Chapter Text
The Crash — Sao Paulo.
The ringing in his ears had dulled slightly, enough to hear the aggravating questioning of the sports journalist shoving a microphone in his face. The uncomfortable tingle under his skin, on the other hand, hadn’t disappeared.
“Do you think it was a bad judgement call, or was it Verstappen’s reckless driving the problem?” The journalist’s voice was strident and tiring, like the wail of a small child that wouldn’t take no for an answer. He had to be loud to be heard over the noise of the paddock.
Oscar hated having to deal with the press, especially when it came to damage control—and Sky Sports in particular. His muscles prickled, the sweat still clinging to his flesh under the team kit he had changed into. But he hadn’t had time to take a shower, not in between getting a revision from the medical team, being shoved into a last minute meeting and then dropped in front of the vultures to be picked apart.
Clenching his jaw, he forced the words out of his dry mouth. “If you are not going for a gap that exists, you are no longer a racing driver.” He dared quote Ayrton Senna, his insides twisting with anxiety while his features were kept impassive. “No more comments.”
His PR Manager would not be happy with his answer, as he had been told to accept the blame, even if he didn’t agree with it. Well, he wasn’t going to take the fall for Verstappen’s stupid strategy. He had gone for a gap that existed, and Max had tried to shove him out of the track; Oscar would not be bullied out of the race, much less of the championship.
So, they crashed. Not a single point for either of the two championship contestants. At the moment, Max was ahead by four sad points and there were still three races to go. The Dutchman liked being on top, but he had also enjoyed whenever Oscar took over by sheer force.
He knew it would be hard, but not impossible.
“We understand, Oscar. But we want to know if you regret having taken the risk to—” The journalist kept speaking, formulating a question the Aussie already knew would go unanswered. Such words were lost in the thick air of Sao Paulo.
Especially because he got distracted by Max’s arrival. His blond hair was messed up and sticking in every direction, the marks of fingers having tried to tame it obvious in between each tendril. The Dutchman’s hair wasn’t difficult to deal with, it just needed a bit of love and care. But like Oscar, the blond hadn’t had time to shower or prepare much for the interrogation.
Oscar could imagine what he had gone through in the last hour, a pretty similar experience to his own. If he were a betting man, there would be a prize waiting for him.
But he didn’t bet, and he only had a very specific trophy in mind.
After a few seconds of unashamed staring, the Aussie turned his head sharply toward the journalist awaiting for an answer. He leaned in into the microphone, lips almost caressing the gross sponge while his dark eyes, surely bloodshot, looked straight into the reporter’s own.
“I’ve got nothing else to add. Have a good one, mate.” And before the other man could retort, he walked away.
Oscar caught the way the journalist’s face had soured, his ego wounded by such an outright rejection. The Aussie suspected he had gained another enemy, even if he didn’t linger to watch the fallout. He had been gaining plenty of enemies lately. The top was lonely, they said.
It wasn’t lonely, though. Only full of hatred.
His steps were sure, even if hadn’t been sure of anything for what had seemed like an eternity—ever since he had developed a consciousness. He had never been a confident person, but he was sure of something, and that was his driving.
Oscar found himself throwing a wayward look to his team’s representative, who was undoubtedly disappointed, her face carrying a downturned grimace. He knew there would be an intense and grueling debrief waiting for him whenever they were back at the team’s motorhome.
The Aussie couldn’t point out when he had become the character everyone had started associating with him. To the team he was the 'Ice-man' of the new generation. They expected him to play the PR game, to offer a sanitized, polished version of the truth that kept the sponsors happy. But after feeling the car snap under Max’s aggressive defense, the ‘polite cat’ persona felt like a suit two sizes too small.
He was tired, the pressure adding up after a season full of ‘almosts’. Oscar hadn’t understood why Lando had allowed the championship to escape his grip last year, but after being the one in position to lead, he got it. The tension was overwhelming, the expectations the worst corrosive.
Oscar loved to drive—but he hated most of what he had to do to be able to keep driving.
He began to push through the crowd, the humid air of the paddock sticking to his skin. Every camera lens felt like a sniper’s scope, catching him with rehearsed finesse. He heard his name being whispered, analyzed, and torn apart by commentators on the big screens overhead.
