Chapter Text
Oscar’s hands lingered on Logan’s neck often.
He’d grab a shoulder, then those long fingers would crawl up higher, and soon Logan would be held by the back of his neck. Unyielding, the grip not tight enough to hurt but strong enough to feel.
It starts young. Willowly limbs all tangled up and scrawny necks to wrap their hands around.
By the time they are adults, racing at the fastest speeds they can reach, it is normal. Expected. Something that comes with Oscar being near Logan.
In the days before Logan’s career ended, Oscar had laughed and grabbed his shoulder. Eyes on them from all angles, and the other man was unflinching in touching his cursed skin. His hand had felt warmer than the late August sun on his back.
Then, the hand moved.
Crept its way to rest at the nape of his neck.
Logan would never forget how it felt. The brush of their skin against each other, under the watchful gaze of a thousand observers and eighteen of their fellow drivers.
Oscar had spread out his fingers, and Logan had been slacking in training his neck muscles. It led to those long fingers being able to wrap around his neck until the pads of Oscar’s fingers barely ghosted the sensitive skin of his throat.
He’d stopped talking at the first touch of Oscar’s hand on his throat.
The other had not stopped holding him.
When they went to separate, Oscar to fight for a podium, Logan to fight for a single point, the hand lingered.
Just for a moment, its grip shifted.
Just for a moment, a thumb pressed into the side of his neck, a palm covering his jugular.
His breath halted. The pressure leaves.
Logan’s not sure he’d been able to breathe since. Oscar’s hand is still on his throat. That kind of touch leaves a mark.
When Logan gets dropped, he doesn’t tell anyone beforehand. Not his mom, not his dad, not his brother. No one.
The morning the announcement comes, he is quietly crying in his apartment outside London, trying to pack his things. His phone is turned off and tucked away in his nightstand. There is too much pressure to say something, to be the bigger person, to fight back in the press.
He’s tired. His dreams are shattered around him, and it’s going to take all his willpower to avoid stepping on the shards left in the wake of his downfall. He cannot respond to a text about how he’ll get back to racing in no time, how fucked up this all was.
Alone and pitiful.
Then, there’s someone knocking at the door.
Logan feels dread, uneasy. He opens the door anyway.
Oscar stands on the other side. He doesn’t wait for Logan to invite him in, doesn’t say a word, simply pushes through the doorway and enters the apartment.
Logan lets him through. There’s tears drying on his cheeks and he’s not got the strength to protest any of it.
It’s like Oscar knew what was happening. The Australian man starts to look around the apartment, surveys the boxes, barely sparing a glance for Logan. He’s far calmer than Logan expected, but then again, he’s not sure what he expected.
Maybe for his closest friend in this sport to be mad he’d not breathed a word of his departure beforehand? To be upset or sad?
Whatever he’d thought, expected, wanted, it’s not what happens.
What happens is that Oscar pulls his phone out and starts texting someone, not looking up as he speaks, “I’ll get it sorted. Pack a bag, I’m taking you home.”
“Home?” Logan asks because he’s not really sure what Oscar is considering his home.
Florida? With his parents or with Dalton? Maybe Kyle’s place? Surely he doesn’t mean that house in Switzerland from his childhood. His thoughts are all jumbled up and he’s so fucking tired.
Oscar glances up at him, face unreadable, stoic, “My place.”
Which is even more confusing. Does Oscar mean his place near the McLaren factory in England, or Australia? Does Oscar even have a place in Australia? He’s not sure.
Logan stands, stupefied. His living room is barren, sparsely decorated in the first place, and half packed up now. Its bare white walls feel oppressive. There’s no energy left in him to do anything but stand here and let his eyes water.
“Lo,” Oscar sighs, and Logan turns to look at him and sees sympathy, sees pity, “Pack a bag, you’re staying at my new apartment in Monaco. I’ll get someone to get the rest of your stuff, okay? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
That’s probably true. He’s also surprised about the Monaco apartment. But, hadn’t he hid that he was getting dropped from Oscar? Hadn’t he kept his own secrets? It’s not as big of a deal as what Logan hid.
He nods, and slowly goes to the bedroom. Most of his clothes are packed, and he’s not really thinking too hard about what he needs. Just grabs the backpack he took to the track last weekend, the last race weekend he’d have as a F1 driver. It’s got the necessities, his passport, a phone charger, at least three outfits, and his wallet.
Logan pauses, remembering to grab his toiletries from the bathroom, throwing them on top of the clothes in the bag. Far too much effort goes into finding a hoodie that’s not branded, he settles on an old black one, stolen from his brother. It slips on over the white shirt he’s wearing, baggy on him.
His socked feet don’t make any noise as he pads back into the living room. Oscar’s on a phone call, voice quiet, accent thick. He’s probably talking to Mark, Logan thinks, his accent always seems to get a little thicker when he speaks to a fellow Australian.
Oscar looks up, sees Logan and his backpack, most likely can spot how his eyes are still watering and how pathetic he is. The last part of the phone call is all he can make out, “I know what I’m doing, promise.”
And that’s a nice sentiment. That at least someone here knows what they are doing.
When Oscar hangs up and speaks, his voice is almost cooing, “Good job, Loges, we’ve got a flight to catch.”
Logan’s lip wobbles, his eyes sting. He’s about to cry, he realizes, horrified.
Oscar crosses the room in seconds. Hands up and on Logan just as fast. Tears spill over, and Logan’s fully crying as Oscar holds him. He tucks his face into Oscar’s neck, lets Oscar tug him close. One hand stays on the back of his neck, the fingers barely tangling in the too-long hair that grows there. The other is on his lower back, pressing into his spine.
He’s encompassed by Oscar, by the warmth and smell of his closest friend. Comforting, soothing him by the pure virtue of it being Oscar.
How kind of Oscar, how considerate. Even when Logan ignores him, pushes him away, and hides important information from him, Oscar still shows up and takes care of him. It’s too nice, makes him squirm with the sensation of being vulnerable.
They stand there, Logan unraveling and Oscar holding him, for minutes or hours.
It’s long enough Oscar has to hustle them out of the apartment. Rushing Logan through putting on his shoes, taking the keys from him to lock the door and hiding the spare under the welcome mat for whoever is coming to move Logan’s shit later.
They’ve got to practically sprint to the rental car Oscar has, driving fast to make it to the airport in time for their flight. Things blur together at this point, Logan pulling the hood up and hiding as Oscar handles practically everything.
Briefly, he thinks that he feels like he’s running away. That swooping sensation in his gut reminding him that he’s got obligations, people to talk to that aren’t Oscar, things to worry about.
Then Oscar hands him a chocolate bar and water bottle as they sit at the gate. Slings an arm around his shoulders and starts tracing a pattern on his back. All while texting someone to handle Logan’s mess he’s left behind.
All the upset, the disappointment and anger, it’s overflowed out one too many times and Logan is simply numb. There’s nothing left inside. Empty in thoughts and feelings.
He’s got Oscar, and that’s enough. Maybe even more than he deserves.
It’s only when they land that Logan remembers his phone is still sitting in his nightstand. Untouched, turned off.
Oscar promises to get it back, guides him to bed and tucks him in like a little kid.
Logan trusts him, because he’ll always trust Oscar. Always has and always will.
It’s weird, being in someone else’s apartment without a plan to leave it. Oscar’s still got some unopened boxes, barely any decorations put up. His room is covered in dirty clothes and unfolded laundry.
This was exactly how Oscar had lived in their adolescence. Hotel rooms shared as teammates were always disaster zones. Logan had made fun of Oscar for it more times than he can count. Now, he sits in the apartment, surrounded by all things Oscar, alone.
The other was in Italy. At a race.
One that Logan should be at.
His phone is still in England, miles away and untouched.
There’s a television in the living room, a computer in the sim room. Things to connect him to the outside world. He could reach out to his family, his manager, his now former teammate.
But Logan is sad and mopey. Lies in Oscar’s bed they’ve been sharing, and is unmoving. Wears Oscar’s clothes because he runs out of clean clothes in two days. Eats Oscar’s food, barely picks up the kitchen after himself.
A sense of wrongness builds as he falls deeper into depression.
Deep in his gut, the realization that he needs to contact someone who’s not Oscar, needs to get up and make a plan for his future.
