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Chapter Text

It was Daniel Ricciardo who said it first, one blazing summer day in Monaco, because of course he was.

The champagne still dripped from their fire suits. The ocean glittered beyond the yachts like a smug promise, and the adrenaline of a perfect race still clung to their skin. Daniel had won. Max had come in second. Lewis, third.

They were loud, half-drunk on victory, half-high on glory. And Daniel, with that lazy grin of his and that dangerous glint in his eye, tossed the idea out like it meant nothing — like he wasn’t rewriting the paddock rules with just a few sentences.

“Podium finishers should get to ask for anything they want,” he said, dragging the words with a smirk, sitting in the winners lounge before the press conference. “A real reward. Something… personal.”

Lewis scoffed. “What, like a bigger trophy?”

“No. Like getting to choose someone. For the night.”

The silence that followed wasn’t rejection.  It was a consideration. Max, barely twenty then, raised an eyebrow. Lewis bit the inside of his cheek.  No one said no.

And Daniel? Daniel just nodded, like he knew it would stick.

That’s how Winner’s Choice was born.

A tradition without paper. A rule no one dared to write but everyone understood and everyone agreed: After every race, the three drivers on the podium had the chance to choose someone — anyone — from the paddock. A mechanic. An engineer. Another driver. A team principal, if they were feeling bold enough. It could be all three together or give the choice to one of them. Of course, it was all consensual, and there were rules to be followed.

It could be sex.

Or a confession. Or a promise. Or even simply a dinner and a talk. 

But mostly… It was sex. Desired. Consensual. Private.

No cameras. No gossip. No regrets.

And with time, it became a ritual. One the entire paddock acknowledged with silence and smirks. No one was required to accept.  No one was forced to choose.

But if you were on the podium? The night was yours.

And in Bahrain, the first race of the season, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, and George Russell stood on those steps.

Three young gods, golden and gleaming with sweat. And only one of them already knew exactly who he wanted.

***

The McLaren hospitality was buzzing, everyone were celebrating and congratulating each other for a job well done. Lando stepped in still wearing his fireproof undershirt, hair dripping from the post-race champagne, eyes electric. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he crossed the finish line. A perfect race. A perfect strategy. And now, he just needed to conquer one more thing.

Oscar sat toward the back, sipping from a bottle of Gatorade, trying to drown a nervous energy that had no name. The team moved around him, loud with celebration, but Oscar… Oscar felt the weight of something else.

He knew. He’d known from the podium: from the way Lando looked at him through the spray of champagne, eyes sharp, unblinking. From the glance when they walked down the steps, soaked and breathless.

And when Max passed by — towel slung over his shoulder, half-amused — he clapped Oscar on the back without stopping “Your teammate wants you,” he said. “George and I gave him the night. Have fun.”

Oscar blinked. The water burned its way down his throat. 

Lando had chosen him. He knew from the beginning, yet he still felt nervous.  Suddenly, every whisper around the hospitality wasn’t just noise. It was confirmation.

Oscar's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Lando approach, the crowd around them a blur of celebration and noise. Lando's eyes were locked on him, intense and unyielding. When he finally reached Oscar, he leaned in close, his voice low and husky. "Did Max told you?"

Oscar nodded, unable to find his voice. Lando's presence was overwhelming, his scent a mix of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely him. “You know what this means, right?”

 "I-I know," Oscar stammered. He still felt like a rookie in his first year in F1 under the intense scrutiny of Lando’s green eyes. There was confidence in the way he smiled, like he knew what he wanted and went for it without hesitation. 

Lando smirked, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Oscar's ear. "Good. Because I've been wanting to do this for a long time."

Before Oscar could react, Lando's lips were on his, fierce and demanding. The world fell away, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of heat and desire. Lando's hands roamed over Oscar's body, tracing the lines of his muscles, sending shivers down his spine.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando's eyes were dark with lust. "Come with me," he said, his voice a low growl. "I have plans for you."

Oscar followed, his body already aching with anticipation. They made their way through the crowded hospitality suite that acted like nothing had happened, already used to the winner’s choice tradition, with Lando's hand on the small of Oscar's back, guiding him. The touch was possessive, claiming.

Once they were alone in Lando's private room, he wasted no time. He pushed Oscar against the wall, his body pressing against him, his lips finding Oscar's neck, biting and sucking like he needed to claim what was his. Oscar gasped, his hands gripping Lando's shoulders, holding on for dear life while a rush of adrenaline shot through his veins.

Lando's big hands were everywhere, tearing at Oscar's clothes, exposing his pale and firm skin. He trailed kisses down Oscar's chest, his tongue circling his nipples, making Oscar arch against him. When Lando dropped to his knees, Oscar's breath hitched, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Lando looked up at him, a wicked grin on his face. "I've been imagining this for so long," he said, his hands gripping Oscar's hips. "Tell me you want it."

Oscar nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes. Please."

Lando's head dipped, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip of Oscar's cock. Oscar moaned, his head falling back against the wall. Lando took him deeper, his mouth hot and wet, his hands gripping Oscar's ass, pulling him closer.

The sensation was overwhelming, Lando's tongue and lips driving Oscar to the brink of madness. He could feel the pleasure building, his body tensing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Just as he was about to come, Lando pulled back, a cruel smile on his face.

"No," Lando said, his voice firm. "Not yet. I want you to come with me."

Oscar's eyes widened, his heart racing. Lando stood up, his body pressing against Oscar's, his lips finding his in a searing kiss. He reached down, his hand wrapping around both of their cocks, stroking them in sync. 

Oscar moaned into Lando's mouth, his hips moving in time with Lando's hand. The friction was exquisite, the pleasure building again, faster this time. Lando's other hand gripped Oscar's ass, his fingers pressing against his hole, teasing.

"Lando," Oscar gasped, his body trembling. "Please."

Lando smirked, one finger pushing inside, stretching him. Oscar cried out, his body clenching around the intrusion. Lando's fingers were relentless, curling and twisting, hitting spots that made Oscar see stars.

When Lando finally pulled his fingers out, Oscar was a mess of need and desperation. Lando spun him around, pressing him against the wall, his cock pressing against Oscar's entrance. "Tell me you want it," Lando growled.

Oscar nodded, his voice hoarse. "Yes. Please. I want it."

Lando pushed inside, slow and steady, giving Oscar time to adjust. The sensation was incredible, Lando's cock filling him, stretching him. When he was fully sheathed, Lando paused, his breath ragged.

"Fuck, Oscar," Lando groaned, his hips starting to move. "You feel so good."

Oscar moaned, his hands gripping the wall, his body meeting Lando's thrusts. The angle was perfect, Lando's cock hitting all the right spots, sending waves of pleasure through Oscar's body.

Lando's hands were on his hips, holding him in place, his thrusts growing faster, harder. Oscar could feel his orgasm building, his body tensing, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Lando," Oscar cried out, his body convulsing as he came, his release pulsing around Lando's cock. Lando groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed, his own orgasm tearing through him.

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling. When Lando finally pulled out, he turned Oscar around, his lips finding his in a soft, gentle kiss.

"That was just the beginning," Lando murmured against his lips. "I have so much more planned for you."

Oscar smiled, his body already aching with anticipation. "I can't wait," he said, his voice a promise.

Chapter Text

The roar in Shanghai wasn’t just noise — it was thunder made flesh, echoing off the steel bones of the paddock and rippling through the veins of the city. A cacophony of celebration, of engines cooling and champagne spraying, of fans chanting their names like prayers. But for Oscar, standing atop the highest step of the podium, it was all background static.

The camera caught his smile — wide, dazzling, camera-ready — but his eyes didn’t flicker toward the crowds or the flashbulbs. They stayed locked on the man just one step below him.

Lando.

Second place. His curls clung to his forehead, wet from the remnants of celebratory foam. His fireproofs were half-zipped, hanging loose around his waist, revealing the black undershirt plastered against his chest. There was pride in his expression, of course there was — the pride of someone who always performed, even when he didn’t win. But in the corners of his mouth, curled like the edge of a knife, lingered that smirk.

Oscar had seen that exact smirk before. In Bahrain. In a room that still burned behind his eyes.

That night, Lando had called it a game.

This—Shanghai, the podium, the grin that didn’t quite reach Oscar’s eyes—was not a game.

The champagne had long since gone flat on his tongue by the time the anthems faded. The medal around his neck glinted under the lights, but it felt like a weight, an anchor tied to something deeper. Something more personal. The gold meant more than just points. It meant power. A chance to rewrite the script.

As the confetti rained down, Oscar stood tall, shoulders squared beneath the black and orange of his race suit, hands resting loosely on the bottle he hadn’t really opened. He didn’t turn toward Lando. He didn’t have to. The air between them was charged—more than competitive. It was chemical.

And Oscar was no longer playing by anyone else’s rules.

By the time they reached the press room, the air had thinned — no longer heavy with heat and noise, but cool and clinical beneath the hum of overhead lighting and the polished shine of microphones. A different kind of theatre. The kind where every gesture was scrutinized, every blink immortalized in pixels and headlines.

Oscar sat between George and Lando, a clean line of contrasting energies.

George sat on an impeccable posture, answers measured and diplomatic. The model of a company man. Lando, on the other hand, was all effortless charm, slouched comfortably in his chair, throwing sideways glances and cheeky remarks like confetti. The smirk had returned. Of course it had.

And Oscar?

Oscar was still. Not rigid — not tense — but still. A different kind of composure. Like a cat poised before the pounce. He wore his win like a tailored suit, every inch of him carved in confidence. Fireproofs unzipped just enough to reveal the hint of a collarbone, curls still damp at the nape of his neck, his voice low and steady as he fielded the questions tossed their way.

He answered them all with precision.

“Oscar, tell us about the decision to stay out on those mediums—”

“Strategic. Calculated. We trusted the data.”

“Talk us through sector two—”

“Grip was holding. Knew I had time on the exit.”

Not once did he falter. Not once did he look to Lando. And yet…

The tension was a silent pulse between them. An unspoken rhythm. Lando’s thigh bounced under the table, a nervous tell he probably thought no one noticed. Oscar noticed.

The conference ended with polite applause and half-hearted laughter. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs flared. George shook his hand like a gentleman. Lando bumped shoulders with him as they stood, casual as ever.

“Nice one, mate,” he said, with the same grin from Bahrain.

Oscar turned to him, just slightly. “I know.”

Back in the paddock, the night settled in like velvet. The Shanghai skyline shimmered in the distance, towers like glass spires cutting into the haze. Mechanics buzzed around garages, journalists chased quotes, PR reps whispered into earpieces — but for the drivers, the storm had passed.

Adrenaline, however, doesn’t dissipate easily.

Winner’s Choice had become a tradition in this strange twilight of energy and exhaustion. Not official, not spoken of in interviews, but real. Daniel had started it as a joke — a dare with champagne in his veins and mischief in his smile. But like all good jokes in Formula 1, it had evolved into something dead serious.

Each podium finish granted a choice. One night. One request. Three winners, three possibilities.

Sometimes it was sex. Sometimes it was conversation. Sometimes it was chaos, or comfort, or revenge. Sometimes it was shared, and sometimes — like tonight — it was not.

Oscar found the coordinator near the hospitality suite, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and curious.

“Winner’s Choice,” she said, like it was just another checkbox to tick. “Who’s calling it tonight?”

George arrived first. Impeccable as ever, hands in his pockets, eyes neutral. “Not tonight,” he said quietly. “I’m waiting for something.” Or someone. He offered Oscar a short nod before disappearing into the shadows.

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Lando.”

A beat.

The coordinator tilted her head. “Will the others be involved?”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t waver. “No. This one’s mine.”

The hotel was carved into the city like a jewel — glass walls catching every glint of moonlight, marble floors muffling footsteps to silence, corridors that smelled faintly of lavender and polished chrome. It was expensive in the way that didn’t need to prove itself.

Oscar walked its halls like he belonged there.

He was dressed in black now — tailored trousers, slim shirt buttoned to the collar, watch gleaming beneath his cuff. Clean lines. Sharp silhouette. His hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower, curls tamed back with just enough effort to appear effortless. He looked composed. Dangerous, even.

He stopped in front of the suite. Room 2407. The number gleamed silver against the matte finish of the door. His hand raised, knuckles rapping once. Not loud. Just enough.

The door opened before the echo had faded.

Lando stood framed in the doorway, barefoot on the plush carpet, towel around his waist, hair was wet, messier than usual, and the glint in his eyes was somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

“You took your time,” he said, voice husky from the shower, from the race, from something else entirely.

