Sebastian was on the grid. Now it's just down to two. Otherwise I would just pick my teammate so the team gets some extra points."

“So, Carlos is also on the list?”

“Yeah. But he’s not that impressive, is he?”

Not that impressive. Oscar doesn’t miss the true meaning behind the statement.

He’s not a World Champion.

Oddly, that’s great motivation for Oscar.

“So you only sleep with World Champions?” Oscar asks, feeling a little brave.

“You could say so,” Charles replies, the cockiness evident in his voice. It's one of the things Oscar admires the most about him, how he's so sure of himself but to the world he still appears like he's modest and humble. It's not like he's tried to hide it, the world just sees him that way.

“What made you accept my invitation then?” Oscar asks then, because he has to know. He has to know whether Charles being here means that he sees him as someone worthy of his time, or if this night is going to be more or less of a performance review, if you will.

If you become World Champion, you can have him, and he probably won't refuse you, his brain supplies. Oscar can't seem to be able to get that fact out of his brain. 

Charles raises an eyebrow, still leaning on his arms, “You're not happy with just the fact that I said yes?”

Oscar shakes his head no. Charles gives him an impressed smile. He leans in just a little, not too close. Just enough to breach the borders of Oscar's personal space.

“This is why I like you, you know,” he says, voice low and slow like honey. “You don't just want to win. You also want to know how you did it so that you can keep doing it again and again.”

Oscar feels seen. He roughly swallows as Charles' eyes rake over him, almost like a prey being assessed. “That turns you on?” Oscar asks, feeling bolder all of a sudden. It seems to go over well with Charles.

“Yeah. It does.” Charles leans in a little closer then as Oscar tries to hold on to his cool. Everything in him is screaming to let go. To just listen and follow and let himself be guided, but he has a reputation to maintain. He's a race winner today for God's sake, and he's leading the world championship. 

He feels the first brush of Charles' hand over his cheeks and shudders ever so slightly.

Screw his reputation.

“I like my men competent, you know?” Charles whispers, lips ghosting over the shell of Oscar's ear. Oscar's eyes flutter close momentarily before he reminds himself that he must keep them open. If he gets this only one time, he better savour every bit of it the best he can. If he has to jerk off to the memories of this night for the rest of his life then he'd rather make sure he can burn these memories to the back of his mind in 4K UHD.

Charles is suddenly very close, Oscar realises when he fully opens his eyes again. There's a hand resting over his bicep, another slowly moving up his thigh. Oscar's interest in the whole situation is very apparent now so, no chance of playing it cool anymore.

“Eager, aren't you?” 

Oscar does not whimper, because he is a grown man. He does not whimper, because he has some shred of dignity still left.

But then Charles' fingers brush right over the crease of his thigh, way too close to his crotch, and a whimper escapes his lips involuntarily. He immediately drops his head in shame.

“Non, mon beau. Let me hear you, come on.”

Fucking French. It'll be the death of Oscar. He can practically picture the engraving on his tombstone: Here lies Oscar Piastri, victim of pretty Monegasques and their accents.

He feels hands trailing up, towards the waistband of his pants, slowly. His eyes close in anticipation, he doesn't dare try to look up. But then the hand on his thighs is gone and he feels it against his jaw instead.

“This won't work if you don't look at me, cheri.” 

Okay. Yeah. Well, fuck. 

Don't get him wrong, Oscar would love nothing more than to look at Charles with his full permission. It's just that, if he does look at Charles' face for too long, his performance might end up not being all that satisfactory. And he's up against World Champions, he can't have that.

But then Charles tilts his head up and Oscar just goes easily because how could he not.

“Something wrong?” 

Charles' face is very close to him now, right in front of his eyes. He can practically count the faint freckles that dot his cheeks, acquired from spending hours in the sun. Oscar imagines it for a second, Charles in the sun. He grew up in Monaco, by the coast. You could tell by looking at him, or maybe it was just Oscar being a little overdramatic. Either way, the beauty shone through like the shine of the setting sun over the ocean. Oscar wonders if he'll ever get to see Charles in that way.

“You're really pretty,” Oscar chokes out with minor difficulty. The difficulty being a momentary lapse in his brain causing him to forget words in his first language. To his credit though, Charles smiles. 

“Thank you, mon cher. You are very pretty too.”

“No.”

“No?”

Why did he even say that?

“I meant that, you're pretty. I'm not pretty like you,” Oscar corrects himself. Charles' lips turn into a slight frown at that.

“Don't say that. Of course you're pretty.”

“No, I mean—”

“Do you not want to be called pretty?”

The blush on his cheeks gives him away before he can find a way to lie through it. Charles grins. “That's what I thought.”

One moment Charles is looking into Oscar's eyes with an intensity that could burn a hole through, the next, his thighs are bracketing Oscar's as he hovers just above him. Not touching yet.

“You know what I think?” 

Oscar doesn't answer, just stares.

“I think that you just want someone to tell you how pretty you are. Is that right?” Charles' lips ghost right above Oscar's jaw and he feels a light touch, barely there. Oscar nodded truthfully. “Good.”

The first contact of lips on skin had Oscar slightly tilting his head, already wanting more. But Charles' hand kept him in place as he made his way down his throat, slowly pressing kisses, sucking along the skin hard enough to leave light bruises—nothing that couldn't be covered up with some concealer. A part of Oscar's brain wished he would leave more permanent marks.

There's a light scrape of teeth by his collarbone as a hand slides under his shirt, and Oscar's hands fly up to Charles' waist, trying to pull him down onto his lap. Charles immediately pulls away.

“Uh, uh. Hands to yourself, pretty boy. Or I stop completely,” Charles warns.

“No. Please,” Oscar whimpers, his hands going back to where they were. The immediate obedience makes the corners of Charles' lips curl up.

“Good boy,” he whispers right into Oscar's ear. Oscar almost blacks out right then and there. He lets Charles continue with his ministrations, sitting back as he gently nips and kisses Oscar's skin. Their shirts disappear at some point, Oscar can't remember when—not that he's complaining. 

Charles’ hands wander lower till he reaches the waistband of Oscar’s pants. He pulls on the drawstring, tapping Oscar’s hips twice so he lifts them up. There is an absence of contact for maybe ten seconds while Charles gets rid of his own jeans, and Oscar makes a mournful noise at that. It is simply ten seconds too long. It makes Charles chuckle.

“I’m right here, cheri.”

“Too far,” Oscar pouts. The sad pout works because then Charles is back in his space, gently pushing him back and onto the bed.

“Is this close enough?” Charles asks with his body practically laying on top of Oscar’s. And Oscar nods so hard that if he hadn’t already been an F1 driver, his neck would be screwed. “You’re so sweet, darling. Are you always this sweet?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Because on track you seem very different.”

“That’s racing,” he says, as if trying to justify his actions.

Charles hums, tracing the side of Oscar’s face with gentle fingers. “That’s one of the things I like most about you, you know?”

“What?”

“That you can fight on track. That you are the same way that you described me as. Aggressive.”

“You like that I’m aggressive?”

“On track, yes. Because here, under me, you are just soft and sweet, aren’t you? You don’t have anything to prove here, no one else to please but me. Isn’t that right?”

Oscar’s throat feels dry though he is practically salivating at the sight in front of him. He weakly croaks out a noise of agreement while a part of his brain tries to understand why exactly did he just fall into Charles’ control the moment he got his hands on him. It’s not like him, he’s never been like this with anyone else. Yet, it doesn’t feel wrong. On the contrary, he feels like he’s right where he belongs, where he’s meant to be.

Maybe this is what will set him apart from all the other World Champions, too arrogant to let Charles truly shine. Oscar can be that for him, he can be the one who will let Charles be the winner in every scenario. And if he needs to win all the rest of the races to make sure of that, then so be it. Lando and McLaren be damned, he was going to win this shit to win Charles.

He feels Charles cupping his dick through his boxers, relishing the noises it gets out of Oscar. Oscar drops his head against the pillows as Charles slowly peels his boxers off, teasing him in the process. Charles’ lips are back on his neck, his jaw, working their way down his chest. That’s when Oscar realises—he still hasn’t kissed Charles.

Yes, he has Charles—a very naked and glowing Charles—on top of him right now, giving him his full attention in a way that’s making Oscar feel like he’s floating, and yet, he hasn’t been kissed. And what a devastating realisation it is.

He thinks about bringing this issue to Charles’ attention, seeing how urgently it needs to be addressed. It may be a little whiny of him but come on, he’s been so good so far. Also, he won today, so he'd argue he does deserve a kiss. But right as he opens his mouth to ask, Charles grinds his ass right over his dick and the words in his throat come out as a groan instead.

“Charles,” he says when he eventually gets his voice back.

“Hm?”

“Can I…um…” Hearing the slight hesitation in his voice, Charles pulls back.

“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice laced with genuine concern. It almost makes Oscar want to cry, and he has no idea where that is coming from.

“You, umm. You haven’t…kissed me yet.”

Charles’ brows scrunch in confusion. “I’ve been kissing you since I got here basically.”

“No, I mean, yes, you have—and I’ve been enjoying it very much—but you haven’t kissed me…properly.”

“Properly?”

Oscar’s face is red as the colour wrapped on Charles’ Ferrari. “On…on my lips.” 

Oscar is definitely going to combust if he’s to go by the ways his entire face is heating up. Charles’ face is hanging over him, the light from the ceiling behind him almost making a halo around"d his head. And if Oscar were a little more drunk, he would believe he had died and somehow frauded his way into heaven.

Charles hasn’t said anything yet, and Oscar’s brain runs to conclusions faster than his MCL39. Maybe he messed this up, maybe he should’ve just waited for Charles to get to kissing him, maybe Charles doesn’t do kisses in Winner’s Rooms—it would make sense. Shit, Oscar has definitely fucked this up now. They were having a moment and he just went and broke it because he was feeling needy and now Charles will probably leave and Oscar will have messed up his chance again and—

Charles is smirking. He doesn’t look mad or annoyed or any of those things. He’s smirking.

“Oh, mon beau. Tu es si gentil.”

Oscar understands some of the words—’beautiful’ and ‘sweet’. It makes him blush harder.

“I’ve been doing all this and turns out the only thing you’re aching for is a kiss.”

Well, Oscar wouldn’t say it’s the only thing he’s aching for, but it will be a nice addition. He’s about to convey the same to Charles when he sees him lean in, moving right in the direction of his face. 

Finally.

Oscar’s eyes fall shut in anticipation. He’s waiting to feel the press of warm lips against his own in the next couple of seconds. He does feel a warm pair of lips, but they land right at the corner of his mouth, his own lips left cold and untouched.

“Charles,” he whines. And Charles laughs cruelly.

“I’m sorry, darling. You’ll get your kiss, I promise. But on one condition.”

At this point, Oscar would sign his car over to Charles if he asked for it. “What?”

“All you have to do is lie back looking pretty, hands to yourself, while I ride you.” Oscar feels his breath hitch. “Can you do that?”

It is borderline torture to have to keep his hands to himself during all this. He would much rather prefer that he gets to touch Charles. If he’s being honest, he's expected to do a lot more touching tonight than what he’s gotten to do so far, though he’s not entirely displeased with the events of the evening.

He thinks the proposition over in his head, mentally weighing out the pros and cons. Ultimately, the pros of having Charles ride him along with the promise of a kiss at the end severely outweighs the cons of not getting to touch him. Maybe Oscar is a little pathetic, but who cares.

“Yes,” he answers. Simple and short.

“Merci, mon gentil garçon.”

Oscar doesn’t really get any warnings before Charles lowers himself on his dick. Slowly, then all at once.

“Oh, fuck.”

Oscar feels like he’s got his breath knocked out of his lungs. His hands instinctively move to settle on Charles’ hips, but they get pinned in place by Charles’ hand.

“No touching, baby. I thought we agreed.”

“Yes. Sorry. No touching,” Oscar repeats dumbly. Charles gives him a satisfied hum before lifting his hips and slamming back down with equal vigor. The sensation is maddening and Oscar wonders how the hell is Charles even able to take him like this, which reminds him—

“You—I didn’t prep you. Doesn't it hurt?” 

“I’m okay, cheri. I prepped already.”

Oscar wonders if he blacked out for a while in the middle or something because he does not remember seeing Charles finger himself.

“But, when?”

“Before I came here,” Charles answers. “Why do you think I took so long?”

Oscar’s brain then conjures up a sinful image of Charles laying on his hotel bed, fingering himself open for Oscar. His imagination luckily gets paired with Charles rolling his hips just right, and a loud moan tears from his throat.

He’s not so sure how long he can go without touching.

“Charles. Charles, can I touch you, please.”

Charles slows his movements down just a little. “I thought you agreed to no touching, sweetheart.”

“Yes, I know but—fuck—I really need to touch you.” Oscar blinks his eyes open, unsure of when he even closed them. The sight that greets him is one out of his wildest wet dreams. He might be over-exaggerating just a bit but he truly feels like he might’ve won the championship already. 

He desperately needs to get his hands on Charles, so he tries again. “Please, Charles. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?” He even pouts, makes himself look as sad and pitiful as possible. “Charlie, please.”

Oscar had entered this room with all of his dignity intact, heightened by the recent race win. But as the time has passed, his dignity seems to have diminished exponentially. He’s not even sure if he has any left anymore. But Goddammit, he needs to get his hands on Charles one way or the other.

His sort of puppy eyes seem to work on Charles. With a softer expression than he’s had all night he says, “Okay. If you’re good, I’ll let you touch me. But,” he lifts a finger to make his point clear, “you will not touch me until I say you can. Can you follow that much, mon cher?”

Oscar figures it’s the best deal he’s going to get without pushing his luck too hard. “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

And then Charles really picks up the pace, putting both of his hands on Oscar’s chest to get some leverage. It’s getting really hard for Oscar to keep his hands above his head, especially since Charles is no longer holding them back either. But he promised to be good, so he will be good.

Charles’ rhythm starts to falter just a little as his breathing gets more erratic, moans falling more freely from his mouth. His hair is damp with sweat, the curls bouncing every with every move, and Oscar isn’t sure how much longer he can last.

“Are you close?” he asks. And to his absolute joy, Charles replies,

“Yes,” followed by, “Touch me.”

Oscar’s hands are on Charles before he’s even finished his sentence. He can tell Charles is getting tired, his thighs shaking with the effort. So he digs his fingers into Charles’ hips, selfishly hoping to leave bruises there that will last. He thrusts upwards and Charles lets out a strangled sound, falling forward. Oscar keeps up his movements, punching out a litany of curses and Oscars from Charles’ mouth. It is the best sound Oscar could’ve hoped to hear.

When Charles finally comes, he does so with Oscar’s name in his mouth. Spent from the orgasm, he tries to hold himself up with his arms on either side of Oscar’s head. Oscar slows down his thrusts . He’s still painfully hard but he's rather not hurt Charles with the oversensitivity. He can get off later, not like he's gonna need much help anyway. 

He opens his mouth to ask Charles if he wants him to pull out when his hands come up to cup Oscar’s face.

And then he kisses him, long and deep. Oscar moans into his mouth as he comes.

They stay like that, foreheads pressed together, trying to catch their breath, for a while. Oscar doesn’t know how much time has passed. All he knows is that he feels good and safe and happy.

Charles is the first one to pull away, slowly climbing off Oscar’s lap. He carefully slides off the bed, almost stumbling because of how wobbly his legs feel, and makes his way to the basket kept by the bed. He returns to the bed with wet wipes in hand. Oscar smiles on seeing him and tries to get up so he can maybe help, but Charles lies him back down with a gentle shake of his head.

He stays till both him and Oscar have cleaned up and showered—separately, much to Oscar’s chagrin. He makes sure Oscar has had enough water, even making sure that he has the protein bar that was given in the basket. The FIA people really do think of everything. 

He stays long enough that Oscar regains most of his senses, which also reminds him of another thing he's meant to ask.

“Charles?”

“Yeah?”

He’s still eating his protein bar. There is a little bit of chocolate smudged around his lips. Oscar isn’t sure if he’s allowed to wipe it away, so he doesn’t.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

Okay, Oscar. You can do this. He’s agreed to your Winner’s Room request already, this shouldn’t be too hard. “I was wondering if you’d let me take you out to dinner some time?” There. He’s done it. “Somewhere around Monaco when we’re both home.”

The hum of the air conditioner is pretty prominent in the silence. Charles chews on his protein bar, his eyes trained on Oscar’s face. He doesn’t answer right away, but his facial expression doesn’t change either.

Once he’s done chewing his protein bar, he swallows. And then, he smiles. Oscar can see his dimples. He oddly wants to poke them with his fingers.

“Were you so impressed that you’re asking me out on a date?” Charles sounds amused. Shit, does he think Oscar is joking?

“No. It’s not like that,” Oscar clarifies. “I’ve wanted to ask you out long before…before this.” Charles blinks. “I tried last week too but it didn’t really work so I thought,” Oscar exhales, acutely aware of how stupid he’s about to sound, “I thought I’d ask you to the Winner’s Room and then after I’ll ask you out. Properly.”

The hum of the air conditioner is back again. Then,

“So, you do this often with the people you invite to your Winner’s Rooms?”

“What?”

“Ask them out on dates later.”

Oscar's eyes go wide in panic. “No. No—Oh my God, no. I don't always do this—I haven’t even asked for anyone this entire season, I swear, you’re the only one I’ve asked for—I really don’t do this always, Charles. Trust me, I’m—”

The rest of his words get cut off when Charles pulls him in for a kiss. To his credit it is a wonderful way to stop Oscar’s head from spiraling.

“I was just messing with you, relax,” Charles chuckles softly when he pulls away. He lets go of Oscar’s shirt and goes back to fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar.

Oscar gives it five seconds before he asks, “So?”

“Hm?”

“Will you go out with me?”

Charles looks like he’s thinking it over, which Oscar takes as a good sign. 

“How about you win a couple more races?” Charles answers after all of his pondering. “I do have a very impressive list. Wouldn’t want to mess it up, you know?”

Oscar knows he’s teasing. He knows how much these drivers love winning. He knows how much Charles loves winners. 

“So, if I win the next couple of races, you'll go out with me?”

There’s a smug grin on Charles’ face. “I think my time is worth more than just a couple of race wins, non?” He leans in, face inches away from Oscar’s. “Try and win the championship. Then maybe I’ll see about that date.”

And with that, Charles gets up, gives him a quick kiss, and leaves. No goodnight, no goodbye. 

Charles didn’t go out with anyone less impressive than an F1 World Champion. WIn the championship, he made it clear.

And if a world championship is all that Oscar needed to get Charles, so be it.

Chapter Text

Two race weekends it had been now.

Two races where Oscar did not win. One of them, he wasn’t even on the damn podium.

Try and win the championship. Then maybe I’ll see about that date. Charles’ words hadn’t left Oscar’s mind since that night. And really, he was doing everything he could. But last week, Lando crashed into him towards the end of the race. This week, Lando took pole and Oscar had to satisfy himself with a measly P2.

He was the first loser. And he couldn’t stand that.

After the team debrief, Oscar was scrolling through his phone in his driver room when there was a knock.

“Come in.”

In walked Lando, wearing a stupid smirk on his face. “Good race today, mate,” he says as a form of greeting. Oscar tries not to roll his eyes.

On a normal day, Oscar likes Lando. He’s fine, not too bad. Tolerable on a sunny day. But in moments like these, when he’s just lost out a win to him? Oscar doesn’t like him quite as much on those days. “Yeah. Good race.”

“Team’s pretty happy. Another double podium.”

“Yep.” Oscar’s responses are clipped and colder than usual, but he doesn’t care. He’s got bigger things weighing on his mind.

“So,” Lando says, dragging out the ‘o’, “Laura came by.” Oscar’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

It’s nothing surprising, Oscar knows this. Of course Laura would visit Lando today. Two weeks ago she visited George. And a week before that, Oscar.

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” Lando steps over the discarded race suit on the floor to make his way closer to the little fold-out bed Oscar is lounging on. “Asked me who I wanted to pick for the Winner’s Room tonight.”

This time, Oscar just hums.

“I thought about it, you know. Who could I ask for?”

“I’d assume Carlos,” Oscar quips. Lando lets out a chuckle at that.

“He didn’t even get to start his damn race today.”

“Which, I presume, must’ve left him quite frustrated.” Oscar lifts his head now to look at Lando, “You quite like that. When someone is more frustrated when in the Winner’s Room with you.”

Lando smirks. The implications of Oscar’s words aren’t lost on him. He definitely knows what Lando’s feelings are on having drivers prefer to take their frustrations of the race out on him.