Overwhelming, unwanted, Logan has a soft bed that smells like chocolate and he chooses it every time. The sunlight filters in through the blinds, warms him up in a way it hadn’t in months.
When Oscar comes back, Logan simply lifts the blanket to let the other man climb in beside him. Oscar strokes his hair and gives reassurances that Logan’s going to feel better soon, that he’ll be okay because Oscar’s here.
In the almost two weeks Oscar is back, they don’t really speak much. Well, at least Logan doesn’t really talk much.
Oscar says a lot, and Logan nods and shakes his head in response, but it’s not really a proper conversation. Just a back and forth that ultimately has Logan agreeing to stay at Oscar’s apartment for as long as he wants.
Given that Logan just doesn’t want to leave, to move his aching body and find somewhere else to be, it’s a good arrangement. Keeps him in a place that is much nicer than his old apartment or his parent’s house.
His stuff hasn’t arrived yet. Oscar apologizes for the phone, and buys him a new one. Set it up for him and everything. It’s incredibly kind of him, given that Logan was the one to forget his phone.
He makes dinner for them both, the night before Oscar has to leave for another race. It’s simple, pasta and chicken, trainer-approved.
Oscar praises him for it like it’s a masterpiece of the culinary arts.
“So good, Loges,” the Australian says between bites, “Should hire you as my personal chef.”
Internally, Logan preens at the praise. Makes him feel better about the fact he’s not used the phone to contact anyone yet. His notifications muted still.
They sit at the dining room table in the kitchen. There’s only space for two people, only two chairs at the table. It’s oddly comforting to know that Oscar had the space for him here all along. Their feet bump against each other under the table.
Logan tries to make conversation, and attempts a joke, “I’ll accept you making a grocery order instead. You’re out of food now.”
Oscar nods as he chews, “Let me know what you want on the list. I’ll have it delivered tomorrow.”
Surprise courses through him. He’d been joking. It was time for him to go out and smell the roses, and doing a grocery run would be the best way for Logan to be in public without much fanfare. Tomorrow was supposed to be him taking a step towards his future.
“You don’t actually have to,” Logan protests, shoves his food around his plate nervously.
He’s not eaten much. He hasn’t eaten much in general this year. Already he sees his muscles weakening, his body thinning from lack of food and training.
Oscar shakes his head and swallows, “No, seriously, not a big deal. You’ll be sticking around long enough. I oughta have food here for you.”
Logan makes a noise that he’s not sure if it means disagreement or approval. He chooses to take a bite instead of figuring it out.
“Besides, if you keep cooking for me, it’s a fair exchange,” Oscar says with a smile, his brown eyes lingering on Logan’s face.
It causes him to blush. The other’s gaze was always intense, but Logan was particularly vulnerable to it at this moment. They’d been sharing a bed, clothes, food, a home, and still he’d been shocked that Oscar cared about him.
They were friends. Great friends. Best friends even.
Something sparks in the air, Logan feels the words he means to say get caught behind his teeth. Anything he could’ve said about not needing to provide so much for him, about how Oscar holds him at night, about how he misses his old life, all die on his tongue.
He smiles at Oscar’s jokes, and nods at his questions. Stays quiet and sits in the sound of that accent curling in his ear, the smell of the cologne the other uses mixing in with the smell of dinner in his nose.
When he falls asleep that night, one of Oscar’s arms slung around his waist, Logan thinks that this isn’t so bad. That he’d be able to stay here forever, or as long as Oscar wants to keep him around.
He just has to figure out everything else in his life.
Logan calls his mother first.
She screams down the phone that he was wasting his talents, that he needed to come home to Florida, that he has debt owed to all those that supported him throughout the years.
It is genuinely shocking how much it hurts. Her own hurt was flaring up, stabbing him where she should’ve been comforting him. The worst part is that there was plenty of truth in it.
Logan chooses to text his father and brother. No chance of being yelled at this way.
Their responses are slightly better. Dalton is kinder at least, but still asks when he’s coming home. Once more, Logan feels all sorts of guilty for not seeing Florida as home, for not really wanting to go back there. His father asks if he’s spoken to his manager, dealt with the contracts that still have power over him until the new year. Somehow, it’s the only thing his family says that doesn’t hurt.
Contracts, money, talking business with men in suits holding the power to crush his career in their pinky fingers? That was normal, cold and clean cut.
Talking about going back to Florida, figuring out his future? That was a death trap in disguise as concern.
While he calls his manager, who picks up immediately and doesn’t hesitate to inform him of the absolute chaos of Logan’s sponsorships and contracts, Logan paces. As the call drags on, he starts to pick up the clothes scattered on the bedroom floor.
It makes him feel good. To be able to clean up after himself and Oscar.
His manager ends the call with a gruff, “Well, maybe you can be a better driver in a different car. Shame your talent in the feeder series didn’t follow you up to F1.”
All of Logan’s greatest doubts, his shame, just brushed off as his talent not following him. Maybe he was cursed. Maybe he truly was shit. At the very least, he felt like shit after the conversation.
Oscar comes home to a clean and tidy apartment. The grocery delivery had come with additional foods that Oscar had remembered Logan liked from their youth. Logan barely ate any of it. A new trophy, a proper first place one, gleams in Oscar’s hand as he had trodden in. Logan forces himself to say congrats, and the trophy is hidden away within minutes.
Logan’s stuff had arrived. He gets most of it unpacked, the rest is shoved to the closet or in the corners of Oscar’s sim room. There’s a box, with a weight to it that speaks of what’s inside, that Logan does not touch. Oscar is the one to move it out of sight.
Too soon. Too sore and tender to touch.
A long break between races means Oscar’s actually around in the apartment. Logan tries to not make his pacing and anxiety obvious, but every time he picks up the phone and talks to his manager it feels impossible not to.
Plus, his manager keeps pushing him to set up test drives. To launch himself into another seat and to go out and crash another car.
Then it’s his family. His father projects his disappointment from across an ocean. His mother wails on the phone, spits fire and anger into his very being. His brother tries to be supportive, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Not to mention, there’s friends that have drifted away reaching out. People he hadn’t spoken to in years. It’s all too much energy to respond to them. To anyone. Even to his now former teammate that seems all too eager to talk with Logan.
Logan trots back into the living room where he and Oscar had been binge watching some thriller tv show after another terribly draining call from his manager. Due to his contract being cut, Logan was on the hook for a sponsorship being paid back. He’d been pacing the hallway, trying to not vomit at the number his manager recited back to him. Which had, of course, been followed by a comment on how tragic it’d been that he’d failed so badly in F1.
So, Logan’s probably visibly upset. Has unintentionally ruined Oscar’s mood with his watery eyes.
It makes him feel like a little kid begging for attention. The odd man out at a party. An energy suck, a true vibe killer.
He sits, and attempts to pretend like he’s not spiraling, imagining himself begging for money from his father, just one more time, Dad, I promise, or having to resort to some insane fundraiser posted to his public social media accounts. Eyes on the screen, he sees and hears nothing from the show, vision blurred by the unshed tears, hearing dampened by his racing mind.
Oscar shifts, and Logan attempts to snap back to reality, just in case the other is visibly annoyed with his distress. All he sees is concern on Oscar’s face, brows knitted up in confusion.
The Australian pauses the show, and fully turns to look at Logan.
Logan has to hold back a flinch at the intensity of his gaze.
“Did something happen? What’s wrong, Lo?” Oscar asks, voice dripping in concern.
It takes him two tries to respond without letting the sob in his throat out, “Ah, nothing, it’s nothing. Just contract shit.”
Oscar does a weird half crawl, half shuffle to get closer to Logan on the couch. Warmth radiates from him, his bare leg exposed by his shorts, brushing against Logan’s own legs. The contact is both glorious and nerve-wracking.
Tilting his head, Oscar speaks like Logan is some frightened animal, slow and gentle, “Is it paperwork? Or is it, um, money?”
Logan is grateful his friend said it aloud. He’s also somewhat horrified it was so obvious.
“Money…” he replies, weakly.
A brief pause, awkward in its quietness, passes between them. Logan’s about to sob, and can feel it building up in his chest and throat. Oscar looks torn between sympathy and panic.
When he sees Oscar open his mouth, he has to intervene. He cannot know what the other might offer, cannot let the words leave his tongue. It might ruin everything, and Logan would not be able to bear the weight of the other’s pity.