Oscar stepped inside without asking, his shoulder brushing Lando’s on the way through. The suite was dimly lit, golden pools of light spilling from designer lamps. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Shanghai skyline like a painting. On the table sat an untouched fruit bowl, champagne on ice. Everything was quiet luxury.

“I wasn’t in a rush,” Oscar said.

Lando followed him in, towel still draped over one shoulder. “You won. Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“I am.”

That earned him a pause.

Oscar turned, slow and deliberate, and found Lando watching him. Still smug. Still amused. But that smirk had softened slightly. Wavering around the edges. The energy had shifted.

There was something different about Oscar tonight. Not just the win. Not just the suit. It was in the way he moved — like every step had been premeditated. Like he had already won something far more important than a race.

“Well?” Lando asked, a brow raised. “Do I get a kiss or a slap first?”

Oscar didn’t smile.

“Did you enjoy Bahrain?” he asked instead, voice quiet. Controlled.

Lando blinked. “What?”

“You remember. You pushed me down like it was funny. Like I was part of the joke.”

The silence between them grew taut. Lando opened his mouth, then shut it again. The smile faltered.

Oscar stepped forward, slow and smooth, until he was close enough to see the flicker in Lando’s eyes.

“You made me think I was playing your game,” Oscar murmured. “You were wrong.”

And just like that, Lando’s posture shifted — shoulders drawing back, lips parting slightly. Uncertainty, rare and fleeting, crossed his features.

Oscar took another step.

“Tonight, I make the rules.” The silence in the suite stretched taut like the space between lightning and thunder.

Lando still stood near the bathroom door, towel loose around his hips, chest rising and falling with something too shaky to be arrogance. The air between them buzzed — not with adrenaline anymore, not with the chaos of the race or the stage lights of the podium — but with something older, deeper, something primal. A current neither of them could disguise.

Oscar took a step forward. And another. His shoes padded across the plush carpet, slow, deliberate, black slacks hugging his legs like a second skin. His jacket — still zipped, still pristine — held sharp lines, unbroken. A contrast to Lando’s half-undressed, damp frame. He looked like he’d arrived to cut a deal and walk away with the winning hand.

But Oscar didn’t intend to walk away.

He stopped only when they were nearly chest to chest, his gaze raking across Lando’s damp skin — neck, collarbone, the faint red where the towel had chafed from his earlier movements. Oscar tilted his head, letting the silence hang.

“Take it off,” he said softly.

Lando blinked, slow. A flicker of protest tugged at his brows, but Oscar was faster. He reached out, knuckles grazing down Lando’s shoulder, over the edge of the towel.

“I told you,” Oscar murmured, “you don’t make the rules tonight.”

The towel fell soundlessly to the floor. Lando stood naked, goosebumps rising despite the heat. His body was ready, tense, proud — but his eyes flickered with something else now. A different kind of fire. The kind that came not from rebellion, but from being seen. From being wanted with clarity. With purpose. With no room for doubt.

Oscar circled him once — slowly, like inspecting a prize he already knew was his. He let his eyes trail down the curve of Lando’s back, the strength in his thighs, the way his breath caught when Oscar exhaled behind him. Not a touch yet. Just proximity. Just promise.

Then, he stepped in front of him again.

“Kneel.”

There was no edge to the command. No raised voice. But it landed like a thunderclap.

For a second, Lando’s lips parted — a protest? a tease? — but it died before it could form. Instead, he sank to his knees. Not slowly, not theatrically. He just… obeyed. A clean surrender.

Oscar’s breath caught for half a beat. Not from surprise — he’d known this would happen. He’d known from the moment he crossed the finish line that this night was his. But watching Lando now, bare and kneeling, hands resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to meet his gaze…

It lit something molten in Oscar’s spine.

He stepped forward again. One hand threaded into Lando’s curls, not rough, not yet — but firm enough that Lando’s head tilted back, exposing his throat.

“You remember Bahrain?” Oscar asked, voice low. “The way you pushed me down — like I was just another corner to pass.”

Lando didn’t reply. But his eyes held heat. Regret. Hunger.

Oscar’s thumb brushed across Lando’s lips.

“This is mine now,” he said, a soft declaration. “You are mine tonight.”

He let the words settle. Then dropped his hand and stepped back just enough to unbutton his jacket. The fabric whispered as he shed it, revealing the crisp line of his black dress shirt underneath. Cuffs still fastened. Collar sharp. Oscar didn’t rush. Every motion was deliberate — a man in control not just of his own desire, but of the room. Of the rules. Of Lando.

Beneath him, Lando’s breath had changed. Shallower now. His eyes tracked every movement Oscar made — from the fingers at his belt to the slow drag of the zipper.

Oscar smiled.

“Lie back,” he said. “On the bed. Arms above your head.”

Lando hesitated — just a flicker. Not fear. Just the last vestiges of that Lando Norris charm that always thought he could sway the moment with a smirk or a line. But here, now, none of that mattered.

He moved.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he stretched out, arms resting obediently above his head, cock flushed and hard against his stomach. His thighs trembled just slightly — not in fear. In anticipation. In restraint.

Oscar stood at the edge of the bed, just watching. Watching the way Lando held himself open. Watching the tension between his pride and his surrender.

“You’re not the showman tonight,” Oscar said, voice low and deliberate. “You’re the reward.”

He took off the rest of his clothes slowly. Shirt first — revealing the compact strength of his torso, the sleek, deliberate lines of a body trained not just to race, but to win. Then the slacks, revealing smooth black briefs stretched tight over his arousal. When he removed those, Lando’s breath visibly stuttered.

Oscar noticed.

He climbed onto the bed, knees straddling Lando’s thighs. One hand pressed gently against Lando’s sternum — not holding him down. Not yet. Just… reminding.

“I could make you wait all night,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’ve waited long enough.”

And then, just before the moment broke into pure heat — just before everything gave way — he leaned down, lips brushing Lando’s ear.

“Tonight,” Oscar whispered, “I’ll show you how I take a win.”

And then he claimed him.

Oscar's eyes roamed over him, a predator assessing its prey, savoring the control he was about to exert.

Oscar approached, his presence commanding, each step deliberate and measured. He traced a finger along Lando's collarbone, a ghostly touch that sent shivers down Lando's spine. "You're mine tonight," Oscar whispered, his voice a low rumble that resonated in Lando's core. Lando's cock twitched in response, already hard and aching for Oscar's attention.

With a swift motion, Oscar spun Lando around and pushed him onto the bed, face down. Lando's breath hitched as Oscar's hands gripped his ass, spreading him open. The cool air of the room teased Lando's exposed hole, making him squirm with need. Oscar leaned in, his breath hot against Lando's skin. "Stay still," he commanded, a hint of amusement in his tone as Lando fought to obey.

Oscar's tongue darted out, flicking against Lando's entrance, a teasing prelude to the penetration that was to come. Lando moaned into the mattress, his fists clenching the sheets. Oscar was merciless, his tongue probing and lapping, reducing Lando to a quivering mess of want and need. Just when Lando thought he couldn't take any more, Oscar pulled away, leaving him empty and yearning.

"Please, Oscar," Lando begged, his voice muffled by the bedding.

"Please, what?" Oscar replied, his hand coming down with a sharp smack on Lando's ass, the sound echoing in the room.

"Please, fuck me," Lando moaned, the humiliation of his need making his cock throb painfully.

Oscar chuckled, a dark sound that made Lando's heart race. "Not yet. I want you to feel every inch of me when I finally give you what you want."

Lando whimpered as Oscar reached into the nightstand, retrieving a bottle of lube. He listened to the wet sound of Oscar slicking up his fingers, anticipation coiling tightly in his belly. Oscar's fingers were cool as they circled his hole, pressing in with agonizing slowness. Lando pushed back against them, desperate for the stretch and burn that would signal the start of his true submission.

Oscar worked his fingers into Lando's ass, scissoring them apart, preparing him for the rough fucking that was to come. Lando's moans grew louder, more desperate, as Oscar added a third finger, the intrusion bordering on painful but so deliciously so.

"You like that, don't you?" Oscar murmured, his fingers curling to brush against Lando's prostate. Lando cried out, his body shuddering with the intensity of the sensation. "Answer me," Oscar demanded, his free hand coming down hard on Lando's ass.

"Yes, fuck, yes," Lando gasped, his mind a haze of pleasure and pain.

Oscar withdrew his fingers, leaving Lando feeling empty once again. But before Lando could protest, he felt the blunt head of Oscar's cock pressing against his entrance. With one powerful thrust, Oscar was inside him, the sheer size of him forcing a scream from Lando's lips.

Oscar didn't give Lando time to adjust, he began to move, each stroke deep and punishing. Lando's hands clawed at the bed, his body a slave to the rhythm Oscar set. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their grunts and moans.

Lando could feel his orgasm building, a relentless wave that threatened to crash over him. But just as he was about to tip over the edge, Oscar would slow his pace, denying Lando the release he so desperately needed. It was a delicious torture, the orgasm denial making every touch, every thrust, even more intense.

"You don't come until I tell you to," Oscar growled, his hand wrapping around Lando's cock, squeezing tightly at the base. Lando whimpered, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

Oscar leaned over Lando, his hand moving from Lando's cock to his throat, applying just enough pressure to make Lando's heart pound with a mix of fear and excitement. "Who do you belong to?" Oscar asked, his voice harsh in Lando's ear.

"You, Oscar. I belong to you," Lando choked out, the admission making his cock leak precum.

"Damn right," Oscar said, his hand tightening around Lando's throat as he snapped his hips forward, each thrust punctuating his ownership.

Lando was lost in a sea of sensation, the feel of Oscar's cock inside him, the hand around his throat, the roughness of Oscar's voice in his ear. He was on the precipice, teetering on the edge of sanity, when Oscar finally gave him permission. "Come for me, Lando."

With those words, Lando was undone. His orgasm ripped through him, his cock spurting ropes of cum onto the bed beneath him. Oscar followed soon after, his fingers digging into Lando's hips as he buried himself to the hilt, filling Lando with his hot seed.

They collapsed onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths. Oscar's softening cock slipped out of Lando, followed by a trickle of cum. Lando felt boneless, utterly spent, but there was a satisfaction in his exhaustion, a sense of completion.

Oscar rolled onto his back, pulling Lando with him, so they lay face to face. Lando could see the smug satisfaction in Oscar's eyes, a look that said he knew exactly how to play Lando's body like a finely tuned instrument.

"You're incredible," Lando murmured, his hand tracing the contours of Oscar's chest.

Oscar captured Lando's hand on his own, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. "And you're all mine."

Lando smiled, a sated, contented smile that spoke volumes. They lay there in silence, the only sound of their intertwined breathing as it slowly returned to normal.

When dawn crept through the curtains, painting the room in hues of soft pink and gold, Lando found himself wrapped in Oscar's arms, his head resting on Oscar's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. They were both sticky with sweat and cum, the evidence of their night of passion clinging to their skin, but neither of them cared.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of Lando's head, a silent promise of many more nights like this one. Lando closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep with a smile on his lips, secure in the knowledge that he was indeed all Oscar's, and Oscar was all his.

In the quiet of the morning, with the city outside just beginning to stir, their world was perfect, a secluded bubble where nothing existed but the two of them and the bond they shared. It was a world of pleasure and pain, of dominance and submission, of rough hands and tender kisses. It was their world, at least for that night. 

Chapter Text

Consolation prize 

The roar in the Suzuka International Racing Course should have been deafening, but Max barely heard it. He stood atop the podium, champagne still fizzing in his hand, a spray of golden mist blurring the horizon. The crowd’s cheers rose like a wall of sound, loud enough to rattle bones, but his mind was elsewhere — locked not on the celebration, but on the man standing down in the pit lane, helmet off, jaw clenched, eyes too proud to look up.

Liam.

Max didn’t need to hear the announcement to know what had happened. It was written in Liam’s posture — in the slight tremble of his hands, in the way he held his radio like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

The weekend had been brutal. For Max, it had ended with a win. For Liam, it ended with confirmation: he was being moved to Racing Bulls. A demotion, no matter how politely they worded it. A fall from grace he’d tried so hard to pretend he was immune to.

Max had known it would happen. He’d known for days. But that didn’t make it easier to watch.

He barely heard Oscar’s voice beside him, barely registered Lando’s half-drunk grin and congratulatory nudge or even the question about who he was going to chose. When the anthems were done, when the champagne had dried on his suit and the interviews were wrapped in polite, exhausted answers, Max found him.

Liam was sitting alone at the edge of the team hospitality unit, still half in his suit, elbows on knees, jaw locked. He didn’t look up when Max approached.