He walked past Max with intention, but the way their bodies brushed was not planned—the Aussie was forced to collide softly with the older man to avoid tripping another driver. His flesh erupted in goosebumps, the touch familiar and heating, even if they had been avoiding touching for more than a month.
“... such unnecessary risk from the McLaren driver...” “...Verstappen will eat him alive...”
Oscar’s jaw tightened. They didn’t know how Max’s breath felt against his collarbone, or how many times they had mapped out each other's breaking points in the dark. To them, they were chess pieces on a wooden board. They weren’t aware of the number of times Verstappen had already eaten him alive.
That was the main problem; Oscar had allowed his biggest rival to map his weakness, to find the bits that made him react. They knew each other so intimately, they could play with each other's psyche. They could lead the other to complete madness.
And nobody even knew. Nobody understood how deeply rooted their rivalry was, how much they needed to win.
Even from afar, finally off of the cameras’ territory, hiding behind the protectiveness of a flimsy wall, he stopped to watch. Max was standing near the far end of the room, surrounded by a sea of blue shirts and frantic energy. He looked feral, irradiating that specific brand of unfiltered anger that the Dutchman carried like a trophy after a DNF, a vibration that Oscar had been the only one allowed to soothe.
That spark of static electricity hadn’t disappeared, but Oscar knew his place to soothe had disappeared in its entirety.
Oscar swore the Dutchman’s breath had hitched, as if aware of his predatory stare, interrupting the venomous rabbling for half a second. But while the McLaren driver stared away, he caught some of the words Max was spitting out, the hatred and profound disgust clear as the sky had been that day back in Austin, where things had come officially crashing down between them.
The Dutch words Max was spitting at his own media delegate weren't just about the car. They were jagged pieces of broken trust and respect—directed at Oscar. While the Aussie didn’t speak Dutch fluidly, he had picked up vocabulary here and there, mostly the kind of thing you would whisper into your lover’s ear under the cover of the night.
But he had caught other bits as well, from phone calls and strings of curses. And he knew, although not with exact precision, that Max was not only calling him careless. He was talking about his existence as if it was one of a stranger’s.
There was a sharp prickle inside his chest, a phantom pain Oscar had learned to pretend didn’t exist, after long nights without a blink of sleep because of it.
Then, having watched enough, he turned and didn't stop walking until he reached the sanctuary of his private room. The click of the door locking was the only mercy he had received all day. He leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the wood, closing his eyes.
Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he didn't see the crash they had just survived. He didn't see the stewards' reports or the telemetry.
He saw the blinding Texas sun. He saw the exact moment in Austin where the heat had turned from passion into a wildfire that consumed everything they had built.
That was the beginning of the end. Or perhaps, it was just the karma they had both deserved.
———
When the banging on his hotel door arrived, it had been long awaited. The Aussie had expected the irate pounding against the thick wood, although he had estimated it would have come a bit earlier. The night was already settling outside his window—he supposed Red Bull’s debrief had run longer than usual.
Maybe, because the team was angry at Max and his attitude on track, and had spent the last couple hours giving him an earful. It was a rare occurrence; most of the team respected Max too much to dare say something even when they should. At the end of the day, he was their legend in the flesh.
But it had started happening more often since Christian Horner was no longer Team Principal. And that made Oscar smirk darkly. Even over the pang in his chest that spoke of worry for the Dutchman’s mental health, and how now he lacked someone to lay his worries on.
Or not. Verstappen could have anyone, he was sure of it. Maybe the older man had already found his replacement.
That thought soured Oscar’s mood even more. He didn’t rush to answer the door, letting the banging continue for a few seconds. A towel was resting on his shoulders, as he had been drying his hair after a long and necessary shower—cold water to fight against the natural heat of his body, worsened by the dampness of Sao Paulo’s air. The Aussie had always run hot.
His premeditated slowness to open the door only made the pounding more demanding. He could picture with scary accuracy the rage churning in Max’s face, the way his mouth would be twisted into an irate grimace, brows furrowed.
Hand on the doorknob, the so-called 'Ice-Man' worked to school his features into a mask of cool indifference, radically different to the anxiety coiling low on his stomach and the painful beating of his wounded heart.
He could hear Max’s previous words, the way he had dragged him through the mud in front of the press. They echoed in his mind in almost an obsessive manner, they had been doing that the whole time, even when he was standing under the freezing spray of the shower head.