“I-I can handle it, just gotta tighten the budget,” he says with a forced laugh, attempting to lighten the mood.
Oscar nods, like he understood. Logan briefly hates him for it, because he might not be at the level of some of the other drivers, but he’s definitely leagues ahead of him. This bill makes Logan nauseous, will shackle him into constrictive budgeting for months, and it’d probably amount to half of what Oscar had to pay to get his ridiculous apartment in Monaco.
Then, Oscar opens his arms, reaching towards Logan and pulling him to his solid chest. Logan feels any and all anger and frustration and jealousy melt away at the contact.
Even when Logan was struggling, Oscar would be patient and understanding.
He’s unable to fight the tears off any longer. The other man just leans back, letting Logan cry into his chest and neck. His hand rubs at Logan’s back, comforting him in a way that didn’t require words.
Sometimes, it feels wrong for Oscar to be this accepting. Logan is not asked any follow-up questions about the money situation, about his family’s issues, about his plans for next year. It’s all a part of their unspoken agreement, this silence on the subjects Logan’s not ready to speak on. Everyone else, anyone else, would push for some sort of conversation, some sort of consensus on what the fuck Logan was going through, what the fuck Logan was going to do.
Not Oscar.
Here, in his arms, held together by his strong and warm body, Logan was able to be free. No expectations, no explanations.
It almost makes up for the way his heart clenches at the number his manager sends him. His bank accounts are drained, and there’s a standing balance he’s forced to pay off in installations. Some final payout from Williams hasn’t hit yet, and Logan’s desperately hoping it will be enough.
And not once does Oscar press him on it. The stress is probably obvious, the dark circles under his eyes, the thinning frame of his body, all tell of the struggles. But Oscar is kind to him, doesn’t intrude on his suffering.
He just keeps letting Logan live in his home, sleep in his bed, eat his food, all without question.
Logan tries to not feel infatuated with Oscar’s very existence.
It’s hard. He’s entered into a self-imposed exile and the Australian is quite literally his only physical contact with the outside world.
At first, he’d been numb. Detached from his emotions, from the mere idea that he was alive.
Then, he’d been dunked head first into the mess of his life. Stress, anxiety, depression, it plagued his every step, his every moment. Even the most basic of tasks could feel like climbing a mountain.
Oscar just existed. Living, breathing, moving beside Logan. When he was home, it was like Logan gained a purpose that wasn’t just attempting to decompose while still alive. He didn’t have to think about his future, about his financial situation, about his family or friends who he’d ignored.
Maybe he’d entered into some kind of devotional state about Oscar. Maybe his old crush from his adolescence had been revived as his racing career died. Maybe Logan needed to go outside or something.
But then Oscar smiles at him, all kind brown eyes, and Logan’s chest hurts in a way that isn’t painful for once.
So, Logan tries to make him happy. Purely selfish motives at play.
When he cooks for Oscar, and gets praised for it by the man, he’s able to breathe deeper than he has in weeks. When he sorts out all of the dirty clothes and returns them to the right drawers clean and folded, Oscar beams at him in appreciation. It makes it easier to respond to his brother, to type out and send a response to Alex after all his silence.
His favorite way to make Oscar happy is to clean the apartment while he’s gone training.
Clad in Oscar’s clothes, too big, hanging off his shoulders that have narrowed and softened with his neglect and poor appetite, Logan dusts the apartment as he hums some old country song under his breath. He twirls around the living room, straightening trophies that make his envy flare until he’s more happy to have polished them until they shined than he is upset to have never won them. With cautious hands, he wipes down the simulator, careful to not disturb anything, using his knowledge of what was sensitive on the machine for something other than ruminating on his failures to translate his sim work to on the track performance.
Oscar comes home as Logan’s cleaning the kitchen.
Of course, Logan’s not aware of this, so he’s bopping around and singing quietly as he sweeps.
He’s halfway through a Reba McEntire song, bending down when Oscar decides to announce his presence.
A whistle, low and long, startles Logan, and he’s forced to sweep up the mess he made by dropping the dust pan as Oscar laughs. The sound of his laughter makes any annoyance he feels be smothered with fondness.
“Mate, look at you,” Oscar says, voice terribly pleasing to Logan’s ears, “What a pretty little maid I’ve got.”
His comment makes Logan snort, he stands and turns to see the other man leaning against the counter.
“You should ask for a refund, I’m not very pretty,” Logan jokes back, easygoing, as he walks to the cabinet that has the trash can hidden away in it.
Oscar’s face drops into a serious expression, and he almost misses the way his hands tighten at his sides as he dumps the contents of the dustpan in the trash. He’s not sure why Oscar isn’t joking back, it seemed like fair game between friends as close as them.
“I think you’re pretty,” Oscar says instead of the expected witty comment or sarcastic joke.
Logan stands and stares at him. The other is in this weird laid back stance that would seem casual if he couldn’t see the tension in his jaw and shoulders. Like this is an important conversation and not some banter between friends.
And it makes him nervous. Logan is not proud of his dependency on Oscar being happy, but he’s aware of it.
So he attempts to placate him, “Been prettier. Sorta been neglecting my skincare routine without needing to be on camera so often.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” the other says, softer now. Vulnerable.
“That I’m not on camera all the time now?” Logan asks, not really sure if he feels nauseous at the idea that Oscar is glad he lost his seat or that he’s glad Logan’s not being paraded around like a miserable shelter dog on an ad for some random animal charity.
Oscar hums, tilts his head to the side. His eyes look over Logan, intense, studying him.
Logan is standing, barefoot, in Oscar’s clothes that hang off him where he’s lost weight, in Oscar’s kitchen where he’s cleaning it without being asked, in Oscar’s life where he’s desperate to stay.
The brown eyes that trail over his face made him shiver. It’s like he’s some weird bug the other is studying on the sidewalk, observing his fragile wings, deciding if he’s going to step on him.
A small, barely noticeable smile grows on Oscar’s face, “Yeah, it’s good that you aren’t suffering like that anymore.”
Then he’s moving, squeezing Logan’s nape as he walks by, “The apartment looks great, by the way.”
Logan is left in the kitchen. Bare feet on cold tile. Dustpan and broom in hand.
He feels a bit sick. Not like he’s got a fever, or some painful disease. No, it feels like he’s eaten too much candy, too many sweet things, and was left with a stomach ache in return.
Oscar leaves for a triple header. Hugs Logan goodbye and promises to call him as soon as he lands in America.
Three more races that Logan was supposed to be at.
It deals more damage than he’d thought it would. Not being there, not getting to race at home again like he was promised.
Laying in Oscar’s bed, he lets himself cry. Ugly, body wracking sobs. There’s tears and snot and emotions running out of himself into the bedding. The smell of Oscar lingers, and Logan presses his face into the pillow that smells like the other man. Small comfort, knowing that he’s now stuck here alone and without Oscar to actually help him.
Though, he doubts he’d let himself cry this hard in front of him. Even when he did cry in front of him, he’d kept the gross shit away. Now he lets himself mourn in the most disgusting manner he can.
He cries until all he’s hiccuping and panting, flat on his back and staring up at a white ceiling.
The sun has set. Logan wasted an entire day sobbing. There’s probably a missed phone call from his manager, from his father, from a debt collector.
Slowly, he reaches for the phone he’d never unplugged today.
Bright light burns his already irritated eyes. He scrambles to lower the brightness, and his vision blurs as he tries to read the screen. Plenty of notifications from his family, from his manager, one or two from Oscar telling him that he will try and call when he’s at the hotel about twenty minutes ago. Then, there’s one that hurts him more than he thought it could.
Alex has texted him.
It’s a picture of Alex, with a fan, in some random place in Texas. The girl is wearing a LS2 shirt and hat, beaming at the camera. Alex is grinning as he excitedly points to her shirt, to his logo.
All that his former teammate includes in the text that accompanies it is a simple, ‘Miss you Logie!’.
His chest caves in. Frayed nerves unravel even more. Stinging eyes shut tightly.
Then he wails.
Truly, terribly, terrifically, he wails.
Because Oscar had been right to say he had been suffering at Williams. He had been in pain from crashes, been dismissed and rejected, been humiliated to even get into the car near the end of it. Logan would’ve ended up dying there, on some rainy track, in a ball of flames.
But it was his dream.