“Come to the hotel,” Max said.

Liam didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only his eyes flicked upward, storm-dark and guarded. 

“I’ve chosen you for Winner’s Choice. I’ll order food, we can eat in silence and go to sleep if you want” Max offered. “I don’t want to talk about the race or the team. Just—” he hesitated, searching for something softer, gentler, then gave up. “Only if you want.”

There was a beat of silence where Max wasnt sure he would agree. The chosen had every right to decline the invitation without repercussions and Max was being careful to leave that door open for the young driver. Instead Liam stood, wordless, and followed him to his car at the far end of the parking lot. 

The drive was silent, heavy with unspoken words. Max wanted to console Liam but the look in his eyes convinced him otherwise. Liam just wanted to scream. The have given him three races to prove his value. Only three races. And he could not rise to the challenge and for that, he felt like the worst human in the world.

The hotel was too pristine for the storm brewing in both of them.

It was one of those luxury spots Max always ended up in: white marble lobbies, silent elevators that barely hummed, suites so well-lit and sterilized they made every emotion feel like an intrusion. He’d booked it weeks ago, before the weekend unraveled, back when he’d thought Suzuka would be a clean victory and nothing else.

Liam stood just inside the doorway of Max’s suite, the city’s glow painting shadows across his face. He hadn’t changed — still in the navy compression shirt and half-zipped race suit, the sleeves hanging from his waist like dead weight. His jaw was set in stone. His eyes burned.

Max threw his keys onto the table, loosened the collar of his shirt, and gestured to the couch. “You want something to drink?”

Liam didn’t answer. He stepped further into the room, but his body was taut, his shoulders locked like he was still mid-race. He didn’t sit.

Max sighed and poured water anyway. He handed one glass to Liam, who took it without thanks, downed half of it, then set it aside untouched. 

They didn’t speak for a while. The city noise filtered through the windows — distant horns, laughter, the murmur of life outside. Max sat on the edge of the armrest, arms resting on his knees.

“I know it’s shit,” he said eventually. “And I know you think it’s the end of everything, but it’s not.”

Liam scoffed, a sharp sound. “You don’t get it.”

Max’s gaze flicked up. “I do.”

“You don’t,” Liam snapped, stepping forward. “You’ve never been second. You’ve never had to fight for scraps. You’ve always had everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Liam’s voice rose. “You were the golden boy from the moment you touched a kart. Your dad paved the way. Red Bull signed you like you were inevitable. And every time I thought I was getting close, every time I thought I could be like you—” His breath hitched. He looked away.

Max didn’t move. “I tried to help you.”

“Yeah, you tried,” Liam spat. “But I didn’t want a mentor. I Just wanted to beat you.”

There it was. The real wound. The raw nerve.

Max nodded slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I know.”

Liam stood in the center of the room, arms rigid at his sides, like he wanted to break something but couldn’t find anything breakable. “Why did you even call me here?” he asked, voice cracking. “To fuck me and prove you are the better driver?”

Max flinched.

The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.

“I didn’t call you here for that,” Max said, voice soft. “I called you because you looked like you were drowning.”

Liam’s mouth curled, bitter. “So what? You want to be my lifeguard now?”

“No,” Max said. “I want you to eat. Sleep. Breathe. Not punch a wall or get drunk alone or disappear. I’ve done that before. It doesn’t help.”

Liam’s eyes glinted, something furious and splintered behind them. “And what if I want to punch something?”

Max stood. Walked toward him, slow, measured. “Then hit me.”

Liam didn’t move. “I mean it,” Max said. “If that’s what you need—do it.”

Liam stared at him, chest heaving. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Max could see it — the war happening behind his eyes. Rage and shame and grief all boiling too close to the surface.

Then, finally, Liam shoved him.

It wasn’t hard — more a test than a threat. But Max didn’t back down. He took the step forward, the impact, and stayed there, close.

Liam’s breath hitched again. “I hate you.”

Max nodded. “Okay.”

“I fucking hate that you win, that you smile after, that you get to choose who you  bring here and I—”

Max didn’t speak. He let Liam pour it out, every word laced with venom and sorrow.

“—and I hate that I came here.”

Max’s voice was calm. “Then go.”

But Liam didn’t move.

They stood close now, chest to chest. The heat of Liam’s body radiated through the gap. Max could see the twitch of his jaw, the redness in his eyes.

Liam stopped, his gaze piercing through Max. "I need... I need to feel something else, something other than this fucking pain," he growled, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I want you to make me feel it, Max. Make me feel humiliated, make me feel like I'm nothing, like I deserve this."

Max's breath hitched. He heard Liam's desires, his need to be overwhelmed and dominated, to be taken to the edge of his limits. But seeing him like this, so raw and vulnerable, it ignited a fire within Max, a mixture of pain and arousal. He stepped forward, his resolve hardening along with his cock, which twitched in anticipation.

“I don’t want you to be gentle,” Liam whispered, almost a snarl. “If you’re gonna touch me, I want it to hurt.”

“You sure?” he asked.

Liam nodded, eyes burning. “Make it ugly. I need to feel something. something other than this fucking pain," he growled, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

Max’s throat worked. He stepped even closer, hands loose at his sides, voice soft but sure.

“I’ve been where you are,” he said. “I know how that feels. And I’m not here to fix you. But if this is what you want — if this is the only way to get it out — then yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Liam nodded, sharp and desperate.

Max lifted a hand. Touched the line of Liam’s jaw. Liam didn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Max said.

“I already failed,” Liam said, voice brittle. “Might as well feel something else.”

Max’s hand closed gently around the back of Liam’s neck. "Take off your clothes," Max commanded, his voice firm. Liam's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of defiance sparking before he obeyed, peeling off each layer until he stood naked, his cock already half-hard. Max's gaze roamed over Liam's body, taking in the lean muscles, the smattering of hair on his chest, the way his dick twitched under his scrutiny.

Liam was shaking now. Just slightly. Rage, shame, or exhaustion — Max couldn’t tell. He took a step closer, hands loose at his sides.

“I know what it’s like,” Max said softly. “To be young. To think you’re better than all of them. To realize you’re not — or worse, that it doesn’t matter.”

Liam’s nostrils flared. “Don’t fucking pity me.”

“I’m not.”

The tension between them hit a new pitch. It wasn’t just heat now — it was rupture. Like the inside of Liam’s chest was breaking open, piece by piece, and Max was the only one close enough to see it. To touch it.

Liam surged forward again, but this time he didn’t shove — he grabbed Max’s shirt and yanked him close.

“You want to help me?” he snarled. “Then fucking hurt me.”

Max froze. For a heartbeat, maybe two.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Liam’s voice was ragged. Desperate. “Make it real. Make it worse than the pain I’m already in.”

Max reached up, slowly, and wrapped his hand around Liam’s wrist. His grip was firm, but not hard. “Look at me,” he said.

Liam didn’t move. “Liam—look at me.”

He did. And what Max saw behind those eyes made his chest ache.

“I’m not going to break you,” Max said, voice low. “But if you want pain, you need to ask for it. You need to want me to give it to you.”

Liam’s lips parted. He didn’t speak at first. “I want you to ruin me.” He said finally

Max stepped in. Their bodies collided, not with softness but with tension — like they’d crash if they didn’t touch. Max pushed him against the wall, one hand flat against Liam’s chest, pinning him there.

“Say it again,” Max demanded.

Liam’s breathing was fast. “Ruin me.”

Max’s hand curled into the front of Liam’s shirt. “What do you think that means?”

Liam swallowed. “I want it to hurt. I want you to take it all.”

There was a silence that followed. A beat where Max could’ve said no, could’ve stepped back. Could’ve left Liam to cry it out in solitude, or offered him a shoulder like a normal teammate.

But Max wasn’t normal. And neither was Liam. He reached up and slapped Liam — not hard enough to harm, but hard enough to shock. The sound cracked through the room. Liam gasped, his head turning with the motion, and then — slowly — he turned back, eyes wide and glassy with adrenaline.

Max gripped his jaw. “You say stop, and I stop. Understood?”

Liam nodded. 

“Say it.”

“I understand,” Liam whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Max kissed him then. Rough and possessive, teeth against teeth. He tasted desperation and salt and youth — tasted everything Liam had wanted to be and couldn’t quite reach. Their mouths clashed, messy and biting. When Max broke the kiss, Liam was already panting, already wrecked.

Max spun him around and shoved him face-first against the wall. Hard. There was no grace in it — just frantic hands and harsh breathing, clothes falling to the carpet one by one. Max stepped back and watched, chest rising and falling, pupils blown wide with something far darker than arousal.

This was control. This was damage. And this was Liam, naked and trembling, turning around to face him.

“Get on your knees,” Max said.

Liam dropped.

There was no hesitation now — no fear, no shame. Just need. Max could see it in the way Liam looked up at him, mouth slightly parted, shoulders pulled back like he was offering himself up to something he didn’t entirely understand.

Max stepped forward. His fingers tangled in Liam’s hair as he yanked, hard. A few tears escaped from his green eyes, but still was defiance in him.

“You think I’m the monster they say I am?” he asked quietly.

Liam blinked. “I hope so.”, 

Max didn’t waste time. He yanked his hair again, the sharp intake of breath from Liam was all the confirmation he needed that it was all he wanted. With a firm tug, he guided Liam to his knees and hands, the other man's eyes flashing with a defiant fire that only fueled Max's desire. 

"Crawl," Max commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Liam hesitated for a moment, his pride wrestling with his need. But the need won out, and he began to move on all fours, his movements jerky and unpracticed. Max walked beside him, the heels of his shoes clicking against the floor, a stark reminder of the power dynamic at play.

They reached the bedroom, and Max released Liam's hair, watching as the other man stayed on his hands and knees, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Max stripped off his shirt, revealing a well-toned chest and abs that were a testament to hours spent in the gym. He could see Liam's gaze lingering on his body, hunger replacing some of the anger in his eyes.

Max unbuckled his belt, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He doubled it over in his hand, the leather cool against his skin. "You want to feel humiliated?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You want to feel like you're nothing?"

Liam nodded, his eyes fixed on the belt.

Max raised his hand and brought the belt down across Liam's upturned ass with a sharp crack. Liam jerked forward, a yelp escaping his lips. The mark left by the belt was a vivid red line against his skin, a brand that spoke of ownership and control.

Again and again, Max struck him, each blow measured and precise. Liam's skin was a canvas, and Max was an artist, painting a picture of dominance and submission that was beautiful in its raw intensity.

Liam's body was a symphony of sensation, each strike of the belt sending waves of pain and pleasure coursing through him. His cock was hard aching for release.

Max dropped the belt and moved to stand in front of Liam. He unzipped his pants, freeing his erection. "Open your mouth," he ordered, his voice rough with need.

Liam parted his lips obediently, and Max thrust his cock into the wet heat of Liam's mouth. He gripped Liam's hair tightly, using it to control the depth and pace of his thrusts. Liam's eyes watered as he struggled to take Max's length, the taste of pre-come on his tongue a salty promise of what was to come.

Max could feel the tightness of Liam's throat around the head of his cock, the vibrations of Liam's moans sending jolts of pleasure straight to his balls. He pulled out abruptly, denying himself the release that was so tantalizingly close.

"On the bed," Max commanded, his gaze never leaving Liam's flushed face. He had Liam pinned against the bed before either of them could say another word, one knee driving into the mattress beside Liam’s hip, one hand pressing his shoulder down, down, down until his chest hit the sheets and stayed there.

“This what you want?” Max asked, rough, low.

Liam nodded, face buried in the duvet. Max leaned close, his mouth brushing the shell of Liam’s ear. “No. You tell me.”

“I want you to wreck me,” Liam choked out.

Max’s fingers curled into his hair, yanking his head back. “Then you hold on.”

He finished stripping like a man on the edge, like something inside him had snapped — not with anger, but with purpose. A final line crossed. Pants kicked off, shirt flung somewhere unseen. The belt threw away, made a satisfying crack through the silence, and Liam flinched.

Then he reached for Liam.

The first slap landed on the curve of Liam’s cheek, open palm and sharp. Not enough to bruise — yet — but enough to sting.

Liam jolted, cried out, arched.

“Again,” he gasped.

Max obliged. The second was harder. The third made Liam’s thighs tremble.

“You feel that?” Max growled, leaning over him. “That’s real. You asked for it.”

Liam moaned — high, wrecked, broken-open.

Max grabbed lube from the nightstand with the kind of muscle memory that suggested he’d been here before. He slicked his fingers, pushed one inside with no hesitation. Then another.

