Work Text:
“Selfish” would probably be one of the last words anyone who knew Oscar would use to describe him.
Before that word, there would be a long list of other possibilities. “Reserved” would undoubtedly be among the top choices. “Calm” would follow closely behind, as people seemed impressed by how difficult it was to see him raise his voice or show even a hint of unease. For better or for worse, of course. The world, predictably, tended to disagree on whether it was good or not to show emotions. Especially in a sport like Formula 1.
His friends would choose one word or another depending on the situation—specifically, whether they felt like having a laugh at his expense or not. If they were feeling generous, they might choose “Easygoing,” but if they preferred to tease him a little, they might say “Goody-two-shoes.” His sisters, on the other hand, would certainly say “Boring.” Compared to each of their personalities, Oscar left a lot to be desired. Let’s not kid ourselves. But it was never something that had bothered him.
After all, he knew he’d inherited just enough wit to get by. Besides, he was the oldest of the four. It was his natural duty to be the most responsible of them all. “Responsible” would be exactly the word his mother would choose to describe him. Although, knowing her, she might also have had another word in mind—one that no one would have thought of before. Unexpected, yet making perfect sense. Oscar would rather not find out which one it might be.
But the thing is, practically no one would say that Oscar is selfish. The only people who might say that are those social media accounts that have decided to hate on him, for one reason or another. Although their perspective only referred to his behavior as a driver. It had nothing to do with his private life itself.
Which completely undermined its credibility. Because if there was one absolute truth in Formula 1, it was that all drivers had to be somewhat selfish. No one could survive in an environment as competitive as theirs without putting themselves first, even just a little. They might belong to a team, but in the decisive moments, you were completely on your own. All it took was one mistake to prove it.
Oscar knew this all too well. He might not have faced the horrors of losing his seat—he crossed his fingers that he’d never have to go through it—but he knew quite intimately the loneliness one could experience within an organization made up of hundreds of people who claimed to have your best interests at heart. Facing reporters after one of your bosses made a disparaging remark at your expense was an eye-opener for anyone.
Although most people saw that selfishness as a defense mechanism that drivers needed to survive in Formula 1, any driver would tell you that it had been a part of them from the moment they decided to turn their passion for karting into a much bigger dream. Perhaps at first they weren’t aware of their selfishness, shielded by the naivety that only children possess.
But, like everything in life, reality always ends up knocking on the door. In Oscar’s case, it happened when he and his father traveled to England to improve his chances of becoming a Formula 1 driver. They left their native Australia behind without even consulting his mother first. That night, in the hotel they had booked for the next few days, Oscar heard his parents really fighting for the first time. His father tried not to raise his voice, worried about waking Oscar, who was “asleep” in the next room, but his mother had no qualms about showing just how angry she was. So he could hear perfectly well everything they were saying to each other.
Back then, Oscar couldn’t have imagined that their marriage would go downhill from that point on. But even so, he understood that what was happening was his fault. His desire for a future at the pinnacle of motorsports was affecting his family in the worst possible way. Simply because it was taking precedence over everything else.
And from that day on, guilt had become a constant companion on the path to fulfilling his dream. But it had never made him take a single step back from the direction he had chosen. Not even his mother’s words over the phone, telling him how much she missed him, had made him waver. There was no room for regret, nor for looking back.
Since Oscar had accepted—at an age when his classmates were simply worried about what their grandmothers had made them for lunch or what they would do for fun that afternoon—that he didn’t mind being selfish if it meant getting what he wanted so badly. That mindset had helped him face any sacrifice that came his way.
He had to live far away from Australia and his family—no big deal. He had to be surrounded by people much older than him whom he barely knew—no big deal. He had to put his studies on hold, even though he enjoyed some of his classes—no big deal. He had to monitor everything he ate down to the last bite—no big deal. And a thousand and one other things like that.
There was no other way to do things. It was a fair exchange. Oscar wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. If his selfishness hadn’t been intrinsically linked to the effort required to reach the top, he wouldn’t have accepted it.
That’s why Oscar never would have imagined being selfish beyond Formula 1.