His choice.
His.
And now he’s here. With nothing. Gripping at the bedding in desperation to try and hold himself together.
It’s stupid, he tries to tell himself. Just a photo, one with nice intentions, even. Alex was being nice. He was trying to show he cared. That the fans cared.
Logan knows, he knows that people care about him.
None of them are here though.
He’s been stuck in a country he’s not familiar with. In an apartment that he likes but doesn’t belong to. With someone that he cannot ask for what he wants because it’s too much.
Hurting, wounded, Logan fumbles to get out of bed. Wants to move, to do something other than lay here and sob. Tangled up in the sheets and blankets, he trips, hits his knees against hardwood floors. The pain that blooms makes him pause, his racing thoughts stuck on how good it felt to be in pain physically again.
Emotional pain felt so consuming, but so distant.
Redden skin from the bruises forming were closer.
Logan crawls to the bathroom, dragging a blanket that’s wrapped around his legs and waist as he does so. In his mind, he sees red, red skin, red flags, red lights, red to warn of danger, red to run away from, red to put on his skin.
Desperate hands fumble to pull himself up on the counter. Shakily he stands, bracing himself on the sink as he avoids the mirror. It’s almost methodical how he does it.
Open the medicine cabinet. Find the package of new ones that Oscar had gotten before leaving. Peeling back the cover and plucking out a single, silver piece of metal. Pulling off his borrowed clothes, skin chilled by the cool air. Trembling fingers holding onto it as he lowers himself to the ground.
The razorblade gleams in the bathroom light.
Killing himself would make such a mess for everyone. He’s already made such a mess. This is for him, for his outside pain to match the pain he feels on the inside.
Logan does not hesitate.
Warm, sticky, blood coats his thighs and hands. His face is tight with dried tears and snot, but he does not cry anymore. Barely breathing, barely moving, he watches the cuts bleed sluggishly.
He sits there, letting it stain his skin red.
Always so careful, he makes sure it drips onto a towel he pulls from the counter. It’d be such an inconvenience to mess up the blanket or clothes that lay in a heap on the floor beside him.
When it stops, blood clotting up and drying, he moves. The cuts split open again. In his darkest thoughts, he thinks they look beautiful like this. Reopened and raw.
His phone rings.
Oscar said he’d call.
Logan moves slowly, every step makes his legs quiver, making the sting greater. There’s too much blood on his skin to move faster without risking staining the floors or walls.
The ringing stops.
Oscar will understand, Logan will tell him he had a bad night.
He sighs, long and weary.
Then, his phone rings again.
Logan looks at the mound of blankets and can see the faint light of his phonescreen. Can tell by the orange tint that Oscar’s contact photo is blown up as he calls.
Unable to push himself to move forward, he watches it ring.
It stops, the screen turning dark.
He steps, cautious, aware of how the blood is drying once more.
Oscar calls, a third time.
Logan makes himself move quicker.
His thighs clench, his eyes water, his cuts sting, and his thoughts are split between stopping from the pain and answering Oscar.
When he fumbles for the phone, it feels like he’s chosen Oscar over everything else.
Shakily, he swipes to accept the call.
“Mate! I thought you might have called it an early night!” the Australian says, cheerful, carefree.
With blood dripping down his thighs, Logan smiles at the sound of Oscar’s happiness. Bleeding, in pain, on unsteady feet, none of it matters.
His outside matches his inside. Oscar is happy. Logan is going to be okay.
“No, just cleaning in the bathroom,” he responds, throat scratchy from his earlier crying, “Snooping through your stuff.”
Oscar laughs, “Have you seen my present yet? I left it in the medicine cabinet.”
Logan chokes on air. The razor blade left on the bathroom floor. A present in the medicine cabinet.
“W-What present?” he asks, strangled.
“You’re so unobservant, Lo,” Oscar chides in good humor, “Go look again.”
He forces himself to move quickly. Weak legs with stinging cuts barely make it to the bathrooms. Struggling to balance the phone against his ear, he opens the cabinet and frantically looks anywhere but where the case of razorblades should be.
Then his eyes catch on a sticky note.
For my pretty maid.
Some expensive skincare kit sits, unassuming. Still in its plastic packaging. Untouched, unnoticed, untampered with.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he huffs into the speaker, “Really? Skincare?”
“You said you’d been neglecting your routine, I just wanted to keep my maid pretty!” Oscar laughs on the other end of the line.
Logan forces himself to laugh, but he’s worried it sounds more relieved than anything, “Hadn’t thought it mattered so much.”
There’s a pause, then Oscar’s voice comes through quieter, more serious, “Wanted you to be able to take care of yourself properly. I, uh, asked my sisters and they said this set would be good.”
Warmth floods his chest. Warmer than the way his blood felt on his thighs. The skincare sitting on the counter in front of him suddenly seems terribly important. Something unnamed passing between them over an international call.
And he’s got angry red lines to disinfect and clean up. A razorblade on the floor. Bedding to wash. Things to clean.
Slowly, he makes himself breathe, reaching down and picking up the metal stained with blood from the tile. His voice is stronger than it’s been the entire phone call when he speaks, “Well, thank you, Oz, that’s very nice of you.”
“I only want the best for you, Logan, you know that,” Oscar replies, quick and easy.
That’s that.
He stays on the phone for an hour. Has to mute himself when he washes his thighs, keeps listening to Oscar’s retelling of his flight, and is attentive with his responses. Behaves like he’s not raw and torn open. His performance is impeccable, and Logan starts to believe it himself.
Then he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Redshot eyes. Red lines. Red stained skin.
Oscar doesn’t acknowledge his stuttered words after, just keeps on complaining about Lando’s choice of restaurant for team dinner.
Logan doesn’t linger on it, just keeps picking up the pieces of his dreams that lay shattered on the floor and humming along.
Three weeks was a long time to be alone.
A long time to be in the same apartment, in the same few rooms.
Logan goes outside, bundled up in a borrowed hoodie from Oscar. With the hood pulled up, the sleeves covering his hands, he feels like he’s undercover.
His first venture into the real world is because of his new habit.
Every step he takes to the pharmacy is tinged in pain. Under his loose pants is an absolute bloody mess of skin. He’s out of bandages, of disinfectant, of gauze, of razorblades. At least he’s still got the tiniest amount of money to spend. Oscar was still paying for groceries, and Logan was barely eating to conserve the food.
The French speaking cashier raises an eyebrow at the pile of items Logan lays out in front of her.
Razorblades. Bandages. Disinfectant. Things that make wounds and things to help take care of wounds.
He keeps his gaze low and his mouth shut.
She speaks in French the entire time and he nods like he understands.
Then, right before he grabs the paper bag of his purchases, she says something in English, “You should look at our community board. Good resources for foreigners.”
Logan is shocked, has to remember to move when his leg stings as he stands with them pressed against the counter. With a nod, he hastily flees the scene.
But he still stops by the community board. To humor the cashier.
The only sign in English is for a domestic abuse shelter nearby.
He leaves, laughing under his breath at the realization.
When Oscar returns, the apartment is immaculate. Logan’s made up everything as nicely as possible, not one thing out of place. He’s even found a scented candle and lit it so that a nice sandalwood smell lingers.
It does not seem to make up for the fact Oscar is in a bit of a mood from his race results.
No trophy comes back to sit with the others.
Logan still smiles, and lets Oscar take the lead.
And Oscar certainly seems to appreciate being in control.
“Ya know, if you want to wear all my clothes I’m gonna need a bigger wardrobe,” the Australian says as he hands over his luggage for Logan to unpack, “Bit shocking I had enough clothes to last a triple header.”
His face heats. Both embarrassed at being called out on his habit of stealing Oscar’s clothes, and pleased that Oscar was willing to accommodate it.
He gestures to the suitcase he holds, “Well, you know I will get you right with the laundry anyways. It’s not like you are in a deficit of McLaren shirts.”
Oscar nods, a small smile growing on his face, “Yeah, you’re right. My little housewife, washing and ironing my clothes, cleaning my apartment, cooking my meals.”
To his horror, Logan lets out a little squeak at his words.
Not because he’s humiliated or offended. It’s because he thinks he might like the idea of being Oscar’s housewife.
In part, it’s the words Oscar uses. My clothes, my apartment, my meals, my housewife. Possessive, casual but still there. It makes Logan feel wanted, desired, something that he’d not been feeling for a while.