“I do, yes. But I thought of going a different route today.” He pauses to let Oscar absorb the words. “You see, while I was up on the podium today, I had an idea about who I might invite to the Winner’s Room tonight.”

Oscar feels his back stiffen. 

“Charles is a good looking lad, isn’t he?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Pretty face.”

Oscar clenches his jaw, trying to keep his cool. He would never say yes to you , he wants to say, he only goes for champions . He could so easily dig into Lando’s deepest insecurities right now. Break him down from within, discourage him from going through with any of this, but he can’t.

Because, really, what claim does Oscar have over Charles. Win the championship, Charles had been very clear on his terms. Oscar knows what he has to do. And he can’t let things get in the way of that. Things like Lando’s weak attempt at playing mind games.

“Very pretty,” Oscar answers, knowing that Lando probably wasn’t expecting him to agree with him.

“I asked for him tonight,” Lando smiles. “Laura’s gone over with the paperwork.”

He needs to pull himself together, keep himself calm, Oscar knows this. He knows that Lando is doing this just to get a rise out of him. He knows it well. And yet, it gets to him.

“He won’t say yes to you, you know.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Oscar knows he should’ve just shut the fuck up instead. 

Lando cocks an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Ah, fuck it. “Because he only goes for champions.”

Oscar expected that to hit Lando where it hurt. Expected him to have a surprised look on his face, like someone punched him when he wasn’t looking. What he wasn’t expecting however, was for Lando to start laughing.

“You’re funny, Osc. Especially when you’re all petulant like that.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. He is not petulant.

“I’m just telling you what he told me, mate.”

“Uh huh, from when he slept with you? Someone who is not a champion?”

And, well, Lando got him there. Oscar wasn’t a champion, yet Charles chose him. What are the odds that he’d pick Lando too? Afterall, they’re both the contenders for the championship this year.

“Besides, unlike you, I am a champion.”

Well now that’s just factually incorrect. “Since when? ‘Cause I don’t remember you winning anything.” 

“The constructors’ championship,” Lando replies proudly. Oscar lets out an obnoxious laugh at that. 

“ Please . That was a team effort. It wasn’t all you.”

“I won the race that won us the constructors’, Oscie . I was up at the front fighting the two Ferraris. Meanwhile you were down in God-knows-where bringing home a single point.”

“Max hit me in lap 1 that’s why I fell back and you know it.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Oscar hates that Lando is getting under his skin like this. He’s better than all of this, he knows. He never lets Lando’s jabs land, never lets Lando have the last laugh, never lets him mess with his head.

But he’d brought up Charles, knowing full well how that gets to him. And, well, it worked.

“Anyway, I guess we’ll know whether Charles will pick me or not when Laura gets back to me. I’ll keep you updated though.” Lando pats Oscar on the shoulder. Oscar shrugs him off.

Once Lando leaves and the door shuts behind him, Oscar slumps back against the singular pillow he had propped up against the wall. He then grabs said pillow and throws it at the opposite wall. Letting Lando get to him was the stupidest thing he could’ve done right now. Lando was closing the gap and Oscar needed to fucking focus . There was more on the line here than just being a World Champion. 

Oscar had just regained some of his composure when the text came.

[photo]

told u he’d accept

It was a picture of the Winner’s Room paperwork. At the bottom of the page, next to where Lando’s signature, was Charles’. The same loopy lines that had been at the bottom of the paperwork Laura handed to Oscar the last time he won.

It takes everything in Oscar to stay calm, act mature, and not block Lando’s contact immediately.

Oscar has no control over who Charles chooses, he knows that. It is up to Charles to decide whom he deems worthy of his attention. Had he perhaps seen something in Lando then? 

He chooses not to dwell on it too much. Just means I need to do better , he says to himself. He needs to do better. He needs to win. Lando may have won a single race but Oscar was still ahead in the championship standings. 

—

Oscar steps out of the shower feeling a little more relaxed. 

His mind keeps wandering off to What Must Charles And Lando Be Doing Right Now? though he tries not to think. 

He plans on ordering room service, getting food that is definitely not diet-approved, and falling asleep in front of the TV. But as he reaches for the landline to call and place his order, his phone lights up on the nightstand.

It’s the last person he’s expecting to get a text from tonight.

i didn’t go

but i hope my signature on that paperwork scared the shit out of you

you better not lose your focus, piastri

And if Oscar lets out a sigh of relief and feels a smile on his lips after reading those texts, then that’s just for him to know.

Chapter Text

Is it the rain seeping through his visor or is it his frustration bubbling up and spilling out in the form of tears, Oscar isn’t sure. All he knows is that his face under the helmet feels wet, and he has to control his voice when talking to Tom on the radio.

He’s happy for Nico, he is. But he’s also just mad as fuck.

What probably stings worse is the fact that Lando won. Again . And it’s not just that. Lando won his home race, while Oscar did not. Lando won both his and Oscar’s home races. And Oscar lost both times.

He tries not to look too disappointed when he climbs out of the car. He sees Nico climb out of his car and sees Gabi run over to congratulate him. Oscar had half expected the driver to jump into his teammate’s arms and kiss him right there in parc fermé, but the young Brazilian seemed to have some sense of decorum. 

He removes his helmet and HANS device and places it on the number 2 spot. He sees Lando walking towards the number 1 spot, and gives him the shortest nod he can. Enough to acknowledge his presence, but making sure to express his disappointment.

As he takes a healthy gulp of water. Oscar’s eyes catch a quick flash of red pass between the standing drivers. His eyes dart over to the parked cars till they see a red one. But it has the yellow camera cover, no. It’s not the car Oscar is looking for. He tries again but can’t seem to find the other Ferrari before he’s called up to get weighed. 

—

“Gabi’s going to have a great time tonight.”

“Did you hear him on Nico’s radio telling him he’d wait for him at the podium?”

“These rookies, man. They know how to go for the old men they fancy.”

Laughter breaks out across the room, mixed with the clinking of glasses.

Oscar’s not a fan of post-race parties on days when he doesn’t feel like he did his best. But alas, he is employed by his team who had just scored another double podium which meant that he was contractually obligated to make an appearance at the team celebration. 

At least there’s booze.

He keeps the drinks flowing, more so because of the two week break before the next race. He finds a corner of the room and sticks to it, sipping slowly from his glass. People won’t pay him much mind anyway. A British driver just won the British Grand Prix. Oscar would argue that the Brits technically have a statistical advantage, seeing as there are five of them on the grid, but he digresses. 

He watches the rookies discussing something among themselves, laughing. They’ve got their own little group this year, their own jokes, their own shared memories. He sees Ollie say something before pushing Franco in the direction of where the older drivers are gathered. Franco turns around and flips his friend off before taking a deep breath and making his way over…to Lewis.

“Is Franco going to hit on Hamilton again?” Oscar hears someone say. He turns his head to find Pierre grinning. “Man, the way he managed to get a ride on Hamilton’s plane the other week was crazy. That was a gamble but God did it pay off well.”

“Did you guys hear, Gabi kissed Nico after the race?” Alex says. Five drivers express their surprise in unison. Alex nods. “Yep. I heard he did so in front of the entire team.”

“Man. Those kids have got some guts,” Carlos remarks. “I don’t think any of us were ever that bold.”

“I used to just admire them from afar.”

“Imagined things, yes. But I never thought of making a move.”

“I don’t think it would’ve been very liked back then either, being a rookie and propositioning an older driver.”

“You know one driver among us who didn’t have that problem?” 

Oscar, who had been passively following the conversation, now pays attention. No one really answers the question, but everyone seems to already know it anyway.

Max turns to Lando then, a teasing smirk on his face. “I heard that someone here got stood up last week by a certain driver. And that too after the paperwork had been signed.”

Lando groans as the others laugh.

“Mate, that’s rough,” Carlos says. “I don’t think he’s ever stood me up.”

“Me either,” Max adds. 

“Oh please, you’ve probably exhausted the guy.”

Another collective roar of laughter, Oscar’s grip tightens around his glass. He doesn’t find it all that funny.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. He said he’d come down with something and that’s why he couldn’t make it,” Lando says as an excuse. But no one seems to buy it. Lando grumbles something under his breath. Oscar finds happiness in the slight humiliation of his teammate.

Then, Max asks, “Who do you think he’ll call tonight?”

Oscar’s mouth seems to move of its own accord. He asks, “What do you mean?” just as Carlos says, “Oh, right.”

Max answers his question. “Every time Charles has an absolute stinker of a race, he calls someone from the grid to vent his frustration out. That is, if he’s not already been summoned to the Winner’s Room.”

Huh.

That’s a lot of frustration then.

“And seeing as he rejected this one last week,” Carlos says, putting his arm around Lando as if to draw even more attention to him, “I guess he might call anyone tonight.”

Max raises a finger. “Not just anyone . He has a list, you know.”

“A list?”

Ah. So Max also knows about it.

“Mhm,” Max nods. “He has a list of drivers he likes to hook up with. He’s got some very specific criteria for picking names for that list of his.”

“Have you seen it?” Alex asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Nope. But I know that I’m on it.” Max seems oddly proud of that fact. Oscar understands.

“Uh huh,” Carlos crosses his arms. “And how exactly do you know it?”

“Way too many Winner’s Rooms shared, mate. You run out of stuff to say after like the fifth time so you end up just…talking.”

Oscar sees something like jealousy pass over Carlos’ expressions. He can’t really blame him.

The conversation shifts to something else—the change in topic initiated by Lando, expectedly—and Oscar once again tunes the voices out as background noise.

He leans over the bartop and asks for another drink and as he waits, he wonders if he’s made it onto that list.

—

It’s funny how quickly the opinion people have of you can change. Oscar’s learnt not to let the words of strangers stick to him. Like water off a duck’s back he usually lets them slide off. Still, it’s really fucking funny.

Till last week, people were rooting for him. Were in favour of him winning the championship. Now, they weren’t so much.

Whatever. He still has the lead in the championship. These things don’t matter much to him.

Having an early flight the next morning, he starts getting ready for bed when there’s a knock on his door. 

He wonders if it is perhaps room service, but then remembers that he has already had his dinner. This knock, then, is strange.

There's another round of knocks. Three in succession. Insistent. Oscar gets off his bed to go answer.

“How long does it take you to open a fucking door?”

Charles pushes past Oscar into the room, muttering something in French, before planting himself on Oscar's bed. All of this happens before Oscar has even finished digesting the fact that Charles was at his hotel room.

“I…I wasn't expecting you.”

“Hmm? But I texted you.”

Did he? Oscar slides his phone out of his pajama’s pocket and checks. Sure enough, there was a text from Charles: Coming up in 15. He'd simply missed it among the flood of the other notifications.

“Sorry, I missed it.”

Charles lets his head fall back, cursing. “ Mon Dieu , you confuse me.”

Oscar doesn’t offer any response. He stands by the door a few more seconds, then makes his way to the mini bar and picks out two tiny bottles of Absolut. “Would this help?” he asks, holding one out to Charles.

Charles looks at the bottle in his hands, then back up at Oscar’s face, and smiles. He reaches out to accept the alcohol. “A man after my own heart,” he says as he unscrews the cap.

The contents are downed as quickly as they were handed, bottles tossed on the floor to a corner.

The silence between them stretches on, filled only by the gentle whirring of the air conditioner unit. Oscar, growing impatient, decides to break it first. “I’m sorry about your race.”

Charles gives a dry chuckle. “You’re sorry, are you?”

“It didn’t sound like a very good race.”

“Yes. It wasn’t. And that is why I do not want to talk about the race.”

“Oh. Okay.” And Oscar shuts up. He remains standing across from the bed at a considerable distance, gently rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He waits, letting Charles speak whenever he feels like doing so. It’s nice, Oscar thinks. The silence between them. 

Suddenly, Charles says, “Come here,” like a command. And Oscar, long having accepted his fate, walks over without question. Charles pats the space next to him on the bed and Oscar takes a seat, his eyes still trained on the man in front of him.

Then, in a softer voice, Charles asks, “Do you know why I’ve come here tonight?”

He has a reason in mind as to why Charles might’ve come to his room tonight. Would it be considered presumptuous? Perhaps. But a guy can hope.

Charles' finger traces the side of Oscar's face, casually, like it's something he always does. Like it's routine. “I'm sure you've heard about…a list.”

Oscar gulps, mainly because he is unable to form any words.

“Have you wondered if you've made it there?” 

It takes a bit of effort for him to reply, “Yes.”

Charles' thumb comes up to lightly brush over Oscar's bottom lip. “Hmm. And what do you think now? Do you think you've made it?”

It's a game, he knows. It's always a game with Charles. And if you match him, if you show him that you can beat him, you impress him. And the beauty of it all is that even if you win the game, it's always going to be Charles who really wins it all in the end.

Charles quirks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for an answer. Oscar decides to be a little cocky.

“Well, you're here. Aren't you?”

Charles smirks, and Oscar knows that he's won this round. 

Charles’ drags his thumb over Oscar’s bottom lip again, this time, pulling it down slightly. His eyes track the movement of his thumb and Oscar can do nothing but sit still with his hands resting on his sides. 

Suddenly, Charles shifts his position. His knees come to rest on either side of Oscar’s things as he settles in his lap with his hands on Oscar’s shoulders, effectively straddling him. Oscar is not at all opposed to this change in seating arrangement, except for the fact that if he gets a boner now (which is surely on its way), there would be no way to hide from Charles. And he knows how much Charles loves to tease.

His hands naturally come to rest on Charles' hips, and the other man doesn't shrug them off either.

Charles slowly brushes Oscar's face, pushing back an errant strand of hair. It's softer than anything Oscar has experienced with Charles. The way Charles fits in his arms, the way he's trailing soothing touches over Oscar's skin, it all makes his heart clench and shoot halfway up his throat. 

“Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“How are you—um, how are you feeling?”

It's not a question Charles was expecting to get and it's also not a question Oscar was expecting to ask. 

Charles doesn't answer immediately. His eyes are focused on something else—Oscar’s hair, through which Charles keeps running his fingers. His other hand slowly curls around the nape of Oscar's neck, thumb tracing an idle pattern that's making Oscar shiver slightly. 

Charles still doesn't answer Oscar's question, nor does Oscar ask again. Charles brings his other hand down to Oscar's neck as well, both thumbs brushing Oscar's jaw now.

He slightly tilts Oscar's head up and looks into his eyes. Oscar's never dared to look straight into Charles' eyes. Not because they're not worth looking at, no. If he possessed the ability, Oscar would write something vaguely poetic in their honour in a bid to win Charles over. 

He never tried it, because he was afraid that if he looked into Charles' eyes once, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Charles is looking in his eyes like he’s trying to search for something. If Oscar had a clue what it was he would give it to him right then and there. It’s a scary thought, really. This thing with Charles—if it even is a thing —is not meant to be serious. Hell, Charles doesn’t even seem too interested in going on a date with Oscar right now. 

Oscar feels a featherlight touch on his cheeks. Then,

“What are you thinking about?”

There are many things Oscar is thinking about. “Nothing.”

“You asked me how I was feeling. You wouldn’t do that if you yourself didn’t have something on your mind.”

“There’s nothing on my mind.”

“Liar.”

“Why do you care about what’s on my mind?” Oscar asks with a teasing smirk. 

Charles shrugs. “Just curious.”

“You’re quite a curious man.”

“And you talk a lot.”

“Really? I reckon I talk a normal amount.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“And you’re still sitting in my lap.”

Charles doesn’t come up with any retort, Oscar wins that round too.

But then Charles grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss so fierce that for a moment Oscar forgets all about the game.

Charles doesn’t like to lose, and there was no way he was going to let Oscar win twice against him. If the FIA were in charge here, Charles’ methods would’ve been considered unethical. But if you were to ask Oscar, he doesn’t mind losing this way all that much.

Oscar moves, kissing back eagerly. He pulls Charles closer, his hands trailing up his back. A small moan escapes Charles’ mouth as he shifts, sending a sudden spark up Oscar’s spine.

Oscar knows where this will lead. He’s been hoping for it ever since he heard everyone in the paddock discussing it. Charles being here in his room, on his lap, kissing him, is all the proof Oscar needs. He’s made it onto that coveted list. He made it and Lando didn ’t. He made it and beat out the other World Champions and earned Charles’ company tonight. It is just the confidence boost he needs.

His hold on Charles grows possessive. His fingers clutch a little tighter, his mouth moves a little more insistently. It’s starting to get to his head, even though he shouldn’t let it. His tongue pushes past Charles’ lips, licking over the back of his teeth like he’s trying to remember how Charles tasted like. It’s been over a month after all.

Charles rolls his hips once again and brings his hands down over Oscar’s chest, pushing slightly to lay him down on the bed. Oscar goes willingly, still grabbing Charles by his waist as he slips his fingers under the hem of Charles’ t-shirt. His thigh slots between Charles’ legs, letting him essentially grind on Oscar. Charles whimpers, nipping Oscar’s bottom lip in between kisses. 

It’s all going exactly as Oscar had hoped. He may not have won the race today, but he still gets a prize. Meanwhile Lando, the one who actually did win the race, gets nothing. There’s a sick sense of satisfaction in that.

Charles’ hands trace over the faint line of Oscar’s abs which works as a great reminder for Oscar to stop thinking about Lando and focus on what’s currently on top of him.

“Do you— mmph —do you wanna take this off?”

Oscar’s referring to Charles’ t-shirt. As good as Charles looked walking into his room wearing it tonight, Oscar would rather have the piece of clothing lie on the floor of his hotel room. But as soon as the question leaves Oscar’s mouth, Charles pulls back. 

“What’s wrong?” Oscar asks, confused at the sudden pause.

Charles looks at him for a moment, not answering just yet. He looks…beautiful. That’s the first adjective that pops into Oscar’s mind. And he’s so distracted by this fact that he doesn’t even notice Charles’ lips moving for a good couple of seconds.

“Huh?”

“I said,” Charles sighs, “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”

Oscar sits up with a start, but tightens his hold just in time before Charles slides off his lap and onto the floor.

“Fucking hell, don’t drop me !”

“Why?”

Charles tilts his head. “Why what?”

“Why won’t you have sex with me tonight?”

Charles blinks. Then, he smiles. It usually means trouble whenever Charles smiles. “I don’t remember you winning today.”

Oscar opens his mouth to answer but finds himself short of words. What reason can he give? He didn’t win today, his teammate did. He hasn’t won in almost a month. He’s just been trailing behind, chasing the other cars while his teammate closes the gap between them. Sure, he’s still got the lead, but if he doesn’t fix his act right now he’s probably not going to get to have Charles under him—or over him—any time soon.

“You remember the rules, don’t you?”

It’s that fucking voice again. Low, sultry, with that captivating French lilt. Oscar’s weak; he knows it, he’s accepted it. 

“Answer me.”

Yep. Totally fucked.

“Yes.” It comes out more like a whisper given the lack of air Oscar’s feeling in his throat.

“So, do you think you should be getting any sex tonight?”

It pains him to say it, but it is the truth. “No.”

Charles’ self-satisfied grin makes Oscar go red with humiliation, and arousal.

“Good. As long as you remember.” Charles leans down to press a kiss right on the apple of Oscar’s cheek, trailing his lips down his face till he reaches the corner of Oscar’s lips. One more kiss right there, and Oscar sits in anticipation of another torturous fifteen minutes of them making out.

Except, Charles slides off Oscar’s lap.

“Wha—”

“That’s all you get.”

Oscar is a grown man with dignity. Except when he gets desperate and whines, “ Charles .”

It’s all very amusing to Charles, of course. 

“Win the next race, Piastri. Then, you can have me however you want.”

The worst part about this is that he’s right. Oscar knew this, knew that Charles doesn’t just go sleeping around unless he deems the other person worthy of his time. Sure, he might’ve gone to Max a few times in the past for some pick-me-up sex, but he’s a multiple-time World Champion. Of course , Charles would still go to him for casual, non-Winner’s Room sex. 

Meanwhile Oscar’s here slowly losing his championship lead every weekend.

He doesn’t have any good reason for making Charles stay, so he watches as the other man walks out of the room and the heavy door clicks shut behind him.

He’s got to come up with a plan to get back on the top step, and Oscar intends to get working on that—

right after he takes care of the situation in his pants.

Chapter Text

Seven weeks.

It had been seven weeks since he last climbed on the top step of the podium. Seven weeks since he'd felt like he had it all under control.

But he'd done it now.

Crossed the finish line first. He was a winner once again.

He felt many emotions when he saw the chequered flag—elation, excitement, pride. But under all that, he also felt relief.

Relief, that he's still got it in him. Relief, that he hadn't screwed this all up yet.

Relief, that he's still got a chance.