After all, he’d always preferred to give rather than receive. Guilt might have played a key role in that, but at the end of the day, it was the absolute truth. He’d lost count of the times he’d let his younger sisters choose the restaurant where they wanted to have dinner. Even though they usually ended up going somewhere where none of the dishes on the menu interested him. Or the numerous occasions when he’d allowed Lando to have his way while they were running some silly marketing campaign.
For Oscar, his own interests were the least of his concerns; what mattered was seeing how each of his concessions made the people he cared about incredibly happy. That’s where he found his own satisfaction. He didn’t need anything else.
Or so he had thought, until a few months ago. And the blame lay entirely with none other than George Russell.
The very same George Russell who was now perched on his lap, riding him as if his life depended on it. Meanwhile, Oscar simply watched, his back against the headboard and his hands gripping the other driver’s waist tightly. His eyes were glued in fascination to the scene unfolding before him. His mouth was slightly open, unable to utter a word. Because nothing he could say would do justice to what he was experiencing in that moment.
The worst part (or the best, depending on how Oscar chose to look at it each day) was that they’d been doing this for almost two months. It had started in Miami, incredible as it might seem. Oscar could still remember everything that had happened in detail. George in the special gear that Adidas had put together for the Mercedes drivers. The colors accentuating George’s tanned skin and perfectly complementing the shade of his curls. The knowing smiles after a successful weekend for both of them. And how they’d run into each other in the lobby of the same hotel.
Oscar hadn’t realized it at the time, but even then he already felt a slight fascination with George. However, he had completely ignored it, thinking he simply admired the fortitude and dedication that were so characteristic of the British driver. George was only three years older than Oscar, but he went through life with an enviable self-confidence. He had accepted and learned, especially in recent years, that he could never please everyone. So he wasn’t afraid to be true about who he was.
His mind was set on one goal: becoming a champion, and everything he did in his daily life was a small but important step toward achieving it. It might have been the same desire the rest of the grid had, but the maturity with which George spoke on the subject always left Oscar a little breathless. That perfect blend of integrity and diligence wasn’t found everywhere. Especially when there was also so much kindness and sincerity in everything George did.
But George wasn’t foolish, and he knew very well who truly deserved to enjoy those qualities. That’s why he maintained a polite but distant demeanor with the vast majority of people. His personal circle was small and safe from the dangers that came with being famous. Oscar couldn’t help but want to be a part of it. To share jokes and stories between the two of them, with Alex and Lando joining the conversation.
And to a large extent, he had succeeded, but his heart kept telling him it wasn’t enough. That’s when he should have realized that things weren’t going in the right direction, that those thoughts were far too dangerous. But standing there in the lobby of his Miami hotel, with George inviting him up to his room for a drink to celebrate his victory and both of their podium finishes, Oscar couldn’t say no. He didn’t have that kind of strength.
Nor could he do anything about the rest of what happened that night. As they gradually drank more, spurred on by the games George found online—games Lando might have bragged about having played at some party. Laughing together thanks to the sarcastic and direct sense of humor they both shared, as they discussed all the paddock secrets they’d been learning over the past weeks.
The distance between them—each sitting at opposite ends of the sofa—shrunk as the hours passed. The tone of their voices growing softer and hoarser until they were practically nothing more than a whisper. But that wasn’t a problem, because by then they were practically on top of each other. Their legs intertwined and their hands just inches away from resting on the other’s cheeks, their drinks long forgotten on the side table.
Oscar couldn’t remember which of them had taken the final step, which had closed the small distance between their lips. But he didn’t care at all. That night had been everything he’d imagined, without him even realizing it. And to his immense surprise, it didn’t remain a fleeting moment. George, for some reason, kept seeking him out. Craving him.
And so, two months had passed. Oscar knew he should be happy, but he had realized that, in this aspect of his life, he was selfish too.
He didn’t want this to be just a passing whim for George—something he might forget over time and only reminisce about fondly. No, Oscar wanted something more. Something serious and lasting, no matter how ridiculous that might seem given the lifestyle they led. Before all this, he’d only been in one relationship in his entire life: with Lily. So he’d forgotten that shallowness wasn’t his thing. The moment he decided to get to know someone, Oscar only had eyes for them.