And Oscar notices.
A grin graces his face, bunny teeth on display as he smiles widely, “Liked that one, huh?”
“N-Nope,” Logan sputters, because this is far too much for him to dissect, “Not your housewife.”
Oscar steps closer, crowds Logan near a wall, the suitcase between them all that separates them, “Don’t know, you are basically my housewife, Lolo. I’d just need to put a ring on it and pay all your bills to make it real.”
Isn’t that something?
With his heart pounding and his head full of childhood puppy love, Logan has to fight himself to not immediately ask for Oscar to do just that.
They may sleep in the same bed, may live together, but they haven’t ever unpacked that box of feelings. Not even when they were in F3 and letting themselves sneak glances and touches that were definitely over the lines for simple accidents.
Maybe he’s fallen back in love with Oscar. Maybe he’s lost his goddamn mind being locked up in this apartment. Maybe he’s stupid.
“I-I wouldn’t mind that, honestly,” he says, face heated, "Definitely would need to have a conversation about finances though. Got some baggage left over from Williams.”
It doesn’t land quite right. Oscar’s face falls once he mentions his debt. Logan is embarrassed but also a little relieved.
With his head tilted to the side, Oscar’s hair swoop looks even more severe and messy. His brows knit up with a concerned expression, “Loges, are you like, broke?”
Fuck.
He did not think this through.
“Not like broke-broke. Uh, that sponsor deal was…pricey and my manager pushed me to pay most of it at once and I haven’t gotten that last check from Williams. Things are, uh, not great but if you want me to I could contribute more,” Logan rambles, flustered and attempting to not acknowledge the sting of his eyes.
A thousand expressions filter through Oscar’s face.
Logan doesn’t expect most of them.
He certainly doesn’t expect the one he ends on to be anger.
“That’s so fucked! Logan, seriously, they have fucked you over big-time,” Oscar says, and he sounds like he’s actually distressed by Logan’s situation, “Oh my god, Lo, you have to fire that guy. Let me and Mark look at everything, okay? We won’t do anything without your permission, but seriously, that’s fucked from Williams, from your manager, and the sponsor.”
The response is a lot to take in. He’s got whiplash from the reaction of his friend, or roommate, or whatever. Additionally, it’s not like he’s been the most present mentally about the whole thing, and he’s grateful for the help but he’s also not sure how fucked he is. Couldn’t think about it too long without resorting to slicing his skin, distraught until his hands are covered in red.
But he thinks he could just let Oscar do what he wants, and that’d make him feel a lot better in general. If Oscar is upset about it, and wants to fix it to feel happier, then Logan would let him.
So, he inhales and pretends like what he’s about to say is normal, “Man, you and Mark could do literally whatever you want with it. Seriously, I’d give you my bank accounts and contracts and call it a day if I could.”
A gleam in Oscar’s eyes, something he writes off as the light, flashes, then he’s striding over to hold Logan’s shoulders as he says, “Logan, if that’s what you want, I’ll do it. And if you want me to go all the way, I’d even fire your manager for you. Because that’s really what I want to do.”
They might both be insane. This is insane.
The worst part is that Logan honestly isn’t all that opposed to the idea. Phone calls about test drives ending with jabs at his career prospects, reminders to pay back this sponsor that sound bitter and biting, not even a ‘sorry kiddo, that sucks’ when he’d been dropped. It’s not like he was particularly attached to his manager. Or that he didn’t want to fire him.
His father had hired him. Back when Logan was in F3 and clearly reached a point where he’d need some assistance in dealing with sponsors and teams and contracts. Yet, his father wasn’t calling him, wasn’t backing his career, wasn’t even really pretending to give a shit about Logan.
So, he can’t really find it in himself to deny Oscar what he wants.
Not when Oscar seems so upset by this, when he’s practically offering a solution for Logan on a silver platter.
Plus, he always is happier when Oscar is happy.
Slowly, Logan nods his consent, “Y-Yeah, fuck it. He’s an asshole anyways. Wants me to test with basically any team in America rather than trying to make something here work.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Oscar says, and he’s still holding Logan’s shoulders, but he starts to smile, “He should know you belong here, with me.”
Logan’s heart beats faster. They are close, touching, only the suitcase between them separating them. His eyes flicker down to Oscar’s lips, just for a second.
Bright brown eyes greet him when he returns them to Oscar’s face.
With no small amount of panic and blushing, he stutters out a response, “Always want to be here with you, Osc, always. I’m your little housewife, right?”
Oscar looks pleased, and brings him in for an awkward hug over the luggage. One of his hands comes to rest at the back of his neck, long fingers tangling into Logan’s hair he’d neglected to cut. The other holds him around the torso, strong, unyielding.
Logan is surprised at the action, and it takes him a couple of seconds to remember to hug back. His arms stretch around Oscar, noting that he’d gained some more muscle recently.
With his head tucked into Oscar’s neck, he almost misses what the other says quietly into his hair, “Always mine.”
Things are shockingly not weird between them after Logan basically hands over his finances and future to Oscar.
He thinks that, if anything, they’re less weird. Like something had happened to clear up the unknown details and now they were finally running on schedule. At the very least, Oscar had been more relaxed to Logan, still calm and collected, more open.
Logan just tries to keep focused on what he can do. Laundry, cleaning, cooking. Perhaps Oscar’s words about him being his little housewife stuck, perhaps he’s a simple, base creature that aims to please his crush.
Because he definitely has a crush on Oscar.
It’s bad. Really bad. Worse than it’d been in their youth.
They weren’t living together like this, and Logan’s whole universe hadn’t revolved around Oscar like this. He ate when Oscar ate, he slept when Oscar slept, hell he’d probably reached the point where if Oscar were to breathe wrong he’d know, innately, in his bones.
Which, honestly, he kind of liked. Made him feel like he had a purpose. Should he be so dependent on Oscar? Probably not, but it certainly felt good.
What the real issue for Logan was what Oscar thought about it all.
He’d watch the other’s reactions, spy on his workouts and phone calls, desperate for some understanding on what was going through the Australian’s head. A mention of him to Mark, his mother, his trainer. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for.
But he doesn’t really know. Even when he hears his name, it’s brief, only in passing. And Oscar certainly isn’t making it obvious that he knows Logan’s halfway to being completely in love with him.
So, he’s stuck in this limbo.
Knowing intimately, terribly, how deeply he wants Oscar.
Knowing nothing about if Oscar wants in return.
Their time is limited. The final triple header of the season was soon, Logan would be left without Oscar for over three weeks again.
His thighs ached, but did not bleed. They only bled when Oscar was gone. He hated when Oscar was gone.
Despite all his sneaking around and trailing Oscar, Logan had managed to make good on his promise to get his laundry done. In fact, he’d gone through and completely unpacked the Australian’s suitcase, cleaning it as he went.
And he didn’t even flinch at the bottle of lube hidden away in a pair of socks. Nor the condoms tucked into a small zipper pouch. Because the condoms were expired and the lube was barely used.
While he wasn’t certain about Oscar’s feelings, he was certain that Oscar was not with anyone at the moment. Hook-ups weren’t his thing. Logan felt pleased at the reminder that Oscar may not be sleeping with him, but that he also wasn’t sleeping with others.
Between folding clothes and cooking meals, Logan started to formulate a plan.
Oscar would touch him, drag his long fingers along his neck, wrap an arm around him on the couch, press his leg against his own. His scent lingered, his cologne sticking to Logan’s skin and clothes.
It was nice. Logan loved the way it made him feel surrounded by all things Oscar. Like he’d be constantly enveloped in his smell, a hug that he couldn’t return.
Logan wanted to give him that. Something that would make Oscar feel the same way.
So, with every orange shirt he washed, Logan dabbed a bit of the cologne he used to wear when he was still on the grid. One that he’d not worn in a while, but would most certainly remind Oscar of him, of him in a race suit and smiling.
He planned it out perfectly, he thought. Oscar was terrible at packing, and would just wear the top layer of clean clothes in his suitcase. Logan made sure that the first items packed, the last to be worn, had the most of his old cologne clinging to it. The next layer had less, the one after less than the one before, until the very top layer would be barely noticeable. It would mean that the longer Oscar was away, maybe missing Logan, the scent would be stronger. Might make him call Logan more, might run him away, but it wouldn’t matter either way.