He jumps out of his car and sees Lando, congratulating him on the P2 finish like any teammate should. Lando acknowledges him and moves on to greet his team and his family.

Whatever, he isn’t the one Oscar really wants to congratulate anyway. The man he actually wants to see, wants to talk to, is getting out of his car, taking his helmet off, and grabbing a cold bottle of water to wash his exhaustion down.

The camera operator gets to him before Oscar can, shoving the camera in Charles’ face as he tries to take a drink. It’s annoying. Charles must find it annoying too, for sure. But Oscar can’t really complain either. That video of Charles glistening with sweat, drinking water after the race in Jeddah still lies in a locked folder on Oscar’s phone. 

Eventually, thankfully, the camera guy leaves, and Oscar walks over to congratulate Charles.

“Great race, mate.”

Charles looks up. The bottle of water is still pressed to his lips, his hair is sticking out in all directions thanks to over two hours under the helmet, and on his cheeks are the faint lines left behind by the balaclava. It takes a lot of restraint on Oscar’s side for him to not pull Charles closer and nose down his throat right then and there. 

Charles smiles. “Thanks, mate,” he says, clasping Oscar’s outstretched hand. “You did a great job too.”

“Well,” Oscar shrugs, “had to make it up after losing that sprint win yesterday.”

“True.”

“Oscar! Can we speak to you for a minute?”

On being called, Oscar excuses himself and goes in the direction of the woman holding two microphones in her hand. When he turns around mid-interview, Charles is gone.

He hears their voices before he sees the two of them—Charles and Lando in the cool-down room, watching the race highlights and talking about something. There’s laughter—Charles’—that rings out. He’s laughing at something Lando said. Laughing with Lando. The familiar flare of jealousy lights in Oscar’s chest. It's irrational, it's juvenile, but he also doesn't really care.

Plus, his seat is right between Charles and Lando anyway.

“Long race, huh?” Oscar says with a sigh as he drops into his chair. He holds out a bottle of water to Charles, ignoring the way Lando's smile has now turned into a scowl.

“Yeah. Wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep Max behind me but thankfully, I did.”

“Wish I’d known how to do that yesterday.”

“Don’t worry. You learn how to after years of racing against him.”

“Hmm. Maybe I also should’ve been pushing him into puddles out of pettiness when I was younger.”

Charles smacks him on the arm for that, but it also makes him laugh. Lando, meanwhile, feels singled out. He was hoping to bring the conversation around to a point where he could casually ask Charles if he was feeling better now . He hadn’t dared to send him a Winner’s Room request after that night he got stood up. He figured, maybe Oscar was right. Maybe Charles does only choose to sleep with the drivers he finds worthy of his time. So Lando had acted like any other sane man would and won both Silverstone and Austria, hoping that it would prove something to Charles. Hoping that it would show Charles that he was serious.

But then Oscar had to go and win the race today, taking away Lando’s chances as well.

“They need you on the podium in five.”

With that, the three of them got up, zipped up their race suits, and put on their podium caps. Whatever, Oscar can have this round, but Lando was going to make it up next time.

Afterall, wasn’t Hungary the place where it had all changed last year?

—

Oscar’s been impatiently pacing in his driver’s room waiting for Laura to show up.

It’s been two hours since the podium and the subsequent interviews in the media pen. Laura should be here with her clear folder of documents and her practiced FIA mandated disclaimer speech by now, but she is not. Oscar checks his watch again, shakes his head, and takes another lap around the room.

Finally, there’s a knock on his door.

“Laura. Hello.”

“Good evening, Mr. Piastri. Congratulations on your win.”

“Thank you,” Oscar replies. He tries his best to keep the tone of his voice neutral but it doesn’t really work. The anticipation manages to seep in, and Laura notices. Of course she does.

“I’m assuming you already have a driver in mind for the Winner’s Room?” she teases, choosing to forgo the usual, rehearsed affair. It makes Oscar blush, how easy he has become to read apparently. Laura, seeing his reaction, just smiles and hands the papers over to him. He signs on the dotted line and hands them back to her.

Right when she reaches the door, Laura turns around and asks, “Just to get a verbal confirmation, you’re asking for Leclerc, yes?”

Oscar groans. He regrets having had his awkward, first Winner’s Room request be witnessed by Laura. He still remembers how, the week after, he saw Laura in the paddock who, upon seeing him, told him that he’s had a very noticeable new spring in his step since that night. 

“Yes, Laura,” he confirms, hiding his face in his hands. “Now can you please go and not tease me anymore?”

Laura laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m leaving.”

Right. Now all Oscar has to do is pass the time till Laura sends him the confirmation and he can head to the hotel room the FIA has reserved for him. He settles on the fold out bed, his back against the wall, and gets his phone out to scroll through.

Twitter is about what he expected—people congratulating him, people criticising him, people claiming that Lando was ‘sabotaged’ by the team, people arguing with the people claiming that Lando was ‘sabotaged’, the usual stuff. But the podium today also has brought out the type of tweets that Oscar has come to like even more; tweets about him and Charles.

He makes sure to switch over to his burner account to avoid any accidental liking incidents. As expected, there are a number of tweets and pictures talking about him and Charles after the race, in the cooldown room, up on the podium, and also people pointing out how Oscar’s eyes seemed to be practically glued to Charles, and that he felt disappointed that he couldn’t just hold Charles directly when taking a picture up on the podium. 

Oscar used to think he was someone who could keep his emotions in check and not let them show on his face. Afterall, people did like to paint him as the stoic, emotionless one. But the truth was so far from it. Oscar scrolls through the hoard of posts, sees the same photos, the same clips posted again and again, and sees the look on his face. It’s clear as day to anyone who knows it, though some comments try to brush it off as fans reaching for conclusions that don’t exist. But Oscar knows. Oscar’s the one who was feeling these emotions, whose face was showing said emotions. 

omg look at how oscar’s looking at charles i CANT

oscar wants that cookie so bad it’s embarassing

OSCAR JACK PIASTRI I NEED YOU TO STAND THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!

the way oscar immediately goes to spray charles oh my shaylas 😭😭😭😭

why does lando look lowkey pissed lmao

    > hear me out: the REAL intra-mclaren battle is about who gets charles in their bed first

        > now wait a minute u might be onto something there 🤔🤔

charles looks like he has some devious plans in mind omg what are u planning on doing tonight shal eclair ??

    > oscar, probably

        > you might be right

Oscar chuckles at the reactions. The people aren’t too far off in their assumptions. He likes a few tweets, which is fine since he’s not on his main anyway, and switches to scroll through Instagram for a while.

Fifteen minutes later, someone knocks on his door. Oscar had honestly just been expecting a text from Laura confirming Charles’ acceptance along with the details of the hotel room for tonight, but he’s received neither of those things. Instead, there’s a knock, for the second time that day. A knock for the second time usually doesn’t mean good news.

Did Charles reject his request? But why would he do that? Oscar won today. He won and he still has the lead in the championship, and by sixteen points. There’s no real reason he should reject his offer…unless. 

Unless, he doesn’t think Oscar’s worth it anymore. Unless, he’s starting to prefer Lando over him.

It’s probably better if Oscar answers the door before he ends up overthinking himself into a panic attack.

“Hi.” Laura doesn’t look apologetic, which is a good sign.

“Hi.”

“Mr. Leclerc has accepted your Winner’s Room request,” Oh thank God . “But, there is an issue.”

That’s odd. “What is it?”

Laura’s eyes flick towards the papers she’s holding as she gets this look on her face. 

“Mr. Verstappen has also asked for Mr. Leclerc for his Winner’s Room tonight.”

Oscar blinks a few times like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. 

“Sorry, did you just say Max has asked for Charles?”

Laura slowly nods her head. Oscar cannot do this right now.

“But how? He can’t be allowed access to the Winner’s Room, can he? He didn’t even win today. He didn’t even get pole position, he was P fucking four .”

Oscar’s reaction to this is a little heightened, he knows. He shouldn’t be getting this worked up over a simple request. But still, this was his chance. He earned it today.

Laura, bless her heart, tries to calmly explain to Oscar. “He did not win the main race this week but he did win the sprint race. So, according to the rules this does classify him as a winner for this weekend which entitles him to his own Winner’s Room.”

Right. The sprint. How could Oscar forget?

On sprint weekends there are two Winner’s Rooms: one for the sprint race winner and one for the main race winner, both of which happen on Sunday evening after the main race so as to not exhaust the drivers too much. If on a particular weekend the sprint and the main races are both won by the same driver then it results in there being just one Winner’s Room, but with extra time.

According to the rules, Max also had the right to a Winner’s Room. And according to the rules, he could invite anyone he wanted.

Even Charles.

“But, I requested for Charles first, didn’t I? And you said that he accepted my offer.”

“Yes. Technically.”

Oh for fuck’s— “What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“Uh, well,” Laura starts. “When I went to Mr. Leclerc, I had both yours and Mr. Verstappen’s requests with me. According to the rules, if two winners have asked for the same driver then the driver in question gets to choose whose request they wish to accept.”

“Okay? And Charles accepted mine, yes?”

Laura gives a hesitant nod. “Yes. But he also accepted Mr. Verstappen’s.”

“What?”

“Since both of you have requested for him, Mr. Leclerc has suggested for both of you to share the Winner’s Room tonight. Once I get your response I have to go ask Mr. Verstappen as well.”

Well, isn’t that just fantastic.

—

Oscar has already downed two tiny bottles of whiskey from the mini bar.

Of course he accepted the offer. He might not have the most amicable feelings towards Max but, only a fool would reject the opportunity to have Charles Leclerc in your Winner’s Room. As for Max being there, he’ll figure something out.

The doorknob turns and Oscar straightens up in bed. 

Charles gives him a smile when he enters the room.

“Honestly, I thought you might reject the offer.”

“Did Max?”

Right to the point. There was no use dancing around it anyway.

“Well, well. Look who’s curious.”

Charles walks over with the casualness of someone who knows he has the upper hand in this situation. For a moment Oscar wonders if he’s the same way with Max as well. Charles drops into his lap and Oscar’s hands come up to rest on his hip. It’s reminiscent of their position from two weeks ago. Oscar would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.

“You used to spend a little more time beside me before climbing all over me.”

“And you used to lose your cognitive functions when I was too close to you.”

“Things change, I guess.”

Charles smirks, already taking Oscar’s face in his hands. “Yeah. They do.” And then he kisses him like he did back in Silverstone. Oscar’s brain goes to mush, any thoughts about any other drivers all going out of his head. He moves in sync with Charles, his hands slipping under Charles’ shirt, slowly tracing his back. Charles hums, nipping on Oscar’s bottom lip. It’s one of his favourite things to do and honestly, Oscar isn’t complaining. 

“Woah. Didn’t expect to walk into a show.”

Damn it. And here Oscar was thinking he’d almost gotten away with it.

On hearing the voice Charles pulls away and, still seated in Oscar’s lap, turns to look at Max.

“You’re late,” Charles simply says.

“Got stuck in traffic.”

“In the three kilometers between here and your team’s hotel?”

“Yep.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, not really buying Max’s excuse.

“You were sulking in your room, weren’t you?”

“Now, why would you think that?”

“Seems like you.”

It’s here in this moment that Oscar is painfully reminded of the fact that Charles and Max have known each other longer. Realistically, who’s to say their ‘Winner’s Room activities’ didn’t start sometime before either of them were even in Formula 1. Sure, Charles came to Oscar first, but Oscar wasn’t the first to get to Charles.

“Do you plan on joining or are you just here to talk?” Charles teases. Max shakes his head, smiling as he slides his backpack off his shoulder. Oscar would much rather that Max just leaves and then he can have Charles all to himself. Alone. Like he deserves.

But the universe doesn’t always grant his wishes.

Max walks over and much to Oscar’s devastation, it only makes Charles smile wider. Hand under his chin, he lifts Charles’ head up and kisses him. Charles lets out a pleased hum as he kisses back.

His body is slightly bent backwards, angled so Max could kiss him better, but his hands are still resting on Oscar’s shoulders. Oscar starts to feel like he’s intruding, which is weird because he was definitely invited first. He starts to feel that familiar prick of jealousy again. His hands react before his brain can, and he pulls Charles forward on his lap, causing the kiss to break.

“My bad,” Oscar says with clear insincerity. Charles finds it amusing, but Max shoots Oscar a somewhat dirty look. 

“Were you feeling left out, cheri ?” Charles asks. In normal circumstances, Oscar would just dumbly nod. 

But these are not normal circumstances. He can see Max smirking behind Charles, like it's a challenge.

So, instead of answering, he grabs Charles and kisses him. He's being more aggressive than usual, he knows, but Charles doesn't seem averse to it. His hands move upwards, tugging slightly on Oscar's hair. His eyes are closed as he gets lost in the kiss, and Oscar can tell because his eyes are open.

He's looking at Max. Max, who’s standing there with a smug look on his face, seemingly enjoying the show. Max, who doesn’t look the least bit insecure or jealous. It makes Oscar wonder, does he enjoy this? Was he perhaps the one who suggested this idea to Charles? Have they done this before? Oscar doesn’t like the thought of that very much.

One of Charles’ hands drops from Oscar’s shoulder, and he watches as Charles holds it out behind him. Max takes it, getting pulled towards them. Charles doesn’t turn his face, and Max leans in to start pressing kisses up the column of his neck. 

Charles squirms, grinding forward in Oscar’s lap, the stimulation making Oscar’s eyes fall shut. His hands on Charles’ hips start to guide him as he continues to grind slowly. Max has his hands on the nape of Charles’ neck now, slightly tilting his head in his direction. He does so till Oscar feels Charles’ lips leave his and latch onto Max’s instead. The proud smirk colouring his face tells Oscar that this was a deliberate move from Max. Charles is still kissing him with his eyes closed, completely lost in the sensation, but Max is looking at Oscar. And in that moment Oscar realises what this night is going to be all about.

“Can you lie down?”

It takes a second for Oscar to realise that Charles is talking to him.

“What?”

“Can you lie down, cher ?” he repeats with a softer smile than he’s ever given Oscar in these circumstances. 

“Sure.”

He leans against the pillows and Charles adjusts himself on top of him. Max is there right by his side with his hands resting on Charles’ lower back. It’s like he can’t go two seconds without his hands on Charles. Ever since walking into the room he’s been touching some part of Charles’ body at all times.

“You look like you’re trying to burn Max’s hand off with your stare.”

Charles is looking at him and, of course, this is all fun for him.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“For you to burn Max’s hand off?”

“For me to want to burn Max’s hand off.”

Charles doesn’t give any response. Oscar gets his answer.

“You like the fact that both of us have been fighting for your attention,” Oscar continues. Charles just shrugs. 

“There are many things people can assume about many things—”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Max chimes in. “He absolutely loves it when people fight over him. Why else do you think he’s gone through half the paddock?”

The expression on Charles’ face confirms that Max is right.

“Fine, fine! You got me.” Charles says, raising his hands up in mock surrender. He gets off Oscar’s lap and settles on his side instead. “I like it when people pay a little more attention to me. There, I’ve admitted it.”

“You know what they call people like you? Attention whores.” Max drops onto the bed right next to Charles, effectively sandwiching him between himself and Oscar. Charles, Oscar notices, seems to be enjoying this.

“Yeah. Or maybe I'm just a regular whore, ever thought of that?”

Max laughs like he's heard the joke several times before. Maybe he has. Ah, there you are, familiar jealousy. 

“So, since you've both obviously figured out my devious motives,” Charles says, “let me just put it straight.”

“I thought nothing you do is straigh—”

“Max Verstappen, if you finish that sentence I swear to God I'm kicking you out of my bed.”

“But, this isn't your bed,” Oscar supplies dumbly. He doesn't really know what he should say here and honestly, he's starting to feel a bit like a third wheel.

The sharpness when talking to Max seems to dissolve when Charles talks to Oscar.

“Oh, but it is. Isn't it?” His pupils are blown wide with lust, Oscar notices them when Charles’ face hovers in front of his. “I've got both of you right here just like I planned to.”

Oscar really shouldn't be losing his ability to talk in front of Max. It causes, what the kids would call, an ‘aura loss’. Yet he finds himself speechless once again when Charles' eyes are all he can focus on.

“Good God, you've broken his brain,” Max chuckles. Clearly he's enjoying this.

“Oh, don't act so cocky, Max. You were the same way a few years ago.”

“Wasn't this bad.”

“You didn't say anything except for ‘yes’, and ‘Charles’ for the entire two hours of our first Winner's Room.”

Now it's Max's turn to flush with embarrassment. Charles laughs at the colour rushing to Max's face while Oscar tries to wrap his head around the fact that Charles and Max’s first Winner's Room was two hours long. He runs some mental calculations to check whether his and Charles' first Winner's Room was perhaps longer, but comes up with no results.

To be fair, Oscar wasn't really in a present state of mind once Charles got his hands on him. 

“Lie back for me, cheri .” And Oscar does. Max, for the first time that evening, steps back and lets Charles do what he wants. 

His hands move down Oscar's chest, his abs, while he leans in to start kissing up his neck. Oscar's eyes fall shut and an involuntary sound escapes him when Charles gently nips the skin behind Oscar's ear.

Charles’ hands keep moving south till he grazes the bulge in Oscar's sweats, making his hips twitch.

“ Fuck ,” Oscar breathes out. “Sorry.”

He feels Charles' breath against his cheek as he lets out a little laugh before kissing Oscar. “That's alright, darling. It's good that you know how to behave.”

“You really do have him trained,” Max comments from wherever-the-fuck he is and Oscar would care about that except he can't really care about much right now, especially with the way Charles slowly keeps rubbing where the head of Oscar's dick is.

“It’s not called ‘being trained’, Max, it’s just him being good.”

The praise makes Oscar preen.

“You never said I was good.”

“Maybe you weren’t.”

Oscar cannot for the life of him figure out the dynamic between the two of them—not that his mind is really working in that direction anyway. There’s heat, there’s familiarity, but there’s also something that doesn’t exist between himself and Charles.

“Do you want to be good, Max?”

And then Oscar has the pleasure to watch the indomitable Max Verstappen fold immediately under Charles Leclerc. If he thought the power Charles had over him was arousing, seeing it work with Max has heat pooling in Oscar’s stomach. Suddenly, his comfy, grey sweatpants seem awfully constricting.

“Charles,” he calls out, his voice barely there.

“Yes, bébé ?”

“Can you please— shit —”

“What is it darling?” Charles asks again. Teases, really. His fingertips drag down the front of Oscar’s erection before stopping completely and Oscar lets out a pathetic whimper. “If you don’t tell me what you want, how will I help you?”

Oscar’s trying, he really is.

“Can I take off my pants, please?”

The smile on Charles’ face is close to cunning. “Max,” he says with the sweetness of a grape, “would you help Oscar get his pants off.” 

That’s not what Oscar meant. He wanted Charles . But Charles seems to be…enjoying the idea. 

“You want me to..?” Max asks, seemingly also unsure.

“Why yes,” Charles replies. He lifts his hand to slowly stroke down the side of Max's face. “You would do that for me, won’t you?”

All the cockiness, all the surety is gone. Wordlessly, Max leans over and pulls Oscar’s sweatpants down, leaving him in just his boxers. His eyes never leave Charles. 

“Very good.” Charles says as he pulls Max in for a kiss. 

For the first time that night, Oscar finds himself feeling less jealous and more aroused with the attention Charles gives Max. Maybe it's because now Max is acting just like Oscar does—soft, pliant, slightly dumb. 

“ Mes chéris, you both want to be good for me, don't you?”

Oscar and Max's heads nod in sync. 

“Very good. So you'll do what I say?” 

Charles gets the same response once again.

“I need to hear you say it, bébé .”

“Yes,” Oscar says right as Max replies with, “Yes, Charles.”

Dammit. Oscar should've said his name too .

“ Bien. ”

—

It's been about forty-five minutes, and Oscar is on the verge of tears.

On top of him is Charles, naked and glowing with his back turned to Oscar. In front of Charles and by Oscar's extended feet is Max, on his knees. Oscar can imagine the ache in Max's jaw from how long he's had Charles in his mouth by now. Yet, neither of them can complain. 

Charles grinds in Oscar's lap once again, almost making him cry from the oversensitivity.

“Charles.”

“Yes, baby?” Charles sounds breathless. He's enjoying this way too much. 

“Can— God, fuck —can I please?”

“Please, what?”

“I'm so close.”

Charles laughs as his hips come to a pause and Oscar lets out a surprising breath of relief.

Charles lightly traces the bulge in Max's cheek. “Are you tired, cher ?”

Max groans in response. 

“Hmm. Well, I have an idea.”

Max lifts his head. Oscar pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Let's see which one of you can make me come first.” 