At least, Oscar had had the decency to shut the hell up and leave his driving to speak for him. Yet, he had always been the most civilised of the two.
Pretending unwavering tranquility, he cracked the door open a slimmer. “Hi, Max.” He saluted, dragging his words and nodding toward the champion. Max pushed against the wood to open it completely, making space to be able to enter—and darted inside like he owned the space. “Nice to see you as well…” Sarcasm dripped from Oscar’s every word.
Closing the door behind them, resigned to having to deal with whatever the Dutchman wanted to throw his way. The Aussie crossed his arms over his chest, defiant but protective, and cocked an eyebrow.
Being Max’s punching bag was almost as natural as breathing at that point, he was used to it after such a long time dealing with the champion’s outbursts. Therefore, he was expecting the attack.
If Max were truly a bull, there would have been visible puffs of heated air coming from his nostrils. Face reddened, it was clear he had been steaming for longer than he had been waiting outside that hotel room.
Oscar’s body was dumb enough to get turned on by the sight, as he always had. He liked angry Max, he loved the hard and painful sex it brought. He couldn’t help but crave the result, the explosion that would take both of them down—down to the bed, to be exact.
But they were no longer that people. Their relationship had changed radically since then.
“Nice to see you…” The blond repeated with saccharine irony, standing a few meters from the Aussie. “Are you fucking kidding me, Oscar?” He wasn’t yelling, but his tone was sharper than usual, his baby blues darker than normal.
Pretending confusion, he mused. “Not sure what you are talking about, mate.” He shrugged.
“You were reckless.” The older man snarled, anger barely contained. “You were stupid today, Piastri.”
It was not the insult that felt like a slap across the face, but the conscious choice that the older man had made, using his last name to distance themselves from one another. That little thing was the breaking point for Oscar, who could deal with rivalry and hate, but not with being forgotten.
“No, Max.” His tone had gotten low, almost raspy. He crossed the small space separating them, and poked the Dutchman’s chest with his pointed finger. “I was you. And that scares the shit out of you.”
The insolence of his words and the proximity caused by his actions were the spark necessary to make a small fire become a full on disaster. In another time, the way Max’s pupils engulfed the clear ring of his irises would have made Oscar’s cock stand up. It kind of did at that moment, although the Aussie didn’t allow it consciously.
“You think that was being like me?” An almost laugh escaped the Dutchman’s chest, a coughed up chuckle. “No. I have the ability and experience to make risky moves. I have pulled them off successfully in the past.”
Oscar’s throat bobbed, swallowing thickly. The Dutchman’s hand grabbed his wrist painfully; he hadn’t put his hand aside after poking the beast. That was his mistake.
“No, Oscar.” His name once had sounded like music in those lips, now; it sounded like damnation. “You were a kid wanting to play like the adults do.” The Dutchman stated, unblinking.
And he was fucking laughing at him, a crooked grin pulling on those lips, a taunt that ignited the well of anger sitting on the pit of the Aussie’s stomach. He retracted his hand with difficulty, an aggressive gesture that wasn’t accompanied by his retreat.
Not then. Oscar stayed put, head held high to stare down into the dare brewing inside Max’s eyes. They knew each other enough to know where to strike, where the punches would be more painful. Oscar’s lack of experience was one of those sensitive bits.
“I haven’t been a kid in a long time, Max.” He rasped in an almost growl, but he did feel like a child—wanting to defend his maturity to his parents. “And you haven’t been MadMax in a while either.”
That was playing dirty, mentioning the nickname the older driver had gained because of the anger implanted in his soul as a result of continuous mistreatment. Oscar almost felt bad, but hadn’t they been playing dirty for a while already?
“You didn’t fucking meet, MadMax.” The Dutchman’s hand snaked up, quick and decisive, getting a hold of his neck. Powerful fingers were digging into the thick of Oscar’s hard-earned muscles. “You should be grateful you didn’t, Piastri. Once upon a time I would have mopped the floor with your pretty face.”
Oscar’s heart stuttered, the feeling of that grip holding him down was familiar. It took him back to pleasurable moments, when he was the one to gladly give up control and let the older man take. Take, and take, and take.