Liam bit the sheets, breathing ragged.

“God, Max—”

“I know,” Max murmured, stroking his fingers deeper. “I know, mate. Just take it.”

When Max finally lined up behind him and pressed in, he didn’t pause. He gripped Liam’s hips and fucked into him — all sharp rhythm and bruising power, skin slapping skin, the bed rocking under them. Liam cried out again, louder this time.

It was rough. Deliberately so. Max used him the way Liam had begged for — pinning him down, dragging his nails across his ribs, one hand wrapped tightly around his throat just enough to press, not choke.

But it wasn’t about breath.

It was about feeling.

Liam’s face twisted against the sheets, eyes squeezed shut, sweat running down his spine. “Fuck—Max—hurts—”

“I know,” Max said again. “I know. That’s the point.”

But underneath his voice, there was something softer. Something cracked. Something almost like apology.

Max didn’t stop until Liam was shaking. Until the bed was damp with sweat, until the bruises bloomed red and rising on Liam’s hips. Until his name became the only word Liam could say.

“Max—Max—Max—”

It broke something in him.

Max grunted as he came, thrusting deep one last time and spilling inside, his body curling over Liam’s like a shadow. His fingers dug into Liam’s waist. His forehead dropped between his shoulder blades.

Silence, but not the kind that felt empty. The kind that felt like aftermath.

They stayed like that for several seconds — maybe minutes — Max’s chest heaving against Liam’s back, both of them soaked in heat and silence and something dangerously close to grief.

Then Max moved. Slowly. Gently. He pulled out, careful despite the violence that had come before. He ran a hand down Liam’s back — not possessive now, but soothing. Grounding. Like trying to remind him this was still just a room. Just them.

Liam didn’t move.

Max exhaled, quiet. “I’m gonna get a towel.”

He stood, moved to the bathroom, ran it under warm water.

When he came back, Liam had turned onto his side, curled loosely, arms hugging a pillow. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t flinch when Max sat beside him and wiped him clean.

The towel was damp with sweat and cum and something heavier.

Max tossed it aside and sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed. He didn’t say anything until Liam reached out — just barely — fingertips brushing his thigh.

“…Thank you,” Liam said.

His voice was hoarse. Honest.

Max looked at him. Really looked.

“You okay?”

Liam swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Max nodded once. Then leaned down, pulled the blanket up over Liam’s body. Not because he needed it — but because Max couldn’t stand to see him exposed like that any longer.

He didn’t lie beside him. Just sat, one hand resting on the bed between them.

“I’ve felt like that before,” Max said softly. “Like the only thing I deserved was pain. Like maybe if someone else gave it to me, I wouldn’t have to blame myself anymore.”

Liam’s breath hitched.

“But you don’t have to earn comfort through hurting,” Max added. “You don’t have to be fucked to be forgiven.”

Liam’s fingers curled into the blanket. “But I needed it.”

“I know,” Max murmured. “That’s why I gave it to you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was heavy. Weighted. But safe.

They didn’t speak again for a long time. And when Max finally rose to dim the lights, Liam didn’t stop him from coming back — from pulling the chair a little closer and sitting there, quiet, until sleep took them both. Not in the same bed.

But not apart, either.

Chapter Text

The elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet for three men who had just stood atop the world.

Oscar leaned back against the polished gold paneling, arms crossed, jacket still slung over his shoulders. The residual adrenaline of the race hadn’t quite left his body, but it had settled now — like a fine dust after a sandstorm. His fingers drummed softly against his bicep, each tap echoing louder than it should in the enclosed space.

Beside him, Lando rocked back and forth on his heels, the faintest scuff of his sneakers against marble. He hadn’t changed out of his race gear entirely — the jacket was gone, but the black McLaren shirt still clung to his back, sweat-dampened and creased from a day spent inside a fireproof suit. His curls were flattened where the helmet had pressed, but a smile ghosted the corner of his mouth. Not smug. Not proud. Just… there. Waiting.

George was the only one who looked like the moment had ended. Still flawless. Still composed. His navy suit was immaculate, white shirt crisp, tie loosened just enough to suggest casualness without sacrificing control. He checked his watch, then tucked his hands into his pockets. Always thinking. Always three seconds ahead.

“Hell of a start to the season,” Lando said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse, but his tone was light — too light.

Oscar gave a nod. “Yeah.”

The doors opened with a soft chime, spilling golden light into the hallway.

They walked side by side, not speaking, the carpeted corridor muffling their footsteps. The hotel had been booked entirely by Formula 1 organizers — which meant no fans, no cameras, no staff who would dare interrupt. Just silence, soft and thick like honey. The hush of post-race exhaustion. The kind of quiet that only came after fire.

Oscar’s suite was first. A corner room, presidential level. He reached for the keycard, hesitated, and glanced sideways.

“We could eat,” George offered, tone measured. “Together.”

Oscar turned.

Lando arched a brow, half-amused. “You asking us out, George?”

George didn’t rise to the bait. “We don’t have to make a Choice tonight.”

A beat of silence passed between them. The weight of it lingered. All three of them were still dressed like winners. Still carried the heat of the podium in their bones. But something unspoken hovered in the space — a rare, shared understanding.

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Alright. Let’s eat.”

They didn’t speak again until they’d reached the private lounge floor, accessible only by keycard. A set of rooms converted for post-podium use — champagne already on ice, linen-draped tables under soft recessed lighting, food waiting to be ordered from a curated menu that knew their preferences better than any personal assistant.

They took a booth in the far corner. The curved leather seat held them in an orbit none of them dared to break.

Oscar shrugged off his jacket and stretched his arms out against the backrest. His undershirt clung to his body, black and thin enough that the shapes of his collarbones still caught the low light. Lando threw himself down beside him, one leg up, posture all chaos and ease. George sat across from them both, straight as a ruler, hands clasped.

A waiter arrived. They ordered.

And then… stillness again.

Until Lando spoke.

“Remember when this used to be simpler?” His voice was quieter now. Less amused. “First, second, third. And then one of us just said a name, and everyone knew what came next.”

George tilted his head. “You make it sound like a spell.”

Lando shrugged. “Wasn’t it?”

Oscar let the silence settle. Then: “Who was your first?”

Lando blinked. “What, you mean my first Choice?”

Oscar nodded, gaze steady. “Yeah.”

Lando leaned back, running a hand through his curls. “Daniel.”

George raised a brow. “Ricciardo chose you?”

“Not officially,” Lando said, smirking. “But he made it very clear. Back in 2020. No podiums for me yet. But he whispered it to me that night like it was inevitable.” His voice dipped, half fondness, half mischief. “And he was right.”

Oscar smiled, slow and quiet.

The table warmed.

George adjusted his cuffs. “I didn’t do anything the first time I won.”

“You didn’t make a Choice?” Lando asked.

“I did,” George said, fingers curling slightly. “But it wasn’t… public. I chose someone I shouldn’t have. We didn’t speak about it after.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Did it mean something?”

George looked at him. Eyes soft. “Everything.”

The waiter returned with wine. They drank slowly. Time unfolded in long silences and sudden laughter, like the aftershocks of a shared dream. And beneath it all, the tradition lingered. Not in what they did — but what they didn’t.

No names whispered. No hallway glances. No touch exchanged beyond the clink of glasses.

Just three men. Champions, still in the glow of victory. Choosing, for the first time, not to choose.

The wine had mellowed them.

Not enough to blur judgment — just enough to loosen the edges of restraint, to let memory bloom more easily in the space between mouthfuls. A bottle of red sat half-finished on the table, the label peeled at one corner by Lando’s distracted fingers. His voice was softer now. Less performative. Still quick with a quip, but when the silences stretched, he didn’t rush to fill them.

Outside the window, Bahrain glowed like a mirage. Yellow lights bleeding over hot sand. The soft hum of the city’s after-dark rhythm filtered through the double-glazed windows — barely audible, but present. A reminder that the world continued, oblivious, beyond the insulated cocoon of the Winners’ lounge.

Oscar turned his glass slowly in his hand. “Do you remember the first time we saw it written down?”

Lando looked up. “The rule?”

Oscar nodded. “‘Winner’s Choice.’”

George exhaled, a quiet breath of recognition. “It wasn’t written anywhere official.”

“It was on the back of a napkin,” Lando said, grinning. “Daniel. After Japan 2018.”

Oscar leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That was the story, wasn’t it? Daniel said, ‘You win, you choose.’ Max wrote it down, half-drunk, and then handed it to the podium girl like it was a marriage contract.”

Lando laughed, a flash of real joy cutting through the mellow haze. “And she signed it. Poor girl had no idea what she was agreeing to.”

George smiled too, barely. “He kept that napkin in his glove box for a year.”

Oscar’s brow rose. “You’re kidding.”

“Hand on heart,” George said, one palm lifted in mock solemnity. “Said it was the law of the land now. Said if Liberty Media wouldn’t make it official, he would.”

Lando raised his glass. “To Ricciardo — the world’s most unserious lawmaker.”

They clinked their glasses together. The toast wasn’t loud, or especially celebratory. It was something gentler — a shared reverence, a nod to the mythos that had grown in the shadows of the sport.

Because it was myth, wasn’t it?

This thing they all played along with. Winner’s Choice.

Not a rule. Not sanctioned. Not enforced.

But still real. Still sacred.

A ritual older than some drivers on the grid. Born in hotel rooms and whispered agreements, passed along not in press briefings but in sideways glances and midnight knocks. It had never needed words — only precedent. Only memory.

And memory was dangerous.

“Mine was Carlos,” Oscar said suddenly.

The words hung there, crystalline and sharp.

Lando blinked. “What, your first Choice?”

Oscar nodded. “It was Monza. My first podium. Third. He was second. Lewis had won.”

George’s gaze sharpened. “And he chose you?”

Oscar shook his head. “He didn’t have to. I asked.”

The table went still.

“I didn’t even know if that was allowed,” Oscar admitted. “If third could initiate. But he just looked at me and said, ‘Only if you ask twice.’” A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So I did.”

Lando leaned in. “Was it good?”

Oscar’s voice didn’t waver. “It was… kind. More than I expected. He made it feel less like I’d crossed a line. More like I’d earned something.”

George studied him. Not judging. Just… observing. Like trying to measure the weight of the words in the air.

“And after?” he asked.

“We never spoke about it again.”

That, too, was part of the lore.

Some Choices were beginnings.

Most were just… moments. Unspoken. Unrepeated.

Oscar looked away, toward the city lights beyond the window. “He taught me not to be ashamed of wanting something. Even if it wasn’t forever.”

Lando drummed his fingers on the table. “Mine wasn’t kind,” he said finally. “Mine was Daniel. But it wasn’t gentle.”

Oscar glanced at him.

“I wanted it to be,” Lando said. “I was young. I thought it’d be more — I don’t know — cinematic. But it wasn’t. It was just sex. Fast. A bit sloppy. A bit like… proof.” He paused. “He needed to win something that weekend, and I think I was it.”

Oscar’s gaze softened.

Lando shrugged. “It didn’t make me feel special. Just... initiated.”

George’s jaw twitched, just barely.

None of them spoke for a long moment. The silence wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t easy either. It was the kind of silence that hummed with old memories and bruises no one knew the shape of.

Then Oscar broke it.

“I used to think it was about control.”

Lando looked over.

“The power to choose,” Oscar said. “It sounds clean. Strong. But it’s messier than that. Some of us choose because we want to feel less alone. Some of us choose because we’re trying to feel something at all.”

George’s voice was quiet. “And some of us don’t choose.”

Oscar’s eyes met his. “Why not?”

George didn’t answer. Just sipped his wine.

Lando looked between them. “He’s waiting,” he said simply.

George didn’t deny it.

There was a stillness in the booth after that. Not empty. Not awkward. But heavy. The kind of weight that only came when people stopped pretending they weren’t carrying things.

Oscar stood first. “I’m not choosing tonight,” he said, softly.

George nodded, unsurprised.

Lando stood too. “Me neither.”

The moment could have ended there — quiet, dignified, unresolved.

But as they turned to leave, Lando paused and said, “Do you ever wonder if we’ll all regret this?”

George looked back. “Regret what?”

“This,” Lando said. “The secrecy. The rules we never wrote down. The people we never picked because we didn’t want it to matter.”

Oscar didn’t speak. Just let the words hang, like smoke.

George adjusted his cuffs. “If we regret it,” he said finally, “it’ll be because we never figured out what it really meant.”