The words flip a switch in Oscar's brain. In an instant, all of his tiredness is gone, his grip on Charles' hips is firmer and he thrusts upwards.

Charles makes a punched-out sound at that, followed by a string of curses.

Max, realising he's falling behind, bends down to take Charles back into his mouth. 

With one hand back on Oscar's chest and one gripping Max's hair in front, Charles lets himself enjoy the last few minutes of this.

The air in the room feels warm, the only noises filling the space being the moans and grunts from the three men. 

And when Charles breathes out, “Fuck, I'm close,” both men with their hands on him pick up the pace. It's all too much for Charles, but he asked for this after all. He sneaks his hand from Max's head down and wraps his fingers around him. 

His orgasm catches him by surprise as he spills in Max's mouth, who doesn't seem too disappointed with the situation. Oscar follows shortly after, his noises muffled against Charles' shoulder.

—

Ten minutes later, they're all staring at the ceiling, still catching their breaths. 

“I'll be right back,” Charles says before getting off the bed. Oscar misses his warmth.

Few seconds later, there are water bottles being tossed onto the bed. “Drink,” Charles simply orders. Max and Oscar follow.

“How far away is your hotel?” Charles asks Max.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“You have your car?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Can you drop me off at my hotel? It's about ten minutes away.”

The thought of Charles already leaving makes something twist in Oscar's chest. He knows that's how this goes, yet, he feels like he didn't even get any time with Charles.

Max nods. “Sure. Just let me clean up and then we can leave.” He disappears into the ensuite, leaving just Charles and Max.

Oscar lets the silence last for about three seconds.

“Did you enjoy that? Tonight?”

Charles turns to look at him, a small smile on his face. “I did. Did you?”

Oscar gives a small nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it was good.”

“Congratulations on your win once again,” Charles says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

The door to the bathroom opens, then shuts. Max walks out, dressed in the clothes he came in. Charles goes in next to get cleaned up.

Oscar doesn't know what he could talk about with Max now.

“Good time?” Max asks instead.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Yup.”

Max sits on the chair by the little desk across from the bed, Oscar stays in his place on the bed. Running through Oscar’s mind are a hundred different questions he wants to ask Max. He should probably gather his thoughts, think calmly before asking any questions—

“So. You like Charles?”

So, that was not what he meant to do.

Max gives a dry chuckle. “I’d have to like him if I did what we just did right now, mate.”

“No, I know. I meant—,” Great job, Oscar. Fucking stumble through your words in front of the guy who might be your no. 1 opponent in this thing. “I meant, do you like him, like, romantically.”

Max opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t say anything. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head, like he’s trying to get rid of an unwanted memory. 

“Ah, well,” he lets out a heavy sigh like something’s been weighing on his chest. “I did.”

“Did?”

“Yeah. Realised it wasn’t something I can realistically pursue. So, I moved on.”

That puzzles Oscar. “Not realistic? How? Everyone says you two are so alike that you’d work great together.”

“That’s exactly why,” Max gives a half smile. “You can’t really love someone who reminds you too much about yourself.”

The way Max says it feels like he doesn’t really believe it. Like it’s just the reason he gave himself so he could move on.

For the first time that night, Oscar feels sad for Max.

“You really don’t think you could’ve worked?” Oscar asks.

Max shakes his head. “No. I know we wouldn’t have.”

“Then, why did you say yes tonight?”

“How could I say no to him?”

Oscar shares the sentiment. Really, how could you say no to Charles?

“We’re friends though,” Max continues. “He’s one of the people on the grid I’ve known the longest so, there’s that familiarity. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to him.” 

“But, I think you’ve got a shot,” he says then. Oscar looks at him with wide eyes.

“How did you…”

“Oh please,” Max rolls his eyes. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are. Most of the paddock already suspects and tonight, well, you just gave me confirmation.”

Oscar feels heat crawl into his face and the resulting change in colour makes Max laugh.

“Your third year on the grid and you’re still so easy to tease.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Inside the bathroom, the water turns off. Anytime now, Charles would walk out. Max gets up to finish packing his things.

“Oh, by the way,” Max says, “I think he likes you too.”

The bathroom door opens and out walks Charles.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yep. Let’s go,” Max answers. “You got your things?”

Charles shrugs. “Didn’t really bring anything.”

“So you showed up empty handed and immediately started macking on Oscar?”

“Hey, don’t blame me. That was what the contract said.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Aww. Thank you, Max.”

Max gives up. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles says but shows no signs of hurrying up. Instead of walking straight to the door, he walks over to the bed instead. Oscar looks up, looks at Charles. And, God.

Part of him wants to ask him to stay. Wants to not let go of him immediately because he doesn’t know when he’ll get to win a race again. There are simple rules to this arrangement, he knows. He agreed to them. But they’re getting harder and harder to abide by.

Charles smiles, leans down, and kisses Oscar softly. “Goodnight, cheri .”

He hears Charles and Max get into yet another baseless argument as they walk out the door, but it doesn’t really matter to him anymore.

With the weight of Max’s words on his head and the lingering feeling on Charles on his lips, Oscar drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

It really gets to a point after a while when you can no longer justify the things you’re going through. The things you’re made to go through. Charles has reached that point more times than he can recall. Yet, he stays. He stays every time because he feels that this is where he belongs. He stays because a part of him still believes. He stays because of his dreams.

He stays because winners don’t quit. 

But he hasn’t been a winner in a long time.

It’s the summer break now—there are still a few hours left till Monday but still, it’s summer break now. Lesser restrictions, lesser time spent on the track, lesser time he has to think about what the fuck he’s driving this season.

Also means lesser worry about how much he’s had to drink already.

He’s opted to sit on the hotel’s carpeted floor. There’s no saying when it was last vacuumed properly or what substances hide on its surface, but Charles couldn’t care less.

He’s drunk about half the supply of alcohol in the mini bar. He’s always liked the tiny bottles. They fit right in his palm, some he can wrap his fingers around completely. There are four of them standing side by side on the floor in front of him, the fifth one is in his hand. He shoots back the last of the whiskey in it before placing it right next to the other bottles. If he pushed on one of them now, the rest would topple over like dominos.

He puts his finger on the first bottle, rocks it back and forth a couple of times wondering whether he should, decides yeah, he should, and lets the little bottles fall on the carpeted floor.

His vision has started to swim a little, his head feels lighter. Yet, he can’t seem to be able to stop thinking .

It’s always the ‘if only’ that kills him.

If only his team had come up with a better strategy. If only they’d built a better car. If only his suggestions were taken more seriously. If only he had the courage to leave and still look at himself in the mirrors. If only he hadn’t made promises.

If only, if only, if only .

A sixth drink sounds like a bad idea. 

He knows by now that alcohol isn’t gonna help him. He needs something else to distract him. Make him stop thinking for just five fucking minutes.

—

Maybe, Oscar will always dislike Hungary.

Last year he felt horrible for the way he got his first win. This year, he feels horrible for the way he lost the win.

The strategy favoured his teammate, everybody’s praising him for finally getting his Hungary win. It was long overdue . No, it wasn’t. The win was his last year and it was supposed to be his today.

Or, maybe it was supposed to be Charles’.

What Charles did on Saturday was so completely unexpected it even left Charles himself unsure of how he did it. The way that happiness of getting his first pole position in this awful season shone on his face made Oscar’s heart constrict with joy. Yeah, he’s supposed to be fighting for the championship and yeah, he’s supposed to view everyone as his opponent. But his fight isn’t with Charles.

McLaren is comfortably in the lead in the Constructors’ championship and Charles is nowhere near Oscar in the Drivers’. If Charles got a win this season, it wouldn’t be so bad.

But, he didn’t. 

He lost out on the win, didn’t even get to stay on the podium, and ended his race with a five-second time penalty and a penalty point on his license.

Oscar didn’t even catch him in parc fermé after the race. Charles was just…gone.

Then, of course, there was George, calling Charles’ move ‘attempted murder’ even though there wasn’t even any real contact.

Oscar should probably ask Charles if he’s doing okay, but he’s not sure he can. They’re not friends, really. Acquaintances? Sure. They’re acquaintances who’ve had sex but yeah, sure. Oscar has no idea how he would describe their relationship. But one thing’s for sure, Oscar’s not the person Charles would turn to for comfort.

Which is why Oscar’s really confused as to why Charles would be standing outside of his bedroom door at 11:36 PM.

“Are you drunk?”

“Are you gonna let me in?”

Oscar steps to the side, Charles walks in.

“Are you…are you alright?” Oscar asks as Charles stumbles slightly and sits down on the bed.

Charles gives a dry laugh. “What do you think?”

“Yeah. You don’t look good.” Oscar holds out a bottle of water to Charles, “Drink this.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Charles, come on. You’re probably dehydrated.”

“I said, I don’t want to.”

“Charles—”

“My God, can’t you just listen to me!”

The volume of Charles’ voice surprises both of them. Charles is breathing heavily. He drops his head into his hands and tries to compose himself. Oscar can tell it isn’t working.

Slowly, he lowers himself onto the floor and places his hands on Charles’ knees. “Charles?”

“I'm sorry,” Charles looks at him, “I shouldn't have yelled right then. I just…I lost my cool a little, that's all.”

“It's alright.”

“No, Oscar. It's not.” Charles screws his eyes shut. “Just because you like me doesn't mean you should let me say just anything to you.”

Woah. “Charles, that's not what I was—I just want to help you.”

“You want to help me?”

“Yeah.”

Charles leans in, close enough that their noses brush.

“Then fuck me.”

Oscar’s slightly taken aback. “What?”

“If you want to help me, then fuck me,” Charles reiterates, and he seems pretty serious about it too.

Normally, Oscar wouldn't say no. Normally, by now, Oscar would already have Charles all over him as he breathed out yes, please between kisses. 

But it's not normal today. And Oscar can't do this.

“No.” His reply is firm. It surprises Charles.

“No?”

“No.”

“You're saying no to having sex with me?”

“I'm saying no because you're not thinking clearly, Charles.”

“I am.”

Oscar sighs. “No, you're not. You're drunk out of your mind.”

“I am not drunk out of my mind,” Charles protests, his voice getting louder.

“Charles, you couldn't walk fifteen meters to the bed without stumbling. You are drunk.”

Charles huffs and pushes Oscar away hard enough that he lands on his ass. “So what? I lose one winning race and suddenly you don't want me anymore. That's it, isn't it?”

“Charles—”

“No. Don’t do that. I don’t want your pity. I did not come here for pity.”

“It’s not pity, Charles—”

“Then why don’t you want me?” 

How could Charles ever think that?

When he doesn’t get an answer, Charles asks again. “Tell me, Oscar. Why don’t you want me?”

His voice gets smaller this time around, like he himself believes that he isn’t worth being wanted. Like he hasn’t been the sole motivation for Oscar to try and win all these races for months .

Oscar gets back on his knees and crawls over to Charles. Taking both of Charles’ hands into his, he says, “That’s not true. And you know it too.”

Charles sniffles, turning his eyes away from Oscar’s face. 

“Charles,” Oscar tries again, “I need you to know that what you think is not true.”

Charles lets out a wet chuckle. “I have nothing to show for myself,” he shakes his head. “The moment I started to fall behind P3 I tried to drive George off the track. I mean, who does that? I knew I shouldn’t have, and yet I did it.”

“You were a little aggressive on track when trying to defend your position. Anyone would do that. Hell, Max has done it multiple times in the past year.”

“Yeah but, Max has won championships. I haven’t.”

“Don’t.” Oscar gently tugs on Charles’ hands.. “Don’t do that. It was one bad race.”

Charles looks at him. “And seven bad years.”

Oscar tries to read his face. It isn’t like Charles to feel so down about a single race. Then again, maybe every other time that he’s felt like this, he’s just gone to someone else for comfort.

Oscar then gets his answer as to who it could’ve been. 

“Max would always tell me to think about leaving.”

Oscar’s thumb gently strokes over Charles' knuckles. It's a habit he picked up from when his mother used to do it with him. It would always calm Oscar down after bad karting results or just those occasional blue days. He hopes it's doing the same for Charles.

“He always thinks rationally,” Charles continues. “Always could weigh out the pros and cons, always could be objective. For him, the fact was that I was wasting my best years away at Ferrari because I was thinking emotionally. So, he always would tell me to leave and look for other options.”

Oscar nods. “But, do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Leave?”

Charles takes a moment before replying, “No.”

“Then that's the only opinion that should matter.”

Charles smiles at that, but it doesn't reach even halfway to his eyes.

“Max would've never said that.”

And, okay. It doesn't exactly thrill Oscar that Max is somehow still present here in their conversation even though he's not really supposed to be here.

Sure, Max practically made it clear that he isn't actively pursuing Charles and said that Charles does, probably, reciprocate Oscar's feelings, but there isn't any guarantee.

Besides, Charles came to Oscar tonight and not Max. Surely that has to mean something.

“What are you thinking about?”

Oscar realises he's probably drifted off for longer than normal. “Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

They let the air conditioner fill the silence for a while. Oscar is still holding Charles' hands. Still trying to soothe him in the same way. Charles doesn't seem to have any plans to pull his hands away.

“Can I ask you something?”

Oscar nods his head.

“Why did you really say no tonight?” 

“‘Cause you're drunk,” Oscar answers simply. 

“Yeah. But I've wanted you while I was sober too. It really wouldn't have made a difference.”

“Yeah, but that was when we were in the Winner's Room. Tonight, you were drunk and you were clearly hurting.”

It bothers Charles a little that he wasn't able to mask his disappointment all that well. 

“Did that bother you?”

“What?”

“That the only time I’ve expressed a wish to sleep with you outside of the Winner’s Room, I was drunk and sad?”

Charles can practically see the gears turning in Oscar’s head, trying to come up with a suitable answer which isn’t yes, Charles, it bothered me very much . It’s cute.

He turns one of his palms to hold Oscar’s hand. “Come on, your knees must be killing you.”

Oscar slowly stands up, his knees aching from the effort. He grabs the forgotten bottle of water and hands it to Charles. Thankfully, Charles accepts it this time. 

Oscar sits next to Charles. He’s unsure of how close he’s allowed to be. One could argue that they have been a lot closer before, but it’s different this time. They’re not having sex. So naturally, Oscar is unsure how close is too close.

“I’m sorry about your race too,’ Charles says.

“My race?”

“Yeah. I heard they put you on a two-stop strategy while giving Lando a one-stop.”

Right. He’d lost the race today.

“Oh, yeah, that’s—that’s nothing,” Oscar says, trying to brush it off. But Charles isn’t in the mood for that.

“You know you can still feel bad for your race, right? Just because I’m down about my race doesn’t mean you have to act like you were fine with yours.”

“I know,” Oscar tries to argue, “but it really isn’t as bad as you—”

For the first time that night, Oscar realises how much he’s missed kissing Charles. It’s different this time. There’s no rush, no heat. Charles is gently cradling his face with one hand, and Oscar just melts. 

He doesn’t protest when Charles lays down on the mattress and pulls Oscar on top of him and he simply goes where he’s moved.

They only pull apart when they start to run out of air. Oscar looks at the man under him.

His hair is slightly messed up, his eyes are glistening, and decorating his face and neck is a pretty flush. Oscar feels proud of having been the reason behind it.

“You’re staring,” Charles says.

“You’re really pretty,” Oscar replies. And for once, Charles doesn’t have an immediate witty reply. They’ve done this before. But, for some reason, it feels completely different tonight. All they’ve done is talk and kiss, yet it all feels far too intimate than it has felt these past couple of months. 

Oscar doesn’t want to let go of it. He lays his head down on Charles’ chest and lets him gently card through his hair. His brain tells him that maybe if he stays completely still, Charles won’t suddenly remember that staying the night is not something they do, and he won’t leave.

He listens to the low lub-dub-dub of Charles’ heart and lets his head be lifted by every breath he takes. For the first time since the end of the race, Oscar feels at peace.

The hand in his hair suddenly stops and Oscar feels his heart squeeze. He’s not ready for this to end yet. He needs just five more minutes.

He looks up.

Charles looks like he’s struggling to ask a question, which is weird. Charles has never been the one to shy away, not from Oscar at least.

“What’s wrong?’

Charles shakes his head. “No, nothing’s wrong. I—I just wanted to ask you something.”

Oscar blinks as if to say go on .

“Would you—it’s—”

“You can tell me.”

“Can I stay over tonight?”

It’s a miracle Oscar doesn’t immediately jump up shouting Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” 

Charles smiles. This time, it reaches his eyes. He gently guides Oscar’s back onto his chest and continues running his fingers through his hair. Oscar slowly drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, he takes five minutes to stare at Charles’ sleeping face before moving off his chest. A deranged part of his brain tells Oscar to take a picture of this moment, but he decides not to. Because if this ends up being a one time thing, Oscar would rather not have a solid reminder to haunt him later. So, he just commits the sight to his memory instead and goes back to sleep.

In the morning, he wakes up alone.

There’s no note, no trace. The sheets under his palm are just warm enough to tell that Charles left not too long ago.

Oscar’s glad he didn’t take that picture last night.

Chapter Text

The summer break has been moving pretty slow. Every driver living in Monaco has flown out to some holiday destination or the other, posting pictures from their yachts in their swimsuits, enjoying the well deserved time off. Oscar hasn’t really been doing that.

His mother had invited him to spend the break at home, spend a few days in the winter, but Oscar had declined. He needed to focus.

He was only nine points away from Lando. That was too close. Oscar couldn’t afford another bad race or else he was going to lose this lead. Lando can go vacation on some beach, Oscar couldn’t afford to do that. So, he packed his days with workouts and daily sessions on his sim.

His mother asked him if he was trying to run from something, Oscar assured her that he was not. 

There wasn’t really anything to run from anyway.

He didn’t leave his apartment building, ordered in all his food and groceries. His sisters started Facetiming him more regularly, and on every call Oscar assured them that yes, he was fine and no, they didn’t have to fly out here and yes, he was eating and sleeping as much as one needed to. If his sisters seemed unconvinced then they didn’t tell him so.

In the rare breaks Oscar would finally take when his body was just about ready to give up, he would settle on the couch in front of the TV and watch through whatever mind-numbing garbage he could find till he eventually got tired enough to fall asleep. Oscar hadn’t slept in his bed since the summer break started, but that wasn’t really something one should be worrying about. The entire apartment belonged to him and he was free to sleep wherever. So what if he found it hard sleeping in a bed alone after that night? That didn’t mean anything. Sometimes, people just want a little change. And his €56,000 couch wasn’t all that bad a choice for a good night’s rest.

—

Charles should’ve been in Corsica by now.

He’d planned the trip with Pierre before the season started, but the night before they had to leave, Charles cancelled.

Pierre of course asked him what was wrong, why wasn’t he coming on this trip. Charles made up a weak excuse, something about a nasty bug. Pierre offered to stay in and help but Charles refused, saying he should go and enjoy the vacation with his girlfriend. Thankfully, he accepted the reasoning, leaving Charles alone to deal with himself.

Charles is usually good at dealing with his issues, and he’s got a few if you ask him. But this time, he finds himself unable to.

This time, Charles doesn’t know what’s wrong.

His routine everyday has been the exact same. He would wake up and take Leo out for their daily run. After getting back he’d feed Leo, then himself. He’d shower and then lock himself in his sim, putting in laps till his eyes watered from staring too much at the computer screen. 

He’d go sit by his piano, his fingers dancing on the keys, searching for a new melody. He’d try his hardest to come up with something he likes, but all that would echo through the walls of his apartment was a peculiar sadness. Charles hated that.

He wasn’t sad. There was nothing he would be sad about.

He would sit on his balcony looking out into the street. He would think of going out on a drive, but he also knew that Monaco was packed with tourists this time of the year, and he wasn’t really in the mood to be swarmed by people. 

He’d order tiramisu from his favourite Italian place and devour the whole thing as an excuse for dinner. When the sun set, he would crawl back into his bed, hide under the covers and scroll mindlessly through his phone. Leo, too, would find his way onto the bed and snuggle up right next to Charles.

Usually, Leo would be jumping on Charles like the overenergetic ball of fur he is, and demand that he play with him. But for the past few days, Leo has been calmer. 

Now, Leo lays quietly by Charles’ side and he gently pets him, almost like the dog is trying to make him feel better. Charles thinks that’s ridiculous considering he has nothing that’s making him feel bad in the first place. Leo probably just missed him, that’s all.

—

Max Verstappen shows up at Charles’ apartment to make his annoying presence known.

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” Charles asks the man standing out in the hallway. He’s still holding the door, his body blocking the way into his apartment.