But that wasn’t the only problem.
There was a much bigger problem that Oscar refused to dwell on any more than necessary, but if he was being honest with himself, it was the main reason he didn’t dare tell George how he felt. For there was a small, dreadful possibility that the British driver had feelings for someone else.
A person whom, unfortunately, Oscar had the pleasure of knowing and maintained a fairly cordial relationship with. And that man was the undisputed champion for four consecutive years, Max Verstappen. The mere thought that there might be something romantic between George and Max would make anyone with even a shred of common sense laugh their head off. And yet, it was impossible to deny that there was something odd about their entire complex relationship.
Oscar had witnessed the warmth they’d shared during last year’s Las Vegas Grand Prix—two champions united in a brief embrace, George’s hand affectionately patting Max’s stomach. That was followed by George’s post celebrating the Dutchman’s fourth title, at a time when anyone else would have been partying or sleeping after an exhausting race.
There was a silent but strong connection there. And the proof of it had been cemented by what happened in Qatar and everything that had transpired between the two of them afterward. Oscar had never seen them so angry, Max lashing out with whatever hurtful words came to mind, while George radiated a chilling disappointment that left no one indifferent.
But the pieces in Oscar’s mind hadn’t fallen into place to suggest anything romantic until the start of this season. Not until he himself couldn’t take his eyes off George, after what had happened that night in Miami. That’s when he began to notice things he hadn’t seen before. The nervousness between them whenever they were near each other. Max couldn’t sit still for a single second whenever they sat together at the press conference after sharing a podium. He moved his hands restlessly, fixing his hair over and over, even though not a single strand was out of place. After all, it had been hidden under his cap the whole time.
George, his polar opposite but just as restless, maintained an impeccable posture. So much so that he seemed frozen in time. A marble statue, unable to turn his face toward the person sitting next to him. Neither of these behaviors were typical of the two drivers. Anyone who knew them, even just a little, would be able to tell.
The most incriminating thing, however, were the glances. Although they tried to hide it, they were always looking for each other amid the crowd. And whenever their eyes met—which happened more often than either of them would have liked—they took too long to glance away. Oscar couldn’t know what those gazes meant; he hadn’t been given the key to that secret language they seemed to share. A language without words, visible only through the tension that could be felt across the room.
Although Lando, for some strange reason, seemed to be privy to something. What exactly? Oscar wasn’t sure, but his teammate always let out a chuckle whenever the other two drivers spoke to each other. It could simply be his love of drama and entertainment, but what set this apart from the rest of the things that amused Lando was that he wouldn’t give a word away when you tried to coax out of him what was so funny. He was as tight-lipped as a tomb.
He wouldn’t even let anything slip when the two of them were alone, which was even stranger. After all, Lando trusted Oscar blindly. For several reasons, actually. The first was that he knew, without a doubt, that Oscar never broke any of the promises he made. Over the years they’d spent together as teammates, Oscar had more than proven that. He had accidentally become the British driver’s number one confidant. And the second reason—perhaps the most important one—was that Oscar didn’t have many people he could tell those secrets to. It wasn’t as if he were particularly sociable. Besides, most of the people he usually hung out with tended to have the same personality as he did. So there was no way for the information to leak out.
So Lando’s silence only served to reinforce Oscar’s belief that the theory he’d been mulling over was true. There was something between them. But Oscar needed someone to confirm it. Anyone at all. A simple “yes” would be enough. Maybe then he could put his stupid desires to turn what he had with George into something more to rest. Because if he kept living with that uncertainty much longer, he’d end up going completely crazy. The doctors could blame it on crashing his car too many times at such high speeds, and then no one would discover the pathetic truth.
Before he could sink any deeper into his miserable thoughts, something snapped him back to reality. To his apartment in Monaco. To his room, softly lit by the last rays of sunlight streaming through the half-open window. That something was none other than George himself.