Chapter Text

The sky above the paddock burned a deep vermilion, streaked with fading light that shimmered against the metallic skins of the cars below. The roar of engines had long died, yet the energy clung stubbornly to the air — electric, heady, almost sentient. Cameras clicked like sparks; flashes pulsed like heartbeats. Victory still tasted raw, metallic, alive.

Three men stood on the podium at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix.

First place: Oscar Piastri.
Second place: Max Verstappen.
Third place: Charles Leclerc.

The crowd erupted as their names were called. The anthem played, confetti spun in gold swirls through the humid twilight, and champagne frothed over the edge of the silver bottles like unspent adrenaline.

But within the spectacle, there was silence. A private silence. The kind that hums behind the ribs and makes you aware of your pulse.

Oscar raised his trophy — steady as always, poised, the faintest smile brushing his lips. It wasn’t arrogance; it was understanding. A man who knows not only that he’s won, but that victory has placed a weight on him: the burden of choice.

Across from him, Max stood tall, the fire of competition still coursing through him, sharp and restless. He could still feel the turns under his skin, the wind against his visor, the brutal symphony of control and release. His chest rose and fell with the quiet pants of a man not yet cooled.

Charles, at the edge, was composed — always composed. His smile was the kind cameras adored: measured, polite, impeccable. But his eyes, under the blinding podium lights, told a different story. They gleamed with something volatile, something barely contained. Want. Nerves. Fire disguised as poise.

As the crowd thundered and the press shouted names, something unspoken passed between them — a glance here, a breath there — an understanding as familiar as the pulse of the engines that had carried them here. The tradition loomed, silent but undeniable. The night was far from over.

As the crowd began to fade, retreating to murmurs and champagne chatter and with the ceremony neared its end, the eyes of every driver, mechanic and team principal in the paddock turned toward Oscar.

He lifted one hand, almost casually, and the ambient noise softened. There was something magnetic about him — the calm of someone who could stop the world with a gesture. When he spoke, his voice carried low, steady, the kind of tone that demands attention without needing to raise itself.

“I’ll skip my turn tonight.”

The words hung in the air like static. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers — a surprise, a question, a spark of intrigue. Tradition said the winner could choose anyone.  Desire said the same. Oscar, it seemed, was rewriting the rules for the night.  He wasn’t nervous. He looked perfectly in control — serene, confident, even faintly amused.  Winning wasn’t enough; he was deciding what power to keep, and what to give away.

The light caught the line of his jaw, the small curve of his mouth, the ease of someone who understood restraint not as denial, but as dominance. He was choosing silence where others would have taken noise.

It was, perhaps, the boldest choice of all.

Max tilted his head slightly, eyes still on Oscar. He inhaled — long, deliberate — as if he could still taste the asphalt, the sweat, the residue of speed. Then he looked at Charles.

There was a pause, and then he spoke. “I’m not choosing either,” he said, his voice rough, stripped bare. “But I’ll stay. I want to see whatever Charles chooses.”

The words sliced through the murmuring crowd.

Max Verstappen — who never yielded, never waited, never watched — was surrendering the act of choosing, only to claim the right to witness.  And that, somehow, was more intimate.  It wasn’t apathy. It was power reframed. He had placed himself just outside the center, close enough to feel the heat, far enough to stay untouched — at least for now.

Charles felt his stomach tighten. He swallowed hard, aware of the way Max’s eyes didn’t waver from him. The air thickened between them, invisible and heavy.

He could feel the sweat cooling on the back of his neck, his race suit clinging faintly at the collarbone, his pulse betraying his composure.

Everyone could sense it — even if they didn’t know why — that this wasn’t just ceremony anymore. This was theatre. This was desire disguised as ritual, control disguised as sport.

Charles lowered his head for a moment. The champagne mist still lingered, sweet and sticky on his tongue.. Every sound around him dimmed into background noise.

What mattered was the breath between him and Max. The distance between him and Oscar. The memory of something he hadn’t yet done, but already felt echoing inside his chest.

When he looked up again, his voice was soft — but it didn’t tremble.

“My choice,” he said, “is Carlos.”

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Carlos, standing among the Williams crew, straightened instinctively, eyes wide. Surprise washed over his face, chased quickly by something darker — intrigue, anticipation. He wasn’t sure if he’d been prepared for this, but he didn’t flinch.

The noise hit Max like wind through a tunnel — a blur of sound, color, and static. But he heard the name. Carlos.

Something in him tightened. Not anger, not yet. But something sharp, almost metallic. He had been ready for almost anything — a name from the grid, a model from the paddock, some anonymous indulgence — but not Carlos. Not his old teammate. Not the one whose laughter Charles always mirrored, whose body language Charles seemed to sync to without thinking.

The realization stung more than it should have.

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t. He told himself that twice, then a third time, as if repetition could dull the edge. But the truth pressed against him like the smell of hot tires — acrid and undeniable.

He knew the bond between Charles and Carlos: the shared garage, the jokes, the tiny, unspoken rhythm that came from thousands of laps together.  He’d seen it before — the way Charles’s eyes softened when he said Carlos’s name, the small, unconscious gestures of trust.

And yet, it wasn’t the choice itself that unsettled Max. It was the look Charles gave right after — that small, almost imperceptible flicker of gaze in his direction.

Like a confession. Like he knew Max would watch. Like he wanted him to.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word for what bloomed in his chest. It was something quieter, more dangerous. Curiosity laced with want. A need to understand why the thought of Charles choosing anyone else — touching anyone else — burned under his skin.

He looked down at his hands, still sticky with champagne. The world cheered around him, but he only heard the blood rushing in his ears.

Max didn’t move. Didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. He just watched — silent, jaw tight, pulse quickening — as Charles’s choice turned from ritual to revelation.  And deep down, something in him whispered: This is just the beginning.

***

The paddock had gone quiet, the chaos dissolving into the mechanical hiss of cooling engines and distant laughter from hospitality tents. Charles found him near the back of the Williams garage, still half in uniform, talking low with a mechanic.

Carlos turned when he heard footsteps. He was calm at first, but when he saw Charles, that calm fractured — not anger, not surprise, just a pulse of awareness.

“You could’ve warned me,” he said, voice low. “You chose me in front of everyone”

Charles stopped a few steps away. “Would you have said yes if I had warned you?”

Carlos gave a soft, humorless breath. “Of course. I could never say no to you. Now tell me why, after all this time"

The light above them was dim, red spilling across the floor from the exit sign. They stood in it like two fighters after a bell — close enough that neither could pretend it hadn’t happened.

Charles’s tone stayed even. “Because it had to be you.”

Carlos frowned, the lines between his brows deepening. “Why me, exactly? You could’ve chosen anyone"

Charles’s eyes lifted slowly, the faintest curve to his mouth. “Because you understand me. Because you don’t pretend not to feel things. Because when I look at you, I don’t have to perform.”

Carlos shifted his weight, trying not to show how that landed. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced away toward the cars sleeping under covers. “And that’s it?”

Charles took a step closer, the distance shrinking to a heartbeat. “No. There’s something else.”

Carlos waited. 

“Max will be there tonight.”

The words fell like a slow drop of fuel on hot metal — quiet, but flammable.

Carlos blinked. “What?”

Charles didn’t flinch. “He said he wanted to watch. He has the right since he won too.”

For a moment Carlos didn’t move. Then his jaw clenched, muscle jumping under the skin. “Of course he did.” He turned his head slightly, a bitter laugh escaping. “Always has to be in control. Even when he’s not the one being chosen.”

“It’s not control,” Charles said softly. “He’s curious.”

“That’s worse.”

Carlos looked back at him, eyes darker now, voice roughened. “You really think I want him watching while—” He stopped himself, cutting the words short. “While whatever this is happening?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. His gaze held steady — searching, deliberate. “You don’t have to want it. You only have to understand it.”

Carlos exhaled through his nose, hard. “You know exactly what it means if he’s there.”

“Yes.”

“And you still want it.”

“yes,” Charles corrected quietly.

Something in Carlos stilled — the anger, the disbelief — replaced by something rawer. A flicker of jealousy, not just of Max, but of the way Charles spoke his name like it carried electricity.

“You always make things complicated,” Carlos murmured, half-accusation, half-surrender.

Charles stepped closer, close enough for Carlos to feel the warmth through the fabric of their suits. “No,” he said. “I make them real.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of lights and their breathing.

Then Charles reached into his pocket and drew out a silk scarf — black, soft, deliberate. He held it loosely, as if already answering the next question.

“Meet me at my hotel,” he said, voice low. “If you walk away, I’ll understand. But if you come, you don’t get to ask why anymore.”

He turned before Carlos could reply, leaving the words suspended in the warm, electric air.

Carlos stood still, the silk imprint burned into his vision even from afar. He hated that he was already moving before he decided to. He hated even more that he knew exactly what it meant when Charles said Max would be watching — and that, somehow, part of him wanted to see what that would feel like.

Steam fogged the mirror until his reflection disappeared. Charles stood still for a long time, water striking his shoulders in hard, rhythmic bursts. He tried to let it rinse away the noise — the podium, the lights, the name he’d spoken aloud. It didn’t. The sound of it lingered, Carlos, low and magnetic, looping in his chest like an echo that refused to die.

He turned the tap hotter. The sting helped. The heat anchored him.

He thought of what would come later — the feel of that black soft hair between his fingers, the moment when everything would slow to breath and heartbeat. He wasn’t nervous; he was awake. Every sense on edge, every nerve waiting.

And behind it, always, the knowledge that Max would be there.
Watching.
Understanding.

When he dressed, he chose black: shirt open at the throat, no tie. Clean, simple, deliberate. He brushed his hair back, the gesture careful, methodical. A man preparing not for performance, but confession.

In the mirror, his face re-emerged through the steam. The same calm mask the cameras loved — only his eyes betrayed him, carrying that tiny flicker of anticipation he couldn’t wash away.

Carlos showered too fast. The water hit cold at first, and he didn’t bother adjusting it. He wanted it sharp. He wanted to feel something that wasn’t confusion.

He’d told himself all the reasons to say no.  He’d repeated them while drying his hair, while buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.  None of them worked.

Under the crisp fabric, his skin still burned where Charles had looked at him. He kept hearing the same sentence — Max will be there — like a pebble caught in the gears of his thoughts.

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It was territory. It was knowing that Charles had always seen something in Max that Carlos couldn’t name, and tonight that something would be in the room with them. He didn’t know if that made him want to walk away or walk straight into it.

He pulled on a dark shirt, the same one he wore when he needed focus — no blue, no logos. Neutral. Grounded. The scent of soap still clung to his hands. He flexed them once, trying to shake the restlessness.

“Don’t overthink it,” he muttered to the empty room. But he already was.

Max’s hotel room was quiet except for the low hum of the minibar. He sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped over his neck, hair still damp. He hadn’t planned to get involved. He’d meant what he said — that he only wanted to watch — but the simplicity of that had dissolved as soon as he’d seen the way Charles looked at Carlos. The look had been a spark and a dare all at once.

He opened the closet and stared at the clothes for longer than necessary. It felt absurd, dressing for a night he wasn’t supposed to be part of. Still, he chose carefully: dark trousers, an open shirt, sleeves rolled once. Nothing formal, nothing careless.  If Charles noticed him watching, Max wanted him to see composure — not longing.

He caught his own reflection and frowned.  It wasn’t envy, not really.  It was recognition. He knew what it was to be drawn toward the edge of something dangerous, to want to see how far it could go before it burned.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes past when he’d said he’d come by.  For a second he considered staying in. Then he stood, slid the towel from his shoulders, and left it behind without a second thought.

The suite Charles had chosen was high above the paddock, its glass wall reflecting the city’s fractured light. Curtains half-drawn, lamps turned low — the kind of space that blurred the line between privacy and stage.

He was already there when the door clicked open.

Carlos entered first. He paused by the threshold, shoulders set, jaw tight. His eyes moved over the room: the couch, the table with untouched wine, the folded scarf resting like a secret on the armrest. He didn’t speak; the silence was part of the ritual now.

Charles rose from the window ledge.
Their eyes met — not sharp this time, but heavy, resigned, like two people who had run out of ways to delay the inevitable.

“You came,” Charles said.

“You knew I would.” There was no pride in the answer. Just truth.

Charles stepped forward, stopping close enough for Carlos to catch the faint scent of cedar and soap on his skin. The tension between them was physical, thick as humidity. Neither touched, but the space was electric.

Then another sound broke through — the soft click of the second door.

Max stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him. No greeting. No questions. He moved with the careful stillness of someone approaching an edge. His eyes flicked once to Charles, then to Carlos, gauging, weighing, learning the new geometry of the room.

“So this is how it’s going to be,” he said, voice even.