Because Oscar would still be thinking about him.
That alone is enough to be meticulous in ensuring that each shirt, each hoodie and jacket, smells just the right amount of Logan. He can’t pause and think about it. There’s far too much he’d have to acknowledge if he did.
Plus, the other man didn’t even stop by to ask how Logan was doing as he packed. It was fair game.
Oscar spent the final day before he left in his simulator, running through what Logan recognized as Losail Circuit and Yas Marina Circuit. Even when he’d done his best to ignore all the racing knowledge in his mind, he’d know the tracks by the sound of a car exiting the pits, the noise of the engine on the straights, which turn was causing the early braking. It wasn’t even impressive, not like how Oscar could identify where on the track he was based on the sound of the car clipped down to only a couple seconds. Just repetition guaranteeing he’d have the memories engrained in his mind forever.
No, the only time Oscar and him spoke about the fact Logan had done all the laundry, had packed all of Oscar’s clothes, had essentially been the only reason Oscar wasn’t going to land in Vegas with just the shirt on his back and his helmet was when he was washing the dishes the night before Oscar left.
He’d already showered, wrapping himself up in a hoodie that reeked of Oscar, pushing up the long sleeves to his elbows to wash the dishes after a late dinner. The other man trotted in, and promptly draped himself over Logan’s back and shoulders.
Solid and warm, Oscar nuzzled into his neck and let his arms curl around his waist.
Logan almost let the dish in his hand slip, face turning what was probably a bright shade of red, heated by the close contact between them. It took all his might to speak, “This is new.”
“Hmm,” Oscar hums into his ear, breathing hot on his skin, “Needed to show appreciation for my wife. She packed all my things without me asking, and is washing the dishes after cooking me dinner.”
Despite the fact that Logan was decidedly not a ‘she’ or Oscar’s wife, his heart clenched at the other’s words. They felt weighty, important in some unknown, unsaid way.
“Well, your wife accepts this method of appreciation,” he says, breathless as he carefully moves to dry the plate in his hands.
As he steps to place it on the drying rack, Oscar steps with them, clinging like a koala to his back. He’s awfully endeared by it, the closeness, the feeling of being a literal physical support to Oscar.
“She better, my other method is gonna be way too expensive to do all the time like this,” Oscar mumbles, tightening his arms around Logan’s waist.
At that, his movements halt. The cup in his hand is slippery with all the soap, the faucet making enough noise that the brief quiet isn’t deafening.
His thoughts race, his head swims.
Slowly, he restarts his movement, scrubbing at the cup under the hot water, speaking just as slowly, “...What other method?”
Oscar nuzzles his head further into Logan’s neck, shameless and unphased when he answers, “Paying off your sponsors and former manager.”
The cup in his hand falls and clatters against the bottom of the sink. Logan’s heart races, begging to burst out of his chest. He scrambles to turn off the water, Oscar’s arms around him constrict his ability to move with efficiency.
Throughout his panic, Oscar remains exactly where he placed himself.
Logan has to place his hands on the counter, bracing himself. He attempts to practice some deep breathing exercise Alex had taught him during that first terrible year.
He gets through one inhale before he chokes on his own breath.
Oscar’s strong arms pull him from the sink, uncaring of how his hands drip water on the freshly cleaned floors, how ragged and fast his breathing has grown, how his legs barely move to assist him. No, Oscar is smiling against his neck. He can feel the curve of his lips, the brush of his sharp teeth against the sensitive skin.
“What the fuck,” Logan says between desperate gasps for air, “Osc, what– how much– fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
“Don’t get too excited, baby,” Oscar coos.
This is hell. He is in hell. The pounding heartbeat in his ears is the beat of the devil’s drum.
He’s not feeling excited at all. He thinks he might throw up. He’s pawing at Oscar’s arms, and the only response he gets is their hold tightening.
Months. Logan has not trained in months. His muscles are smaller, weaker, his strength depleted from missed meals and days spent in bed.
Oscar doesn’t stop, doesn’t let him go.
Logan tries to flee.
The money Oscar threw away on him was not a part of the agreement. It was one thing to look over his finances, to look at the contracts, to fire his fucking manager.
It was something else entirely to pay off his debts.
In his mind, the click of shackles echoed. He could barely register it over his desperate attempts to breath around the weight on his chest, the grunts of Oscar as he tried to claw his way out of his hold, the trembling of his body, too weak to fight this fiercely.
A number swirled in his head.
He recalls that Oscar said he was also paying off his former manager.
The number doubles.
Logan tries once more to escape Oscar’s hold on him, choking on sobs, “No, I can’t– that’s too much money– I’m gonna vomit–,”
Any attempts at getting away are made pointless when Oscar kicks out a leg and makes Logan stumble to the floor. His knees hit the hardwood with a painful thunk. Sobbing, he crumples into a heap of limbs and shame.
Oscar’s feet and legs bracket him. Logan covers his face with his still damp hands, and wails, “I can’t r-repay you. Fuck. Oscar, fuck.”
It’s embarrassing, but he thinks he might be dying.
His heart pounds. His hands shake. His legs are weak.
There’s got to be someone that he can call. Someone that will help. See the stupid situation he’d gotten himself in and step in before Logan is left living with the man that he’s probably in a ridiculous amount of debt to.
His dad? No shot.
Dalton? What could he do all the way in Florida?
Alex? He’d help. He’d promised to help. Back when they both were miserable and wearing blue.
Logan moves without thinking, making an attempt to crawl to his phone in the bedroom.
Oscar grabs him under his arms, sinking down to kneel behind him. Trapping him with ease.
“Logan, fucking stop,” he snaps, voice raising to a volume Logan’s not sure he’s ever heard the other speak at, “Don’t fucking run. Let me speak.”
A sob wracks his body. Oscar’s grip does not falter.
“Are you going to let me speak?” Oscar growls into his ear.
Logan nods, crying loudly, horrifically.
He’s grateful that he cannot see Oscar’s face. That the other can’t see his face in return.
A final act to spare him some dignity.
“You do not need to pay me back. You owe me nothing,” Oscar says, firmly, authoritative and unwavering just as his hold on Logan, “You will just keep living here, doing what you already do, and I will keep supporting you because I want to.”
Oh.
In one fell swoop, all fight leaves him.
He goes limp. Oscar catches his body before it can hit the ground.
The other maneuvers them, a bit rough with his limbs, a bit careless with how he leaves Logan’s legs to sit at an awkward angle. Moves to make him lay in Oscar’s lap, slumped against his chest, held up by a strong arm under his arms.
Then, a hand comes to stroke his cheek. Tender, gentle, soft.
Logan has stopped crying. No more energy to waste on this.
Oscar starts to rock, swaying side to side. It soothes him and irritates him in equal parts.
Never has he felt so conflicted, so upset and distressed while being awfully relieved. One issue gone, a thousand more born in its place.
Quietly, Oscar says, “Good job, Lo, calming down for me so well.”
Calm is not how he’d describe himself. Numb, maybe.
The other seems not to notice.
“I want to take care of you,” Oscar says in a whisper, “In every way I can. You take such good care of me.”
Logan is weak. He is a weak, wretched, selfish man.
“I do?” he mumbles.
Oscar hums, chest vibrating behind him, “Always do, Lo. It’s your calling, the perfect little housewife for me.”
“Even if I don’t pay you back?” he asks, because he has to ask now.
The other doesn’t pause in his motions, swaying and stroking his cheek in a comforting rhythm, “Already paid me back by staying here.”
And that ends it. Logan cannot argue it, cannot protest.
He slumps further down into Oscar’s hold. Close enough to sync their heartbeats, their breathing.
When the exhaustion catches up to him, Oscar carries him to bed. Tucks him in, presses his lips to the side of his head in a mockery of a kiss, and slings an arm around him as he sleeps.
Logan does not dream.
In the morning, the bed is empty and unmade on one side.
He calls Alex. For some reason.
Doesn’t even check the timezone difference, just calls him as he sits on the bathroom floor. The metallic scent of blood is dampened by the smell of Oscar’s cologne.
Logan had been uninspired it seemed.
Sometime, without him noticing, Oscar had gone through the closet, through damn near every drawer, and sprayed his cologne on the clothes Logan had been left to wear. Romantic. Possessive. Intoxicating.