Max, standing outside with two bags of food, sighs. “I have plenty of much better things to do but Pierre also has been pestering me for days now with calls and texts and the only way to make him shut up was to come check in on you so, here I am.”

If only Pierre could let things be.

“Well, you’ve checked in on me. I’m doing just fine so, you can go now, bye bye.” Charles begins to shut the door but Max stops it before it can shut all the way. 

“Yeah, I’m not buying that,” Max says as he looks Charles over. “You clearly aren’t fine.”

Charles rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. “And you’re somehow the expert of my feelings?”

“You have bags under your eyes like you haven’t slept enough, there’s a chocolate stain on the front of your hoodie, your couch behind you is an absolute mess, your mailbox downstairs was so stuffed that I had to pick the mail up for you—you’re welcome for that by the way—and Leo has been circling near your feet ever since you opened the door and not once has he tried to run out which he always does whenever he sees an open door.”

Charles looks down and sure enough, Leo is standing by his feet, looking up at him with his little beady eyes. Charles usually has to lock Leo in a different room whenever he opens the door because the dog loves to run out given any chance. But today, he’s stayed right by Charles despite being right next to an open door.

“Well, maybe Leo just…missed me.” Max raises an eyebrow like he’s not buying Charles’ explanation one bit. Hell, even Charles knows that explanation doesn’t fit anymore.

Max sighs and the plastic bags in his hands rustle. “Will you just let me in? Clearly you haven’t been doing well since Hungary.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Charles, I’m the one person who would definitely know that.”

“No.”

“Something happened between you and Oscar, right?”

The question startles Charles because it was not something he was expecting to be asked about.

“H—why would you think that?”

Max’s expression changes. “Ah. So I am right.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Max is really starting to lose his patience.

“Will you just fucking let me in? The food is getting cold and I don’t know about you but I’m starving and would really like to eat.”

Charles figures there’s no use arguing so he steps aside to let Max in. Leo, on realising that Max is coming in , abandons his spot by Charles’ leg and follows Max into the apartment, yipping excitedly. 

“Hi Leo. And how are you doing today?” Max bends down to scratch behind Leo’s ears, which the dog enjoys very much.

“I have no idea why he likes you,” Charles says. 

“Maybe because I’m a really nice person who cares about other people.” Max goes into the kitchen to get out the plates and cutlery. The ease with which Max is navigating his way through Charles’ kitchen is not really a surprise. He’s been over enough times to know where Charles keeps his wine glasses and where he keeps the weird little bowl-plates that he loves to have his pasta in. 

Max sets the table and pushes a plate of pasta towards Charles. It’s carbonara and it’s somehow still steaming. Charles honestly can’t remember the last proper meal he had and his stomach lets out a rumble at the sight and smell of the food so he sits down to eat.

“Is that still your favourite place?” Max asks when Charles closes his eyes on taking the first bite, letting out a pleasant hum.

“Yeah. Still love that place.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Max’s lips. “Good.”

They eat in silence. Charles scrapes his fork on the plate trying to chase after stray pieces of chicken long after finishing his pasta. He’s avoiding having to start a conversation, and Max knows this. He also knows that it’s always best to let Charles talk whenever he’s ready instead of forcing him into a conversation, so he waits.

Once his plate is clean except for a few streaks of the carbonara sauce, Charles speaks.

“Why did you really come here?”

Max sets his fork down, picks up his glass to finish the last of his wine.

“Like I said, Pierre kept calling me and insisted that I come and check up on you since you were supposedly sick.”

“‘Supposedly sick’? What, you don't believe me?”

“Seeing as you are sitting in front of me right now looking remarkably un-sick I would say, yes.”

Charles pouts. He hates it when people can read him easily, and hates it even more when one of said people is Max. As much as he hates it Charles has to admit that Max is the one person who probably knows the most about him. Pierre is a close second but then again, Pierre has never had sex with him so there are a few things that he doesn’t know.

Max leans on the table, looking at Charles like he’s trying to read his mind through his eyes. “What’s really going on? I mean, I know what’s going on, but I’d still like to hear it from you.”

Max has that annoying, I-know-you-better-than-you-do smile on his face that Charles absolutely hates, mainly because the fucker does . 

He really doesn’t want to talk about it. He would rather blissfully ignore this little problem of his like he does with all other problems in his life and just distract himself till they’re back to racing their little cars and everything can just be normal. So, he gets up from the table, not bothering to clear out the plates cause Max will do it anyway, and retreats to the couch.

Max follows him and Charles cranes his neck to see that the plates and glasses are still on the kitchen table.

“You didn’t clean up?”

“You refuse to talk to me.”

“What is this, a negotiation?” Charles raises his eyebrow. “I talk to you and in return, you clear out the plates? ‘Cause that’s a really stupid negotiation tactic.”

“You hate doing the dishes so really, this is a great negotiation tactic.”

Charles presses his lips trying to hide the scowl on his face because Max is right. He absolutely loathes doing the dishes.

Max, knowing he’s close to breaking Charles, walks over to the other end of the couch and seats himself down. “Now, can you just tell me what it is that happened between you and Oscar that you cancelled your whole summer trip.”

Charles wishes he could tell Max what happened. But telling Max what happened would entail telling him what exactly happened. And that includes Charles admitting to himself that what happened was something significant which really gets in the way of his plan to ignore the whole ordeal.

He figures Max will not let up till he gets what he wants anyway, so with a sigh, he tells him.

“After the race in Hungary, I wasn’t feeling my best. So, I got a little drunk in my room and then went to find Oscar.”

Max’s ears seem to perk up the same way Leo’s do when Charles accidentally says a word he likes. “So you…”

Charles starts getting red in the face so he coughs to hopefully draw attention away from it. “Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

Charles shifts on the couch, tucking his feet under himself. “I did go to his room for sex, and I even asked him directly to his face. But, he said no.”

“Really?” Max asks with genuine surprise. Charles nods.

“He said I was too drunk to be thinking clearly and so he couldn’t have sex with me. I got upset at that, and then he tried to calm me down. I still kissed him but it wasn’t like the usual, heated make-outs. It was softer and slower which was very weird.” Charles hesitates a little before continuing. He knows that that is what has been bothering him the whole time but he wishes he could just ignore it a little longer.

Stupid Max.

“And?” Max prompts when Charles goes quiet for a bit. “What happened next?”

“We…uh…we fell asleep. Together."

The way Max’s jaw drops would make you think Charles just told him that he got pregnant after a one night stand.

“You literally slept with Oscar?!” Max exclaims loud enough that Charles is worried his neighbours heard him. “Oh my God. No wonder you’re so miserable right now.”

“Can you quiet down a little?” Charles hisses.

“Nope. This is the single greatest development in this painfully slow-moving story between you two. I mean, you voluntarily slept the entire night with someone—wait.” 

Max gives him a questioning look and Charles winces, evidently answering the question.

“You moron !” Max yells as he gets off the couch. “You left before he woke up, didn’t you?” Charles stays silent, Max gets his answer.

“I cannot believe you right now.” Max drops to the floor, legs crossed, dragging both his hands over his face in utter frustration. “You fucking left before he woke up. And now you’ve been regretting it. I bet you haven’t tried talking to him either, have you?”

“Why would I do th—”

“Why?! Why ??”

Charles really doesn’t understand the reason behind Max’s reaction. All he did was leave in the morning so Oscar didn’t have to go through the awkward ordeal of having to bid Charles goodbye when they didn’t even have sex. So really, Charles was doing him a favour.

He even tells Max as much, to which Max flips out.

“You are a fucking idiot, Charles.”

“What did I do?”

Max pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to collect himself.

“You really don’t know?” Max asks him.

“Know what?”

“Oh wow, you really do not know.” And really, it shouldn’t surprise Max that Charles is completely unaware of the feelings that someone might be developing towards him. If anything, it’s the most Charles thing for him to do.

Except this time, it’s affecting him too because this time, he is also developing feelings. He’s just too idiotic to realise it.

Max knows he can’t wait till Charles figures it out either. 

“Charles, Oscar likes you.”

A beat passes. “No.”

“Charles.”

“ No .”

“He does.”

“No. You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about this?”

“Because—you—it’s—shut up.”

Max had that annoying, cocky smile of his back on his face and Charles really wanted to throw something at him. Max didn’t know what he was talking about. Oscar liking Charles? Sure, they’d slept together a few times and, yeah Oscar had mentioned wanting to ask Charles out the first time they slept together but, that didn’t have to mean anything. People say all kinds of crazy shit after an orgasm.

“You’re trying really hard to think of something that can prove me wrong, aren’t you?”

Charles has nothing to say. He’s still trying to really digest what he’s just been told and is also feeling like the biggest asshole ever for what he’s been doing. Max, God bless, decides to take pity on him.

“Charles, hey.” Charles looks up. “It’s alright, you didn’t know.”

“But I should’ve, I—” There are tears forming near his lash line and damn it , he’s not supposed to cry over this. “God, how can I be so stupid , Max? I’ve been making Oscar feel miserable all this time. I feel like a horrible person.”

“Charles, no.” His hands reach out to cover Charles’ completely. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”

“But I still hurt him, Max. I hurt him and—I’ve just been playing with his feelings.”

“What about yours?”

Charles blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a tiny smile. “What about your feelings for Oscar?”

“My feelings?” Charles repeats slowly. “I don’t have any such feelings for Oscar.”

“Charles,” Max says in the voice he uses when he’s talking to his sister’s children. “If you didn’t have any feelings for Oscar, you wouldn’t be in here feeling like shit because of that night.”

He puts it so plainly that Charles feels like an idiot for not having noticed it before. He sits there, recalling all of his interactions with Oscar over the past few months—even some from before that time. Slowly, he comes to the realisation.

“Oh shit,” he whispers once it all clicks in his head.

He has feelings for Oscar.

Romantic feelings.

He has growing romantic feelings for Oscar.

He needs to sit down, but he’s already on the couch. So, he slides onto the floor, landing with a soft thump.

“I…I like Oscar?” He says it like it’s still a question. 

Max confirms it for him. “Yeah.”

“And…Oscar likes me?”

“Yep.”

Charles turns to look at Max and with creased eyebrows he says, “Well, why didn’t you tell me before?”

A part of Max is relieved that Charles is still being his annoying self and doesn't seem to be slipping further into a cocoon of guilt and self-pity. “I also found out recently.”

“But you found out before me! You should’ve told me.”

“Charles, you are twenty-fucking-seven years old.”

“And? Doesn’t mean I know everything?”

Max shakes his head. He’s starting to miss the wallowing-in-self-pity version of Charles.

“Whatever. Now that you know, do something about it.” Max gets off the floor. The rug on the floor might be expensive but it is not plush enough to sit on for extended periods of time and his ass is really starting to hurt.

“No, wait, wait. What am I supposed to do?”

Max shrugs. “Tell him? Talk about this with him? Lando mentioned he’s in Monaco too, so. You could go talk to him.”

Charles shakes his head like Max just suggested he go drive his precious Ferraris into the Monaco harbour. “No, no, no . Max, that’s a horrible idea .”

“ Mijn god, geef me geduld ,” Max mutters under his breath. “Listen, I’ve got other stuff to do today as well so I have to go now. I’ve told you all that you needed to know and now you have to figure out what you have to do, alright?”

“Does—”

“Yes, it means you have to talk to Oscar about this at some point and no, there’s no other way out of this.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s called being a grown-up.”

Charles huffs like a child who’s just been told that he absolutely has to finish his broccoli. Max would really love to stay but he has three hungry cats, one hungry dog, and a Twitch stream to get to so he can’t really care about this right now.

“So, have fun with all that. Talk to Oscar, preferably before the break ends, and I’ll see you back in Zandvoort.”

“Wait.” Max halts. “Are you flying out on your jet?”

“When have you ever seen me fly commercial in the last seven years?”

“Okay, rich boy. Can I fly out with you is all I’m asking.”

Max considers it for a moment as if the answer isn’t already clear. “Sure.”

“Great. Now fuck off,” Charles says with his usual half-smile.  Max laughs. 

He grabs his phone off the coffee table and his keys from the little bowl by the front door, bids Charles goodbye, and walks out. 

Leo walks up to Charles once the door shuts and sits by his feet. It tugs at his heart thinking how gentle Leo’s been with him this whole time because he felt how miserable his human had been. He picks up the little dog in his arms, pressing kisses all over his face.

“ Mon coeur, mon petit coeur, je t'aime tellement .”

Leo wiggles in his hold, his little tail wagging wildly as he tries to climb up and lick Charles’ face to reciprocate his love. Charles giggles.

He doesn’t do anything else for the rest of the day, just stays in bed cuddling Leo and watching old 2000s romcoms. He eyes his phone on the nightstand, wondering whether he should text Oscar. He even reaches out a few times, but his hands always stop right as he’s about to pick his phone up.

Next time, he tells himself. He’ll do it when he feels ready.

For now, he just wants to enjoy some time with his Leo.

Chapter Text

Seeing as Oscar hasn’t told anyone, except for his mother, about the fact that he’s still in Monaco, he isn’t expecting any guests. But then mid-morning, Sunday, someone rings his doorbell and knocks on his door so impatiently that Oscar decides to grab a weapon when he goes to answer the door. When he looks through the peephole, he finds perhaps the last person he expected to find.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Arthur, standing outside with his backpack slung over one shoulder, gives him a shrug. “Just thought I’d come say hi.”

Oscar blinks, still trying to take in his presence. “But, how did you know I was in Monaco?”

To this, Arthur shrugs again. “Just had a hunch.”

Oscar narrows his eyes, not believing Arthur for one moment. “Just a hunch ?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve known you for years, you don’t just have hunches.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it really that difficult to believe?”

“Yes.”

Arthur gives him a look . He doesn’t turn away, hoping it will somehow convince Oscar. It does not. So, he yields.

“Fine, you got me,” Arthur says with a show of his hands like he’s surrendering. “I did not have a hunch. But I was told that you’re still in Monaco.”

Arthur plants himself on the couch, his legs resting on the coffee table. Contrary to how he’s acting, this is actually the first time Arthur has been in Oscar’s Monaco apartment, which reminds him,

“How the fuck did you know where I live?”

Arthur looks at him like he was just asked the most obvious question. “You’re not the only F1 driver who lives in Monaco, you know? Getting your address wasn’t that hard.”

“Who told you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I didn’t tell anyone that I was in Monaco during the break so it is very strange as to why someone would give you my address if they knew I wasn’t home.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does very much!” Oscar affirms, crossing his arms across his chest as if to show just how serious he is. Arthur sighs.

“Oscar.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, understanding that there’s no way Oscar is letting this go. “Fine. It was Charles.” 

Oscar stiffens at the mention of his name and prays Arthur doesn’t notice that. He’s not sure if Arthur knows about him and Charles. Is it something you discuss with a brother? Oscar grew up with sisters so he really has no clue what would be an appropriate topic of conversation between brothers. All he knows is that he would rather race 186 laps in Singapore in the middle of summer than talk to his sisters about their sex lives.

Much to Oscar’s dismay, Arthur notices his turmoil.

“Oh, would you relax? I know you and Charles have been sleeping together.”

Oh, okay. That’s a relie—wait, no.

“He told you?”

Arthur—God fuck him—shrugs again. 

“Arthur, I swear if you shrug one more time I am going to break your shoulders.”

“What? You asked me if he told me about you two and I non-verbally answered your question.”

“Well can you verbally answer it?”

“Yes. Yes, he told me.” Oscar opens his mouth to ask his next question but Arthur cuts him off, “And no, he did not tell me any details. Come on, Oscar. He's my brother. And you're my friend. I don't want to hear any details about you guys in that way.”

Oscar lets out a relieved breath. He's glad Charles hasn't divulged much. But was there ever any ‘much’ to divulge? They had sex once every few weeks, that's all. Nothing remarkable in that.

“Are you…thinking about him?”

Oscar jerks, realising he had drifted off.

“About who?” he asks as if he doesn't know exactly who Arthur is referring to.

“Charles. You were thinking about Charles, weren't you?”

Oscar should lie. “No.” It doesn't come out as confidently as he'd hoped.

Arthur narrows his eyes, looking at Oscar like he sees right through him. “You had that sad little heartbroken look on your face. You were thinking about Charles.”

Fuck. Well, Oscar needs to play it off cool now. “No. I wasn't.”

Arthur looks at him for a moment, then sighs. He sighs like he is fifty-seven years old and he's watching a young person stumble their way through life and he's judging them for it.

He straightens his back, crosses his arms, and shakes his head solemnly as he says, “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. I cannot help you unless you help yourself. The first step to recovery is acceptance, my boy. And I am here to help you through this journey.”

Oscar blinks at the buffoon occupying his couch. “What in God's green hell do you mean?”

Arthur pushes himself off the couch so he can walk over to Oscar, grab him by his shoulders, and push him onto the couch. 

He leans forward, his gaze fixed and intense. “I mean, Oscar Jack Piastri, that you are falling for my brother and you have no idea what to do about it.”

Oscar tries to come up with a reply to that, but all he can do is stammer as he tries to form a sentence. Arthur doesn't let him get an actual try in anyway.

“Tell me, Oscar, why have you confined yourself to your apartment when you have more than enough money to be able to go and vacation in any country in the world? You could be by the sea in your swim shorts surfing the waves. Yet here you are,” Arthur’s eyes scan him, “sad, alone, locked in your apartment.”

Oscar lets out a nervous laugh. “Dude, are you high or something?”

Arthur gives him a pitiful look. “No, mon ami ,” he says, “you are the one who’s high. High on looove .”

Oscar sputters. What an accusation! “I’m not in—what? You’re so wrong. Dude, you’re definitely high on something.” Oscar tries to mask his embarrassment with a laugh. He tries to think of any way he could deflect and maybe make Arthur just stop talking about this. Alas, he cannot think of anything . Why can’t he think of anything?

Arthur is still sitting on his couch, still has that sly little smirk on his face that says I know I’m getting under your skin . The worst thing about all this is that he sounds like Charles. Not exactly like Charles of course, Oscar has always been able to tell the difference in their accents. Still, if he were to close his eyes and let Arthur talk, he could pretend that it was Charles talking instead.

Arthur’s preparing for the next round of his mission, Oscar can tell. He needs to figure out a way to get Arthur out of here but short of Oscar himself walking out of his apartment, there seem to be no other options. And he'd rather not go outside right now.

Defeated, Oscar is about to resign to his fate when his phone starts ringing.

Oscar has never picked a call up faster in his life.

“Hello?”

“Oscar? I’m glad to have caught you on the phone.”

Oscar doesn’t quite recognise the voice. Frowning, he pulls his phone back to check the caller info and lets out a curse when he sees who it is.

“Maggie,” he says in a clipped voice, “hi.”

Maggie, his social media manager, sighs on the other end. “I’ve been texting you for three days now, Oscar. You could’ve answered one of my texts at least.”

“Sorry man, I was busy.” Oscar can feel the eye roll even on a call.

“Have you even seen my texts?”

“Not really,” Oscar admits. He hasn’t seen a lot of texts during the break. He’s probably got over three hundred unread texts right now.

“Well then, I’ll just summarise it for you right now. It’s almost the end of the summer break and you haven’t made any posts on your Instagram yet. I need a few pictures of you to make one.”

Right. Summer break photo dumps and whatnot. Except, Oscar didn’t really have an Instagram worthy summer break, and he tells Maggie as much.

“What do you mean? Did you not go anywhere this summer?”

Oscar shakes his head before realising that Maggie can’t see him. “Nope.”

“Not even the beach?”

“Not even the beach.”

“You live in Monaco .”

“I am aware of that, yes.”

“What did you even do then?”

“Hung out in my apartment? It’s really nice, you know. Considering I flit around the world most of the year anyway.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, or maybe there’s a silent hum of consideration. After a few seconds, Maggie slowly says, “We can work with that.”

Oscar blinks. “Work with what?”

“Just send me some pictures of you hanging around in your apartment. We can post that with some caption about you taking time to recharge at home or whatever.”

Oscar manages to suppress a groan pretty well. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” Maggie chuckles. “Either send them to me or post them yourself by evening. Every other driver has made a post except you at this point.”

“ Must I make an Instagram post? I’m a racing driver, not an influencer.”

“Do you like your sponsors, Oscar?”

What an odd question. “Yeah?”

“Well, your sponsors would appreciate it if you have a good public persona, the maintenance which includes posting snippets from your life on your Instagram account.”

Oscar absolutely hates it when someone presents him with a good point.

Reluctantly, he says, “Fine. I’ll get some pictures ready.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Oscar. Goodbye.”

The slightly dejected look on Oscar’s face prompts Arthur to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“I need to post a summer break photo dump by the evening.”

“That’s all?”