Charles didn’t answer. He simply gestured toward the wine. “If you’re staying, stay and be silent. This is what you asked for and I’m giving it to you”

Max crossed the room and poured himself half a glass. The sound of liquid hitting crystal was louder than it should’ve been. He leaned against the table, watching. Always watching.

Charles turned slightly, enough to keep both men in sight. The air between them pulsed with something unspoken — rivalry stripped of competition, curiosity sharpened into hunger. He could feel Max’s gaze at his back like heat. 

Carlos moved first. He picked up the scarf, let it slide through his hands. The fabric caught the light, black turning silver in motion.

“You remember what we talked?,” he said to Charles.

Charles nodded once, his throat tight. He didn’t look at Max, but he could feel him watching — the weight of his attention like a hand that hadn’t touched yet.

Carlos approached slowly, raising the scarf. Charles didn’t step back. When the silk brushed his cheek, his breath hitched — not fear, not hesitation, just the shock of being seen without eyes.

The blindfold came down; the world narrowed to breath and warmth.

Max exhaled softly. The sound might have been approval, might have been envy.

Carlos circled Charles, studying him the way he studied corners on a track: patient, calculating, reverent. His fingers skimmed fabric, traced outlines through the thin barrier of a shirt. Every gesture was deliberate — not to provoke, but to claim attention. Charles’ muscles tensed under the contact; his jaw clenched, then released.

“You trust me?” Carlos asked, the words barely more than breath.

“you know I do.”

“Then show me.”

Charles' pulse thudded visibly at his throat. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full of everything they refused to name.

From his place by the table, Max’s restraint began to fray. Every flicker of motion — Carlos hands, Charles’ reactions — played like a film made for him alone. His fingers tightened around the glass until it clicked against his ring. He set it down.

He crossed the room until he was close enough to feel the same heat, to hear the irregular rhythm of two sets of breathing becoming one. He didn’t interfere. He simply existed there — presence made solid, the third point in an impossible balance.

Charles could sense him even through the dark. The air changed when Max moved; the energy tilted. And that knowledge — that he was being seen — made every nerve more awake, every breath sharper.

Carlos looked up, meeting Max’s eyes over Charles’ shoulder. No words passed, but understanding did. A shared charge: control and surrender looping between them until no one could tell which was which. 

Max's hand found its way to the bulge in his pants, his fingers tracing the outline of his growing erection through the fabric.

Carlos, now in his element, began to explore the man before him. He mapped the contours of Charles' chest with his fingers, feeling the muscles tense and relaxing under his touch. He leaned in, his breath hot against Carlos's neck as he whispered, "Do you remember?" Charles’ response was a low, rumbling moan that seemed to vibrate through the room.

Max's own breath synced with the rhythm of their exchange, his hand working more urgently at his zipper, freeing his hard cock. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving the pair. The sight of Carlos in control, and Charles’, so willingly surrendering, was a heady cocktail that threatened to unravel Max's own composure. 

Max's own cock twitched in his hand as he watched Carlos going to the fridge at the other side of the room and grab an ice cube. He came back and took Charles’ shirt in one swift move, revealing his toned body to both of them. It was a sight to behold but Carlos did not waste time. "You're mine tonight," Carlos purred, his voice a sultry whisper that seemed to caress Charles's exposed neck. "Every breath, every moan, every quiver of your body will be under my command."

Charles swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine as he nodded in acquiescence. His cock twitched with anticipation, already hard and aching for touch, any touch, that would send him spiraling into the abyss of pleasure they had planned for him.

Carlos reached out, tracing a finger along Charles's jawline before gripping it firmly, before kissing him hard. "You're going to feel every sensation like it's your first time," Carlos promised, his voice low and dominant. "And you're going to thank me for it."

Before Charles could respond, Carlos approached with the ice cube between his fingers, the chill of it making his nipples pebble in anticipation. "Let's see how you like a little cold play," Carlos said, his tone light but his eyes dark with desire.

The ice cube ghosted over Charles's nipples, a shock of cold that made him gasp and arch into the sensation. The heat of his body melted the ice, sending rivulets of water trickling down his chest, each droplet a tiny spark of pleasure-pain.

"Fuck," Charles hissed, his breath hitching as Carlos continued his icy exploration, tracing the contours of Charles's torso, circling his nave. Carlos hooked his fingers into Charles's pants and briefs and pulled them down, freeing his erect cock. The ice cube made its way along the shaft, causing Charles to buck his hips involuntarily.

"Stay still," Carlos commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

Carlos’ hand found its way to Charles's dick, gripping it tightly as he finally brought the ice cube to Charles's engorged head. The sudden contrast of temperatures made Charles cry out, a mix of curses and pleas spilling from his lips.

"Please, I can't—it's too much," Charles panted, even as his hips bucked into Max's hand, seeking more friction, more contact.

"You can and you will," Carlos growled, his grip tightening possessively. "You're going to take everything I give you and beg for more."

Carlos knelt between Charles's spread legs, his tongue darting out to lap at the melting ice, each lick sending jolts of electricity through Charles's body. The warmth of Carlos's mouth enveloped the head of Charles's cock, the suction intense as he worked the ice cube deeper into his plaything's slit.

Charles's mind was a whirlwind of sensation, the cold of the ice and the heat of Carlos's mouth an intoxicating combination that had him teetering on the edge of release. But every time he got close, Carlos would stop moving, denying him the orgasm that danced just out of reach.

"You don't come until I tell you to," Carlos commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. "Understood?"

"Yes, fuck, yes," Charles grunted, his body a live wire of need.

Carlos chuckled darkly, removing the blindfold to reveal the wild, desperate look in Charles's eyes. "Look at you," Carlos said, his voice filled with admiration. "So beautiful when you surrender to me." Carlos resumed his ministrations, this time without the ice, his mouth hot and wet as he took Charles's dick deep into his throat.

Max's hand moved faster, his own breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he watched the scene unfold. The raw, unfiltered desire between Charles and Carlos was palpable, and Max felt a surge of jealousy mingled with an intense arousal. He wanted to be part of it, to feel the connection that bound these two men, but he also reveled in his role as the voyeur, the silent witness to their ecstasy.

"Please," Charles begged, the word slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

"Please what?" Carlos asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"I need to... to touch you, to feel you," Charles stammered, his hands clenching at his sides.

"Not yet," Carlos said, dropping the melted ice cube onto the floor. "First, I want you to pleasure Max. Show him who's really in control here."

Charles nodded, his blindfold still in place as Carlos led him by the hand to where Max sat. Max spread his legs, cock still in hand. He could not resist the sight in front of him: Charles, surrending control to Carlos, Carlos showing him who Charles belonged to. Charles dropped to his knees,

Charles dropped to his knees grabbing Max's cock, thick and hard, and took it into his mouth without hesitation.

Max let out a low groan, his head falling back against the chair as Charles worked his dick with expert precision. Carlos watched, his own arousal growing as he observed Charles's submission.

Charles bobbed his head, his tongue swirling around the head of Max's cock, teasing and taunting. Max's breathing grew ragged, his hips bucking up to meet Charles's mouth.

Carlos moved behind Charles, his hands roaming over the other man's body, tweaking his nipples, gripping his hips, and sliding down to cup his ass. Charles moaned around Max's dick, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through Max's body.

"Enough," Carlos said abruptly, pulling Charles away from Max's throbbing erection. "It's time for the main event."

He led Charles to the bed, the blindfold still firmly in place. Carlos stripped off his own clothes, his cock springing free, hard and ready. He positioned Charles on all fours, admiring the view before him.

Carlos leaned over Charles, his breath hot against his ear. "You want me to fuck you, don't you?" he whispered, his hand snaking around to stroke Charles's cock.

"Yes," Charles panted, his body arching into Carlos's touch. "I want you inside me."

Carlos reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicking up his fingers. He teased Charles's entrance, circling the tight muscle before slowly pushing one finger inside.

Charles groaned, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing into the intrusion. Carlos added another finger, scissoring them apart, preparing Charles for what was to come.

Max had moved to the edge of the chair, his eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. His hand stroked his own cock, matching the rhythm of Carlos's fingers inside Charles.

"Look at Max, Charles," Carlos ordered, his voice firm. "See who's really in control."

Charles turned his head, his blindfolded gaze directed at Max. The sight of Charles pleasuring himself as Carlos worked him up, pushed Max closer to the edge. 

Carlos withdrew his fingers, positioning himself at Charles's entrance. With one swift thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, eliciting a cry of pleasure-pain from Charles. He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving Charles further into the mattress. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together, moans, and the creaking of the bed.

Max's hand moved faster, his own release imminent. He watched as Carlos leaned down, biting and sucking at the nape of Charles's neck, marking him as his own.

"Fuck, I'm close," Charles gasped, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Come for me, Charles," Carlos growled, his hand reaching around to stroke Charles's cock in time with his thrusts.

Charles let out a strangled cry, his body convulsing as he came, hot and hard, onto the sheets below. The sight of Charles's orgasm pushed Max over the edge, his own release spurting onto his hand and stomach.

Carlos wasn't far behind, the tight heat of Charles's body milking his own orgasm from him. He buried himself deep inside Charles, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

They collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, their breathing ragged and their bodies slick with sweat. Carlos removed Charles's blindfold, allowing him to finally see the aftermath of their encounter. 

Max own breathing slowly returning to normal, stand up from his chair, blue eyes still on Charles’ flushed face and heavy-lidded eyes.

He stood by the window for a long time, shoulders squared, back straight. The reflection in the glass was calm, almost statue-like, but the tremor under his skin betrayed the truth. He had not spoken since it ended — not to Charles, not to Carlos — and perhaps he didn’t need to. Everything that could have been said had already been spoken through glances, through the air, through the movement of bodies under dim light. Still, something inside him rebelled at the silence. He could feel it beneath his ribs, a restless current that wasn’t desire anymore, not exactly — something sharper, lonelier, half hunger and half wound.

He should have left earlier. He had told himself that three times, maybe more. But the sight of them had pinned him in place, the slow burn of it, the curve of trust and surrender he’d watched unfold. He had wanted to look away and couldn’t. He had wanted to stay and hated himself for wanting it. It was excitement, yes, but braided with jealousy — not just for the act, but for the closeness that followed it. For how natural it had seemed, as if Charles had never belonged anywhere else.

Without a word, he turned from the window. He didn’t make a sound as he crossed the room, didn’t look back. His hand brushed the doorknob, cold against his palm. Then the latch clicked softly, and he was gone. No goodbye, no glance. Just the lingering ghost of him in the reflection, dissolving into the night.

When the door closed, the silence grew thicker, intimate in a different way. The kind of quiet that follows thunder.

Charles lay still against the headboard, eyes half-open, breathing slow. The sheets had twisted around his legs, tangled in the kind of disorder that spoke of everything that had happened and nothing that needed to be explained. The blindfold lay crumpled near the foot of the bed, its silk catching what little light remained. The air smelled faintly of wine and heat and skin.

He felt emptied and overfull at once — the way one does after too much intensity, when the body quiets but the mind keeps moving. He thought about Max leaving, about the way he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even met his eyes. He thought about how much meaning could fit into silence. It wasn’t rejection that he’d seen on Max’s face; it was something rawer, closer to pain. And though part of him wanted to chase him, to explain, to soften the sharp edge of that look, another part knew that was impossible. Some things needed to ache a while before they made sense.

Carlos shifted beside him, breaking the stillness. He moved slowly, the deliberate pace of someone careful not to shatter what remained of the moment. His hand brushed Charles’s wrist, a light touch that grounded him. He didn’t speak right away. There was no rush. After all, what words could compete with what had already been said without language?

Eventually, he exhaled. “You okay?” The voice was rough, quiet. It wasn’t just a question; it was a check, an anchor, an offer.

Charles turned his head slightly, meeting his gaze. His smile was faint, but not forced. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Carlos gave a low laugh, soft enough that it barely disturbed the air. He looked tired, beautiful in that post-storm way — hair a mess, breath uneven, skin marked faintly where touch had been. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fine,” he said. Then, after a pause, “He left fast.”

Charles nodded. “He does that.”

The answer hung between them, dense with meaning neither of them wanted to unpack. They stayed silent for a long while, listening to the faint rhythm of their breathing syncing and separating, the slow return of the world outside.

Carlos’s voice came again, lower this time. “He was jealous.”

Charles’s mouth curved, the hint of a smirk flickering across it. “You noticed.”

“How could I not?” Carlos replied. He didn’t sound angry — just thoughtful, a little amused. “The way he looked at you… at us. It was written all over him.”