Made him feel owned. Made him feel a little silly.
At least the texts Oscar sent about how much he appreciated Logan’s cheeky move, of how he’d copied the other’s actions, left him with his chest warm and his head fuzzy.
He couldn’t keep that hazy thinking away, not even with sharp metal on his skin. So, he calls Alex because he’s able to remember that he wanted to call Alex.
Alex picks up, groggily saying, “Loges?”
Logan realizes he actually has no reason to call.
“Uh, Lex, h-how are you?” he asks, mind still miles away, stained fingertips drumming against his thigh.
“Well, not great, let me tell you, mate,” Alex says, seemingly snapping into action, “I miss you so bad. Franco is fine, but I think he’s obsessed with Lewis? Which is like, alright, but also I just want to put him in a box and shake him like he’s a hamster.”
“Is that not animal abuse?” Logan asks, hesitant about wherever the fuck his former teammate is going, “Alex I don’t think you are supposed to do that to hamsters.”
“I’m not doing it to a hamster, I’m doing it to Franco. Keep up,” the other man says, and he sounds like he’s joking so Logan laughs like he thinks he should.
Alex huffs. Logan was not supposed to laugh apparently.
“I’m so serious. He is annoying. Like very endearing and shit, but he’s not you and he thinks that I want anyone but you to be my teammate,” Alex whines down the line.
“Flattered, truly,” he giggles, because he can just imagine the face Alex is making on the other end, “Did you ever have these urges towards me?”
The older man sighs, long and heavy, “No, Loges, I mostly have the urge to wrap you in a blanket and carry you to my family to save you in some weird superhero fantasy of mine.”
His breath catches in his throat.
A throwaway line. Stupid joke. Shouldn’t matter. Matters anyways.
He swallows, dry and sore, then speaks, “Well, uh, glad to hear that you didn’t want to murder me like a hamster when we were teammates.”
Then, Alex responds, in the softest voice Logan’s ever heard from him, “We’re still teammates. Now and forever. I wasn’t kidding when I told you last year that I’d be your teammate until I died.”
“Even if I don’t have a seat next year? Even if I just give it all up to go be some rich man’s stupid trophy wife?” Logan asks, and he’s not even sure why he’s asking. Just knows that he has to.
A chuckle, and Alex answers, easy as always, “Even if you became the most annoying pilates-loving, matcha-drinking influencer.”
There’s not a good response for Logan to say. He can’t really vocalize how it makes him feel. What he’d do with it.
So he stays quiet long enough for Alex to continue speaking, “So…want to hear about some shit James did in front of a sponsor in Vegas?”
“Yes, please,” Logan says, almost pleading.
And Alex, his sweet and kind Alex, launches into a tirade about how the Williams team principle got a little too drunk at a sponsor event and implied that the CEO was having an affair. He cries from laughing so hard his ribs ache. Alex even does his worst James Vowles impression, and subs in a godawful American accent for the sponsor. Logan critiques it through giggles.
Everything is lighter, easier, better.
Then Oscar calls, interrupting. Logan panics and lies, saying his mom is calling. Alex ends their call with a I love you, talk to you soon, yeah?.
When Logan answers Oscar’s call, the Australian’s voice comes through a bit rough, sleepy.
The first thing he says is, “Oh, Logan, I love you the most. Did you actually plan my outfits for me for the entire triple header?”
And Logan is still a bit giggly and laughs, “Had too. You’re a bit of a fashion disaster sometimes.”
“Hey! White shirt and black shorts does no harm!” Oscar whines, “But also, where did you put my extra gloves? Mark is convinced I lost them in Vegas.”
“Party too hard? Check in the largest suitcase on the mesh side, bottom zipper,” he says, forcing himself to feel casual about how his heart flutters at the question.
Oscar is asking Logan about his things. Because Logan knows. Better than even Oscar’s manager.
Some shuffling, zipping noises, then Oscar’s voice is back, “Oh, baby, you are the greatest. Seriously, sent from the heavens to pack my suitcases.”
“Only for you,” he smiles as he speaks, unable to help it.
Oscar inhales sharply on the other side, but his voice is terribly fond when he speaks, “Only for me.”
Logan is all too happy to listen to Oscar complain about Lando, about getting a new trainer, about Zak Brown and Papaya rules. It’s not quite racing, because Oscar knows that would hurt too much, but it’s close enough that sometimes Logan’s eyes sting and his chest aches with longing.
He wants too much, he thinks. Too much from Alex, and far, far too much from Oscar. To be on their level, to be racing with them again.
“Alright, babe, got to go,” Oscar coos, voice pitching up like he’s speaking to a cute puppy or a child, “Don’t stay up too late washing the dishes, or scrubbing the floors.”
Logan laughs, because he’s got red stains on the tile and won’t sleep until it’s spotless, “Promise not too, baby.”
“Love you, Lo.”
“Love you, Osc.”
He announces to his family that he won’t be racing. That he’s not coming home for the holidays.
Their reactions start off angry.
Expected. Logan doesn’t flinch or shy away from it.
Then his brother texts him two days later and he's not angry.
Simple, all it contains is four words:
Did he make you?
Dalton is one of the very few people to know that Logan is living with Oscar. Alex didn’t even know that one yet. Truly just Dalton, their parents, and whoever the fuck Oscar told. Logan hadn’t spoken about it to anyone, not deeply.
So it makes him irrationally mad to see the text.
Oscar didn’t make Logan do shit. He chose this. He woke up and chose to stay in his apartment, to clean and cook, to let Oscar make some career decisions for him. He could totally choose to do something else. It was Logan that didn’t want to race next year. It was Logan that knew he needed that mental break from the motorsport world. It was Logan that had decided to not get a new manager when Oscar fired him.
In a petty act of revenge, Logan types out and sends a text he forces himself to not regret.
No. Unlike you guys, he doesn’t make me want to crash a car and die all the time. You should try doing that sometimes.
His brother doesn’t respond.
Logan tries not to care.
Oscar returns from the season looking a bit haggard and weary. But he smiles at Logan, that big, wide smile that shows off how his front teeth are slightly longer than the rest of them, his pointy canines, sharp and white.
He hugs Logan. Tight and gripping at his back.
In the entry way, they stand and Logan starts to realize that he thinks of this apartment as ours and not Oscar’s which is all too much for him to deal with. Oscar seems to feel something similarly, because he holds Logan for longer than he’d ever had held Logan. Warm, strong arms wrapping around him, it’s relieving. Almost enough to ignore how weak and small Logan has grown in comparison. It didn’t matter, not when Oscar was still strong and large, a presence in the room even in silence.
And he’d known that he had missed Oscar, had been sad without him in the apartment, had been upset to sleep in the bed alone, yet with the man here now, Logan wasn’t sure he could speak through his relief that he was back. It was like he couldn’t be whole without Oscar there, like he was stuck in some kind of purgatory without him.
Oscar pulls back, smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Logan thinks he’s in heaven. Pure and holy. His chest tightens, his heart pounds, and it’s not from fear.
A hand comes up to cup his face, long fingers tangle in the hair that falls in messy waves over his ear. Logan is captured by how pretty Oscar’s eyes are in the light.
“Missed you, Lo,” Oscar says, voice barely above a whisper, “More than I’ve ever missed a friend.”
Butterflies erupt in his stomach, Logan was waiting on baited breath to hear what the other would say next, hoping it was what he’d always wanted to say himself.
Slowly, Oscar strokes his cheek with his thumb, his gaze flickers to Logan’s lips, and returns to his eyes. It’s an anticipatory, nervous excitement that fills the air. He’s felt it before, when lining up for a race, watching those lights turn on, one by one, the seconds before they go out and he’s off. He’s missed it.
“Can I kiss you?” Oscar asks, quiet, but not unheard. Not by Logan.
He nods, overwhelmed, and Oscar leans in.
After weeks of being alone, of being left to want and pine, the press of their lips against each other is glorious. A sacrament of pure bliss, fulfillment.
Oscar kisses him like a man starved. Logan lets him take all of him. It is good to be wanted.
Those strong hands hold and move Logan as they kiss, as he gasps at the touch of Oscar’s cold fingers trailing under the baggy shirt he wears, as they start to move. Fast, he thinks, this is too fast.
Then Oscar’s tongue is in his mouth and it’s not fast enough.