The Aussie was submissive—not because he couldn’t be dominant, but because it helped his mind quiet down. Max had been the only one allowed to silence his turbulent thoughts through physical overpowerment, just like Oscar had been the only one permitted to soothe the ache hiding behind the Dutchman’s ribcage.
And that pressure against his pulse points made him want to retreat into a smaller self, a docile version of the man he truly was.
“Once upon a time.” Oscar repeated, defiant and prodding. Trying hard to regain control of his traitorous body. “Not now, not today. Not this season.” The words rushed out of his mouth, almost as if he were scared of losing them if he didn’t spit them fast enough.
That only made the grip around his throat tighten. It was difficult to take a deep breath, and his anatomy responded against his will, trembling under such powerful hold. He couldn’t let the situation get away from him, he couldn’t fall into the comfortable darkness that came from giving up.
His right hand went up and gripped Max’s wrist, nails breaking the pale skin that looked like marble but was fragile as any other piece of flesh.
“This is my season, Max.” Oscar stated with a sureness he had pulled out of thin air. “I’m going to win the championship as McLaren won the Constructors.” For once, his voice didn’t waver.
Shoving the facts into the older man’s face seemed to make him react, a butterfly blink of understanding. The anger didn’t disappear, but it changed outlets. Abruptly, shaking Oscar’s body in the process, he let go of the fierce grip around his neck. Pride prickled in the back of the Aussie’s mind, even if his heart was still bleeding internally.
Oscar took the stray moment and with both hands pushed harshly against the Dutchman’s thick chest, the place where his cheek had rested countless times. He made him stumble backward, taken off guard.
Looking straight into the Dutchman’s steel-like eyes, he spoke again. “You won’t scare me away like you did Lando.” He struck, not with fists but with words.
A beat of silence, a huff of laughter later. “I don’t need to scare you away, Oscar.” Max’s face came close to the McLaren driver’s own, the familiar smell of Red Bull clinging to his breath grazing the Aussie’s nostrils. “I just need to get you off track—and I’m pretty good at getting you off, aren’t I?” A cheeky little smile sprouted into the stunned champion’s lips.
“That’s how it's gonna be then?” Oscar raised his head, not backing down, his nose bumping softly against Max’s. “You are gonna bring that into the track?” Accusatory, that was dirtier than expected.
Max’s little smile soon became a slow and grim smirk.“I know what makes you tick, and I’m not above using your weakness.” He pressed, shrugging his shoulders without backing down.
The Dutchman was not known for backing down when presented with a challenge.
“I’m not your plaything.” Oscar groaned, licking his lips. “What we are—what we were off track, stays off track.” Stumbling through the affirmation, he avoided letting his gaze linger on that attractive expression. He had always liked Max on the darker side.
“Nothing stays off track, Oscar.” He shook his head slowly, and there was a glint in those familiar eyes that almost spoke of pity. “Only you—don’t count on finishing a single race the rest of the season.”
The Aussie inhaled sharply, the threat a promising caress. His tongue lapped at his teeth. “If you try to take me out, you are going down with me.” Tone low and warm, sudden tiredness was settling on his shoulders.
Max’s expression softened slightly. “We’ll see, schat.” The familiar word ringed true against his eardrums, a metaphorical brush against his wounded ego and pride.
The older driver didn’t wait for a response, as close as they were, they could pretty well get lost in each other's eyes. There was depth in that turbulent sea trapped on Max’s orbs, a mighty rival to Oscar’s rings of dried out soil.
Suddenly, the Red Bull driver turned his head, leaning in to press an unexpected kiss against the corner of Oscar’s mouth. It didn’t linger, and it was only a graze that spoke of shared memories and power plays.
Oscar’s heart stuttered, his breath getting caught on his throat at the tenderness of such peck, the drastic difference between the hand pressing against his trachea and the plush lips brushing his skin.
The sex versus the aftercare.
A shiver ran up his spine, stilling him in place, unable to react in time. The door closed quietly behind him, a muffled click that was even more jarring than a bang would have been.
Oscar raised his left hand, blood stuck under his nails after clawing at Max’s wrist. He knew there soon would be marks of fingers appearing on his pale skin, but he also knew he had left a bit of himself and his anger deep into the champion’s flesh.
The problem was that, now, when he lifted the trophy over his head—and he would be the one to lift it at the end. He would remember Max’s hold. Even on top, he would never be alone.