Charles’s eyes drifted back to the door that Max had closed. “Maybe that’s how he learns,” he said quietly.

Carlos studied him, brow furrowed. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“You were looking at him too.”

Charles turned toward him, and for a heartbeat the old mask of composure slipped. His gaze softened, something human and uncertain flickering through. “Maybe I always do.”

Neither laughed. The words landed like truth more than confession — simple, unavoidable. Carlos didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He only reached out and brushed a curl of hair from Charles’s forehead, the gesture light, tender in a way that undercut all the earlier intensity.

He could feel his own jealousy in his chest, quiet but alive — not just of Max, but of the part of Charles that seemed to belong to no one, that kept slipping through his fingers even when they were lying side by side. And yet, there was no bitterness in it, only recognition. They both wanted something they couldn’t name, and both knew the other felt the same.

After a long while, Carlos said softly, “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret any of it.”

Charles smiled again, eyes half-closed, voice barely above a whisper. “Neither do I.”

The night settled around them like a second skin. The noise of the city faded further; the only sound left was the steady rhythm of two people breathing in the aftermath of something irreversible.

Carlos shifted closer, not out of desire, but instinct. His arm draped lightly over Charles’s stomach, grounding him, keeping him from floating too far into thought. Charles’s fingers found his hand and stayed there, interlaced loosely. Neither spoke again. There was nothing to clarify.

Outside, a single car passed on the wet asphalt, its reflection flashing briefly against the glass. Inside, the air was still, fragile, sacred in the way quiet becomes after confession.

And somewhere, down another corridor, Max walked alone — the echo of their voices still tangled in his mind, jealousy and want gnawing at each other until he couldn’t tell which was which. He didn’t know if he was leaving them behind or circling closer. But he knew he wasn’t done. None of them were.

The night would end, but its gravity would remain — an invisible pull drawing them back toward one another, again and again, like planets caught in the same orbit, forever aware of the distance and unable to escape it.

Chapter Text

The heat of Miami still lingered in the air, thick and salty like the breath of the ocean pressing in from the shore. Even hours after the checkered flag, the paddock pulsed with artificial light and leftover adrenaline. Every corner buzzed with a kind of fluorescent exhaustion—media lights still flashing, sponsors still parading, mechanics laughing too loud over beer bottles while drivers tried to quiet the wild rhythm in their chests.

For Lando, that rhythm had never calmed after stepping down from the podium.

He’d felt it even through the champagne spray—an ache buried beneath the roar of the crowd, under the glittering facade of the victory celebration. He had expected to win here. Yet, the conclusion of the race was a mirror of what the last few weeks had felt like: twisted, fragile, chaotic.

And now there he was: P2, surrounded by smiles, by applause, by people who saw nothing but success. And yet all he could think about was his choice. The moment the Winners’ Choice coordinator entered the private lounge, Lando knew.

There was no hesitation. No smirk or theatrics this time. He barely looked at the man before lifting his chin and saying clearly, voice tight and honest, “Carlos.”}

Oscar, across the room, raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t surprise, not exactly. More like a quiet note of curiosity.

George stood at the minibar, stirring his glass with a single finger, eyes never lifting. Lando turned toward him. “You?”

George’s answer was immediate and soft, like the weight of it had been resting on his tongue for days. “Not tonight,” he said. “Still waiting.”

“For him?” Lando asked, quieter now. Less teasing. Almost reverent.

George didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to. His silence was an answer in itself—one that made Lando’s chest tighten.

The coordinator’s pen hovered. “Noted,” he said, scribbling something down, already turning to Oscar with expectant eyes.

Oscar sat low in the armchair, legs parted in a quiet display of confidence, one elbow hooked over the backrest like he had nowhere else to be. The soft chatter of the room moved around him, the remnants of celebration trailing off into murmurs and tired laughter. The overhead light caught the edge of his jaw, sharp and still. If you didn’t know him, you’d say he looked relaxed. But his fingers tapped twice against his knee—once, then again—and his gaze hadn’t strayed from the list.

“I’m not choosing,” he’d said earlier, his voice even. “Not tonight.”

Lando had blinked, tilted his head. “Really?”

Oscar just shrugged. “Not in the mood.”

George didn’t press. Lando didn’t either. Maybe that was the moment Oscar knew he’d lied.

The others filtered out, choices made, sealed in silence. The tradition was never loud. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it echoed—always.

Oscar waited until the hallway cleared, until the air felt still. Then he reached for the clipboard the coordinator had left on the side table. No one around to watch now. No one to ask why.

His pen moved in tight, deliberate strokes. His handwriting was neat. Always had been. Control, precision—things Oscar Piastri never let slip, not in qualifying, not in press conferences, and not here.

He didn’t write it quickly, either. He let the name settle behind his ribs first. Let it surface.

Arthur.

Arthur Leclerc.

There was something about Lando’s easy laughter with Carlos that lingered in Oscar’s mind—something about how Lando didn’t look back when he left. Something about the fact that Oscar had waited too long to figure out what he’d wanted from all this.

Arthur had never made him wait.

The Charles Leclerc younger brother. The one who never pushed, never demanded, but always showed up. He was quieter than Charles, less polished than others. But Arthur had always been… safe. Something Oscar could return to when the world spun too fast. And tonight, watching Lando walk away with someone who once mattered more, Oscar felt something cold slide beneath his ribs.

So he wrote the name.

Not out of lust. Not even out of jealousy. But for something steadier. Something he could hold without it burning him back.

The coordinator returned moments later. She saw the clipboard, scanned the bottom line, and nodded.

She didn’t say it aloud. She never did.

Oscar handed the pen back, slipped it between her fingers without a word, then stood and left—his steps silent, measured, but his pulse betraying the choice he’d just made.

And outside, as the last traces of sun dipped behind the Miami skyline, Arthur Leclerc walked alone toward the far paddock, head down, headphones in. Still unaware that he had just been chosen. Again. 

There was something ceremonial about the way he buttoned his shirt. White linen, sleeves rolled once. His hair still smelled of ocean salt from the podium champagne, but the rest of him had been rinsed clean — physically, anyway. Emotionally, he still wasn’t sure what the hell he was walking into.

“Second pick in a row,” he muttered to his reflection, lifting one brow. “At least I’m winning something.”

But the words came out fond. A little smug, maybe. He’d meant them as a joke. Still, behind the teasing, there was something else — something quieter, more uncertain.

He’d watched the way Lando smiled when he said his name. Not loud, not for show. Not the kind of showmanship that masked something else. It had been… gentle. Intentional. And Carlos, who had been picked for lust and for laughter before, wasn’t used to being picked for that.

He stepped into loafers without socks, pocketed his phone but left the rest behind. No watch, no keys, no wallet. Just himself. Just enough. He didn’t ask what the night would be.

Lando, meanwhile, stood barefoot on the balcony of his suite, staring down at the shoreline like it held the answer to something he hadn’t even dared to ask.
He’d changed three times. 

First a hoodie, then a proper shirt, then just a black tank top that clung a little too well to the warmth still lingering from his post-race shower. His hair was still damp. His heart… less so.

Carlos.

Carlos again.

He hadn’t expected to want it. To need it. But when the moment came, when the choice was handed to him like a sacred object — Lando hadn’t hesitated. Not because he craved closure. Because he craved truth.

And Carlos always told the truth, even when it hurt.

The walk to the beach was quiet. Miami hummed in the background — palm trees rustling, party music spilling from rooftops, the distant growl of engines and the flick of waves against the sand. But Lando didn’t hear any of it. Just the echo of Carlos’ voice the last time they’d really talked — and how it hadn’t ended well.

Carlos was already there when Lando arrived.
He was sitting on the sand, elbows resting on his knees, back slightly curved, posture loose in a way that only came from letting go — or pretending you had.

Lando hesitated for a beat, then dropped his shoes and padded barefoot across the soft grains.

Carlos looked over his shoulder, grinning faintly. “You’ve got a thing for me, Norris. Admit it.”

Lando huffed a laugh and dropped beside him, their shoulders almost touching. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were the only one who looked like you might actually talk back.”

Carlos tilted his head. “You mean ‘talk sense,’ or ‘talk shit’?”

“Bit of both.”

A breeze swept over them. Warm. Sticky with sea air. For a few seconds, neither spoke. The waves spoke instead — crashing, pulling, whispering stories of erosion and time.

Then Carlos broke the silence.

“You know… second time being chosen feels different.” He paused, as if debating how honest to be. “Last time, it felt like I was being used. This time—”

Lando looked at him. “It wasn’t that.”

“I know. I didn’t say you used me. I said it felt like it.” Carlos tapped his fingers against the inside of his knee. “Because I was still trying to prove something. To Charles. To myself. To everyone.”

“And now?”

Carlos turned, met Lando’s gaze, softer now.

“Now I just want to talk to someone who remembers what it was like. Before everything got messy.”

Lando exhaled. “Yeah. I get that.”

For the first time in months, they let silence settle between them and didn’t rush to fill it.

They watched the waves like they used to watch timing screens — eyes sharp, quiet, reading the invisible differences between what was and what could’ve been.

Carlos finally said, “You ever think we should’ve stayed teammates longer?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. Then: “I think if we had… we might’ve ruined each other.”

Carlos laughed. “Yeah. Probably.”

Another silence. Another ripple.

Then the conversation shifted. As all conversations between them eventually did.

“To be honest,” Carlos murmured, gaze fixed on a dark patch of ocean, “I don’t know what the hell is going on with Charles anymore.”

Lando stilled.

Carlos didn’t notice — or maybe he did, and kept going anyway.

“It’s like… he’s there, and not. He picks me, and then he picks Max. He looks at me like he used to, and then he doesn’t. And I’m trying to be okay with it. I am okay with it. But also…”

“…you’re not,” Lando finished.

Carlos didn’t deny it.

Lando picked at the edge of his tank top, mouth tightening. “He picked Max because Max makes him feel something he doesn’t understand. Not because he’s over you.”

Carlos blinked. “You think that?”

“I know that.” Lando looked at him then. “And I think you haven’t let him go because part of you is still waiting for him to say he made a mistake.”

Carlos swallowed.

“I don’t think he will,” Lando added, gently. “But I think he’ll always look back and wonder what would’ve happened if he’d stayed.”

Carlos didn’t speak for a while.

Then: “And Max?”

Lando frowned. “What about him?”

“He loves him, doesn’t he? Even if he can’t say it.”

“…Yes.” The word slipped out before Lando could catch it. “And I think it terrifies him.”

Carlos tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You sound like you know that from experience.”

Lando smirked — but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve been in Max’s orbit long enough to know when something pulls him out of control.”

Carlos studied him for a moment, then leaned back on his hands, the sand crunching softly beneath them. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

They sat like that — two figures etched in moonlight, the tide washing their past away grain by grain.

Carlos traced idle shapes in the sand between his knees, his fingers moving like they were following lines he’d memorized in another life. A curve here, a loop, a break. Something that looked like a “C” but could’ve easily been a “G.” Or a question mark.

Lando watched him, silent.

"You know," Carlos said, voice quieter now, "the worst part isn’t that Charles chose Max. It’s that I saw it coming and still—still hoped he wouldn’t."

Lando looked away.

Carlos kept going. "There was a night in Monaco. Before everything. Before the Winner’s Choice mess even began. He asked me if I’d ever been afraid to want something too much. I said no. That was a lie."

Lando tilted his head. "And now?"

Carlos’s laugh was dry. "Now I’m terrified of wanting anything. Because what if it wants someone else?"

The air between them stretched, taut with shared understanding.

"I thought he’d always come back to me," Carlos admitted. "That no matter who he chose for the night, or for the moment, I’d still be the person he really loved. I didn’t think Max was… permanent."

Lando’s jaw flexed. He knew that feeling too well. He’d lived it in silence, in the shadows.

“You ever felt like you were someone’s almost?” Carlos asked, turning to him.

Lando’s eyes burned. “Yeah. I have.”

Carlos studied him. “Oscar?”

Lando didn’t answer.

The wind swept across the beach, gentle and unrelenting.

“He always makes me feel like I’m just on the edge of being enough,” Lando whispered. “Like he knows how much I want him, but he doesn’t want to deal with what that means. So he looks away. Makes a joke. Picks someone else.”

Carlos nodded slowly. “And still you pick him.”

“And still you wait for Charles.”

Carlos exhaled a shaky laugh. “Guess we’re not that different, huh?”

Lando reached down, fisted a handful of sand, and let it fall between his fingers. “Do you think Charles ever regrets it?”