Oscar looks up. “What do you mean ‘that’s all’? I need to somehow make me rotting in my apartment all summer look enjoyable.”

“Oh, that’s not such a problem,” Arthur says, waving a hand in front of his face. “I can take your pictures, come on.” He reaches out to pull Oscar up by his arm, but Oscar doesn’t move.

“I really don’t wanna go outside my apartment.” And he means it. Oscar really isn’t in the mood to be seen outside right now.

“Your building has a terrace, yes?” Oscar nods. “Great. We have no problem then, come on. I can take some very nice pictures of you.” Arthur tugs on his arm again. “Come on.”

Oscar decides not to fight it. It’s not like he had anything better going on with his day anyway.

—

Four hours later, they’ve got a decent number of pictures for a post. Oscar, ideally, would’ve been done about two and a half hours earlier, but Arthur insisted on getting the perfect shot .

“Okay, so we’ve got this one here, and this one too.” Arthur swipes through the carousel of photos they’ve picked out. And Oscar must admit, some of these have turned out pretty good. Oscar’s forgotten to shave, which has resulted in a nice little stubble on his face. He suggested shaving it off before taking the pictures but for some reason, Arthur seemed very insistent on him not doing so. To his credit, Oscar does look good with it.

“Right so, what caption were you thinking?” Arthur asks. Oscar is never great at captioning his posts. 

“How about we just put some emojis?”

Arthur seems to be considering it, which Oscar takes as a good sign. 

“Sure,” he says. “What emojis?”

—

The post goes up with a simple caption of “🏠🔋✅➡️🏎️” and the people still seem to be loving it.

His facial hair situation in particular has the internet divided.

oscar what is that shave it off 😭😭😭

    >i think he looks good…

      >i think u need an eye test oomfie ❤️

oscar’s new post?? yum 

bro really didn’t go anywhere during the break this is next level introvertism 😭😭

okay but, who took those photos? 👀

    >good question. as far as we know oscar lives alone, doesn’t he?

      >apparently some people saw arthur exiting oscar’s building a few days ago?

        >interesting……

streets are saying arthur leclerc was at oscar piastri’s apartment? 

    >both leclercs damn. this is the greed they talk about in the bible 💔💔💔

      >my goat is a whore 💔💔💔

GUYS HOLY SHIT DID YOU SEE CHARLES LIKED OSCAR’S NEW POST????

Wait, what?

Oscar swiped out of Twitter to open his Instagram. He checked the likes on his post and sure enough, Charles’ account was among the others.

Charles rarely ever likes other drivers’ posts, let alone Oscar’s. Even after their whole…situation started, nothing really changed on the social media front. 

And yet here he was, liking Oscar’s post.

Why did he like Oscar’s post?

Was it an accident perhaps? Maybe his thumb slipped. Maybe someone on his social media team liked it instead. Or maybe, Leo somehow opened his phone, got on Instagram, and liked Oscar’s post. Or maybe—

Maybe Oscar should stop spiralling.

He puts his phone away, having had enough of social media for one day, and decides to make some coffee. Never mind that it is 7 PM. He’s gonna be back on different time zones in a couple of weeks anyway, so why maintain any normal sleep schedules?

He enjoys his drink while looking over the lights shimmering outside. He often forgets it but Monaco really is beautiful. He just wishes he had someone to enjoy it with.

The coffee’s strong, it tastes great, yet it doesn’t quite take Oscar’s mind off of why did Charles like his post? He just wishes he could know.

Well, there is one way. But is Oscar really that desperate?

When he walks back from the balcony into the apartment and picks his phone off the couch Oscar finds that yes, he really is that desperate. 

why did charles like my post?

He sends the text then tosses his phone behind the cushions as if that is going to erase the fact that he is positively losing his mind right now.

He feels the buzz of an incoming text and wonders how long he should wait before checking it. Then, he decides against waiting.

i was waiting for you to ask me that 😏

can you just shut up and tell me?

why mon ami? what’s the matter?

why do you so desperately want to know why charles liked your post?

i do not ‘desperately’ want to know

i’m just curious

that’s all

mhmm

well

if you REALLY have to know then

i suppose it’s because

????

because??

well, well

look who’s getting impatient

arthur i swear i will run you over

woah woah no need to get so violent

besides, you need my help

fuck you

now can you just tell me why?

😁😁😁

well

i assume he liked your post

because charles has a thing for facial hair

what. 

he’s not quite into full beards or moustaches

but he does like a tasteful stubble here and there

Well, that’s a revelation for Oscar. Wait, does that mean—

is that why you told me not to shave????

🤔🤔🤔

interesting assumption

arthur

😁😁😁

you’re welcome, btw

i call best man

call whose best man?

arthur??

ciao!

Chapter Text

He’d known the weekend was going to be bad judging by Charles’ comments after the Friday and Saturday sessions. But, man.

He’s watching the overtake on George, and he’s impressed. Then he’s shown the contact with Kimi that caused his DNF.

“So that’s what happened,” he hears Max say. Oscar just nods.

Fuck, that was bad.

Struggled all weekend, then he was the lone Ferrari on track trying to bring home some points, only for his race to be ended because of a rookie mistake. 

On one hand, he should be happy that he managed to extend his championship lead, and should be delighted with how Lando had to DNF, but he isn’t quite.

The podium happens, he gets his trophy, they spray Isack with the champagne, and then it’s done.

Once their photo on the podium has been taken, he feels Max pat his back twice before leaning in to whisper, “Find him later.” Oscar looks at him, unsure of what he means by that. Max simply smiles and gets off the top step.

—

The knock comes about an hour later.

Oscar had been on his phone, going through clips of what happened while he was in the car.  The pictures of Charles just sitting by the track on the grass watching the race after his DNF leave him with an odd feeling in his chest. He heard his post-crash radio too. Heard how he didn’t even sound angry, like he’d expected something like this to happen to him. He read that Charles justified Kimi’s move, brushing it off as a rookie error. It’s something Oscar would surely have never been able to do.

Laura greets him with, “Mr. Piastri, congratulations on the win.” Oscar gives her a curt nod and a quiet ‘thank you’ in response.

“As the winner of today's Grand Prix, you are being given the access to the winner's room, to which you can invite any driver—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He’s not really in the mood to hear instructions he’s heard already.

“Well, then. Who do you wish to ask for?” Laura asks with a suggestively raised brow. She knows who he’s going to ask for. She probably already has the paperwork drafted anyway and has only showed up as a formality.

Except, it doesn’t feel right today.

“Oscar?” Laura prompts when Oscar doesn’t answer for several seconds.

“Yeah, um,” he hesitates. He really does want to see Charles, but not, he realises, with the excuse of a Winner’s Room. If what happened after Hungary meant anything, then Charles surely must be looking for just comfort tonight, and nothing more.

“I don’t want to invite anyone,” Oscar finally answers and judging by how Laura’s eyes widen, she definitely wasn’t expecting that answer.

“Are you sure? I mean, if not Charles you can ask for anyone el—”

“No, no. It’s not that,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m just not in the mood today. Really.”

Laura frowns slightly, but doesn’t argue any more. “Okay then. Congratulations once again. Good night.”

Once she leaves, Oscar sinks back down against his barely comfortable fold-out bed and unlocks his phone. His thumb hovers over the messages app as he debates whether or not to send a text. He figures seeing him in person would be a better idea, but that means addressing the slight issue of not knowing what Charles’ room number is. He could ask Lewis, but that means having to go through the awkward Hey man, really sorry for your race part of the conversation which Oscar would rather like to avoid if possible. 

So, he texts the next best option.

do you know what room charles is in tonight?

The reply comes sooner than he expected.

Glad to see you’re taking my advice and not acting like an idiot.

ha ha

do you know it or not?

I don’t.

But I can ask someone, wait.

And Oscar does.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzes again.

Room 1861

thanks

who did you ask?

Do you want answers or do you want to see Charles?

…

fair

Mhm.

—

He can see his eyes reflected in the shiny 1861 plate on the door. He’s here to talk, to check in, that’s all. Yet, he hesitates to knock. His mind works in overdrive as he starts to wonder whether he should be here at all. Maybe Charles just wants to be left alone tonight instead, maybe he’d rather spend the night watching a movie and not interact with anyone, especially someone who won the race today. Or maybe—

Maybe he already has someone with him.

Maybe that’s how Max knew what room Charles was in. And if that’s the case then, fuck, what’s Oscar even doing here? He’s not needed. Charles knows who he wants to go to after his truly terrible races and it’s not Oscar and that’s fine. 

Still, he really wants to check in on Charles.

He takes a deep breath, raises his hand, and knocks on the door three times.

Charles answers the door dressed in a grey sweatshirt and black lounge shorts. He has his black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and he looks like he just hopped out of the shower.

His eyes are narrow when he answers the door, but they widen once he realises that it’s Oscar standing on the other side. 

“Hey.”

Charles blinks. “Hi.”

Okay, that’s done. Next words should be, “How are you?”

Charles is still leaning against the door, holding it open, and Oscar is still standing out in the hallway. He snorts, “What do you think?”

Yeah, that wasn’t the best question to ask.

“Sorry, that was stupid.”

“It’s fine.”

Oscar is very aware of the fact that he still hasn't been asked to come inside, something that's only confirming his suspicions that perhaps Charles has someone else in his room.

He really wants to ask him about it, though he knows he shouldn't.

“So, who did you invite today, race winner?”

Oscar’s head whips up.

“What?”

“Your Winner’s Room,” Charles explains with a smile, but it feels forced. Like someone is forcing Charles’ lips into an unnatural shape.

“I, uh, I didn't…invite anyone.”

Charles doesn't look like he quite believes that. “Really?”

Oscar doesn't know any way to answer the question that doesn't make him sound absolutely pathetic. How does he say Yes, Charles. I didn't invite anyone to my Winner's Room tonight because all I wanted to do was to see you and comfort you and want you to know that I really meant it. 

God, he's such a fucking loser.

“Really,” he answers instead.

“Why?”

“Didn't feel like it.”

“You didn't feel like celebrating your first Grand Slam?”

Oscar shakes his head slightly. He wasn't in much of a celebratory mood tonight, even though he should be. Hell, McLaren is hosting a party right now and fucking Lando is there but not Oscar.

Instead, he's here.

Out in the hallway of the NH Collection hotel, one hand fumbling with the string of his hoodie while the other awkwardly lies by the pocket of his sweatpants.

Charles pushes the door wider and for a moment Oscar thinks he's going to finally be let inside. But Charles just crosses his arms, the entrance to his room still blocked for Oscar.

“Why?” he asks again. “And don't try to bullshit your way out of it. Tell me the truth.”

He tries to look for another lie. 

I was really tired after the race. No, Charles would immediately know it's a lie.

I didn't have any condoms. The FIA provides you with plenty, dimwit.

I've chosen to lead a life of celibacy. Sure, buddy.

I’m on my period. What?

Charles is still looking at him. Oscar can see the slight redness in his eyes and the bags under them. Charles was one of the first people on track during the weekend, which is a great feat considering how much Charles loves his sleep. Which also means that Charles probably hasn't slept enough these past few days.

Oscar mentally outweighs the pros and cons of telling Charles the truth right now. While there is a possibility that it will result in Charles letting him in, there is an equal possibility of Charles kicking him out, blocking his number, and refusing to see him again.

And though the second option really makes him want to just come up with another lie, he decides to brave it instead.

He scored his first Grand Slam today, surely the Gods of racing must be in his favour.

Here goes nothing.

“I didn't want to celebrate with anyone who…wasn't you.”

The look on Charles' face falters just slightly. His eyebrows soften and his shoulders relax.

“What?”

“It—I don't know, it just didn't feel right. And I really only wanted to see you—” and now Oscar was fully rambling with no control over his mouth whatsoever, “—and make sure you were okay and—”

“Hold on,” Charles interrupts him, “that's why I didn't get any Winner's Room invitation today? Because you wanted to make sure I was okay?”

And Oscar pauses because, was that really what Charles was worried about this whole time?

“Oscar.”

“Yes?”

“You really didn't invite anyone else to the Winner's Room?”

Oscar gulps before answering, “No.”

“Because you wanted to make sure I was feeling alright after my race?”

“Yes.”

Charles tilts his head like he's trying to figure out the true meaning lying under Oscar's words. Charles doesn't seem to believe him, and Oscar doesn't know how to make him.

“Honestly,” Charles finally says, “when Laura didn't show up today I figured that it was maybe because you didn't want someone who had a DNF to mess up the mood in your Winner's Roo—”

“What?!” Oscar exclaims a little louder than he intended to. He can't really be blamed either because really, what?

“What?”

“Charles, please tell me you didn't seriously think that.”

“I mean, it's a fair assumption, isn't it?” Charles says with a tiny shrug, trying to play it off as something casual. Oscar doesn't see it that way.

“Charles, no.” There is a hint of desperation now seeping into his voice now. “There is no way ever that I wouldn't want you in my Winner's Room.” It comes out as a more honest confession than he has expected. Hell, it's like two steps away from a love confession.

Charles doesn’t reply and silence fills the space again. Oscar desperately wishes Charles would say something, so this time, he asks the question.

“Do you have someone with you in there?”

Oscar sees the familiar smirk come onto Charles’ face then, “Why? Are you jealous, Piastri?”

By now, Oscar knows well enough when Charles puts on this carefree and confident demeanor of his. It’s a facade, all to make it look like Charles is alright, like nothing affects him, so that he dare not show how vulnerable he truly feels. Only way to break this facade might be to show some vulnerability himself.

So this time, Oscar doesn’t lie.

“Yeah.”

Charles blinks. “Yeah, you were jealous?”

“Yeah, I was jealous.”

His heart feels like it might beat out of his chest. He’s admitting a lot of things to Charles today, and with each one he’s afraid of crossing any boundaries Charles might’ve set. Fortunately though, Charles doesn’t seem to be reacting too badly. Not yet at least.

Charles’ eyes scan his face, and Oscar wonders if he messed up.

Then, Charles moves.

He steps away from the door, leaving a space for Oscar, before walking into the room. Oscar promptly follows.

To his relief, the room appears empty. There are no extra pairs of shoes anywhere, no signs of anyone other than Charles. 

“Do you feel better now?” Charles asks to tease. Oscar can feel the tension slowly dissipating.

“A little, yeah.”

Charles lets out a light chuckle at that. “Drink?”

Oscar shakes his head. “No, that’s fine.”

“Really? Not even to celebrate?”

Not that Oscar doesn’t want to, but his firsts with his team so far haven’t all been really great memories. His first race, he had to retire his car and couldn’t even finish the race. His first win was a whole topic of debate with people arguing that the only reason he won was because Lando let him. And now, this. Sure, Oscar managed a Grand Slam, but his teammate DNF-ed. And so did Charles.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realise he’s dropped his head and is now just staring at his hands in his lap. He’d been so occupied with the Go And See Charles thing that he’d completely forgotten about this other thing.

His team didn’t even look that happy about his first Grand Slam.

He feels a hand under his chin, slowly lifting his head up.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks. His voice is laced with genuine care and Oscar doesn’t really know what to do with it. There are so many things he wants the answers to. So many things he wants to ask.

Why did you come to me that weekend in Hungary? Why did you leave in the morning like nothing happened? Why did you send your brother to check up on me? Why were you upset that I didn’t ask for you tonight? Why, why, why?

Charles brushes the edge of Oscar’s jaw with his thumb and Oscar leans into the touch.

“What do you need?” The question is what makes Oscar realise just how tired he is. He feels the exhaustion down deep in his bones. The warmth from Charles’ palm is so comforting and—wait, no. No, he came here to help Charles, not the other way around.

He pulls Charles’ hand off his face and holds it with both of his. “I want to help you. Tell me, what do you need?”

Charles lets out a dry little laugh at that. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”

“No, no. You needed comfort after Hungary too. And today’s race was worse than Hungary. Please just, tell me how I can help you.”

Charles cannot quite understand the reason behind the urgency in Oscar’s voice. He sits down next to Oscar, still holding his hands. “Oscar, seriously, what’s wrong? Is there something on your mind?”

Oscar sighs. Yes, there are in fact a lot of things on his mind which he cannot quite express. But then Charles looks at him with those soft eyes and Oscar figures maybe it won’t be so bad if he just asked one question.

“There is one thing,” Oscar finally says. 

Charles tilts his head to the right. Oscar tries to calm the beating of his heart. He considers backing out of it but, no. It’s been long enough of this back and forth and if Oscar is going to end up getting his heart broken anyway, he’d rather it happens sooner than later.

Oscar takes a deep breath. Here goes. “Why did you leave that morning after Hungary?”

Charles’ hold slacks a little and his eyes go wide. “Oh,” is all he says.

Oscar waits for him to say something else. Charles’ mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish’s, but no words come out. Oscar can tell Charles is trying to formulate a response. Ideally, he should give him some time. 

The silence is kind of killing him though.

“Um,” Charles finally says after what feels like half an hour, though it might only have been about two minutes. “Did you—has that been bothering you?”

“Which part?”

“The—me leaving.”

“Oh, um.” Has it been bothering Oscar? He did spend like three weeks thinking about it and the different outcomes that could’ve been, so much so that he couldn’t sleep in his own bed for said three weeks. But has it bothered Oscar?

“Maybe.”

Just a little bit though.

“Oh.” Second time he’s heard that cursed word. “Is that why you stayed in Monaco during the summer break?”

“Could be. I’m not sure really,” Oscar says. It would’ve been true maybe a week ago, but not anymore. Now, unfortunately, he does know why he had confined himself to his apartment.

Charles hums, pursing his lips. 

“How did you know I was in Monaco?” Oscar asks again. “I didn’t really tell anyone.”

Charles’ eyes, which were on Oscar’s face, quickly dart to the side. Suddenly, he’s looking at everything except Oscar.

“Charles?”

The more time Charles takes to answer, the crazier the possible reasons get in Oscar’s head. He goes from thinking it must’ve just been a lucky guess to thinking that maybe Charles likes to stalk people in his free time. 

Before Oscar can spiral further, Charles gives him an answer.

“Max told me, actually.”

Oscar blinks.

“Max?”

“Yeah,” Charles says with a small sigh, “Pierre sent him over to check up on me and he told me that you hadn’t left Monaco either.”

There are two things that stick out there for Oscar, the first one being,

“What do you mean ‘either’?”

“Hmm.”

“You said I hadn’t left Monaco ‘either’.”

“Oh. Um.”

The realisation dawns on him slowly. “You—were you also in Monaco during the summer break?”

Oscar never thought he’d have the privilege of seeing Charles Leclerc flustered, but the Gods seem to have blessed him today.

Charles makes a little gesture with his hands, trying to play it cool. “Basically, yeah. In a sense.”

“Why did Pierre send Max to check up on you instead of coming over himself?”

“So many questions, my God,” Charles mumbles. “What are you, a detective?”

And see, Oscar would take that as a sign to shut the fuck up and leave Charles alone. Except, Charles is now blushing very hard and that’s something Oscar doesn’t get to be the cause of as much. Oscar’s stupid, stupid brain thinks it’s a beautiful sight.

“Charles?” Oscar tries again, because damnit he really just needs to know.

Another deep sigh before Charles answers. “I was supposed to go on a trip with Pierre but I cancelled it last minute. Told him I wasn’t feeling well and the idiot of course didn’t believe me so he annoyed Max into coming and checking up on me.” The last bit he says with an eyeroll. It earns a little chuckle out of Oscar.

“So anyway,” Charles goes on, “while he was here he told me that you had also been in Monaco the entire time. He found out from Lando apparently.”

Lando? But, Oscar hadn’t talked to Lando the entire break. How did he find—

Oscar groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Hattie.” 

“Your sister?”

Oscar nods his head, face still hidden in his palms. “Her and Lando are sort of friends. They became friends back when Lando and I used to get along better, so. Ugh, it was definitely her who told him.”

“Ah, meddling younger siblings. What would life be without them?” It makes them both laugh. Oscar likes it when Charles laughs, it’s a beautiful sound.

“Yeah. I mean, yours even came to see me,” Oscar says then, and Charles stops laughing.

“What?”

“Arthur. He came to see me around the end of the summer break? He’s the one who told me that you knew I was in Monaco.”

The look on Charles’ face suggests that he was completely unaware of any of this. “Arthur went to see you?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. He kinda made it seem like you sent him to check up on me,” he says, then realises how it sounds lame out loud, so he adds, “or something.” There. Dignity saved.

“I…I did not send him. I didn’t even know that he went to see you.”

And now it’s Oscar’s turn to go, “What?”

He hears Charles groan out loud before falling back onto the bed. “Je le tuerai à mon retour à Monaco. He’s such an idiot, my God.” He sits back up, looking at Oscar with a worried look on his face. “What did he say to you? Did he say something stupid?”