He lets himself be moved, lets his mouth be taken, and makes himself like it. Loves it even when his mind is racing with poisonous thoughts and insecurities. Oscar will leave you after this. Oscar will think you’re ugly with your clothes off. Oscar will hate it. Oscar will ruin you and not care enough to put you back together. Oscar will forget you if you do this.
Oscar pauses, halfway to the bedroom, to pull back enough to whisper against Logan’s lips, “Lo, I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. Please, can I show you?”
Oh, why did he ever doubt Oscar?
Logan was stupid and silly and dumb and terribly in love. Had been for so long he’d lost all reason, surely, if he’d not noticed Oscar had loved him too. Why else would he have been so kind, so caring to him these past months? Why else would he have been so quick to take him in?
“I have loved you since we were kids,” he says, unable to speak louder than a murmur.
Oscar knows him well enough to know that’s him saying yes.
They end up in the bed, breathless with lips red and swollen from kissing. He wants it to stay like this, wants to just lay here with Oscar and know that he loves him the way Logan loves him.
A thumb hooks in Logan’s waistband.
He nods.
Not because he’s ready, or really that he wants it despite whatever his hard cock might communicate, but because Oscar clearly wants it and Logan wants what Oscar wants.
The other man is hovering over him, smiling, eyes darkened by lust, and trained on the pale skin he reveals as he pulls off Logan’s pants. He’s wearing simple, black boxers underneath. Oscar groans like he’s wearing a lingerie set.
Logan hesitantly goes to take off the shirt he’s still got on, it’s awkward because he’s laying on his back, with his legs bracketing the sides of Oscar, but he still thinks he should help. Maybe divert Oscar’s eyes from his thighs, covered in angry red lines and scabs, to his torso.
Oscar shakes his head with a grin, “No, I like that you’ve got my name on you.”
He had forgotten he was in Oscar’s merch. Navy blue fabric with a white ‘Piastri’ on one side of his chest, a bright blue ‘81’ on the other side. Worn, comforting, it still had the lingering scent of Oscar’s cologne on it.
Heat fills his face. It makes him feel like some desperate fan. He goes to cover his red cheeks in embarrassment, to hide all the weird emotions it makes him feel.
“No, no, no, honey,” Oscar coos, prying his hands away with a tight grip on his wrists, “It’s cute. I like it. Makes me all soft when I see you in my clothes, with my name. You’re mine, right?”
Logan nods, barely able to keep his eyes on the other’s smiling face as he does so.
Oscar smiles even bigger after, “God, I love you, you know that? Like so much. It hurts sometimes when I think about it, how much I love you.”
“Really?” he asks, choking on emotion. It’s unbelievable but Oscar’s saying it so it must be true.
His wrists are released, Logan lets them fall above his head, useless on the pillow. They ache. The hands that had held them return to his hips, teasing his waistband, trailing over his erection, his trembling thighs. Those careful fingers trace his skin, avoiding the harsh lines and scars there without a word.
Overwhelming, there’s too much happening. Oscar knows about his little habit. He doesn’t care. Logan can’t figure out if he should. He feels laid out, ready to be taken apart and sacrificed by Oscar’s desire.
“Logan, I need you,” Oscar says, breathily, voice rough with lust, “Please, please, please, let me have you.”
He has to catch his breath before he responds, “Y-Yes, Osc–, you can have me.”
And Oscar takes his chance.
Flurry of movement, of skin on skin, of hands all over him, of lips on his own and then lips on him. It’s strange to be so exposed, to be bared to the world and brown eyes like this. A first time that he should be able to appreciate, a first time with a man, a first time with someone he loves.
Logan lets out a pained moan as Oscar pushes in a finger, thighs shaking, cold lube on his hot skin terribly uncomfortable.
Oscar kisses him, hushing him softly, “It’s alright, baby, I got you.”
There’s another finger, too fast, scissoring and stretching him out. Logan’s hips hurt from this position, half in Oscar’s lap, legs spread wide.
Yet the feeling of Oscar kissing his neck is anything but painful. The way he rubs soothing circles on his hip as he preps him. How tender he acts.
So Logan lets his whines and whimpers be swallowed by Oscar’s mouth.
Oscar whispers sweet nothings between kisses, little compliments, “So pretty, so pretty. Look at how small your leg is in my hand, my delicate baby.”
He looks, and regrets it. His thigh is held in place by Oscar’s hand, thin and weakened from neglect, red and obvious marks easily spotted between those long fingers that span across his leg. If he was less fucked in the head, it wouldn’t feel as romantic as it does. Sickly sweet, like how some poisons are supposed to taste like candy.
Logan whines, “Oscar, it’s too much.”
It might be about the comments, the way Oscar brushes over his self harm scars and wounds. It might be about the three fingers inside of him, pumping in and out slowly, methodically. It might be about how intensely Oscar stares, how brazenly he takes.
Oscar leans in, kissing his temple, forcing his body to bend to accommodate the movement, “Shh, you’ll be able to take it, I promise baby.”
He lets out a choked sob. Those fingers have finally found that spot inside of him, and it feels so good it hurts. His hands scramble to hold on to Oscar’s broad shoulders.
Without care, Oscar moves his fingers faster, harder. Logan’s cock jumps against his stomach, leaking pre-come.
Right when he thinks he could come from this, when he could feel good, Oscar stops.
Logan has to open his eyes, not sure when he’d shut them, to see the man stroking his cock. Wet, glistening lube, coats the large erection. Uncut and thick. Logan suddenly thinks that Oscar had been wrong about him being able to take it.
“That’s too much,” he whimpers, wanting to go back to Oscar’s fingers, to what he knew would feel good.
Oscar tilts his head to the side. His eyes examine Logan, taking in the sight of him. Sprawled out in their bed, in Oscar’s shirt that’s too big, riding up his stomach, Oscar’s last name branded on his chest, thighs spread to bracket Oscar.
It’s no wonder, Logan thinks, that he doesn’t hesitate to guide his cock to his hole. To press in without even acknowledging Logan.
He’s already Oscar’s to do with as he pleases.
Oscar does praise him as he enters, “God, fuck, so fucking good, Lo. So tight, baby.”
Logan moans, pained, choked, because it was too much. He felt speared open and stretched too far, everything was so overwhelming it was making him go insane. The only thing he could focus on was how Oscar kept rubbing those soothing circles into his skin with his thumb. In that tight grip on his thigh, there was one spot of comfort.
Then, Oscar begins to fuck him.
He whines and whimpers and cries, eyes stinging and face flushed. Oscar whispers and coos and groans, hips snapping into him roughly.
It was not soft. Logan thinks he wanted it to be soft. Even when it feels good, it hurts. Because it’s not what he thought it would be, should be, could be. Every grab of his thighs makes his cuts ache, every thrust makes his hips twinge in pain, every compliment makes his chest tighten.
Logan comes and he’s not sure how.
The orgasm rips through him, unexpected, uncomfortable. He cries out, something strangled that might be Oscar’s name or might be a plea to stop.
Gentle hands come up to hold his face, fingers spread wide enough to graze his throat. It’s tender and sweet and he wishes it was like this the entire time as Oscar’s thrusts slow.
Leaning in, Oscar speaks with his forehead touching Logan’s, “Gonna be mine forever, Lo? Gonna let me have you like this forever, Lo?”
“P-Please, yes, please,” he whispers, trembling voice and legs, “Please, I’m yours, forever.”
A snap of Oscar’s hips, a groan, a flood of warmth inside.
Oscar slumps against Logan, sweaty skin and drying lube overstimulating him. Logan is panting, he feels hot, the shirt he's in is suddenly suffocating.
A hand comes to tap his chest lightly, right over the ‘Piastri’ in white.
“Mine,” Oscar mumbles, lips brushing Logan’s neck as he speaks, “All mine, forever.”
Logan nods, turns his head to respond, face buried in Oscar’s hair, “All yours, forever.”
And it’s finally perfect.
Warm and wrapped up in each other, in their bed, in love. Gentle, soft, tender, it’s good again. So fucking good. Logan is flying on cloud nine, he’s finally achieved a salvation greater than any race win would bring him.
Oscar brings a hand up to Logan’s neck, and leaves it there. A reminder, more than the cock still inside of him or the shirt on his back, that he’s Oscar’s.
It feels good to belong to someone.