“Sometimes,” Carlos said, no hesitation. “But I think he tells himself he doesn’t. Because that’s safer.”

“And Oscar?”

Lando blinked. “What about him?”

“Do you think he regrets not choosing you more clearly?”

That made Lando pause.

“I don’t think he knows how to choose anyone,” he said eventually. “He’s always been more focused. More composed. I used to admire that. But now…” He laughed, bitterly. “Now I think it’s just another way to never get hurt.”

Carlos leaned back, letting the sand shift beneath his palms. “Max’s the same. All that control. All that strength. But deep down, I think he’s just afraid of breaking.”

Lando looked at him, something raw and sharp flickering behind his eyes. “They all are.”

The waves crashed again — a little louder this time. A little closer. Carlos tilted his head. “You know what I miss most about being teammates with Charles?”

Lando shook his head.

“The way he used to look at me before a race. Like I was his anchor. Like he couldn’t do it without me.” He sighed. “Now he looks at Max like that.”

Lando’s mouth pressed into a line. “I used to get that look from Oscar. Just once, really. But I’ve never forgotten it.”

Carlos turned to him fully now. “Do you love him?”

Lando stared out at the sea. “I don’t know if I love Oscar. I think I love the version of him I thought was mine. Before everything got... blurred.”

Carlos nodded like he understood. Because he did.

“I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving Charles,” Carlos admitted. “But I also don’t think I’ve ever known what to do with that love.”

Lando’s voice was barely audible. “Do you think we’re ever gonna be chosen for real? Without second thoughts. Without being someone’s in-between?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He reached over, pressed his palm to the back of Lando’s hand — not romantically, not possessively, just… grounded.

“I think we’ll know when it happens,” he said. “Because it won’t feel like we’re holding our breath anymore.”

Lando turned his hand over and held on.

For a moment, they just stayed like that — two men under the stars, holding each other steady through the emotional debris left by others. Ghosts of past choices and unlived futures clinging to their skin like salt.

They didn’t say anything else for a long time. They didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, healing wasn’t loud or dramatic.

Sometimes, it was two people finally being seen — even if only for a night.

***

Arthur didn’t expect to be found by the coordinator as he left Charles’s suite. He’d only come to Miami for the weekend — a quick visit, a cheer from the sidelines, maybe a few drinks with old friends. Nothing more. Nothing that would’ve prepared him for the way the coordinator had looked at him.

“You’ve been selected,” the man said, voice formal, like he was announcing a flight boarding. “By Oscar Piastri.”

Arthur had blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “What?”

The man just nodded, extended a small card with the hotel room number printed in smooth silver text.  Room 2307.

For a moment, Arthur had just stood there, staring at the card in his hand. Oscar. Of all people.

He didn’t think Oscar would choose anyone tonight. He thought he’d walk off into the humid Florida night with his jaw tight and something wounded hidden behind his eyes. Or — if he did choose someone — Arthur had assumed it would be Lando. The way Oscar had looked at him on the podium, the tightness in his movements when Lando joked with Carlos. It had felt obvious. Predictable, even. 

But then again… Oscar had never been either of those things.

So now Arthur was standing outside Room 2307, just a few floors down from Charles’s. Shirt halfway unbuttoned. Still unsure what to expect.

His fingers hovered over the door. He almost knocked, then stopped, exhaled through his nose, and knocked anyway. Just once.

Oscar opened the door a few seconds later. He was barefoot, wearing a faded McLaren hoodie — probably from the first year he’d been promoted — and soft joggers that hung low on his hips. He looked younger than he had on the podium. Less polished. More like the Oscar Arthur had once known... the one from the nights in hotel rooms when the world wasn’t watching.

“Oscar,” Arthur said, voice caught somewhere between confusion and familiarity.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just looked at him — unreadable, but not unkind — then stepped aside, leaving the door open.

Arthur walked in slowly, taking in the quiet suite. It smelled like citrus and fabric softener. The balcony door was open slightly, letting in the sound of the city below — faint sirens, ocean breeze, and distant laughter.

He turned back toward Oscar, who was closing the door behind them.

“I thought you’d pick Lando.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Just said, “I didn’t want noise tonight.”

Arthur blinked. “And I’m quiet?”

“You’re familiar.”

Arthur wasn’t sure how to take that. But it wasn’t cruel. If anything, it was honest. Grounding. Like Oscar had reached for the only hand he trusted not to pull away.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t been here before. Not this exact hotel, not this exact room, but this dynamic — soft light, post-race tension, words left unsaid until they didn’t need saying. Their history wasn’t long, but it was solid. Built in the in-between moments. The ones that didn’t make it into press conferences or social media posts. Just… glimpses. Shared glances. A few nights, unspoken agreements. Things that had never asked for permanence, but had left an imprint anyway.

Arthur watched Oscar sit on the edge of the bed — not lounging, not commanding. Just… sitting. Like he was still deciding what kind of night this would be.

“So,” Arthur said gently, “what is this?”

Oscar looked up at him. His eyes were sharper than his voice. “It’s not about winning.”

Arthur sat down next to him, a few inches of space between them. “What is it about, then?”

There was a long pause before Oscar answered. “Control. Letting go of it. Grabbing onto it. I don’t know.” His voice lowered. “You’ve never asked anything of me.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Should I start?”

Oscar gave a faint, almost-there smile. “Not tonight.”

It was quiet again. Not tense. Just full of breath, and the weight of two people who knew exactly how far they could go — and weren’t sure if they should go there again.

Arthur leaned back on his hands, exhaling. “You seemed… off. Up there.”

Oscar’s voice was flat, but not hollow. “I didn’t like the way he looked at Carlos.”

“Who?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Arthur nodded slowly. “Lando.”

There it was again — not jealousy, exactly, but something older. Like being left behind in a conversation he used to be part of. Arthur could relate.

“You know,” Arthur said after a beat, “this is not how I imagined my weekend going.”

Oscar glanced sideways at him. “Regret it?”

Arthur smiled, dry but not cold. “Not yet.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the space between them. “I didn’t plan it either. I didn’t even say anything until they’d all left. Just told the coordinator your name.”

Arthur raised a brow. “Last-minute pick, then?”

“No,” Oscar said, and there was a note of finality in his voice. “It was always going to be you. I just didn’t admit it until the noise was gone.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Arthur looked at him differently then — not just as a choice, but as something… chosen. And it made something settle in his chest. A weight that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just real.

He stood slowly, walked toward the open balcony door, and let the wind hit his face for a moment. The lights of Miami sparkled below, a blurred mess of chaos and color. Arthur didn’t turn around when he spoke.

“We’re not the ones people expect,” he said quietly.

Behind him, Oscar’s voice came steady. “That’s why it works.”

Arthur turned, leaned against the glass. “Is this a one-time thing again?”

Oscar met his eyes from across the room. “Maybe.”

Arthur’s lips curled slightly. “You’re shit at romance, you know.”

Oscar didn’t blink. “I’m not offering romance.”

“What are you offering?”

Oscar stood. Walked toward him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the faint citrus of his skin. He looked calm. Certain. Like whatever storm had been in him was now... focused.

“Familiar ground,” he said. “Something steady.”

Arthur held his gaze. “And you think I’m steady?”

Oscar’s voice softened. “You were. When I needed it most.”

Arthur didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just nodded once — slow, deliberate — and stepped aside to let him pass.

But Oscar didn’t move. He just stood there, looking at him like he was waiting for something.

Arthur finally broke the silence. “Do you want me to stay?”

Oscar’s voice was low. “Yeah.”

And with that, it was decided.

There was no rush. No frantic pull. No desperate grasp for connection. Just a quiet agreement — an echo of something they’d done before, but now deeper, more worn in. More chosen.

Arthur followed him back to the bed, and this time, when they sat down, their shoulders touched.

Tomorrow could be whatever it wanted to be. But tonight? Tonight, it was enough to not be alone.

They moved towards each other, the space between them charged with the electricity of unspoken desires and shared memories. Oscar's hands were the first to breach the gap, finding purchase on Arthur's hips, pulling him close with a desperation that bordered on violence. But Arthur was unperturbed, his hands coming up to frame Oscar's face, his thumbs stroking away the furrows of worry that marred his brow.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both a homecoming and a new beginning. It was a slow, deep exploration, a reacquainting of selves that had been denied for too long. Oscar's tongue traced the seam of Arthur's lips, seeking entry, and Arthur yielded with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his being.

As they kissed, their bodies aligned, the heat of their arousals evident even through the layers of their clothing. Oscar's hands roamed, rediscovering the contours of Arthur's back, the curve of his ass. Arthur's touch was no less exploring, his fingers lifting Oscar's hoodie, peeling it away to reveal the taut muscles beneath.

Their breaths grew shorter, punctuated by the occasional gasp or moan as they shed their clothes with an urgency that belied the tenderness of their reunion. Naked, they stood before each other, the dim light casting shadows that accentuated the dips and planes of their bodies.

Oscar's gaze drifted downward, taking in the sight of Arthur's cock, hard and flushed with desire. The need to taste, to claim, was overwhelming. He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping Arthur's thighs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of Arthur's groin.

Arthur's fingers threaded through Oscar's hair, guiding but not forcing. "Fuck, Oscar," he breathed as Oscar's mouth closed around him, the suction intense, the flick of a skilled tongue sending jolts of pleasure through his body.

Oscar reveled in the taste of Arthur, the salty pre-cum that was a promise of things to come. He worked Arthur's length with a rhythm born of deep-seated knowledge, his own cock aching with the need for release.

Arthur's hips began to move in counterpoint to Oscar's ministrations, his control slipping as the sensation built. "God, I'm close," he warned, his voice ragged, but Oscar did not relent. He wanted to push Arthur over the edge, to wring every drop of pleasure from his body.

They moved to the bed, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. Oscar lay back, his cock jutting upward, begging for attention. Arthur straddled him, his eyes dark with desire as he reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand.

Their eyes locked as Arthur prepared Oscar, the slow glide of fingers inside him both a tease and a preparation. Oscar's breath hitched as Arthur found that spot within him that made his vision white out with pleasure.

"Please, Arthur," Oscar's voice was a hoarse plea, his body tense with anticipation.

Arthur positioned himself at Oscar's entrance, the head of his cock nudging against the tight ring of muscle. With a single, fluid motion, he pushed inside, both of them gasping at the exquisite sensation of becoming one.

They began to move, the rhythm slow and deep, each thrust a silent conversation of bodies and souls. Oscar's hands roamed Arthur's chest, his fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew, the beat of Arthur's heart a drumbeat that echoed his own.

The pace increased, the need for release growing with each passing moment. Oscar's legs wrapped around Arthur's waist, pulling him deeper, the angle of their joining sending sparks of pleasure through them both.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Arthur murmured, his lips brushing against Oscar's in a series of fleeting kisses. "I've missed this, missed us."

Oscar's response was a series of inarticulate sounds, his body coiling tighter, his orgasm just out of reach. Arthur's hand wrapped around Oscar's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, the added stimulation sending Oscar careening over the edge.

Oscar came with a shout, his body convulsing as he spilled himself between them. The sight of Oscar in the throes of ecstasy was enough to push Arthur over the brink once more. He buried himself deep inside Oscar, his own release a white-hot counterpoint to the pulsing of Oscar's cock.

They lay together in the aftermath, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Arthur rolled to his side, taking Oscar with him, their connection unbroken.

"I'm sorry," Oscar whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I shouldn't have pushed you away."

Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to Oscar's forehead. "It's in the past. We're here now, together."

Oscar lay still, eyes open, tracing patterns on the ceiling with his thoughts.

It hadn’t been just sex. That much he knew.

Arthur shifted slightly, not to pull away but to get closer, pressing his nose into the crook of Oscar’s neck. “You okay?” he murmured.

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know what I am,” he finally said. “Tired. Wired. Angry. Grateful you were here.”

Arthur hummed softly, like he understood every piece of that contradiction. “You looked like you were carrying the whole world when you walked in.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh. “Feels like it sometimes.” They lay in silence for a moment.

They held each other’s gaze, the silence stretching like a thin wire between them.

Then Oscar said, almost a whisper, “I think I’m in over my head. With all of it. Racing. Lando. The things I can’t admit out loud. I thought winning would feel clean. Like I’d know what to do after.”

Arthur smiled, small and warm. “Winning just makes the stakes higher. But you don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. “I’m scared if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart.”

“Then don’t stop,” Arthur said. “Just don’t do it alone.”

And somehow, that was enough for now.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t say anything else.

Oscar just closed his eyes, wrapped an arm around Arthur, and let himself rest — not fixed, not certain, but less alone.