Oscar thinks back to his interaction with the youngest Leclerc. Nothing embarrassing that he can remember. Well, he did tell him things but whether it’s embarrassing or not depends on how Charles views it.

Oscar hopes Charles doesn’t find those things embarrassing because that would mean that Oscar too is harbouring some pretty embarrassing feelings.

“Mon dieu, he did say something, didn’t he!” Charles exclaims when Oscar stays quiet for just a bit too long. “That’s why you’re being so quiet.”

It’s not entirely untrue. 

He’s been told things by Max, he’s been told similar things by Arthur. They both seem to see it so clearly. And if Oscar wishes, he can see it too, but his brain tries to shield his heart, tries to tell him that it mustn’t be true. 

What if he believes and ends up with a broken heart? But then again, didn’t he come here tonight prepared to leave with a broken heart? 

“You liked my Instagram post,” he blurts out without thinking twice. There’s the slightest shift in Charles’ posture.

“Oh. Um. Yeah.”

“Why?” Oscar sounds like an ever-curious toddler.

Heat rises into Charles’ cheeks again as he turns his face away from Oscar. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to deflect this time. “I saw your post pop up on my feed, and you looked good, so I liked it.”

There is something about Charles, who has whispered downright sinful things in Oscar’s ears before, turning into a blushing mess because he had to admit to liking how Oscar looked in a picture, that weirdly fills Oscar with a sense of pride.

“Arthur actually took those pictures. He was over at my place that day.”

“Oh.”

“He said you’d like those pictures of me.”

Charles looks at him then, with his mouth parted, before turning such a shade of scarlet that if you put him in his Ferrari you wouldn’t be able to spot him. He quickly covers his face. “Oh my God, he did tell you embarrassing things.”

Oscar can’t help but giggle a little at his reaction. “Charles.”

“I’m going to kill him and then myself,” a muffled voice says, only making Oscar giggle again.

“Charles,” Oscar tries again, this time, gently holding Charles’ wrists. Charles peeks through his fingers, looking at Oscar with a shyness the Australian has never seen on his face before.

It gives Oscar that little bit of hope.

“I need to ask you something,” Oscar begins. “I’ve had people tell me this before but I cannot really believe it unless I hear it from you.” He can feel his heart in his fucking throat. His fingers are curled gently around Charles’ wrists, his eyes are darting across Oscar’s face, and Oscar can feel sweat trickling down his spine even though they are in a fully air-conditioned room.

“Charles, do y—”

His words get cut off by a warm pair of lips pressing against his, and a palm on his chest slowly pushing him into the bed. Oscar’s brain goes blissfully blank for five seconds before coming back online to realise what exactly is happening. He’d been wishing for an honest answer here, maybe a conversation. Instead he’s got Charles back on top of him.

So he does what any logical man in his situation would do—slips his hands under Charles’ shirt and pulls him closer. Charles’ mouth trails downwards, latching onto Oscar’s neck. One of his hands is cradling Oscar’s head while the other slips under the waistband of Oscar’s sweatpants, cupping him through his boxers. Oscar lets out a low moan into Charles’ mouth, his hips lifting off the bed in search of contact. He practically can feel the smirk against his skin before Charles bites his earlobe, and continues on to leave little bruises over Oscar’s collarbones.

The conversation can wait, Oscar thinks. They’ve got time to converse and shit. Right now though, they’ve got more important matters to attend to. Charles pulls away just long enough so he can get rid of his t-shirt, and Oscar forgets all about any forms of communication.

—

Before he drifted off last night, Oscar had been worried about the fact that he has to open his eyes when he wakes up the next morning. Sure, he was in Charles’ room and not his, which would mean that the chances of waking up to an empty bed were very low. Still, his heart worried.

But, when he opened his eyes the next morning, he was greeted by the sight that is the morning sun illuminating Charles’ sleeping form. His chest feels heavy, even though there is no weight on it. Once again, Oscar wants to capture the moment in a picture, but he decides not to. Because they still haven’t talked. And this moment, however beautiful, still isn’t his to keep.

They don’t get to talk that morning either. 

Charles kisses him when he wakes up and later pulls Oscar into the shower before they head downstairs to grab breakfast. He drops Oscar off at his hotel, tells him he’ll see him in Monza. Oscar foolishly hopes for a kiss goodbye, and though it looks like Charles almost leans in, the kiss never comes. Oscar stands on the sidewalk and watches the Ferrari take a left at the intersection and drive out of sight before walking in.

Maybe next time, then.

Chapter Text

did you really just say inchident?

It's the text he had definitely expected to see, maybe even waited for. There's a shy grin on his face as he picks up his phone and taps on the notification.

why? did you hear something?

twitter is exploding so i assume you must've said it

looking up tweets about me are you?

oh, don't flatter yourself

that stuff shows up on my timeline if it's what everyone's talking about

and people talking about me, is that something you often see on your screen?

must i remind you that the inchident incident literally involved me

i might've heard something about that

…

you're a real pain in the ass, you know

i thought you liked that

A typing bubble shows up, then disappears, and Oscar briefly wonders if maybe that wasn't the right move.

shut up

Oh, thank God.

did it make you laugh?

what?

the inchident mention

well

yeah

a little

you started laughing before you even made the joke

what can i say

i’m just that funny

debatable

but it was cute

Oh. Um.

thanks

thanks?

that’s how you flirt, piastri?

no

shut up

damn

and here i was thinking that you’re doing so great

one direct compliment and you shut down

Oscar needs to defend his honour. He is being absolutely disrespected here and it is not something he would stand for. So, he crafts a very well thought out, carefully curated, soulcrushingly devastating argument.

shut up

all this is doing is making you sound cuter

tell me, are you blushing?

Well, he is. But Charles doesn't need to know that. His ego already cannot fit through most double-doored entryways.

no

really?

yes

i don't believe you

i demand proof

proof?

yes

send me a picture of you right now

Oscar practically flinches at the text. Shit. He has to send a picture. He lifts his head to check in reflection in the little vanity mirror across from the bed. He quickly checks his face, runs his finger through his hair a few times trying to make it look somewhat okay. Okay, looks good enough.

Oscar opens his camera, angles it the best way he knows, and clicks a picture.

[photo]

hmm

pictures can be easily manipulated though

Oscar huffs out a little laugh.

what, you think i photoshopped the blush out of my face?

maybe

i demand to investigate this myself

investigate?

how exactly 

His phone lights up with an incoming FaceTime call. Shit.

He doesn't have time to fix up much about himself before he accepts the call.

Charles' smiling face fills his screen immediately. He is lying in bed on his front, the phone probably propped up against the headboard. His upper body is mostly concealed by the comforter but the hint of bare shoulders suggests that he isn't wearing a shirt. His hair looks like he had just stepped out of the shower maybe twenty minutes ago.

“Hello there,” he greets Oscar.

“Hello.”

“How's your evening been?”

He looks oddly chipper for a Ferrari driver who just finished off the podium in Monza for the first time in four years, Oscar thinks. But then again, Charles is probably used to this by now. Besides, the Tifosi are still outside chanting his name and cheering him on to bring the championship back to Maranello, so he supposes not much is lost.

“It's been pretty alright,” Oscar answers. “Ordered some room service, had a nice non-diet approved meal and was thinking of watching a movie or something before going to sleep. What about you?”

Charles hums as he takes his phone into his hand and rolls onto his back, the comforter sliding off his body in the process, now only covering the lower half of his body. Charles holds his phone high so his face is clearly visible and slowly sighs.

Oscar cannot quite prove it, but he just knows that Charles is doing this to get a reaction out of him. He knows this, and so, he is not going to react. Nope. Not even a little bit.

But a corner of that comforter seems to stretching out very close to where the waistband of Charles’ pants should be peeking through except there still is no waistband to be seen and Oscar wonders if—

“Oscar?”

It snaps Oscar out of his reverie. “Hmm. Yes?”

“You okay there, mate?” Charles asks with a smirk, like he doesn’t already know the answer. Oscar hates it how this demeanor of Charles’ never fails to turn him on. It’s absolutely annoying.

“Yep,” Oscar chokes out.

Charles smiles at him like he knows it's not true, but doesn't press on. “I was just lying here scrolling on my phone. Then, I saw Twitter exploding because you said ‘inchident’ so I had to go and confirm from the source whether it was true.”

“I'm sure there's a video of me saying it. Couldn't you have just looked for that?” 

“Maybe. But people can fake anything these days so I wasn't sure if I should trust it.” 

“Hmm. Or maybe, you just needed an excuse to text me.”

Oscar mentally pats himself on the back for coming up with that response as quickly as he did.

“Wow. You’re getting your flirting back.” Oscar immediately, and against his will, blushes at that. “Ah hah! There it is.”

Oscar sinks down against the headboard, trying to hide his face in his hoodie. “Shut up.”

“Nope.”

“You’re very annoying,” Oscar sighs.

“You’re very cute,” Charles replies. Telling him to shut up again wouldn't be a very good comeback so Oscar opts to look away from the screen instead, earning a chuckle from Charles. At least he's enjoying this mortifying ordeal.

He didn't win the race today, had to swap places with his teammate for a mistake that his team made during a pitstop, and yet, he doesn't feel like a total loser. 

Charles is recounting some funny incident involving Leo from earlier this week. Oscar laughs along. At some point, Leo jumps onto the bed despite Charles' very poor attempts at making him stay on the ground. The insincere Leo, non! does nothing to discipline the dog. He climbs up and nestles his head right in the crook of Charles' neck, immediately falling asleep.

Oscar's thumbs hover over the power and volume buttons on his phone, itching to take a screenshot of the moment and save it in that very, very secret folder where he would've kept the photos of Charles asleep next to him. But again, he doesn't take the picture.

“I really do try to be strict with him, you know,” Charles says, trying to justify his actions, “but he looks at me with those eyes and I just fold.”

Yeah. Oscar can relate.

Charles' eyes flicker to the top of his screen for a split second, his smile faltering. Then, Oscar sees his thumb partly obscure the very edge of his camera like he’s swiping up on a notification, before his attention is back on Oscar. He wonders if maybe it was just a text from someone. Then, he remembers.

“You didn’t get called to the Winner’s Room tonight?”

It’s a stupid, stupid question, Oscar knows it as soon as he finishes saying the words. He knows that he shouldn’t care. He knows that it shouldn’t matter, seeing as Charles is talking to him and not anyone else. 

And yet.

And yet, Oscar feels that twinge of jealousy somewhere deep inside the bottom of his heart. He tries his very best to ignore it, but it rarely works. And the thing is, it usually wouldn’t have mattered to him, like the times when Lando had won the last two races before the summer break. Back then, he knew that Charles wouldn’t go to Lando.

But today’s winner was Max.

Max, who won in Imola. Max, who then won in Monza.

Ferrari’s home. And, evidently, Charles’ home.

Their little arrangement hadn’t started back when Max won Imola but Oscar knew that Charles was in his Winner’s Room that night. It had stung.

So, surely he must’ve gotten an invite tonight. Surely, Max must’ve asked for him.

And it’s Max. 

Oscar has a lot of catching up to do to Max.

Charles is still silent on the other end. Oscar half-expects him to just brush the question off. Instead,

“Yeah, I did.”

Oh. Well.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. Oscar knew this was the answer he was going to get. He should’ve never asked the question in the first place, knowing he would not be able to digest the answer. He tries his best to not let any emotions show on his face, tries to keep his expressions neutral as he nods. This doesn’t affect him in the least.

They haven’t even talked about it yet. Oscar tried last week but then Charles just…kissed him. And, well.

On one hand, he himself broke the rule of ‘no sex outside of Winner’s Rooms’ which should be a good sign. But he had also not explicitly said anything to Oscar about his feelings. So really, Oscar had no real right to feel like he—

“I declined it.” Charles’ voice pulls him out of his mental spiral. It takes him a couple of seconds to realise what Charles just said.

“You…you said no to Max?” Charles just shrugs, only this time, he doesn’t have a smirk colouring his face. “Why?” he asks, because he just has to know.

“Wasn’t in the mood. Plus, I have Leo with me tonight.”

“Couldn’t Joris watch him?”

There’s a light crease in his eyebrows when he answers, “Yeah. But he deserves a night of peace and quiet too.”

I guess, Oscar thinks to himself. It still doesn’t make sense to him though.

“Okay, but couldn’t Antoi—”

“Oh mon Dieu,” Charles mutters under his breath. “Do you really want to think of ways I could’ve gone to the Winner’s Room tonight or are you going to realise the fact that I did not go and instead am here talking to you?”

“Oh.” 

Oscar hadn’t even thought about that. Charles of course could’ve very easily gone today and Oscar would’ve completely understood—rules are rules. 

But, Charles didn’t go. Instead, he’s here talking to the guy who finished only one position above him.

“Are your queries answered now?” Charles asks. Oscar dumbly nods, bringing a smile to the other man’s face.

“Good. Now, do you want to hear a funny story from when I took Leo to Maranello for the first time?”

“You took Leo to Maranello?”

Charles brightens up at the idea of getting to tell yet another Leo story. “Mhmm. So, it was during summer break last year…”

There’s this picture from earlier today that has made the rounds on the internet. It was taken while the drivers and team principals were getting ready to take a picture for some Pirelli thing. Oscar and Charles were sitting next to each other on comically large tyres. The pictures show Charles talking about something, gesturing with his hands, while Oscar sits and listens patiently.

Truth be told, Oscar can’t really recall what Charles was talking about back then. All he remembers is the Italian sun shining on his face, making it glow in the way it only does when they’re in this country. 

All weekend they’ve been hearing the people sing his name, scream at the top of their lungs when he waves at the crowd. They couldn’t sleep before the race last year because the crowd was singing to Charles all night. And Oscar gets it.

He was up on the podium last year. He saw the celebrations in the crowd as Charles was handed his trophy. He saw the way people practically worshipped him that day. 

Oscar did secretly hope Charles would win again this year. ‘Cause if he did, then it would’ve been Oscar who actually got to worship him. 

Charles seems to be around halfway through his story. Oscar has been nodding along, picking up on all the key details. At some point Leo wakes up and moves over to the other side of the bed and falls asleep again. Charles coos over him, going on about how cute he looks when he sleeps. 

Oscar knows there are still things they haven’t talked about that they need to. He knows that he can’t let himself free fall just yet. But as the days go by and Charles does things like cancel any other plans he might have all so he can talk to Oscar after they’ve both had a relatively shit race and Oscar starts to wonder that maybe broken bones aren’t that bad after all.

Charles moves on from one story to the next, Oscar listens with his head resting on the pillow, and his heart copes with it just fine.

Chapter Text

If he were to be completely honest, Oscar has no idea what he even said in all those videos they recorded for the F1 YouTube channel before the start of the season. All he knows is that a few weeks ago, they told him he won Grill The Grid again, that’s all. It is Arthur’s text that informs him of his actions.

charles? the class clown?

seriously, mate?

Oscar frowns at the message, not sure what it is about at first.

what are you on about?

the new f1 video?

[link]

It’s a link to a tweet containing a clip from the new video.

Who’s the F1 class clown?

I feel like Charles Leclerc comes out with some quite funny things at times, so I’ll go with Charles.

Oscar watches those words leave his mouth, having absolutely no memory of ever saying that. 

The worst part? Oscar feels he didn’t say anything untrue.

well, he is pretty funny 

???

MY brother charles leclerc???

FUNNY???

that dick cannot be that good

ARTHUR THAT’S YOUR FUCKING BROTHER

YEAH

SO I KNOW HE IS NOT THAT FUNNY

he is

maybe you don’t get his jokes

mon dieu you are GONE gone

you are beyond saving my boy

stfu

absolutely hopeless

Oscar has no idea what Arthur is on. He knows what he said and he knows what he said is right. He sets his phone down to get back to his workout, but his phone buzzes with a text again.

Charles? Class clown?

Oh for fuck’s—

not you too??

who told you??

What, you think I’m a grandpa or something?

I have Twitter too, you know?

ok well can you delete it then

and leave me alone

Mate, I’ve known Charles for years.

He is not class clown level funny.

LEAVE ME ALONE I BEG OF YOU

And this was filmed, what, before the season started?

Boy, you really came into the season with a mission, huh.

max pls

leave me be

i beg of u

first arthur and now you

Well

We’ve got a point, haven’t we?

…

no

bye

Mhmm.

Sure, sure.

Shit. It was absolute fucking, steaming pile of shit.

Fifth row start. Out of the top 4 for the first time in seventeen races.

Oscar knew he had cameras following him so he couldn’t really do what he really wanted to do which was to throw his helmet on the garage floor and scream his lungs out.

Worst part is that it was his own mistake.

Into the walls. Out of qualifying. He was going to start P9 all because Charles crashed before him. If Charles had set a faster time than him before crashing then Oscar would’ve been P10.

Oscar was trying not to look too down in the garage and trying to ready himself to act like he was happy for Lando taking pole when he saw Lando brush the wall as well. Hard. 

P7. Not pole.

Oscar doesn’t feel as guilty about the little smile creeping onto his face.

In the end it is Max who clinches pole position. Oscar watches through gritted teeth as Charles goes over to congratulate him. 

Focus, Oscar. There’s five people standing in front of him pointing different microphones at his face. He shakes his head and begins to methodically answer all questions. Out the corner of his eye, on the TV screen hanging from the wall, his eyes keep locking on that familiar blur of red.

—

Maybe it stings more because it was his own mistake, Oscar thinks. He’s watched the entire replay for the qualifying session that was longer than the entire Grand Prix in Monza two weeks ago. Everybody kept going off. The sessions on both days were riddled with yellow and red flags. Qualifying was when most people found the barriers. Misjudging corners, not managing to control the car right at the last moment. It’s all the mistakes he needs to avoid tomorrow on track. 

Lando didn’t get pole but he still qualified ahead of him, and Oscar needs to fix that.

He’s replaying the onboard of his own crash for the seventh time when his phone lights up with a notification.

open the door

Oscar does so immediately.

“I’ve brought snacks that neither your trainer nor mine will ever find out about.” Charles pushes his way past Oscar and into the room like he’s meant to be here. It’s such a Charles thing to do that now Oscar has stopped being surprised by it. 

“And a good evening to you too, Charles.”

Charles turns around with a curious look on his face. “Is it?” Oscar just shrugs.

Charles climbs onto the bed and upends the contents of the little paper bag in his hand onto the bed. It’s mostly candies with a few packets of potato chips as well.

“I prefer having something sweet usually. Feel more comforting,” Charles says as he picks up a KitKat and tears open the packet. He runs his thumb down the gaps in the silver wrapper, snaps the bars in half and holds out two pieces to Oscar.

“So,” Charles takes a bite of the wafer, “what movies have you got?”

Oscar is slightly confused. It was a bad qualifying for both of them. There is no way Charles can be this calm after losing his pole streak around a circuit which is one of his strongest. He should be sitting in bed with his laptop open obsessing over how the others made mistakes and what Max did right. Instead he’s here, in Oscar’s bed, flicking through the movie options on the streaming service available on the hotel TV.

“Come on. You can’t expect me to finish all this stuff by myself,” Charles says as he pats the space next to him on the bed. Oscar sits down and accepts the chocolate from Charles’ hand.

“How about this one?”

Oscar looks. Charles has paused on a romcom.

“Crazy Rich Asians?”

Charles shrugs. “Yeah. I like it, it’s a nice movie.”

“Didn’t really peg you for a romcom guy,” Oscar says, popping one of the chocolate covered wafers into his mouth. Charles pulls a face like he is offended.

“And why would you think that? I love romcoms. And this one is set in Singapore too. Very on theme for the next race.”

“Already done with this one?” Oscar says as a joke, but there is the faintest twitch in Charles’ facial expression. He doesn’t answer, just plays the movie instead.

The sweets disappear, along with the burgers they had room service send over. Charles makes a joke about Oscar’s burgers back home, Oscar offers to take him out for one in Australia. Oscar tries not to think about how he basically just asked Charles to visit him at home and is grateful when Charles doesn’t even answer, too engrossed in the movie.

The carbs and the sugar slowly take their hold as Oscar’s eyes begin to droop. At some point during the movie, Oscar had ended up with his head resting half on Charles’ shoulder, half on his chest. The AC is running very low and the room is cold. Oscar would turn the temperature up but Charles likes a cold room. Besides, it gives him the opportunity to cozy up next to him under the thick comforter so Oscar isn’t really complaining. 

The movie’s almost at the end. Rachel has run away to Peik Lin’s house and is now stuck in bed with sadness. Charles is completely invested in the movie, Oscar tries to stifle a yawn.