The last time Oscar had paid him any attention—seconds before he’d plunged into the labyrinth of doubts that was eating him up inside—the British driver had had his eyes closed. Focused on the rise and fall of his hips, savoring the fullness of having Oscar inside him. Now, however, his eyes were open. The light blue that reminded him so much of the beaches of his home country fixed on him. It seemed he had realized that Oscar’s mind had been somewhere else, but he didn’t seem angry. Just a little intrigued.
George opened his mouth, presumably to ask if something was wrong, but Oscar didn’t let him get a word in. He pulled his back away from the headboard and sat up confidently, without taking his arms off George’s waist. George gasped at the slight shift in position and placed his hands on Oscar’s shoulders, which until then had been resting on his thighs so he could move up and down more easily. Now that they were at the same height, Oscar leaned in to press their lips together.
This wasn’t the time to get lost in his misery; his mind had to focus exclusively on what was right in front of him. Who knew how many more times he’d be able to enjoy this.
George, Oscar had realized very early on, kissed with the same attitude he approached his athletic career. With passion, intensity, and a lot of control. It might have seemed overwhelming to others, but Oscar saw it as a gift. Every move George made had a purpose behind it: to get to know his partner deeply. To test you.
He took things slowly, trying different things to see how you’d react. Whether or not you enjoyed him biting your lower lip. Whether you liked him running his fingers through your hair while he kissed you. He’d gradually catalog every single one of those details. Unwrapping the layers that made up who you were, with the same attention he paid when driving a Formula 1 car. Although, sometimes, when he was in a really good mood, he’d let his more playful side come out. Where his goal was simply to drive you nuts with impatience.
Oscar, thankfully, had the composure to handle every one of George’s teasing moves, and he could even turn the tables. Just like now.
George had been in control of the encounter up until that point, with Oscar simply enjoying the sight of having him on top of him. But he needed to feel that he, too, could drive George wild.
So, taking advantage of the fact that the other driver was completely lost in the kisses they were sharing, Oscar wrapped one of his hands around the back of George’s head and dropped his body onto him. George had no choice but to lie back on the bed, his back on the mattress and his long legs wrapped around Oscar’s waist. Their bodies intertwined the whole time.
They both took that moment to catch their breath, gazing into each other’s eyes. Blue and brown, a surprisingly harmonious combination. Just like the slight difference in their skin tones—Oscar’s pale complexion against George’s soft tan. Those small differences between them warmed his heart. As did the fine lines under George’s eyes, a clear reflection of the passage of time and how hard he worked every day.
He couldn’t help but kiss them as soon as he thought of it. Then he moved on to his eyelashes, long and dark. To the corners of his lips and the bridge of his nose. A little nibble on his chin. Every movement under George’s watchful gaze, who said nothing. He just watched, with a look that Oscar refused to decipher.
So he finished putting all his weight on George, so there would be nothing between their bodies. George gasped but didn’t resist. It wasn’t usual to see him so docile, but this was also part of his little game. Part of his generosity. He was going to be patient to see where Oscar wanted to take them. And Oscar had decided to give it his all.
Before starting to move in this new position, Oscar brushed a few strands of hair that had stuck to his forehead due to sweat out of the way. Once that was done, he rested his right hand on the mattress and made a deep thrust. They both gasped hard; he’d hit the right spot on the first try. “Fuck, Oscar,” George said. His left hand remained protectively on the back of his head, while George’s arms had instinctively wrapped around his shoulders. They were completely entwined.
Oscar set a slow but steady pace, gentle yet demanding. A speed that reflected his desire and nature. So that George would know without a doubt who was by his side, who he had chosen to spend that night with. Where there was no room for thoughts regarding anyone else. Just the two of them.
And if George was able to read between the lines, to see the true feelings behind his every gesture, it didn’t matter. That would be a concern for the Oscar of the following morning. The current Oscar just wanted to leave a mark. Proof that would tell others that George had been, even if only for a few moments, irrevocably his. So he kept grinding his hips relentlessly until they both reached their climax. George shedding a few tears from the intensity of his orgasm. Proof that Oscar had managed to push him to the limit.
If someone had asked him then and there if he wanted to be victorious, with his body and George’s still locked together, Oscar wouldn’t have known which victory they were referring to. Nor which of the two he wanted more. Perhaps that’s why he would always have to settle for second place.