He’s just really fucking exhausted. The room is cold and Charles is warm. The lights in the room are off save for the glow from the TV. Oscar can hear the quiet thud of Charles’ heart beating and it’s all just so comforting. 

Oscar dozes off before he can realise.

He wakes up to the sound of an unfamiliar alarm and reaches over to grab his phone off the nightstand and turn it off, but the ringing stops before he can even find it. Oh well. He slips back into slip.

About ten minutes later, he’s gently getting woken up.

“Oscar.”

The voice sounds familiar. It sounds like someone Oscar would dream about.

“Oscar?”

He hums. “Five mo’ minutes.”

Someone laughs, which, rude. “Oscar, come on. I have to leave.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Oscar opens one of his eyes.

“Charles?”

Charles smiles again. His smiles are softer in the morning.

“Cheri, I need to go back to my room now. I’ve got an early team meeting.”

Oscar just blinks. He remembers Charles being in his room last night. Remembers watching a movie with him, then, remembers falling asleep. But, if Charles is still here, that means,

“You stayed?” Oscar asks dumbly. 

“Yeah. Of course.”

Of course, he says. Like this is something normal for them. They didn’t have sex last night, didn’t even talk. All they did was sit together, eat, and quietly watch a movie. And yet, Charles stayed.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, kinda have to.” Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever heard Charles’ voice sound this warm before. He feels as Charles runs his hand through his hair once before leaning down to press a kiss on the side of his head. “I’ll see you after the race.”

Oscar, in the middle of digesting like 25 different things, now also tries to process the fact that Charles kissed him and also said that he will see him after the race. Not maybe, no no, he said it with certainty. 

There are many things Oscar wants to say, wants to ask. But Charles starts to walk away so he just croaks out an, “Okay.” The smile never really leaves Charles’ face.

Once Charles walks out and Oscar hears the front door click shut, he immediately turns over and nuzzles his face into the sheets. They still smell like Charles and Oscar feels like maybe he is losing his mind. He’s got a race today, a championship on the line. He should probably get up as well, get ready for the day ahead. Instead, he grabs the pillow next to his head and pulls it close, pressing his face into it.

Five more minutes.

—

Worst part is that Oscar has no one to blame but himself.

He’s sitting behind the barriers, one of the marshals have kindly lent him their phone so he can keep watching the race. He can feel the camera behind him so he keeps himself calm. Just long enough. Once he hears receding footsteps is when Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, shuts his eyes, and takes a long, deep breath.

Disastrous start, drop to P20 and then he just went and rammed his car into the barriers. On the weekend that McLaren could’ve won the Constructors’ championship, on the weekend where Max was on pole position with a now much improved RB21, on a weekend where Lando had still failed to capitalise on the opportunity he was handed, Oscar made the worst mistakes possible.

Anyway, all he could do now was watch the race, so he did.

He watched as Max stayed in the lead, tearing away from the pack. He watched as Carlos held his podium positions, watched as the pitcrew messed up Lando’s pitstop yet again, watched as the Ferraris struggled behind a VCARB for several laps, watched as Max’s race panned out like it used to back in 2023.

He watched as Max scored yet another career Grand Slam.

He watched as Charles walked by and congratulated Carlos on the podium.

He watched as Max climbed the top step and lifted his trophy high.

He took the bottle of water handed to him, gulped half of it down, and watched.

—

Debrief ended early enough and Oscar left the track as quickly as he could. His flight out from Baku was in the afternoon the next day, which means he had enough time to relax and get his mind off of this.

Except, he doesn’t really know how. 

He gets a text notifying him that the hotel's shuttle should be there in about five minutes to pick him up. He could’ve waited and gotten a ride back to the hotel in the team’s car, but he just really is not in the mood. He just wants to get away, decompress, and reset as soon as possible.

He gets a call.

“Are you still at the track?”

A little confused, Oscar replies, “Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll be at the entrance in like two minutes.” And then, the call ends.

Two minutes later, a Ferrari pulls up in front of him.

“Get in,” it’s more of a command than a request.

“I’ve got to get back to my hotel,” Oscar says. Charles rolls his eyes.

“You’re not going back right now. Just shut up and get in the car, will you?”

Oscar grabs the handle and pulls open the door to the passenger side. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” Charles answers before driving off.

They end up in front of some ice-cream shop Charles managed to find. Oscar says he’s not in the mood but Charles drags him inside regardless. He gets handed two scoops of chocolate in a paper cup while Charles gets two scoops of vanilla in a wafer cone.

They call Baku the city of winds, and Oscar feels it completely tonight. They’re parked on the side of the road with an open view of the water below. The breeze is cool and is hitting them in their faces. Oscar watches as the ice cream melts down Charles’ wrist and his tongue darts out to lick it up absentmindedly. Oscar feels his body shiver but it’s probably just the wind.

It’s nice, the quiet. It helps Oscar’s brain shut off for once, helps Oscar maybe try and forget about today.

He can’t. But he tries.

“What’s the reason behind this little dessert trip?” Oscar asks. He takes another spoonful of the ice cream and lets it melt against his tongue.

“Figured you might need it,” Charles answers in a casual tone. Oscar still doesn’t get it though.

“Hardly think I deserve a treat after that race I did not have.” Oscar tries to mask the hurt in his voice with a dry laugh, but Charles notices.

A hand comes to rest on Oscar’s thigh. “Oscar, weekends like this one happen sometimes. There always comes that one off weekend that you just have to learn from and power through.”

“But it was my mistake.”

“And those happen.” Charles squeezes his thigh once and he lifts his head to look at him. “The races that are lost because of a mistake you made sting the worst. Trust me, I know. But dwelling on it and letting it get to your head makes it worse.”

Oscar nods, but he can’t lift his head any higher. The crash, the team, the debriefs, it all just…hurts. It shouldn’t, he knows it too. He knows that he’s got to be tougher if he wants to be a world champion, knows that he’s got to not dwell on individual results like this. But his mind refuses to shut up.

He turns to Charles, who’s still looking at him with that same smile he had on in the morning. The moon is up and shining bright behind him and Oscar just can’t understand why.

“Why are you here?”

Charles blinks, his brows slightly furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, here. Why are you here? With me?”

“I said I’d see you after the race, didn’t I?”

“But I didn’t even finish the race today.”

“So?”

“So…” So, I don’t deserve to spend time with you, he wants to say. He doesn’t. Charles scoots a little closer to him, his hand still on Oscar’s thigh.

“I came to see you after the race because I wanted to see you. Is that a problem?”

That could not be farther from the truth. “Of course not. It’s not a problem, no.”

“Then?”

“Just,” Oscar sighs. “I don’t know.”

Oscar drops his head again and tries to focus on his melting ice cream. Next to him, Charles lets out a soft sigh. “Oscar, I came to see you because I wanted to make sure that you were doing alright.”

“And last night?”

“Last night too.”

Oscar hums, unsure of what else to say. Charles doesn't ask anything either.

They stand in the evening breeze and finish their ice creams. Oscar doesn't talk on the drive back, Charles doesn't prod.

When they pull up in front of Oscar's hotel, Charles lets him go with a kiss on his cheek. “Rest well, yeah?”

Oscar just nods. “You too.”

Oscar walks up to his room with the feeling of Charles' lips still lingering on his cheek.

—

It was a shitty race. The fact that he had a better result around Baku driving a fucking Sauber in 2018 should explain it all. But Charles just doesn't care anymore.

He knew coming into this weekend that he would lose his streak. He knew that this weekend wouldn't be his. He knew that the car would somehow just start shitting once on track. He knew it all.

Last night, he could go and make himself useful by helping Oscar. It took his mind off of things and also seemed to calm Oscar down. Tonight, however, he could tell Oscar needed space.

Afterall, he does know how Oscar must be feeling. He was in the same position as him when he was his age. Except, he'd lost long before he began to win. Oscar still has a chance.

Charles hasn't checked his phone since he got back to his hotel. He wants to call Oscar, ask him how he's doing, which is weird. It's all so…not him. He doesn't know why he broke his own rule of never sleeping with Oscar outside of race weekends, he doesn't know why he stayed in Oscar's room last night after the other man fell asleep, he doesn't know why he woke him up to bid him goodbye this morning instead of just leaving a note or dropping a text, and he doesn't know why he waited for Oscar at the track today so he could take him out for ice cream. 

He doesn't understand any of it.

The TV isn't loud enough so he turns up the volume.

He's not even watching the show he's put on. The sounds just dissolve into the background as Charles desperately searches for something else to focus on. Anything but the day he's had today. Anything but him.

His phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Charles?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

Charles looks around. “In my room?”

“Where were you before that?”

That's odd. Max never asks so many questions about Charles' whereabouts.

“Um…just, out.”

Charles hears Max exhale on the other end. “Out? That's all?”

“Yeah?”

“What was so important that you had to leave the paddock before Laura could even find you?”

Oh. 

Max sounds a tad bit upset.

“I just,” Charles shifts on the bed, the comforter rustling. “I had some work to do.”

There's silence on the other line. No response comes for fifteen seconds and Charles checks if Max has just hung up. He hasn't.

“He—” he begins but gets interrupted by a knock on the door. Then,

“Open the door.”

He climbs off the bed, still holding the phone to his ear. The knocking keeps its pace till Charles finally reaches the door and pulls it open.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Charles asks as he hangs up the phone. Max doesn't say anything, just walks into the room and past Charles.

“Max. Will you tell me what's going on?”

Max turns around with his full body to almost glare at Charles, and that's when he sees it. 

Max is wearing his white Alpha Tauri t-shirt, his signature ‘bordering-on-skinny’ blue jeans, and his eyes are glassy and his irises are nothing but circles of blue.

“Merde. You're drunk, aren't you?”

“Whats’at matter?”

Max drops onto the bed behind him with a thud, his hands reaching out to clutch the mattress. “‘M fine.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You clearly aren't.” He grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge and hands it to Max, but Max doesn't take it. “Come on, you need to drink.”

Max stares up at Charles. His lashes are clumped together at places either from the wetness in his eyes. His face is flushed, lips parted as his eyes seem to be taking Charles in. Charles suddenly feels very conscious about being seen so he sits down next to Max, nudging the bottle of water towards him again.

“You said you'd come,” Max whispers so softly it could be mistaken for a sigh.

“What?”

Max looks into Charles' eyes, easier now that Charles is sitting next to him. His lips are turned downwards, bottom lip quivering slightly. 

“You said…you said you'd come every time I win. You said you'd always be there when I win.”

Charles blinks, lips parting as he suddenly remembers the words.

“Max…”

“I won, Charles. I won Monza. I didn't let the McLarens through and I won Monza for you. I didn't let Carlos be the one to take your pole streak. I scored a Grand Slam in Baku for you.”

Two tears, almost identical, fall from Max's eyes. Charles watches them track their path down Max's cheeks to get caught on his lip.

“Max.”

“No. I was the winner. He crashed out before even finishing a singular lap,” his voice was louder now, laced with accusation, making Charles flinch. “What has he done to deserve it? At least last week he was on the podium so I thought, ‘That’s fine. He still drove well,’ but today? Really?”

Charles has never seen Max look this jealous. His face is flushed—partly from the alcohol, partly from the anger. 

And then, he starts to sob.

“I’m a fucking four time world champion and I’m still not good enough for you?” Charles has never seen Max cry like this. He’s dropped his head into his hands, trying to hide away from Charles. And Charles’ heart hurts.

He reaches out on instinct to wrap his arms around Max and Max drops his head into Charles’ lap.

His shoulders shake and his tears soak the top of Charles’ sweatpants and Charles holds him through it. Then, muffled against the fabric on Charles’ thigh, he says,

“I wish you loved me the same way that I loved you.”

Charles freezes. 

“I wish you saw me the way I see you,” Max went on. “I wish you wanted me the same way I do you. But you don’t.”

“I did,” Charles blurts out before he can stop himself. Max’s head jerks up. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Charles shakes his head like it’s going to take back what he just said out loud.

“No, no, no.” Max scrambles off of Charles’ lap, balancing himself upright with his wobbly arms. “You said…you said you did. Charles.”

“It was nothing.”

“Charles, please.”

“You're drunk.”

“But I can still understand shit!” Max seems more alert now as if Charles’ words sobered him up. “What did you mean when you said that you did?”

If it were up to Charles, he would slip Max something to make him fall asleep and then get out of this room and roam around the streets of Baku till Max left the country and then pretend like none of this ever happened. But, contrary to popular belief, things don't always go his way. And he knows Max, knows that he won't exactly forget this conversation either.

His lungs suddenly feel smaller. The breath he takes in doesn't fill them up like it should.

“The…feelings that you say you have for me now, I used to feel the same for you. Years ago.” Charles remembers it. “But I stopped—had to stop, because of how much it hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back then I would've shown up for you too regardless of whether or not you won. I would've shown up at your door if you needed me and God was it pathetic,” Charles says with a short laugh. “But you didn't need me. You had someone else back then to go to on the bad days, and I'm glad you did. But it hurt so bad.”

He hadn't let himself think about any of it, call it stubbornness, call it self preservation. And he'd been doing extremely well.

Right up until Max showed up at his door, heartbroken on one of his best days. 

The tears in Max's eyes are making their blue pop even more. Charles has to keep reminding himself to look away.

“You—why didn't you tell me?”

“You loved someone else, Max. It would not have been right.”

He watches as Max tries his best to come up with a valid reason why but fails. His lips tremble again but he tries his best not to let any more tears fall. It hurts Charles.

He brings his hand up to cup Max's cheek, who leans into the touch.  A stray tear falls down and Charles wipes it away with his thumb.

“And now?”

Now. 

Now is different.

Charles doesn't really know about now.

Max's eyes look at him like he's pleading. Begging. 

It's not right. No, Max is just too emotional right now.

“You're drunk, Max,” he says again. Whether it is to convince himself or to convince Max, he's not sure.

“I still love you.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut because he's not sure he can look at Max anymore. He lets his hand drop but Max grabs it desperately, unwilling to let go.

“Don't do this to me, Max,” his voice comes out thick. 

“I'm so sorry I didn't see how you were feeling back then but please, please don't punish me for it.”

Charles' eyes fly open. “What? Max, no. No, why would you even think that?”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Charlie, please—”

“It wasn't your fault back then. I do not blame you for it.”

Max sniffles. There's snot clogging his nose, making it difficult for him to speak or breathe clearly. Charles plucks a few tissues out of the tissue box to help Max out with it.

Max lets him. He lets Charles take care of him. He lets himself lean into Charles' touch, lets himself imagine that he could have this.

Once Charles is done, Max works up the courage again to ask, “Do you love me now?”

His brain is stuck on the thought and he will not be able to rest until he gets an answer. Charles seems to pick up on it too.

“Oh, mon cher,” he mutters under his breath but Max catches it. He misses the nicknames whispered to him in soft French, misses the touches, misses Charles. 

“I do love you,” he says, and Max swears he can hear his heart soar for a moment before Charles adds, “but not in the way you want me to love you.”

His heart comes crashing onto the ground.

He wants to say so many things; wants to ask ‘why?’, wants to drop to his knees and beg Charles to love him, wants to hide his face between two pillows and scream till his throat hurts.

But no words come from his mouth.

Charles notes his silence. Gently, he puts a hand on Max's shoulder. “Maybe you should rest a little. We will talk about this in the morning when you're feeling better, yes?” He gently guides Max onto the bed, and Max goes easily. 

The pillows are soft and Max can pick up the scent of Charles' shampoo. His eyes start feeling heavier, so does his entire body. He sees Charles pull his hand away then move to get off the bed.

“Wait,” Max's voice sounds small, “don't leave please.”

Charles gives him a tiny smile. “Just going to turn the lights off. I'll be back.” It soothes Max's heart. 

He pulls the covers over his shoulder and Charles slides under them when he gets back.

Maybe it's the alcohol, but Max doesn't hesitate when he asks, “Charlie, can you hold me please?”

Charles isn't the drunk one here. Charles' mind is still alert and thinking clearly, and yet.

And yet, he nods. “Of course,” he says before reaching out to pull Max closer. He rests his chin over Max's head and feels the other man let out a deep sigh. His breath tickles the skin on Charles' neck and the rational part of his brain keeps screaming what the fuck are you doing?!, but his arms stay around Max and he keeps holding him.

He's hurting, he needs this, is what Charles thinks to justify it. He's just being a good friend, that's all. He tries to keep a hold on all of the thoughts swirling in his head, unwilling to let them wander to places he cannot go to tonight.

He just holds Max and stays staring at the white wall till he feels Max's breathing even out under him.

He doesn't feel it when sleep finally claims him.

Oscar knocks on the door again.

He texted Charles before leaving but he hasn't read the text yet or replied to it. He wonders if he should maybe give him a call instead. It is still relatively early.

The call gets declined, but Oscar hears shuffling sounds coming from behind the door. Just as he raises his hand to knock again, the door opens.

“Oscar. Hello,” Charles greets him with a smile. His hair is sticking out in different directions, his eyes are still heavy with the remnants of sleep, and Oscar can even make out the faint mark left on his cheek by a pillow crease. He still looks beautiful.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

Charles shakes his head. “No, no, it's alright. I have to be up anyway for my flight.”

“Oh. What time are you leaving?”

“Sometime around 2 I think. You?”

“Oh, mine's around 12.”

“Hmm, we could've shared a ride,” Charles tilts his head to the side, resting it on the door. “So. Did you come here to ask me about my flight timings or was there something else?”

Right. “Yeah. Um.” It was a simple thing, really. Oscar had even rehearsed it on his way here. He knew exactly what to say. Thank you for last night. Thank you for staying with me and making me feel better. Two lines, that's it.

Oscar's gone quiet for too long. He can tell by the way Charles raises his eyebrows.

“I just wanted to th—” The rest of the sentence gets caught in his throat. 

Because behind Charles, on Charles' bed, is Max.

Max, who is sleeping soundly in Charles' bed. Max, who slept next to Charles the whole night. Max, who won.

Oscar feels like a fool.

He feels like an absolute idiot for ever thinking that Charles would bend the rules for him.

Charles took him out for ice cream last night and Oscar thought it meant that Charles wouldn't go to Max this time either. Of course he went. It's Max. 

Max did everything right yesterday. Max proved exactly why he has four championships yesterday. All Oscar did was fail on the one weekend his team needed him to perform well.

“Oscar?” Charles' voice sounds to him like it's coming from behind three doors. 

“I have to go.” Oscar can barely get any words out.

“What?”

“I have to go,” Oscar repeats.

“Is everything okay?” His eyebrows are creased as if to show concern. Oscar isn't sure if he really means it, not anymore. 

“Yeah. I just need to go.” He blinks to keep the tears at bay. He's already made a fool of himself by just coming here, he's not going to cry over this now. Not in front of Charles. 

He walks away as quickly as he can. He's waiting for the elevator at the end of the hallway when he thinks he hears Charles call his name. He doesn't look. He just steps into the elevator, repeatedly pressing the ‘close door’ button till it does. The last thing he sees is Charles' frantic face as he runs towards the closing doors.

Chapter Text

oscar it’s not how it looked like

i know max was there but

it really isn’t what you think it is like

let me explain, please

[Missed call, 27 mins ago]

[Missed call. 26 mins ago]

[Missed call, 20 mins ago]

[Voicemail, 1:27]

[Missed call, 2 mins ago]

[Voicemail, 0:41]

please pick up my calls

or you can also call me whenever you’re finally ready

just hear me out, please

—

Did he call?

no

won’t pick my calls, see my texts

even left voicemails, not sure if he’s heard them though

Oh

I’m really sorry

yeah 

I am

Really

I shouldn’t have barged into your room like that last night

I really should’ve had better control over myself

we’ve been over it, max

we’ve already talked about it

and i don’t blame you

Still

I’m making this worse for you

it’s not your fault

not his either

just a shitty situation

or maybe it’s just my fault

Hey

Don’t say that

You just said, it’s just a shitty situation

yeah

which we wouldn’t even be in if i’d just gotten my head out of my ass

and just

talked

You needed time

You still do

And that’s fine

not so sure anymore

Listen, just

Give him some space

He’ll come around eventually

Besides, it’s not like he can avoid you anyway

You’ll see him in Singapore again

yeah

do you think now is too early to call in sick

Shut up

You’re coming to Singapore

How else are you gonna talk to him?

ugh

i liked you better when you were drunk and babbling

didn’t make any sense and you were acting all stupid

Hey now that was ONE time

Fewer G&Ts from now on

as if

Hey

Also

Are we ok?

yeah

we’ll be okay

:) 

—

[Voice note, 4:55]

you probably need some space, and that’s alright

hope i see you in singapore